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Draco Malfoy was laughing.
The highly undignified noise intensified steadily until what had begun as barely more than a disbelieving wheeze deep in his chest was rattling the dark oak paneling of his father’s study in loud, manic cackles.
His mother’s drawn brows began to lift with what could only be relief, though her knuckles were still white where she clutched Lucius’s arm. Her eyes darted down to the parchment now hanging limply at Draco’s side. When she looked to his face again, a fine sheen of unshed tears was glinting in the light from the sconce on the wall beside her.
“One of the Greengrass sisters?” she asked breathlessly.
Draco threw back his head and howled.
Oh, how stupid they’d been. How naive. He had to hand it to Shacklebolt, the man had balls.
The longer Draco carried on, the further Narcissa’s expression slipped toward despair, and he finally took pity on her, striding forward and placing the letter into his father’s outstretched hand. An errant chuckle or two still slipped from between his lips as he crossed to the crystal decanter on the desk and splashed a generous measure of the scotch he pretended not to know was Muggle into a tumbler.
He turned just in time to watch Lucius look up from the page, what little color he had draining rapidly from his haughty hypocrite face.
“Cheers, Father,” Draco said with a grin, slopping half the Macallan onto the rug with the enthusiasm of his toast. “To the end of an era.”
***
Draco wasn’t surprised that his father had been able to secure this meeting on such short notice. Shacklebolt had balls, but he had brains too. And that meant allowing Lucius the courtesy of throwing this little tantrum in private rather than dealing with what would promise to be far more damaging fall out in public.
Draco would have been embarrassed at the unsophisticated display, foamy specks of spittle flecking his father’s pale lips, but as it was, he was far too preoccupied with the presence of one Hermione Granger at his side.
His mother’s doing, undoubtedly. The enemy of an enemy is a potential ally, if not a friend. It was sound logic, though Draco would have appreciated some forewarning about the invitation. He was in a rather sour mood at having his gloating over the Malfoy lineage’s glorious downfall cut short by coming face to face with the collateral damage.
Given the fact that Granger looked moments away from being sick on her shoes, he could only assume she would not be eagerly accepting her sacrificial role. For some reason, it rankled.
“This assignment is a travesty,” Lucius hissed from beside him. “We were told that matches would be based on magical compatibility.”
“And so they are,” Kingsley returned.
Draco couldn’t suppress a snort, and Granger’s head twitched minutely in his direction.
“Kingsley,” she started, her voice having gone hoarse in the duration of his father’s tirade. “Surely compatibility is a spectrum. There must be other suitable pairings.”
“Suitable, yes,” he agreed. “But not ideal. We are talking about the fate of the wizarding world, Hermione, and individual sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”
Oh, she didn’t like that one bit. Draco smirked as Shacklebolt continued.
“We are asking all eligible citizens to give of themselves for future generations.”
“Give of themselves?” Granger repeated shrilly. “I gave my entire childhood to the war, and it wasn’t enough? You need the rest of my life, too?”
Draco couldn’t fucking resist. He’d had far too much experience sitting in rooms with Hermione Granger. Being smothered by that sanctimonious aura. Listening to that snotty voice. He was immediately transported back to an incredibly miserable term in which being seatmates for Arithmancy had left him finding her fucking hair clinging to his robes. He could feel her there next to him like a pebble in his shoe. No, worse, like a bad seam, grating at the skin of his neck. It itched. And when it came to Granger, he’d never been able to resist scratching.
“Gave your childhood,” he mocked. “Merlin, spare me.”
“And yours was stolen,” she snapped. “You’ve already served a sentence for your crimes. Are you so eager for another one?”
“That depends,” he drawled. “Are you referring to being married to you or returning to prison?”
“Either,” she spat.
“Good point,” he said. She was potentially even better at sucking the fun out of a situation than a dementor, but the Azkaban guards were absolutely hopeless at witty repartee.
Granger rolled her eyes, turning back to the Minister. “This sentence is absurd, Kingsley, I mean—”
“Twenty years—”
“Is the minimum for murder,” she complained.
“Maybe you can just kill me, then, and do us both a favour,” Draco offered, enjoying this too much.
“I’m not ruling it out!” she shouted.
“This is not a negotiation!” Shacklebolt boomed suddenly. Draco felt his eyes widen in surprise. The minister continued in a lower voice, but the tone was no less severe. “You will marry or you will spend twenty years in Azkaban. There are no alternatives.”
He eyed each of them in turn, but no one spoke. The silence bore down on Draco like a physical weight. He knew there was no way Granger would ever consider taking the sentence, but the fact that she was probably sitting there considering considering it turned his stomach. Didn't she realise she could have been assigned to someone far worse? Draco would leave her alone, at least. Hell, if she agreed to live in the Manor, she could have a wing to herself and never lay eyes on him again.
The thought of Granger crossing through the drawing room triggered a rippling shiver down his spine. He could feel gooseflesh breaking out on his arms as a phantom scream echoed in his mind. Okay, so, not the Manor perhaps. Regardless, the point was that he couldn’t care less about making her cook or clean or entertain, Merlin forbid. Whatever wifely duties she was so concerned about—
His thoughts stalled as Shacklebolt spoke again, reminding them all of the greater purpose of this law.
“Now,” he was saying, “consideration has been given to the fact that many matches will be comprised of strangers. For that reason, you will have two weeks after the ceremony in which to get acquainted—”
Draco’s stomach lurched as he remembered that they wouldn’t be allowed to skate by with a marriage in name alone. There was one marital responsibility she would be forced to accept.
“—before you are required to consummate your union—”
“This is fucking disgusting.”
The words were out before he’d really thought about speaking. And then Draco was out. Out of his chair, out of the room, barrelling down the black-tiled hallway until he spotted a sign for the loo. The door crashed open, smacking into the wall behind it, and he lurched over to the row of sinks. His face was grey in the subterranean light, splotched with ugly red on the points of his cheeks. He closed his eyes and gripped the cool porcelain of the basin tight.
This was so fucking typical. Yes, he had served a sentence for his crimes during the war, but now, he was being punished for the ones he’d committed in his mind.
A scoff punched out of his chest. Life under the Dark Lord’s rule had taught him that nowhere was safe, not even the confines of his disgustingly twisted, hormone-adled brain. A few years shouldn’t have been enough to forget that.
It was easy to justify that all of the impotent rage—and jealousy and helplessness—he’d felt during that time had needed an outlet. Granger was just a convenient target. And it wasn’t as though he was the only classmate of hers that had fantasised about shutting her up. He just might have been the only one to imagine doing it by choking her on his cock. Repeatedly. And then—
Draco shook his head. He wasn’t sorry for it. Not even for the worst bits. No real-life Grangers were harmed in the making of his wank bank.
His eyes lifted to his reflection, and he could see the lie clear as day on his face. This wasn’t just about lives anymore; they’d crossed into the territory of souls, and she was going to get a piece of his whether she wanted it or not.
The grim bastard in the mirror gave him a flat smile and said, “Careful what you wish for.”