The end of Fall was near. As another crisp, red leaf fell from its branch and every dry, delicate petal fell from its flower, sunshine broke through the greying clouds even less. Fall had signaled the start of term, but the air grew colder every day. Students brought out their cloaks, pulling them high against their chins to protect them from the impending winter air that was fast approaching.

While they grew paler and pinker from the frost slowly settling, the owls of Hogwarts castle thrived. Particularly a white and auburn owl with majestic blue eyes and a proud beak named Hamlet. He soared off the top of the Astronomy Tower, bored by the scatter of students hurrying along the grounds and continued on his path.

In a graceful dive, Hamlet then found himself landing on the windowsill of his destination. With the same curiosity he had when he watched the human population outside, he observed the two sleeping figures on the bed. Hamlet could not see the girl's face—it was obscured by a large mass of curly, brown hair that reminded him of the poorly kept nests of unemployed owls deep in the Forbidden Forest. Her upper body was sprawled across the pale boy, his arm slung around her waist, holding her in place.

Hamlet let out a squawk.

The face behind the nest emerged out, exposing wide, brown eyes that blinked away confusion to obtain a certain anger Hamlet was used to from his own owner.

"Get off," Hermione hissed, her palms digging into Draco's chest in attempt to push herself up and away from him. "Malfoy, let go!"

Draco instantly sat upright, his free hand pulling out his wand from beneath his pillow. He looked around the chamber, his silver eyes unfocused and glassy as he pointed his wand at every item.

"Hey, Malfoy, I'm—" Hermione let out a yelp when his wand ended being pointed at her face. She held her breath, recognizing that faraway look in his eyes she often saw in Harry when he woke up during a nightmare—during a dark memory that was all his, that was all real. She closed her eyes when his wand jabbed her in the cheek, pressing in. She slowly reached out for him, her fingertips carefully tapping the outline of his jaw.

Her touch brought Draco back to the present.

"Granger," he gasped, his wand immediately falling from her face. "I'm...I..."

Hermione opened her eyes to find him paler than his normal shade. There were purple rings around his eyes, highlighting the exhaustion she was quite certain she never paid attention to before.

"Didn't we settle on personal space?" she then said, offering him the transition out of this uncomfortable moment. "You cannot use me as your teddy."

Draco let out a huff, turning away from her by swinging his legs off their shared mattress. "You were on top of me, Granger. I don't know what kind of sleepovers you've been having with Potter and the Weasel, but I—"

He let out a laugh when she reached over and punched him on the shoulder.

At that same moment, Hamlet let out another squawk to make himself known, his large, intricate wings opening with a short flutter. At the sudden noise and movement, Hermione dove into the sheets, landing at the side of Draco's right hip.

Draco looked at the owl and then back at Hermione. "And you're supposed to be a vital part of the Golden Trio?" He grinned for a moment before dissolving it to his familiar scowl when he peeled the sheets off from on top of her head. "It's an owl, Warrior Princess. Not a dragon."

"I've freed a dragon before, Malfoy—I rode it straight out from the depths of Gringotts, so don't you dare patronize me," she huffed at him, quickly pulling herself upright. She was tempted to look at him, but chose to climb off the bed. She adjusted her sleeping shorts before walking over to Hamlet, stretching a hand out to gently caress his feathers. "Good morning, sweet boy."

The owl pushed the side of his head into her touch before allowing her to take the letter in his beak.

"Yours?"

"No. Hamlet belongs to McGonagall," said Hermione, turning to Draco. His silver eyes were narrowed at her, that faraway, tormented sheen long dissolved. She cleared her throat again, trying to push away the thought that there was something wrong with him and she had no right to investigate what that was. "I occasionally exchange letters with the Headmistress, so what? She's a brilliant witch and mentor. And I have a lot of questions."

"Granger," Draco started, letting out a sigh as he stretched his arms out, "I don't care."

She rolled her eyes at him before looking down at the letter in her hands. She was not too shocked that it was addressed to her and Draco—after all, they were currently living in a chamber meant to be their cohabitation nook until the end of the academic year. After that, she was expected to have a permanent home with him.

"Are you all right?"

Hermione had not been aware she let out a gagging sound.

She nodded, swallowing the fear and disgust at the thought, but it further intensified when she started to read McGonagall's letter: "To the future Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy—"

Draco cringed, too.

The Ministry of Magic and I are hoping the first night in your new living headquarters was successful. As you have been previously informed, the idea of cohabitation was presented in attempt to introduce you to personal interaction with your respective partners. This is to prepare you for living together as a spousal unit once you are wed under the Restoration and Magical Retention Act passed earlier this month by the Ministry.

Attached is a timeline of deadlines expected to be met by every unit in the course of this academic term. The first will be choosing a date for your marriage ceremony. You have two weeks to submit your paperwork to the Ministry of Magic via Owl and a copy to your Marriage and Family Life course professor.

As always, we encourage and expect you all to practice patience and tolerance with each other. For further instruction on this, please see the required textbooks assigned to you.

Sincerely,

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

"This is mental," Hermione whispered, looking up at Hamlet. "Can you believe this?"

Hamlet gave her a nod before fluttering his wings again. With the same graceful fashion he made every flight, he exited the chamber without a hoot.

Hermione's fingers felt the second sheet of parchment under the Headmistress' letter, but she could not bring herself to place it on top and fret over it. It would make things too real.

"Choose a date, Granger," said Draco, reminding Hermione that things were, in fact, already too real.

"What?"

"Choose a date," repeated Draco, standing from the mattress, too. "It doesn't really matter to me."

Hermione extended the letter to him. "I haven't even told my parents yet. The last thing I want to do right now is a choose a date, " she said, giving him her back as she moved to her trunk. She had not unpacked for the same reasons she could not look at the deadlines—it was all too quick and too true.

Draco watched her pull out a clean uniform from her belongings and walk to the connecting bathroom without another word. He balled McGonagall's letter, tossing it on his nightstand before heading for the bedroom door. When he crossed it, he noticed the uniform he wore last night was no longer on his body. He had been put into his old Quidditch jersey and emerald pajama bottoms.

"Did she—?"

"As if she'd want to see you naked."

Draco startled, searching for his wand, but before he could run back to grab it from the tangle of sheets, Blaise Zabini raised his arm, waving from the small sofa in the makeshift common room. He had a blanket wrapped around himself, his own uniform neatly folded on the table with part of Granger's endless book collection.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Coming up with a plan to get in the shower with Granger," Blaise smirked, stretching his long, toned, naked arms out before resting them at the back of his head. "I've seen the way she looks at me."

"Like she'd love nothing more than to curse you into obliteration? Yeah, mate. She's given me that look, too."

"Well, you know what they say, Drake—there is a fine line between hate and a passionate shag."

Draco cringed again. "Why are you really here?"

"Chang threw me out. Something about me not cooperating with our chamber's decor. Accused me of being sexist—which I'm not, I support witch rights, don't I? On account that Ginny Weasley once destroyed me in the Quidditch pitch without so much as breaking a sweat. Not to mention Mother taught me how to respect women—although she should have taught me other propaganda than the Dark Lord's and all her Death Eater ex-husbands'."

"Zabini," Draco let out a sigh, rubbing his temples as a frown began to settle between his blonde brows. "The real reason."

Blaise slid further into the sofa, stretching out his long legs over the opposite end's armrest. Puddlemere United socks poked out from under the blanket—socks that had been given to him by Daphne Greengrass Fourth Year. Blaise had claimed he tossed them into the fireplace not just because his favorite team was clearly the Italian National, but because he did not fancy Daphne Greengrass at all.

But Draco had known he had loved her.

Draco had also known he broke things off with her before the Dark Lord came and collected him for his cause.

"I told her we should've christened the bed." Draco let out a laugh because Blaise said things like this to distract from what he really wanted to say—and Draco was no one to pretend he could understand what really needed to be said, even if Blaise Zabini was his best friend.

"She called me a pig," continued Blaise, "and I told her she didn't have to be so uptight, I'm sure Diggory wouldn't mind that she got a good shag once in a while. It's scientifically proven it improves one's health—he'd want her to live a good, happy life, right?"

Shaking his head at his friend's stupidity, Draco sat himself in the nearest armchair. "You're lucky you left there alive."

"I'm lucky I left with my manly-bits in tact, actually," Blaise corrected with a snort. "If McGonagall hadn't given our dormitory to some prepubescent Second Years, I'd definitely not be here, mate."

"You could've gone to Nott's. What's one more bloke in his polyamorous engagement to Romilda Vane and what's-his-face?"

"I do have my questions about all that," said Blaise, a smirk slowly starting to tug at the right corner of his mouth, "but nothing compares to the shitshow you are about to embark on. I mean, come on, Drake—you and Granger. Granger! I was expecting you two to be dueling when I Alohamora-ed my way in, but to my immense surprise, you two were actually sound asleep."

"You watched us sleep?"

"Changed you two into your pajamas, too—via spell, of course," said Blaise instantly. "I respect women, you know. Closed my eyes and all."

Draco grabbed one of Hermione's books, throwing it at Blaise. The latter ducked right on time.

"I took a picture, too," Blaise then said, laughing even louder, "I put it up in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. She's been sobbing all night."

Right before Draco lunged, Blaise managed to spring onto his feet and head for the door. Both raced out, knocking several sleepy First Years down as Blaise, clad in just his emerald boxers, narrowly escaped Draco's disarming spells.

The Ministry of Magic and the Headmistress of Hogwarts School had specifically decreed that no student younger than the age limit for the Restoration and Magical Retention Act should be told of such law on account of its need for fine-tuning. It was for that reason that Hermione was trying not to let their wide, prying eyes affect the way she kept her chin raised. Peoples' opinions had never made a dent in her confidence or self-respect before, but something about their completely bewildered and outraged stares made her want to hide now.

"They're staring."

"Of course they're staring. You'd be staring too if you were them."

"I would not."

"Would, too. Look at us, we're a freak show, Granger."

Hermione turned away from a group of young, Third Year Gryffindors she had met in the weeks following the reconstruction of the castle. They had come up to her then, shy and amazed at the legend Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had created and spread in her name. They wanted to shake her hand, look into her brown eyes, and see the heroine that had not only kept The Chosen One alive, but whose intelligence had played a key factor in the downfall of the Dark Lord.

Now they wrinkled their noses at Hermione like she had betrayed everything they loved about her when she decided to enter the Great Hall with her arm linked to Draco Malfoy's.

"They're saying we've been seeing each other since before the war," Draco said, reeling Hermione back into the present. "You were trying to get me to join your side, but I couldn't escape being a Death Eater. Eventually, Potter won and our love prevailed."

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed, squeezing her palms to fists as she took a deep breath. "Please stop talking."

"I'm just telling you what Blaise said. It's not my fault our classmates are a bunch of cliched twats."

Hermione slid her arm from around Draco's, taking in another large pull of air before placing a kiss at the side of his left cheek. Alike the onlookers curious and enthralled by the sight (freak show) of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy together, the latter was stunned by the action. His silver eyes were wide, blinking wildly at her like he was either waiting or wanting for her head to explode for what she had just done.

She left him there in his silence, quickly crossing the short distance to her friends at the Gryffindor table. Harry was watching with narrowed emerald eyes, Ginny was smirking, and Ron looked like a hazy memory of jealousy that died the moment she sat down among them.

Ginny let out a loud, slow whistle. "My, what a snog."

"Shut it," Hermione told her instantly, frowning. "It wasn't a snog. I would never snog Malfoy."

"Granted it was not a very good snog, but what else would you call it?"

"Evidence," said Hermione, "that Malfoy and I are in a—that we are in—so they know we are—Merlin, I can't even say it. How am I expected to go through with it?"

Harry took a short drink from his goblet, setting it down before reaching over and putting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. She leaned into it, closing her eyes and letting out a small noise that was a cross between defeat and disbelief.

"I'm guessing last night was rough?" asked Harry, squeezing her shoulder.

Hermione shook her head, letting out a sigh. "Actually, it wasn't. Malfoy is trying to make the best of the situation and I'm actually making it worse. The only horrible, annoying thing he did was let Zabini stay after he invited himself over."

"I heard Cho kicked him out," Ginny laughed. "She won't be letting him back in anytime soon, Hermione, so be ready for the snake to slither back into your chamber tonight."

Hermione let out a groan, now hiding her face in Harry's shoulder.

"Oh, come on. Zabini isn't too bad."

"Well, should I send him over to yours, then?"

"Don't you dare, Hermione."

"How about you, mate?" Harry turned to Ron, knowing well enough when to stop Hermione and Ginny from entering an argument that could very well last years seeing as the two were completely hardheaded. "Did Parkinson give you hell?"

Ron moved his eggs back and forth on his plate, painting yellow streaks with the yolk as he said, "She was fine. Told me to stay on my side of the bed and that's it. I didn't sleep there, though. I slept on the couch and she made me tea when I woke up."

"Parkinson made tea? For you?" Ginny repeated, her auburn brows furrowed in a way Hermione was now copying. She stood, leaning across the table to smack the back of her palm on her brother's forehead. "Do you feel sick? Feverish? Nauseous? Quick, Hermione, what are the symptoms of being poisoned?"

Ron pushed her hand away, glaring at her dramatics and Harry and Hermione's laughter.

"Oi, what the hell is wrong with you?" Ginny then said, looking away from her brother when behind him Dean approached with an actual grey cloud over his head.

"My magic is acting up," muttered Dean, blinking sad, brown eyes at Hermione. "Help?"

Hermione pulled out her wand from inside the pocket of her robes, and with a smooth, easy wave of her wrist, the cloud evaporated from over Dean's head. "Are you all right?" she asked him as her next fluid, wandwork movement was to make him dry. "Our magic is actually really delicate when we are in distress. Although we have been taught to control it, our emotions often let out a surge of unexpected magic when—"

"It's Luna," Dean said, cutting across Hermione with a loud, shaky sigh.

"What'd you mean?" questioned Ginny. "I thought you were in the clouds with her?"

"Really, Gin?" Hermione huffed while Harry and Ron snorted at her comment.

Dean slumped down on the empty space next to Ron, ignoring his friends' amusement at his misfortune. "I intercepted the owl we got from McGonagall. I knew eventually they were going to tell us to pick a date, but I wanted it to be more special than a homework assignment, you know? So I asked her. I got down on one knee and I asked Luna to marry me. And she said no."

"She said no?" Hermione echoed, the others sharing skeptical looks among each other.

While this marriage law came out of the blue and forced Luna and Dean into an early engagement, Hermione nor the rest had been entirely surprised to know there were sparks of romance growing into a wildfire between the two. They had not been close friends before, but the war and their shared horrible experience as prisoners of war had bonded Luna and Dean forever. They could not go a full day without being near each other, without hearing the other's voice to calm whatever nightmares festered in their minds that only time, love, and patience was going to heal. And they wanted to be that for one another—be vessels of light to help the other grow and find peace.

It's what made Luna and Dean fall in love.

"Are you sure?" added Hermione. "That doesn't seem right."

"Yes, I'm sure. I was there," Dean told her, crossing his arms over the Gryffindor table, slowly sinking into the dark cocoon it provided.

"What happened after, mate?" asked Harry.

"She ran off," Dean said, the sound muffled by his arms.

Harry scratched the back of his head, unsure on the situation, while Hermione and Ginny exchanged sad looks, both trying to decipher in their silence what could have gone wrong. In their momentary distraction, they missed when Ron slid his plate aside, carefully putting his hand on Dean's left shoulder.

He gave it a hesitant pat and said, "She'll be back, mate. She's mad for you. We all know that. Just give her time, you'll see."

Dean slowly crept out of his hideout between, quirking a brow at Ron before turning to look at the others, wondering if they, too, were hearing sympathy coming out of his mouth.