By Tuesday morning, everyone on Level 4 knew not to look for a ring, ask her about her coming nuptials, or even glance her way. The rest of the day on Monday had been so tense after she had screamed at Aiden for filing a case file incorrectly, that Mathilda probably sent out some kind of a memo. Word must have traveled up to Level 2, because Harry appeared at her cubicle on Wednesday just before lunch.

"How's the bride-to-be?" He smiled.

She glared at him, and continued throwing files around in an order only she knew.

"Come on. Let's go down to the café."

"I'm not hungry," she bit out.

"Well, I am and I want some company." He grinned at her. "Besides, those files will still be here in half an hour, and they will still be in need of some roughing up."

She looked down and realized that every file she'd touched had now been crumpled, torn, or bent. She sighed and grabbed her coin purse.

Once alone in the lifts, Harry turned to her.

"So who is it you're really upset with? Ron or Skeeter?"

"Both, but mainly me." She closed her eyes and pressed her temples. "I'm so angry that I let him kiss me."

There was silence. The gates opened and a few memos flew out.

"Do you want to get back together with Ron?"

She looked up at him. Harry's face was completely open to her. He wasn't hoping for an answer. He was asking her from honest curiosity. She tried as honest an answer as she could.

"Not really, no. Or maybe it's 'not now'? I'm not really sure." She pushed up the sleeves of her robes. "I just don't like feeling like the choice is being taken from me. By Rita bloody Skeeter!"

The lifts arrived at the Atrium. Harry led out, saying over his shoulder, "Most sensible people know that Rita publishes absolute drivel most of the time. I mean, look at what she said about Malfoy over the weekend! He's been in a right state too!"

Hermione stopped, letting Ministry employees push past her to get into their lift. Her mind flitted through the events of the weekend, and found no Malfoy article.

"Which article was that?" She found her legs again and followed.

Harry turned to walk backwards as he led the way to the café. "You know, the one about him visiting his father? And her guesses at why they were meeting? But, she wasn't there. She couldn't have known. Absolute drivel."

Hermione didn't bother reminding him that she could have been there, a fly-on-the-wall. "What day was this?"

"He visited Saturday, after our Quidditch practice I guess," Harry said, lowering his voice as they entered the café and joined the back of the line. "The article was published Sunday."

The faint memory of a blonde head on the front page, Ginny not letting her read the article.... Hermione made a mental note to check the rubbish bins for Sunday's paper.

"What did it say? What was she hypothesizing?"

Harry turned to her and she could see now the same look on his face when Ginny told him not to share the paper with her.

"Just... why he was visiting Lucius." He grabbed a tray and stared at it.

"Harry, I'm going to find it and read it anyway."

Harry sighed and scratched his jaw. He looked around the café to make sure no one could eavesdrop. "She brought up Draco's inheritance, and how he might be trying to get it released to him early."

Hermione squinted at him. "And he needed to speak to Lucius? Shouldn't all of his money be available to Narcissa?"

They arrived at the front of the line then, and Hermione had to wait while Harry ordered tea and two of the croissants he'd been pestering her about. Then when he stepped aside for her to order, and she realized that both croissants were for him, she stifled a smile and ordered one for herself.

"Some of the Pureblood families have their money guarded with old magic," Harry said. Hermione nodded. She knew a little about this, but clearly Harry knew more. He continued, "Most likely in Malfoy's case, his inheritance would be released to him on his wedding day, after Lucius performed a ritual passed down through the Malfoy men."

Hermione's eye twitched at the words "wedding day." Harry found a little table that mysteriously became available the moment The-Boy-Who-Lived-And-Died-And-Lived-Again looked at it. He smiled in thanks at the ladies who had stood from it, clearly not done with their lunches.

"So, he wants his money early? That's all Rita had to say?" Hermione watched Harry devour his first croissant in a perfect impersonation of Ron at dinner time.

Harry wiped his mouth. "Pretty much." He sipped his tea and looked at a point over her shoulder. Hermione frowned at him.

"What else, Harry."

His shoulders slumped. "Well, that evening he went on a date."

Hermione kept her face neutral. "Is that all?"

Harry studied her. "Yes. I guess we just didn't want you to read about all that and look at the pictures of them on your birthday." He stared longingly at his second croissant. Hermione noted that there were pictures.

"Well, I guess that was for the best. I had a lovely day until my fiancé decided to kiss me." She cut into her croissant, giving Harry the permission he needed to continue ravishing his plate. "So, he's been in a mood? Malfoy?"

With his mouth full, "He's been getting harassed all week."

"What do you mean?"

"Cards, flowers, resumes...all from potential wives. It's like mating season. Rita's article almost gave permission to court him. He's been setting fire to anything that enters his office with hearts on it."

"But that doesn't make sense," Hermione said. "He's been listed as an eligible bachelor for weeks. Why are these crazed Witches acting like this now?"

Harry swiftly finished his last bite, and while picking at the flakes left on the plate, said, "I guess if his inheritance was released to him on Saturday, then he could now marry a Half-Blood, a Muggle-born – Merlin even a Muggle! – and still receive the money. Lucius couldn't hold it hostage." Harry leaned back in his chair, smiling. "And now he's probably the richest unmarried Wizard of his age."

"If the money was released to him." She scratched off the top layer of the pastry with her fingernail.

"Right. If."

Hermione quietly finished her croissant while Harry prattled on about work.

~*~

Once she'd ransacked all the rubbish bins at home, finding nothing, Hermione took the Floo to the Daily Prophet Headquarters, asking for the paper printed on her birthday, as a "memento." After the older dark skinned woman handed her the paper – holding her hand for longer than necessary, thanking her for all she did in the war – Hermione realized that the flash of blonde hair she'd seen on the front page had been Lucius Malfoy. She felt her breath leave her while staring at his face for the first time in a year and a half. The similarities with Draco were so striking, and even in his Azkaban robes, staring into her eyes through the paper, she still felt the cold chill of inferiority.

She arrived back at home and flipped through the article, landing on the photos of Draco's date. They had gone to dinner at one of the fancier Wizarding London cafés. She had wavy blonde hair and perfect teeth and Draco smirked at her. She was a Pureblood French girl according to Rita, which in Hermione's opinion would have not helped the case for all the Half-Bloods and Muggle-borns scrambling to be first in line. Rita did not even indicate in the article that Draco's "preferences" had changed since the war, but basically gave a "Have at it!" to all ages, sizes, and births. It was quite encouraging if you were vapid enough to believe it.

Hermione noted that at no point did Rita confirm that the meeting was a success and the inheritance released. And she did not comment on the picture of Draco leaving Azkaban, head down, scowling, and jaw clenched.

~*~

On Friday, Hermione was wearing her sensible heels again. She really needed Ginny to take her shopping to find shoes that wouldn't embarrass her, but today there was no time. She was speaking to the Wizengamot today regarding the sentencing of Antonin Dolohov.

According to Harry, the Wizengamot had been arguing for quite some time regarding the worst of the Death Eaters, particularly the ones who had been imprisoned before and had escaped. She'd heard rumblings through the office that a Dementor had been captured last week, and while Aiden liked to hypothesize the silliest things, Hermione knew that the timing with Dolohov's trial was suspicious.

She held no pity for Dolohov, but if The Kiss was being reintroduced as a possibility, where did it end?

Hermione exited the lifts on the bottom floor, and stopped short when she spotted a blonde head twenty meters away. He was leaning against the stone wall and staring down at his shoes. She hadn't seen him since her mental break in lifts on Monday, but Rita Skeeter had kept his name in the papers. In fact, he had a lunch date with the same Bulgarian girl the day before. She smiled too much.

As far as she could tell, he had not noticed her yet, and she was so tempted to turn and head back upstairs. Her feet began to carry her toward him. He heard the clicking of her shoes and looked up at her. She saw for the smallest of moments a look of open curiosity before it was replaced with distrust.

"Malfoy," she greeted him, remembering that the last time they had truly spoken she had called him Draco.

"What are you doing here?" He squinted at her. She came to a stop about two meters from him.

"Providing information to the Wizengamot. Much like I assume you are?"

He clenched his jaw and glared at the floor again. When it was clear he would say no more, she settled herself against the opposite wall. Standing with him against his wall would have been awkward she assumed, but now she wished she had because they had to face each other from across a wide hallway. She focused her eyes on the oak door down the hall, craning her neck to keep him out of her line of sight.

"Tell me, Granger," he said, and she did her best to face him. He wasn't looking at her. "Do you make it a priority to free all of the Death Eaters?" She blinked at him, and he continued, "Is 'Testify on Behalf of the Accused' a standing Friday appointment in your calendar?"

He looked at her with the half-bored, half-annoyed expression that she'd seen so often on him. He was so warm to her last Friday, even buying her a drink, chatting with her. And there was something about her being golden.... It was as if she'd imagined all of it, and instead, they were still twelve years old on the Quidditch pitch.

"Actually, I am testifying against the accused today," she said, holding his stare. His eyes flickered, and she suspected that that was all she needed to say, but her mouth had a different idea. "Don't worry, Malfoy, you're still the exception to the rule." She raised a brow at him, like he always did to her.

"The exception..." He muttered and his eyes narrowed at the ground in between them. Then suddenly, "And who asked you to save me, Granger?" He stepped off the wall, neck and shoulders tense. She held her breath. "Because I didn't ask for your pity. I don't need a 'champion.'" He sneered at her. It reminded her so much of Hogwarts that she took a moment before she replied.

"I never volunteered to be your 'champion,'" Hermione scoffed.

He stepped into her.

"Then what is it you are volunteering for?" There was a glimmer in his eyes and a smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth. Hermione felt small and quiet, but mostly she felt hot. It was as if he'd flipped a switch somewhere and had changed the entire atmosphere of the hallway.

"N-nothing." She focused on the disgusted look on her own face, trying to keep it there, trying to portray confusion. "Merlin, Malfoy! Can't you just accept it when someone is nice to you? It ... it was the right thing to do."

The smirk slid off his lips, but his eyes were still gleaming. His pupils danced back and forth between her eyes with a determination she remembered from watching him during Arithmancy.

"So, is it a Life Debt, then?" he asked.

She no longer needed to pretend to be confused. "A Life Debt?"

"You saved me from a lifetime of rotting in Azkaban, so now I owe you, Granger? Is that how it works?"

Hermione was genuinely shocked. "No. No, that wasn't my intention at all." She shook her head and centered herself by looking down at the space between the tips of their shoes. Barely two strides. She swallowed. "If anything, Malfoy, a Debt is repaid." She glanced up from beneath her lashes. He was squinting at her. "I meant what I said at your trial. If you had identified us at the Manor—"

"Stop!" he snapped and she jumped. "Stop glorifying that night."

She jerked back from him, searching his face. He was glaring at her again. And he was flushed.

"I didn't give a fig about saving the world, or stopping the Dark Lord – or you and your idiotic friends for that matter!" Part of his bangs fell forward onto his forehead and he shoved it back into place.

"I know you recognized me," she said, shaking her head at him. "I know you saw me, saw Ron, and could have easily –"

"Handed you over to the Death Eaters? Would you have liked that Granger? Would it have cleared things up in your logical brain?"

"Of course not!" She almost laughed at the absurdity.

He shifted his weight so he could meet her at eye level, leaning toward her. Her back felt the cold of the stone wall just behind her. "Do you even know what they're capable of? Dolohov? The Death Eaters?"

She squashed the slight joy at hearing him talk about the Death Eaters as if he were not a part of them and straightened her spine.

"Clearly I do! You were in the room for it!" She couldn't help but reach for her arm, still magically scarred with the word forever.

"Not Bella. The real Death Eaters."

She didn't understand. Something on her face must have told him so.

He continued, "Some of them are completely sane, with logical brains and the ability to dream up a future where Harry Potter and the Order are defeated, and Lord Voldemort reigns. And what do you think happens to people like you in this world, Granger?" His steel grey eyes drilled into hers, and the trace of that hidden smirk was back. He was winning at something. She just didn't know what yet.

"I get it, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes, trying bravado. "We all get tortured. We all die. All Muggle-borns get a matching 'Mudblood' carving –"

"All the Muggle-borns, yes." The glimmer was back in his eyes. He took another step toward her, and her back landed against the wall. "But not Potter's 'Golden Girl.'" She rankled at the term. "Or his Weasley slag for that matter." She scowled at Ginny's mention. He placed a hand on the wall beside her head, grinning at her, and all she could think about was how many times she had found him in a similar position with Pansy Parkinson while on Prefect rounds.

"You see," he continued. "Macnair came up with the idea of the Auction. Brilliant business man he is." He laughed lightly at some hidden joke only he knew, and Hermione felt his breath puff across her face.

"The Auction?" She blinked at him. He smirked at her.

"A way to sort of... divvy up the spoils of war. Whoever came into possession of certain Muggle-borns, Blood-traitors, or Order members at the end the of the war, would have first right to auction them off to the highest bidder... for whatever purpose they would like."

Hermione's chest felt hollow. She wasn't breathing, but he kept going.

"And trust me, Granger." He smiled at her. "It isn't your housekeeping skills that they were after."

She could feel the bile building in her throat while tears pricked her eyes. She cleared her throat.

"Then I assume thanks are still in order, Malfoy," she bit out. "If you had identified me that night, 'The Golden Girl' would have belonged to Greyback and the Snatchers – theirs to auction. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to live out the rest of the war in the Malfoy dungeons! If you're going to become a 'spoil of war,' best to do it in style!" She spat his words back at him and saw her breath sweep the hair that had fallen on his forehead again.

"Oh, you're very welcome, Granger," he hissed at her. "After all, I've heard that Greyback wasn't so interested in waiting for the Auction. He preferred to keep all of his 'spoils.'"

She could feel the heat dancing up her neck and across her jaw. She swallowed and held his cruel eyes. "And, of course, being the shrewd business man that you are, that wouldn't do. Why let Greyback have me when you could use the opportunity to make a few hundred galleons after the war. Is that it, Malfoy?"

He laughed, and the sound rattled her ribs. "A few hundred galleons? Come now, Granger, you must know that your... skills would have been worth much more than that. You would have been the top prize."

"Stop," she hissed at him.

"Bidding for you and the Weasley girl actually started at 10,000 galleons each, but I had it on good authority that the highest bid discussed was 20,000 for the ginger –"

"You're disgusting." She needed to get out before she cried. She started to step around him, away from the wall, but he pinned her in with his other arm.

"—And 30,000 galleons for the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

Her breath left her lungs with a small laugh. He was smiling smugly at her, teasing her, watching her.

"You can't be serious," she said. She was going to cry or be sick or both. And none of those things did she want to do in front of him.

"And let's not forget my favorite part." He brought his face closer to hers, if it was even possible. "Another 5,000 would be added on if it could be proven that you were 'untouched.'"

Her lungs were begging for air, but she could not cooperate.

"So, tell me, Granger. I've been curious," he whispered. "Had events played out differently last spring, could I be 35,000 galleons richer?"

Her hand moved before her brain did. She slapped him. Her dirty blood was screaming in her veins and she was panting. His face barely moved as she connected, but she'd gotten him good. They glared into each other's eyes.

"Mr. Malfoy," a voice a thousand miles away called. "They are ready for you."

He straightened, and as he turned to face the oak doors, she turned on her heel and headed back to the lifts. She took them to the Atrium. Her heels clicked towards the first fireplace on the right, she spoke her Floo address as the dust hit the flames, and when Ginny jumped off the couch, spilling her popcorn on the floor, Hermione proceeded straight to the loo as her stomach heaved.

Ginny sat with her on the bathroom floor for the next several hours, without comment.

~*~

She dreamt that night of Malfoy Manor. She was lying on the drawing room floor, memorizing the chandelier and the patterns the light made on the ceiling. Something was tugging on her arm but she couldn't see.

"Where did you get the sword?" A hiss.

"We found it - I swear." Her voice floated to her ears. She did not remember speaking.

"You're a liar, aren't you, Granger."

The pain in her arm. Her voice screaming. And she looked to her left and Draco Malfoy was carving the word "Mudblood" into her arm.

Ginny was there when she woke up, sweating.