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It was all Ronald Billius Weasley’s fault. With a dash of Harry Potter.
Hermione shucked her cardigan from her shoulders, pinpricks of sweat already gathering around the back of her neck and armpits as she stomped across the newly paved cobblestone. Why on earth had George and Ron set the Portkey zone so far from their theme park?
Now meticulously applied makeup was smearing, her Sleekeazied hair was frizzing at her temples, and for heaven’s sake, the sweat. This all could have been avoided with a well-placed spot of shade and a closer entry point. Not even her strongest cooling charm did any good against the heat.
In fact, Hermione shouldn’t even have to be here.
But apparently, the Photoshoot ‘couldn’t be delayed any further’ and was an ‘emergency, Mione, please!’ Meanwhile, Harry was stuck at St Mungo’s with his latest Auror injury, as if nothing had changed since Hogwarts at all. Hermione was only helping as a generous favour, a nod to her continued friendship with an old flame.
And because of the guilting, she supposed.
“No, we can’t do the photoshoot at St Mungo’s, that’s absurd,” Ron told her the evening prior.
“If the Photoshoot doesn’t happen tomorrow, it isn’t happening at all, because we open — no, we’re not putting out a press release that we’ve stalled the entire opening for one photoshoot!” he cried through the Floo earlier that day. “Just come.”
“It’s called Unity Park, Hermione,” Ron had cried in agitation an hour before her Portkey left, after she asked if they really needed her. “How do you think George’s vision looks if I can’t even get one of my two best friends to come? My very public best friends?”
“But—”
“ Unity Park!”
So Hermione was here, frizzing and sweating and scowling, to do a ridiculous day of promotion for the new Weasley-owned Theme Park, even though she hadn’t suffered a superfluous public appearance in years.
Approaching the end of the ridiculously long path, she stopped before a massive gate that appeared to stand alone in the wild countryside. It was adorned with the drama masks of Comedy and Tragedy, but with the Twins’ faces replaced: somehow both clever and terrifying to behold.
As she finally neared, they slowly groaned open, revealing the mischievous form of George himself.
“Ah, there you are, my clever little clog! I admit I feared you might wisen up and never show,” he said, stepping out to greet her.
“Yes, well. Though I must say, the park looks rather unfinished,” Hermione replied, eyeing the shimmer of the wards, the only sign that anything stood behind the gates other than rolling hills.
“Only until the park opens on Friday, dear Hermione. Can’t give anything away,” George said with a wink and a grin. But his smile slowly faded as his eyes ran over her unraveling hair, her sweat-stained tank-top, her running makeup. “And did you bring a go bag, or anything to change into…?”
She scowled deeply and resisted the urge to whip out her wand. “It was a long hike from the Portkey location,” she gritted out.
George fiddled with his wand, grimacing, but stowed it away after catching the look on her face. “Well, no time to waste, my sweet boffin! Come on in!” Before she had time to sneer at the nickname, he grabbed her wrist, drew her through the gates, and a warm hum shivered across her skin as she stepped inside to get her first look.
Before her, the magical theme park was spread out like an exquisitely decorated wedding cake. In the distance, a massive roller coaster reminded her of muggle Hot Wheels tracks, with impossible jumps and brightly flashing colours. Glitzy signs like ‘Hex the Hedgehog’ and ‘Bubble Bounce’ lined the cobblestone paths and led the way to large prize booths. The park’s expanse was a feast for the eyes: spinning tops, wide structures, and flowing fabric decorating the land in purples, reds, yellows, and blues.
“Oh, George… It’s perfect!”
He nodded proudly. “Ginny and I designed most of the rides, of course, and Bill perfected the safety. You already know all about Ron’s involvement, I’ll let him show off the restaurants and food stalls later. Even Charlie’s been consulting on design. And naturally, Percy does all the boring finance and legal things,” George finished flippantly.
“Where is Ron, anyway?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed at George’s suddenly shifty eyes, the suspicious waver of his plastered-on smile.
“Now what is it?” Hermione said in a tight, clipped tone.
“Erm…” George took a single step backward. “Getting the first photo shoot ready, in fact, with our other guest…”
Hermione’s lips thinned. “Oh, is Harry here after all? You never even needed me?”
George bit his lip. “Please don’t leave, Hermione. Just follow that path and all will reveal itself. And I’m going to—water the, erm, porridge.”
The Weasley brother couldn’t escape fast enough.
Hermione shook her head, too irate to take in the admittedly impressive park with any great amount of joy. Instead, she scowled at her shoes and conjured a towel to dab at her sweaty forehead, contemplating an alluring future where she simply went home and got back in bed.
But, she was here, wasn’t she? She was a woman of her word, if nothing else.
With a final, useless cooling charm, Hermione stomped off along the whimsical path, studded with overgrown daisies and rainbow-coloured stepping stones that sparkled when her foot met the surface.
After a minute's walk, a neon sign reading ‘Topsy Turvy Teacup’ came into view, along with a familiar head of red hair. Good. She was ready to get this thing over with.
Ducking under the long ropes that delineated where a queue might start, a universal phenomenon for both muggles and magic folk—after all, the Brits did love themselves a queue—she reached a rather pink spinner with a garish, sparkly handle. Inside, facing away from her, sat a wizard in dark navy robes and a dashingly old-fashioned hat.
“Wait! You’re here! Good, but wait!” Ron hurried over, placing his body in front of the door and man. “Before you go in, ‘Mione, you have to know—”
“Ronald Billius Weasley, George already told me that Harry showed up. I said I’d come, I’m not going to bail, now let’s just get this done—”
Ron’s face screwed up with confusion. “Harry?” His jaw set and even his freckles seemed to frown. “George, that little… No, listen. Harry isn’t here, but he had already agreed to this. I just think you need to be prepared before we get started.”
Hermione’s brows furrowed. “What are you on about? Agreed to what?”
“It’s called Unity Park, Hermione, and he and Harry are already friends, you know that. And then Harry’s injury, and I didn’t think you’d show up if you knew…”
A cold pit of dread formed in Hermione’s stomach.
“Who’s in that Teacup, Ronald?”
“Let’s just talk about it first, and then we can get there, I promise,” he said desperately, face wracked with guilt.
But she needed to know. As if in a dream, she pushed past Ron, closed her hand round the sparkling handle, yanked it forward.
“The cameras are rigged, it will automatically start once you’re in—” Ron shouted behind her, panicked, but she could barely hear him through the ringing in her ears. The door snapped shut behind her as she slid into the benched seat.
A pale face turned her way. He was already reaching out to shake her hand with an open, welcoming grin. Except—
“Malfoy?”
In real time, she watched the practised smile melt off his face. “Granger…?” His brows pulled together and he shook his head. “ Fuck.”
Hermione was not often inclined to agree with Malfoy, but today she could certainly make an exception. Fuck, indeed.
Draco Malfoy: the bane of her existence.
Like her, he also worked under the Magical Law Council overturning bigoted policies. And if it was an admittedly helpful boon to have a Sacred Twenty-Eight Pureblood on the team, that was undermined by the obnoxious reality that Malfoy was the one she was working with. He was constantly stopping in to review her work, always scouring for even the slightest discrepancies—as if she would have any!—and sticking his nose into conversations where it didn’t belong.
Just two days ago, he’d approached her about the Haymitch Law Re-Write, leaning so close she could feel the heat emitting from his body. It was likely on purpose: she wouldn’t put it past him to use his taller form to crowd others into compliance.
He’d fiddled with his reading glasses and wasted an hour of her day running his long, smooth finger down page after page of her research, a haughty eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips. Once he’d finally been satisfied, he’d leaned in close and said, ‘Good work, Granger’ — she knew that, and he wasn’t her boss — before sauntering out of her office like he owned it.
And really none of that was so bad. There were those who might argue he was simply trying to be a helpful coworker, that he wasn’t doing anything particularly egregious.
But they didn’t understand, could never know, that the real reason she became so flustered and annoyed with his visits really took root because of a much, much worse reason.
It was because of her horrible, crippling, and extremely unrequited crush on him.
The thought of which brought Hermione crashing back to reality. There she was, frozen in shock like some kind of dim-witted buffoon, staring at him, and realising what her day had in store if she didn’t leave now.
“RONALD!”
A cool, female voice sounded from somewhere above them. “All passengers aboard. Wards activated.” With a pop, a shimmering bubble closed over the teacup, and she was trapped within.
“No!” She needed to escape before this became truly humiliating.
The wards were not designed to accommodate the height of a standing adult. They pressed down insistently upon her head, forcing her to either squat like an odd little frog or collapse into the seats, which were more like one round, fuschia bench like a miniature version of a gazebo.
For the moment, she surrendered to the seating position, but scooted along the smooth pew-like bench toward the door, and jiggled on the handle to no avail. “There must be some kind of emergency break, some kind of—RONALD WEASLEY!”
“Let me try, Granger, your arms are probably weak.” A pale elbow pushed her out of the way. Malfoy’s sandalwood cologne wafted around her as he reached past her to curl his long fingers around the handle, his chest slightly pressing against her back.
Hermione fluttered her lashes closed and breathed in. An electric frisson of energy ran up her arms and over her shoulders as she started to lean in closer.
Wait, no!
Hermione’s eyes flew open, and hurriedly she skittered to the opposite side of the teacup. Why, why did she have a thing for absolute pricks?
“My arms aren’t weak!” she sputtered, annoyed at her lengthy delay in response.
“Odd, isn’t it? You’d think your muscles would be beefy with that heavy chip you’re always carrying on those shoulders,” Malfoy muttered as she slipped under his arm, still pulling with all his might to no avail.
After failing to push the door open, he banged on the wards. “For fuck’s sake!” he shouted.
With a final scowl and a vicious kick at the door (impressive in his hunched state), Malfoy slid back into his original spot, directly opposite from her, and put his head in his hands. “What are you even doing here, Granger?”
It was this kind of comment that riled her, that caused her to be so mortified about this horrid crush.
“I’m supporting the Weasleys for a scheduled publicity event! What are you doing here?”
Malfoy lifted his head and tilted it all the way back, looking up at the sky in pain. She did her best not to ogle the way his Adam’s apple bobbed smoothly up and down, highlighting the muscled cords of his neck. “But why you? ” he moaned. “I thought it was supposed to be Potter! I actually get on with him, you know!”
“I thought it was a solo job,” she sniped back.
The teacup started spinning slowly and hovered slightly in the air. “Merlin, I can’t escape you—”
He was interrupted by the ride’s music (an excessively chipper woodblock and maraca combination that made her want to cover her ears and scream).
“Just don’t talk to me,” Hermione said, mortifyingly entranced by the way the wind rippled softly through his soft, white-blond hair.
“Fine by me, Granger,” Malfoy said. How frustrating to watch his smooth, round lips be so dismissive.
An annoying puff of smoke preceded a blinding flash, and Hermione realised a remote camera had just been deployed. Their very first picture.
In her frazzled state, she was loath to imagine how she looked. She was sure the picture had come out perfectly for Malfoy, with that wind and those cheekbones and…
That was the other thing, his fucking looks. Ginny thought his face was too pointy and Daphne always said he needed to spend about a year at the beach. All anyone could agree upon was that yes, the eyes were very stunning. But cold, like a snowy storm in January.
Unfortunately, Hermione found the full package entrancing. And she quite liked winter.
The ride moved slowly in gentle circles as they glared at each other. The jolly, cheery music in the background did nothing to improve her mood; she suspected Malfoy thought similarly from the glares he shot at the old speakerphones in the centre of the ride, like he could lance them to pieces with his mind.
As the cup spun faster, the wind whipped against them both, pressing Malfoy’s dapper robes against the hard muscles of his thighs.
The hair stood up on her arms at the thought of sitting on them.
Suddenly, the teacup sped up, and Hermione realised uncomfortably how slippery the seats were. She braced her palms around the edge of the bench, trying to seem collected and unbothered. However, she was uncomfortably squished against the wall of the cup, unable to move because of the G-force.
Malfoy reached both arms out and also braced himself along the edge of the cup, his thighs spread wide, trousers pressing against his bulge that she was now ogling!
She tore her eyes away.
Faster and faster they whirled until suddenly, with a screech, the teacup skidded to a stop, then spun aggressively in the opposite direction. She managed to hold herself in place, but—
Malfoy hurtled into her lap and only managed to catch himself with the entrancing muscular form of his arms, but not enough to stop his face from burying itself between her breasts.
At first, she was completely frozen, heart rate slamming in her jugular. For only a split second, she imagined using her hand to wind through his soft strands, pushing him down until she could take a different kind of ride—
With a frustrated grunt, Malfoy pushed off of her. “Fuck me!”
Hermione’s cheeks burned as she realised she’d just let him sit there. “No thank you,” she spat back, humiliated that a not-insignificant part of her brain would have liked to say ‘yes please.’
Malfoy stiffened. “Believe me, you would thank me. If I had any interest in… that at all,” he said, his cheeks colouring a very deep pink. “Which I don’t. ”
Hermione scoffed loudly to cover up her hurt. “I’d thank you to stay in your own seat rather than barrelling into mine next time,” she said prissily. “Or, if you planned to get yourself killed, at least do the job right.”
He was glaring back, his icy eyes roving over her, likely with disdain, before looking away. He didn’t look at her again until the flying teacup settled back into its saucer, the ride evidently over.
Petulantly, as he edged toward the exit, he muttered, “If I want to get myself killed, I’ll put myself in the way of your hair next time.”
Hermione conjured a mirror and stared at herself in horror: her hair had poofed out like a horrible wispy urchin.
The wards shimmered down, and Ron yanked the door open. “Well, that was horrible,” he said, clearly not reading the room. “One more, for safety?”
—-------------
After the tongue lashing of the century, a few credible threats to a freckled, punchable nose, and a sock thrown in a face, Malfoy was smirking, Ron looked suitably abashed, and the group stood before a massive carousel with enchanted creatures and a swirly top.
A woman that Hermione hadn’t noticed previously—a dauntingly beautiful woman in fact, with long, straight honey-blonde hair and full lips—was buzzing around, operating the magical camera and setting up capture spots in several areas while Ron continued to grovel.
Of course, Malfoy was standing tall and lanky and confident and ugh . He had his hands in his pockets, chin tucked down slightly to talk to the petite camerawoman, which made her heart lurch and her brain swirl with embarrassment that she cared.
Fuck him.
Initially, Hermione had thought they could work well together. Malfoy had apologised for his past commitment to blood purity and vowed to do his best to use his insider knowledge to dismantle it from a legal angle.
It was that plonker’s fault she’d ever become attracted to him.
He was the one who had bothered to redeem himself, who had disavowed his family, who had elected to force Hermione to bear witness to his transformation by installing himself in the office next to hers.
Hermione would rather be gloriously oblivious to the man he became when free from the shackles of parental authority.
If only Draco had simply failed to apologise or made his words less genuine, less eloquent. If only he hadn’t shed his arrogant, prickly exterior and revealed the good heart that his father had tried to smother. If only he’d buggered off from her line of sight, then she wouldn’t be stuck in this fatuous dilemma at all.
But he had done.
So Hermione was forced to observe the way the cruel barbs of his youth had evolved into a charming, quick-fire wit. She’d bore witness to his incredibly perceptive mind and voracious appetite for reading, which nearly matched her own. She’d been doomed to delightful work hours filled with stimulating conversation and thoughtful little favours.
Mortifyingly, their increased quality time seemed to have the opposite effect on Malfoy.
The more they worked together, the more ornery he became. His shoulders stiffened when she walked into a room, and he kept lurking at her desk, trying to pick up on any little mistake she might make in her research, and sometimes she would catch him just staring, eyes icy and unknowable.
Soon they were bickering and fighting every time he stomped through her office door.
He’d changed himself, given her a taste of what his personality could be like, and then proceeded to push her away with contempt. Which stung, because it made it feel less like he disliked her blood, and simply that he didn’t like her.
And now she was creepily watching him, aware of his every move like some kind of Malfoy radar savant.
She drifted closer, catching Malfoy’s drawl as he apparently bedazzled the other woman about his important research. “I believe it’s important to take responsibility for those of us who have the means…”
Her stomach squeezed.
The sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could go home and forget this day had ever happened. The carousel was safer than the deranged teacups, at least.
She pushed past him and climbed atop a unicorn quickly. Malfoy leaned dashingly against the rail. “Try not to fall off, Granger,” he said.
“Try not to stick your face in anyone else’s breasts,” she said loudly and clearly. “Wait until you get to know them first.”
His eyes popped open. The camerawoman took a step back, alarmed.
“It was an accident!” he cried.
“I ought to go… water the porridge,” the woman said quickly, hurrying off.
What was it with this park staff and porridge? Was it some kind of euphemism? Hermione couldn’t possibly imagine what for.
While she pondered the Porridge Mystery, Malfoy had drawn closer.
“You know, if you want my attention, you don’t need to scare the other woman off… Just tell me you want a piece of this,” he leered, wrapping one hand around the jewelled bridle on her unicorn.
“You’re absolutely vile.” She looked him up and down. He wasn’t vile, of course; the proximity reminded her how good he smelled, the way his jawline was quite sharp, alluring even when the muscles in his jaw twitched with annoyance.
“You know, a lot of people would consider me a catch,” he told her, eyes gleaming. His face hovered close to hers, his tall presence overwhelming her senses. “If you ever want to take a different kind of ride, don’t be shy. I’m sure it’s been a while, since you’re always buried in work.”
That hit her in the gut, because she did consider him a catch. And here he was, taunting her, offering a pity shag. Her eyes narrowed, offended. “Not if we were the last two people on Earth. And I do just fine, thank you. I’m a bit of a catch myself, you see.”
His lips thinned at that, knuckles tightening on her unicorn’s bridle until they turned white.
“Fine,” he spit, pushing away suddenly and stalking over to a porcelain hippogriff at least five feet away. “Like I care.”
With a whirring sound, the carousel suddenly lit up, all the different animals coming to life with an animation charm. Her unicorn pawed the ground and whinnied, and the entire contraption moved forward.
As they rounded the full circle and came back around to the front, where the camerawoman and Ron were stationed, she could feel his eyes hot on her back, probably glaring. She wasn’t exactly in the mood to smile herself.
As they came into view, the camerawoman was shouting, “Alright, I’ve got some remotes, and I’m ready with the main camera—” she broke off suddenly, then gestured to Ron. He tapped his wand on a tall pedestal, and the carousel began to slow.
The pretty blonde stalked over, hands on her hips. “Are you two serious?” She waved her hand between the wide, wide gap between Draco and Hermione. “I can’t get you in the same frame like this! Move closer. And for Merlin’s sake, you might consider pretending you’re having fun?”
When neither Draco or Hermione moved, she shook her head. “None of us are moving until you two are next to each other, showing how unified you look.”
“We’re not,” they said in unison.
The camerawoman just stared.
Finally, with a long sigh, Draco dropped down from his hippogriff and sauntered over to the Granian just beside Hermione’s unicorn.
The camerawoman put her hand up, stopping him. “No, I don’t even want to risk it, you’ll still be too distant. How about you two on the same horse?”
For a moment, time froze. Before Hermione could cry out in horror, run screaming, or worse, sigh with wanton lust, Malfoy hiked his leg up over, shuffling into the saddle-like seat, scooching in closer.
He was everywhere: his chest against her shoulders, his arms grazing against her own, his thighs pressed tight around her hips. The warmth he emitted enveloped her completely, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
Involuntarily, she shuddered.
The ride whirred to life again, and now Hermione was too overwhelmed to even look cross, so strong was the temptation to let her eyes flutter close and imagine it was the kind, changed version of Malfoy she’d thought she’d gotten to know. That he wasn’t her ornery coworker, but the pleasant version of himself, the one who had made her like him.
Why couldn’t it be that version holding her close?
“Oh these are coming out much better,” the camerawoman said. “You two almost look romantic!”
“HAH!” Hermione barked in a weird, high pitched chirp.
“She’s got no idea,” Malfoy said lowly in her ear, body firm against hers. Goosebumps erupted along her shoulders and arms. Almost by accident, she leaned back into him, and she must have been imagining things, because she could have sworn he sucked in a harsh breath.
When the ride finally came to a halt, she stumbled off the unicorn, mind reeling. It was only a small relief to glance at Malfoy and see she wasn’t the only one who looked shaken.
Good.
—-------------
Ron was waiting for them when they arrived at the next ride. “Last one, and we can break for lunch,” he said, waving his wand to reveal a short train track. A little steam engine covered in pulsing heart shapes and sparkling roses chugged into view.
“What the fuck is that?” Draco ran his hand through his hair, seeming somewhere between distraught, offended, and simply exhausted.
“It’s the Tunnel of Love, and the Love Train,” he said proudly. “Can’t think of a better ride to show unity.”
“The Tunnel of Love?” Hermione repeated, aghast.
“Hermione, Harry defeated You-Know-Who with the power of love. We talk about the inspiration in the article. Please just—”
“Alright, alright,” Hermione snapped, not wanting to hear it.
With a wide open palm, Malfoy gestured toward the ride. “Ladies first.”
“Do we really need both of us for this?” Hermione asked in a last ditch effort to get out of this.
“Don’t steal the spotlight, Granger, it isn’t a good look. I’m very pretty, you know… I’ll only enhance your shots,” he said with a smirk.
“True. I’ll shine compared to your ugly mug.”
He settled in next to her and mockingly put an arm around her shoulder. She shivered at the contact.
“The train will wrap around the cave and come back out over there,” Ron pointed a short distance away, “and we’ll be waiting to get the money shot.”
The train took off, Hermione and Draco staring ahead. Sitting there, curled up against him in a disgustingly romantic train ride like some kind of domestic couple… It was too much.
The dimmed lights, the privacy of the soft raspberry light, the way the inside of the cave looked like St Valentines had chundered every horrible love-themed decoration ever produced by muggle or Wizard… She was struck by the unfairness of it all. Why, why, why!
“I’ve no idea what I ever did to you!” Hermione suddenly burst out. “ You were the bully in school!”
“I know that, Granger,” he sighed, refusing to look down at her. But his arm tightened imperceptibly around her shoulder, and her stomach fluttered.
“So then why do you hate me?”
His suave mask fell into place, and he wiggled his brows. “I don’t. In fact, if you want to—”
She elbowed him and he grunted. “Stop being a creep. Seriously, why can’t you just talk to me like a normal person? Why did you start being such a knob at work?”
“Because you ruined everything!” he burst out suddenly, like he’d been holding this in for a long time. She turned to see his eyes were fierce, his face unguarded and vulnerable for once. Hurt, even, which made no sense.
“ ME?”
“Whisking in like the Golden Girl of Britain's heart, your perfect work and your body like that and making me want things I can’t deserve—”
“No, YOU—you with your, your—standing around, looking all tall and sharp and distracting me when I was supposed to be squashing my crush, not fanning the flames—”
They each froze, finally catching up to what the other had said and stared at each other in the dim light of the cave. With impeccable timing, a shrill airhorn rang out just above, and a puff of sparkling heart confetti rained down upon their unmoving bodies as the train car chugged along.
“What did you say?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. A soft hair fell over Malfoy’s forehead as he absorbed her words, probably preparing to laugh in her face.
“I…” Hermione swung her head wildly, little hearts dislodging from her hair into a mocking cloud of romance.
She resolved to simply throw herself off the ride. She probably wouldn’t be hurt too bad. Harry had lost an entire set of bones in his arm, and those had grown back, and she needed to get off…
His hand wrapped around hers when she lurched forward.
He looked down at their joined hands with something like awe written across his face. Running his thumb over her knuckle softly, he said in a hushed voice: “I was trying to squash my crush.”
She squeezed his hand, and he looked up at her, hope in his eyes. “Really?” she whispered back.
“For so long—”
A surge of incredibly fond ire lit her up, and she didn’t know whether to ravage him right here on this ride or slap him across the face. “Then why didn’t you just tell me ? Are you STUPID!”
“Me? You! If you’d just— you’re the idiot—“
Hermione didn’t know which idiot leaned in first, she or him.
But as they approached the end of the tunnel, bright daylight piercing through the cinnamon drenched darkness and the aggressive projectile of rose petals raining down on them, she couldn’t help but want his soft lips on hers.
He pulled her closer, wrapping her entirely in his arms, and kissed her like it was the only thing he’d ever want to do.
She kissed him back, knowing for once, they were on just the same page.
