Draco glared at the looming stack of parchment beside Healer Browning's chair. If the old healer wanted to make a point about the weight of Draco's omissions then consider it well-made. Apparently Draco had talked quite a bit about Hermione over the years, the evidence piled several feet high on the floor.
"Draco," Browning began in greeting, and though Draco desperately wanted to throw out a snide "Atticus," in response, he stuck with "Healer Browning."
The floating quill already performed its noisy duty just from the four syllables uttered by Draco.
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
"You've had quite the busy month it seems. Why don't we start with—?"
"I love her."
The quill stopped. Healer Browning stared at Draco.
"That's where this is all going to end," Draco gestured to the mountain of scrolls and papers that held all his past confessions and thoughts regarding Hermione Granger from years and years of sessions.
"I'm merely speeding the process up. I love her and the only people I've explicitly said that to are my mother and you. And technically Potter."
The quill jumped back to life as Browning collected himself.
"How did that conversation with your mother go?"
Draco relayed the tumultuous and accidental meeting between Hermione and his mother. He spoke at length about their holiday in France. He detailed what happened after he stormed out of his hospital bed in search of her. He divulged the soul-baring conversation he'd experienced with Hermione post hospital stay.
Browning bore all of this information as stoically as he always did, but Draco couldn't help but assume he'd somewhat surprised the man with the amount of information spilling out of him. Perhaps his healer might shower him with the barest modicum of praise for his willingness to open up more?
Not this time.
"Have you given any thought to how your relationship will be perceived by the public given Miss Granger's notoriety?"
"Umm... not really, no."
"You haven't discussed revealing your relationship publicly?"
Draco frowned. Did they need to?
"Well, those closest to us are aware and we're going through all the proper introductions to family and friends just now. I don't see how our personal affairs are any business of the public."
"Where do you see this relationship heading?"
The end of an aisle in my best robes? Fuck.
"I haven't thought that far ahead. We're just enjoying our time together," he lied through his teeth.
The healer dropped the subject then, but it left Draco with a slight feeling of unease long after he'd left the appointment. When he returned home to share a quietly awkward dinner with his mother, he found he could only pick at his food. Still unable to shake the dogged moroseness, Draco retired early, and only when he entered his bedchamber did he pinpoint what felt so wrong.
After almost two uninterrupted weeks of sleeping in the same bed as Hermione, climbing into his four-poster alone felt strange and uncomfortable. The silk sheets slid too cold against his skin, the bed felt too spacious, and the air around him too quiet. Nothing and no one beside him to either hold or be held. Gods, was that all it took? Barely two weeks and he suddenly pined for the way her monstrous hair practically suffocated him in the morning?
Draco rolled over and tried to thump his pillow a few times to beat it into a more comfortable shape. Hermione didn't lie awake having these types of existential crises. No, she was probably glad to be rid of him for a few hours. They already saw each other for morning coffee and spent the weekends together, too. So why did Draco now crave her every evening? She probably welcomed a break from him, no doubt he'd become one of those hovering and over-attentive boyfriends, especially as she healed from her hospital stay. Giving his pillow another frustrated thump, he drifted into a rather unsettled slumber.
Where do you see this relationship heading?
He didn't sleep very well the remainder of the week either, putting on a brave face of well-rested relaxation when he met Hermione in the mornings. When Saturday rolled around, he existed in a right foul mood even through his required attendance at the quarterfinal match for the league playoffs. If the Wasps won, Draco would be expected to attend the after-party, which meant missing out on spending time with Hermione all together.
The long, grueling game lasted close to four hours, the Wasps emerging victorious, and Draco sighed internally, even though it pleased him that his team now advanced to the semi-finals. By the time he could pull himself away from the celebrations, it neared two in the morning.
Bleary-eyed from the lack of quality sleep, he trudged up the stairs of his home in a daze. But when he entered his bedchamber, the fire still lit in the grate surprised him. Before he could call Crick to put it out properly, a movement from his bed gave him pause.
Heart in his throat, Draco moved silently across the room, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed and leaning against one of the handsome wood posts. Hermione lay fast asleep, her hair sprawled everywhere, mouth ajar, and scattered across the coverlet were numerous pieces of parchment, covered with her neat notes. She must have Flooed over after dinner to see him after the match ended, but then of course, worked herself out with the obscene number of things she had on her plate.
Where do you see this relationship heading?
Right here, Draco thought. Right fucking here.
For a few minutes, Draco allowed himself to fantasize that coming home could look like this: Hermione attempting to wait up for him and busying herself with her own projects while she anticipated his return to their bed in their home.
Draco sighed on an exhale and cautiously approached her side of the bed. He traced a finger against her cheek and her eyelids fluttered open.
"Hello there. This is quite the surprise."
"Mmm, hello darling," Hermione murmured back sleepily and stretched to fully rouse herself.
Draco's stomach, which had already experienced a swooping sensation at her groggy use of "darling" went through a further series of impressive acrobatics when the sheets slid down her body to reveal she wore one of his shirts.
"Well? Did your team win?"
Draco removed his robes and climbed in next to her. "We did. We'll have a tough match-up in the semis though, we'll be up against the Kenmare Kestrels and if I were a betting man, I'd say our chances aren't great at advancing beyond next week."
Hermione flicked her wand and her notes collected themselves and floated to a writing desk across the room.
"Well congratulations anyway," she responded and settled down next to him, arm draped over his chest. "Ginny says your team has won the league several times, so you'll have to forgive me if I secretly root for Kenmare next week. I rather hate losing you to quidditch on the weekends."
Her breathing was already deep and even once more, while Draco's heart thudded wildly in his breast.
"Granger you couldn't lose me to anything," he murmured.
Whether she heard him or not, Draco didn't really care. Tonight, more than any other night this week he had finally experienced the sensation of coming home.
---------------------------------------
September 2008
"Oh my gods, what time is it?!"
Hermione had frantically shouted and muttered this question at least eight times in the past hour. She paced around her kitchen while Draco leaned against the doorway, having been told to "just stay out of the way, I've got a handle on this."
Molly and Arthur Weasley were coming to dinner at Hermione's home and Draco had no idea why that made her so nervous. If anything, she should be consoling him, the pariah about to officially meet his girlfriend's pseudo-parental guardians. When a brisk knocking sounded on the door, Hermione almost completely upended the cheese tray.
"I can get that if—?"
"No, we're sticking to the plan," she cut him off abruptly, because of course Granger had designed an entire script around this momentous meeting.
She straightened her wrap dress as she led the way toward the door, Draco wondering if these would be his final moments on this earth.
"I look all right?"
She looked to him for validation, her eyes swimming with uncertainty and anxiety. Draco tucked a wayward curl behind her ear.
"You'll do," he said with a smirk and she swatted his arm.
"And you look bloody perfect," she grumbled and he held back a chuckle at her bitter tone.
Hermione pasted a smile on her face and opened the door.
"Hello Hermione dear, thank you for having us!" came the cheerful greeting of the Weasley matriarch. She wrapped Hermione up in a fierce hug and her husband followed suit.
When the couple turned his way, Draco braced himself for a cold appraisal, and resolved to uphold everything he'd learned from those ingrained etiquette lessons of his childhood.
"Molly, Arthur, I don't think you've ever properly met Draco."
"How do you do Mrs. Weasley," Draco intoned politely, dropping a light kiss to the back of her hand in the traditional greeting.
"Lovely to meet you dear," said the older woman, seeming friendly and a bit flustered at his display of old-fashioned propriety.
Draco held in a smirk, sensing he just might be able to survive the evening on charm alone. That confident thought died a swift death when he met the cool eyes of Arthur Weasley.
"Pleasure to meet you as well, sir," Draco said and offered his hand.
"Likewise," Arthur replied stiffly, shaking and dropping Draco's hand rather quickly. Draco pushed thoughts away of what Lucius would have to say in this situation if he could see Draco attempting to win the approval of the head of a family of blood traitors.
"Whatever you have cooking smells fantastic, Hermione," Arthur said with much more enthusiasm.
"Oh thank you! Speaking of, Molly would you mind helping me in the kitchen for a minute? I followed your recipe to the letter, and I think the roast only needs 15 more minutes in the oven, but I'd love if you'd double-check for me."
"Of course dear! I've brought raspberry tarts for dessert so we'll set these down for later..."
The two women bustled off leaving Draco alone with Arthur, per Hermione's plan. A tense silence descended upon the two men.
"Something to drink for you?" Draco inquired, gesturing at Hermione's makeshift bar cart in the corner of the sitting room.
"If she still has that bourbon, that'd be acceptable."
Draco helped himself to a glass as well, and once again tried to suppress the snide voice of his father in his head, borderline apoplectic at a Malfoy fetching a drink for a Weasley. Arthur accepted the glass without a word and the men settled as far as possible from one another on Hermione's couch.
"Hermione's father sends me a bottle of this stuff every Christmas," said Arthur after a few sips.
"It's quite smooth."
"It's Muggle-made, you know," Arthur said lightly, but Draco spotted the underlying accusation.
"I'm aware," he clipped.
The men silently sipped their drinks for a few moments before Arthur set his glass on the coffee table and turned to face Draco.
"Have you met her parents?"
Draco swirled his bourbon around the glass. "Not yet. We're meeting them next weekend for Granger's, I mean Hermione's, birthday."
The older man nodded. "Good, that's good. Fine people, Hermione's parents. She rather overwhelms them, I think." He paused and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Quite honestly, I don't think they knew what to do with a daughter like her. I still remember the first time we met them... blimey but you were all so young... and I thought as Muggles go, they'd adjusted about as well as anyone to learning about our world."
Draco met Arthur's eyes, noting that the older man's keen blue stare so resembled that of his youngest son. Absently, Draco wondered what Arthur Weasley saw when he looked at him. He'd been told all his life how extraordinarily alike he was in appearance to Lucius. Is that what Weasley Senior saw? A mere facsimile of his former foe?
"The Grangers did their best to understand, but it's hard, I'm sure, to have your worldview upended so spectacularly," Arthur continued. "Her father especially worried about her... which is why he approached me before we took Hermione in for the summer before the '94 Quidditch World Cup. Let's see, you're Ronald's age, so that was before your... Fourth Year, yes?"
Draco nodded. Yes, that disastrous event where my father and his cronies had a bit too much to drink and decided some Muggle torture was in order while I was told to hide behind a tree.
"Hermione's father had a special request for me and Molly. Smart man, her father. He could tell there were things Hermione kept from him, could sense his daughter was in more danger than she'd ever let on. So he approached me and my wife and asked that while Hermione was in our world, that we look after her as one of our own. And if anything should happen to him and his wife, then we would take her in, give her a home."
Arthur fixed Draco with a hard stare. "I consider the oath I gave that man an Unbreakable Vow. Now, obviously her parents are alive and well, but make no mistake, Molly and I will never stop looking out for that girl... er, young woman."
The end of his statement had a ring of a warning to it.
"Hermione is very fortunate. To be cared for by so many," Draco offered uncertainly.
"She makes it easy," Arthur replied with an affable smile. "But her parents... they are going to be wary of you, you understand. Our world intrigued them at first but now... after everything that happened to their daughter... I think they fear it, having seen the darker potential for magic. And a young wizard from a family like yours... I believe they will have some reservations about you dating their only child. I would advise you to be very careful about how you present yourself to them. Warranted or not, they approach magical people with a degree of suspicion these days, and after everything they've been through, you'd do well not to upset them by hurting Hermione."
Draco fiddled with the glass in his hand before taking a large gulp of bourbon, almost draining the glass. Two immediate reactions warred within him: you deserve this battling against how dare you? He edged forward in his seat, fighting the urge to either jump up to pace or tap his fingers against his thighs. His anxious energy had no current outlet.
"I have no intention of ever hurting Hermione. I've spent time around Muggles, I've no issue with... look, the way I was raised, my father..." Draco took a steadying breath, "my father disrespected you on numerous occasions and I am sorry for the way my family has treated yours and—"
Arthur held up a hand. "Let me stop you there, Draco. I am personally of the opinion that the sins of the father should not be visited upon the son."
Draco had no response for that pronouncement. Were the situation reversed, Draco knew his own father would never be so accommodating to Weasley's son.
"Still, sir, if I may, the way I acted towards your sons and daughter at school—"
"Is a matter between you and them."
Sweet Salazar, why did everyone in life need to make apologizing such a to-do? I am okay with this.
"Fine," Draco said through gritted teeth, struggling to still sound contrite. "Then let me at least apologize for any derogatory comments I made about you and your wife in the past."
"Forgiven!" Arthur replied jovially and Draco almost suffered an aneurysm from not rolling his eyes.
Another awkward silence descended, Draco unsure of how to proceed now and wishing Hermione would announce dinner soon.
"Fancy another?" he asked Arthur, gesturing to the man's empty glass.
Arthur looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen, checking to see if his wife lurked within view or earshot.
"Oh, go on then."
Draco refilled their glasses and when he'd returned to the couch, noticed the way the older man's eyes lingered on all the Muggle technology Hermione owned, as if itching to run his fingers over it all and discover their secrets. His eyes kept flicking back to the television remote.
"Do you know how to use it?" Arthur asked Draco suddenly.
"Yes, sort of. I can at least turn on the device, if you like? I find it rather garish and overwhelming. All the discordant noise and the colors are far too bright."
Draco remembered Hermione telling him about Arthur's affinity for all things Muggle and thought he might finally have a way to win the man over.
"Here," said Draco, pushing the button to switch the screen on. Hermione didn't watch much television, especially if Draco stayed over, so he was unfamiliar with the various "programs" it offered. Arthur, however, seemed delighted.
"Oh this here! This is marvelous! Has she explained football to you yet?"
Draco shook his head, watching the little men in different colored uniforms jog and sprint up and down some sort of field chasing after a ball the size of a quaffle, but only touching it with their feet.
"It's the biggest Muggle sport there is, and it's rather ingenious actually, all the little rules..."
----------------------------------------
"I think it's about done, the juices are running clear," Hermione said confidently, setting the roast pan on the kitchen counter.
"Looks perfect dear," Molly replied with an affirming nod.
Hermione gathered some forks from the drawer and placed them next to her best dishware. "All right, I need the bigger serving spoon for the asparagus and then we can—"
"You never mentioned how handsome your young man is. Goodness, if I were a few decades younger, you'd have to beat me off him with a broomstick."
Hermione whirled around. "Molly!" she gasped in astonishment, casting anxious eyes toward the living room.
The older woman chuckled. "Oh please child, whatever could you be embarrassed about? He's really rather gorgeous, isn't he?"
Her cheeks had lit on fire at the sheer absurdity of this conversation and the truth in the pronouncement. "Oh well, yes he is, I mean... it's not the only reason I'm with him, of course, but obviously it doesn't hurt..."
Molly giggled like a school-girl, and Hermione found it infectious. Apparently, Draco only had to lightly peck the older woman's hand and she fell completely in his thrall.
As if you were any different...
Hermione's ears pricked up at a familiar sound. "I can hear the telly. Do you think they're all right?"
When the women went through to the sitting room, they found two rather impassioned men gesturing wildly at the television.
"Come off it, you can't just plough a man like that!"
"Quite right, quite right! Most unsporting!"
"Do you think he faked it? I mean that was a rough fall, but at that angle..."
"No, no, that was much too hard to be a flop, they should send off that defender."
Hermione leaned her face against Molly's shoulder to hide her silent laughter. Merlin, if she had a video camera at this moment, she'd never let either of them live this down. Telly and football: the great unifiers of all men.
"If you two are quite finished, Hermione's made a rather wonderful meal, and it would be a shame for it to grow cold," said Molly sternly, causing the wizards to jump to attention. She threw a sly wink Hermione's way.
Roughly half an hour later and dinner continued on swimmingly, but Hermione had just about reached her limit.
Firstly, the clothing. The man wore a three-piece suit (gemstone cufflinks and all) to a supposed casual "getting to know Hermione's new boyfriend but in reality is also a way for her magical family to vet him and for said boyfriend to knock some apologies off his list" dinner.
He looked so shag-able. The artfully coiffed hair she couldn't wait to ruin with greedy fingers. The tightly composed facial expressions she couldn't wait to loosen with wanton lips. That stupidly, delectably fitted suit she couldn't wait to have pressed against her.
And Hermione knew his choice of blue suit was in no way accidental, but rather a deliberate assault on her ability to function in his alluring presence. She'd only blurted that inelegant thought about Draco and the color blue one time, and yet, the smug arse seemed to now own a plethora of suits in just about every shade.
Secondly, the table manners. Not that her previous boyfriends had bad table manners, per se (even Ron had improved over time), but Draco's sense of decorum during a meal entered the stratosphere of flawless.
The way he deferentially passed dishes to Molly, his seated posture somehow both stiff yet graceful, the way he'd delicately dab his lips with the napkin after each bite, the way he inclined his head toward Arthur when he addressed him, gods even the perfect way he sliced his serving of roast without making a sound with the cutlery against the plate made her hot and bothered.
And finally, his voice.
The way Draco spoke always sparked something within her, but tonight he'd dialed the formality up to uncharted levels. She wondered if a nervous tic manifested in the use of his aristocratic accent, so posh it bordered on snobby. Each consonant crisply punctuated, vowels not drawn out too long, not a dropped "g" in sight, every word he uttered seeming so carefully selected before making its way past his lips, it all made it very difficult for Hermione to focus on anything other than the fantasies running rampant through her mind.
Fantasies where Draco proffered his arm to her and asked, "If Miss Granger would do him the honor of accompanying him for a turn about the gardens?" And then they'd talk about the proper way to decant brandy or breeding hunting hounds or something equally as snooty and then he'd inquire if he might steal a brief kiss and she'd drag him behind a hedge by his suit lapels and snog him rotten...
Merlin, what was wrong with her?
This had to be one of the longest evenings of her life, and not because of long-running familial feuds or grudges as she'd initially feared, but because she was beyond aroused and quite close to chucking the Weasleys out so she could indulge in a newly awakened fetish for an upper-class cadence and mannerisms.
When dessert, coffee, and tea had finally been cleared away and the night reached its end, Hermione had enough of her wits left about her to shoo Draco into the kitchen after Molly had gone through to collect her dessert tin.
While her and Arthur couldn't hear the soft-spoken conversation, they did eventually hear Molly exclaim, "Oh my dear boy, of course!" followed by the sounds of feminine blubbering. Arthur and Hermione shared amused smirks. When the two emerged from the kitchen, Molly dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief (monogrammed D.L.M.) and Draco sported a rather pink face.
The Weasleys said their goodbyes then, Molly still clutching Draco's kerchief as she hugged him, and Hermione beamed when Arthur shook Draco's hand in a much warmer fashion than their stilted greeting. The door closed and Hermione heard Draco release a loud exhale.
"You would obviously know better, but in my estimation that went fairly wellmmmhpphffff—" Hermione cut off Draco's summary of the evening with an insistent press of her lips. Caught off guard by her aggression, Hermione succeeded in pushing him against the nearest wall, his hands clutching at her sides for balance.
She molded her body into him and ran her hands all over his form until Draco's enthusiasm caught up with hers as he rutted forward into her hips. After keeping herself from groping him all evening, Hermione luxuriated in finally touching Draco anywhere and everywhere she could reach. Only two things kept her from tearing the clothes off his body: she knew they were custom-made and thus outrageously expensive, and he looked so mouthwatering all dressed up for her that it would be a shame to remove this finery in such an animalistic fashion.
Desperate to sate her desire for him, her tongue delved into his mouth and discovered he still tasted of the sugared raspberries from dessert. She kissed down his neck as the groans in her ear spurred her to further heights of boldness.
"Granger whatever I did to inspire this, do let me know and I'll make sure to repeat it," Draco gasped, fingers rolling her nipples through the fabric of her dress.
She kissed back up to his mouth while her hands worked their way down his hard chest and stopped at the top of his belt.
"Your—accent—and—oh god—so bloody—proper—you've no idea—how—gods—you sound like—yes, Draco—such a gentleman—it's so—mmm—I've wanted you—all night—" She managed to murmur against his lips between kisses and felt the smirk curl the edges of his mouth.
"How wet are you right now love?"
Hermione pulled back with a coquettish smile. "A lady would never speak of such things."
With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she made quick work of his belt buckle, reached into his trunks to grip his already stiff member, and stroked it the way she knew he liked. Her deft wrist movements rewarded Hermione with a fantastic sight: Draco closing his eyes, biting his lip, and his head lolling back against the wall. He looked so perfect in the throes of passion, beautiful in the way he came undone for her. And all by her hand... or mouth.
Drunk on the power she had over him, Hermione sank to her knees and removed his cock fully from his trousers. She heard a throaty moan followed by a sigh of pleasure when she sucked the length of him. Glancing up, she noticed his fingers scrambling for purchase along the wall next to his trembling body.
Always the gentleman.
Hermione snagged one of his hands and directed it to the back of her head. His fingers twitched in her hair, clearly afraid of grabbing too tight, so Hermione hollowed her cheeks and bobbed her head faster, taking in as much of him as she physically could.
"Oh fuck Hermione... fuck, like that... just like that..."
He finally let go, bucking his hips and pulling on her hair as his breathing grew more erratic. Draco's knees almost gave out as he came down her throat, Hermione silently congratulating herself on rendering him almost legless and relishing in the thrill of making her refined, tightly wound boyfriend lose all sense of self.
Draco hauled her to her feet, a lazy grin on his face. "Take off your knickers and go wait on the bed."
Hermione obeyed instantly and when Draco brought her to a quivering orgasm minutes later with his talented tongue, the hazy afterglow allowed her to revel in the planned evening having gone absolutely perfect.
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A brief interlude in which Ron Weasley learns his lesson
Harry said all sorts of things to warn Ron off from doing what he intended to do, but Ron needed this.
Malfoy may have saved Hermione's life, and if the look of genuine wretchedness he'd displayed at Hermione's hospital bedside meant anything, he seemed to sincerely care for her. His own father had given a hesitant, yet positive review of Malfoy's conduct from their dinner a week ago, to say nothing of Ron's mother who seemed a little too fond of the platinum-haired prat.
Still, Ron didn't feel ready to let go of decades of animosity and cruelty. In the end, Harry proved to be a true friend, and allowed Ron to borrow his Invisibility Cloak for the morning.
He'd been to the little Muggle café a fair few times before, but he wasn't much of a coffee drinker, and knew Hermione liked her quiet mornings before work. When he began dating Padma, he'd stopped going at all, but even after all these years Ron remembered the location, a few blocks down from Hermione's townhome.
Beneath Harry's Cloak, Ron removed one of the more ingenious products from the joke shop: Chameleon Extendable Ears. While the original version had been flesh-colored strings, he and George had since improved the product so that it now blended in with the surroundings, rendering it almost undetectable to ignorant eyes.
A couple sat in the front window, but at the table just beyond them, Ron spied a familiar shock of white-blond hair. He jammed one end of the Extendable Ears into his own, and watched as the shimmering other end snaked beneath the café door and slithered to a rest underneath the table. Hermione's recognizable voice burst into his ear, speaking in a low warning.
"—if you do this, I swear Malfoy, I'll—"
"You'll what Granger? Hex me in front of all these Muggles?"
"It's not fair! You can't keep doing this to me!"
"I can and I will."
Ron fumed under the Cloak and gripped his wand. He knew it, he knew it! Malfoy, that underhanded ponce, had Hermione trapped and Ron would have to curse that ferret's face off. Thinking through the best combination of jinxes to throw Malfoy's way, he raised his wand.
"But this is my scone, you sneaking prat!"
Ron lowered his wand. The Muggle couple got up from the table in front of him and Ron had a clear view of his best friend and childhood nemesis. Hermione scowled and Malfoy gleefully chewed on a breakfast pastry.
"Pretty sure I paid for these today... mmm, thanks for sharing, love."
"You know it's rather unbecoming of a gentleman to lick his fingers."
"But I thought you liked it when I use my tongue? You certainly weren't complaining last night."
"Well of course not, my mouth was rather occupied at the time as you may recall..."
"Merlin, Granger, say something naughty like that again and we won't make it to work because I'm taking you straight home so I can—"
Ron yanked the end of his Extendable Ear so hard it was a miracle it didn't snap. Fighting the urge to vomit right there on the sidewalk, he caught one last glimpse of Malfoy's lovesick smile and Hermione's blushing face as she giggled behind her hand before he Disapparated beneath the Cloak.
Storming into Harry's office later, he threw the Cloak on his other best friend's desk with a terse, "You were right, lesson learned, never again, Merlin."
Harry leaned back in his chair and grinned knowingly up at Ron. "You catch them snogging? They're rather fond of it."
Ron shuddered. "Ugh, thanks for that image Harry. And no, just... some... words... completely inappropriate... honestly gross... disturbing..." He trailed off in horror, unable to articulate his disgust properly.
Harry's chuckles followed him out of the office. Apparently Ron must now accept Draco sodding Malfoy into their friend group.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr: @heyjude19-writing.