Disclaimer: I own a really fantastic Alpha/Beta team, but not Harry Potter.

Thanks to LightofEvolution and In Dreams for the countless hours they spend catching my typos (Light) and talking me down (Dreams)! They are both in the middle of their own WIPs and I encourage you to check them out!

Rated M for a couple of lemons down the line and for language pretty much all the time (especially when Draco is involved).

I hope you enjoy!

It's ill advised, she knows, this thing Hermione has with Cormac McLaggen. Reckless and short-sighted and utterly against the grain of good advice.

At this exact moment, however, with his lips skimming down her neck, and his body, warm and solid, pressed against her, she is not really of a mind to care.

It's a warm and clear night in early June, and this is the third time she's allowed herself to be lured in by this wizard who had once pursued her as a teenager. Now a young woman, the war over a year behind her, Hermione is settled into a rather successful life, if she does say so herself.

Out of Hogwarts, she was pursued immediately by the Ministry and very nearly accepted a position in Creature Rights. The Auror Department also sought her out, using Harry to try to woo her over. Unfortunately, that was also Ron's dream: to join his best friend and keep saving the world together. On the other side of a failed romantic relationship with the youngest Weasley, Hermione didn't think their strained friendship could stand that much close proximity. It hadn't mattered, in the end, Ron leaving after only four months of training and settling into a position at his brother's joke shop. By then, however, she had moved on.

Hermione hadn't been quite sure what to do with herself, at first. After nearly a decade of being told how brilliant she is, how clever and intelligent, Hermione had found herself tested when it came to the realities of a career. She would have had to start at the bottom if she chose the Ministry. In the somewhat archaic Wizarding world, it is twice as hard for a witch to rise in position. Coupled with the swarm of Hogwarts students who were poised for positions as well, Hermione had known she could land a job easily enough, but might end up stifled and fetching coffee for a very long time.

Wizarding society's 'private sector' was equally challenging. St. Mungo's required a great deal more training and much less prestige than practitioners of muggle medicine. The shops in Diagon are mostly family owned and therefore flush with potential employees from within their own circles. Gringotts, the hardest 'no', hadn't even granted her an interview. She had huffed and ranted about that for a few days but, if she's honest, she could kind of see their point. It would be difficult to employ someone who had, quite literally, robbed you previously. But, come on, it was one little cup.

Well, and one dragon, but really that was just animal cruelty on their part.

In the end, Hermione was shocked to find an opportunity with Severus Snape. The wizard had spent a few weeks being mostly dead after the battle, then slipped into obscurity upon release. Hermione had found him one rainy Saturday at a book shop near George Weasley's store.

"Professor?"

He had looked down at her in that sneering, belittling way he has, but suddenly, knowing everything about his motives, he hadn't seemed at all intimidating: just a sad wizard with high emotional walls. She wouldn't dare tell him that, of course. Let the man keep his front and his mask. After all he had sacrificed, allowing him the luxury of believing he commands fear is the least she could do. "It's actually quite nice to see you out and about, Sir," she had said, deferentially.

His eyebrow had cocked and he had given her a smarmy, "indeed," for her trouble, before brushing past her. She'd followed him and waited while he made his purchases, standing just behind him and near the door.

He'd twirled to leave, cape billowing, and stopped short when he ended up toe to toe with his former student. "Is there a reason you're standing quite inconveniently in the middle of the doorway?"

"I wanted to see if you'd like to grab some tea," she had replied.

"Why, Miss Granger, would you imagine I might be interested in that?"

Shrugging, she had answered honestly, "I don't know for certain. Then again, it occurs to me I never really have known what you might be interested in. For eight years or more, I doubt anyone has. Maybe it's time someone asked you."

He had eyed her for quite a long time. Pinned as she'd been, an insect under his gaze, it had seemed to surprise them both when he drawled out, "Very well." He had quickly added, "But not that insipid tea house with the doilies and finger sandwiches."

She'd smiled and agreed. "Your choice, Professor."

"I'll thank you not to refer to me with that title. It is neither currently accurate, nor a time of my life I very much want to relive."

And so, they had walked Diagon, Hermione lamenting the sad state of the Wizarding district. Many businesses had been ransacked by Death Eaters. Some proprietors had disappeared during the war and either were not able or had chosen not to return. It seemed that wizarding society in Britain, population nearly decimated and inhabitants still reeling, was in need of quite a lot of restoration.

It didn't happen at that first meeting, tucked into a booth at The Hopping Pot. That day was merely a meeting of the minds: Hermione Granger and Severus Snape knowing each other as more than the swotty teacher's pet versus the taciturn Death Eater. Snape learned that Hermione was pragmatic, forward thinking, and driven. Hermione, in turn, found that Severus was creative, conversationally engaging, and passionate about his interests.

It wasn't until their third time having tea that they decided to go into business together. Their second meeting was as much an accident as the first. They'd run into each other, both browsing the same book shop, and thought it obviously kismet, both immediately agreeing to a repeat of tea. The third had been planned. They met in the same booth, and Snape had wasted no time before offering, "I have a proposition for you, Miss Granger."

She had been intrigued from the start and, by the time their first cup had gone cold, she readily agreed to his proposal.

It's been a matter of mere months since that meeting, but Hermione is now the co-proprietor of a booming potions shop, nestled next to a renovated Fortescue's. The partners only have one employee. They had mutually decided early on that neither of them is much suited to working with the public. One of the many things they have found to have in common, is they do not suffer fools.

They had hired Penelope Clearwater. No slouch at potions, she understands the product enough to offer excellent customer service, and also has the sort of personality that lends itself well to social interaction. Hermione and Severus focus their attentions on brewing and innovation, improving and bottling various potions and elixirs for home or professional use.

Life is turning out not at all as she might have imagined as a wide-eyed eleven year old, holding her wand for the first time, but she can't complain about the outcome.

The part of her life that is not entirely rosy is her love life. Dating Ron had been an unmitigated disaster. He had been jealous, inconsiderate, possessive, and lazy. Sweet, of course. Devoted… but ultimately just not compatible, and they had ended things before it could be too messy. Their cohabitated flat had stayed with Ron, and Hermione had moved in with Harry at Grimmauld Place. Recently calling it quits with Ginny Weasley, they partnered up as the 'Weasley rejects' they were and enjoyed a delightful friendship full of late night muggle films and gossip. Who knew her best male friend would make such an excellent girlfriend? He'd chuckled when she told him that and hadn't argued the point.

After Ron was her first mistake with Cormac. Little more than a one-night stand, he had found her tipsy in a new pub, Harry having just been called away on Auror business and leaving her alone to close their tab. Cormac had been flirty and obvious, chatting her up with ridiculous pick-up lines and blatant sexually-charged flattery. Hermione had responded by throwing caution to the wind and embracing the fact that she was single, mature, and quite interested in getting laid.

Her Walk of Shame the next morning was less pleasant. Harry had raised an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance, and, when he'd asked, bemused, where she'd been, she had huffed and mumbled something about not 'being his business', and doesn't he 'have to go to the office or defeat a Dark Lord or something'?...

The second time was after a very poor decision to go on a date with Charlie Weasley (completely not her type, and Ron is still pouting about it), followed by her brief fling with a muggle named Dave. He had been very nice and very boring, and it lasted maybe two weeks before she broke it off. Cormac's reappearance had been just so comically, cosmically eerie, she hadn't even questioned how completely stupid it would be to repeat a one-night stand. She never seems to run in to him between their trysts, and it is another month before she sees him again.

This third time, inadvisable and reckless and just really fucking stupid, brings us back to present and Hermione grinding herself shamelessly against the wizard yet again.

"We can't go back to mine," he's saying. "My roommate is entertaining tonight, and he's such a tosser about it."

She groans into his neck and says, "I suppose we can go to mine then. Harry's room isn't even on the same floor. Plus, he's probably out. I think he's seeing someone, but he hasn't told me who…"

Cormac doesn't care. He doesn't say it, but she stops talking because they both know it. This isn't that sort of relationship. It's not a relationship at all. Hermione has been more than clear that she has no real interest in Cormac beyond his cock, and Cormac, for his part, doesn't seem too bothered to have nothing of Hermione beyond heat and friction in the dead of night.

"Let's go then," he mumbles, licking a line from her cleavage to her clavicle, his hands smoothing down her back to settle on her arse. "Unless you just want it here. I'm not real particular where I get off."

Hermione is fond of a little dirty talk. There is a way a man could mumble that he'd take her in an alley that might bring her to her knees, but this isn't it. He's not eloquent enough, his phrases remedial and hardly engaging. It doesn't have to be poetry, but, Merlin, his word choice is positively primary.

Thinking she needs to find a way to keep his mouth busy before he ruins this for her, Hermione grabs his head and brings his face to hers. Immediately his tongue darts out, parting her lips, and she's reminded there are some things he does rather well. Wand in hand, Hermione takes charge and spins them in place, only to reappear with a POP in her dim bedroom. His mouth is still pressed against her, and his hands grip her arse. In a private space and ready to find her release, Hermione drops her wand at her feet and starts to work the buttons on his shirt.

Cormac's hands simultaneously release their hold on her bum and work around to her front. He pulls at the hem of her blouse, untucking it from her skirt and lifting it over her head, still buttoned. He cups her breasts, encased in satin and lace, and runs his thumbs over the peaks, immediately finding them sensitive and hard. She moans in the relief of it.

"What the fuck?... McLaggen? Ugh, I did not need to see this."

Hermione is not often startled. She built some pretty solid reflexes during the war and is, generally speaking, a level-headed witch. However, she finds herself momentarily terrified to hear, from somewhere in the low-light of her room, the voice of a dead man.

Cormac screams a little, further emasculating himself in Hermione's eyes. "Sweet Merlin! Who's that?!"

Covering herself with her arm as best she can, Hermione finds her wand and points it at the sconce just above the door, lighting the room. She finds herself staring over her shoulder at the wide-eyed, mouth-gaped visage of Draco sodding Malfoy. "Granger?!"

"Hermione! Hermione, are you alright?"

Harry throws the door open and pulls up short, taking in the sight of Cormac McLaggen plastered against the wall in terror, his best friend half-naked and pointing her wand defensively, and a painted Draco Malfoy staring out at the scene.

"Oh, you found the portrait."

"I, uh…" Cormac is peeling himself from the wall and shuffling sideways toward the door. "I think this might be an end to our night. I'll just… see you 'round, 'Mione."

Harry watches him tear down the corridor before turning his gaze back to Hermione. "Harry, what the hell?! Why is there a portrait of Draco Malfoy in my room?!"

He points out the door down the hall. "Why is there a McLaggen in your room?"

Hermione is not amused and simply growls a very intimidating, "Harry…"

He rubs the back of his neck, hair sticking up everywhere and glasses slightly crooked on his face. "Sorry about that. It was delivered today and I wasn't sure where to put it. The first floor is mostly in renovation, and I needed a nice open wall."

"Why didn't you put him in your room then?"

His face scrunches, and he looks between her and the image in question. "I mean… I didn't really want Malfoy in my bedroom."

"Well, neither do I!" she screeches back, incredulous.

"Plus, I don't think he'd really fit. It's a giant bloody portrait, you know? Most of the other rooms up here have windows and built-ins and woodwork… It just fit so nicely there."

Harry gestures at the painting, perfectly centered on her, admittedly, huge and open wall. It's then she remembers she's standing there in her skirt and bra and scrambles to throw a shirt back on to cover herself.

"Pity," she hears, and looks up to find Malfoy smirking at her and giving her body a rather obvious once over.

"Oh, hell no," she grumbles. "I'm not sleeping here with him staring at me."

Harry has the audacity to roll his eyes at her. "It's not really him, you know. It's just a dumb painting."

"Hey! I am not any such thing!"

Ignoring the interjection by said painting, Harry continues. "I'm sure once they're done downstairs, we can find a place for it in the drawing room or the parlour. It shouldn't be too long."

Hermione contemplates, feeling her ire cool. It is just a portrait and, she would do well to remember, this is Harry's house, not hers. He has been a generous and indulgent host. She keeps odd hours, tending potions at the shop, then returning unabashedly in the wee hours many nights. Not to mention, raised by two professionals who employed housekeeping services and dined most nights either in restaurants or on take away, Hermione has never been terribly domestic and tends to neither cook nor keep house very well.

Harry refuses rent money, tidies up after her on frequent occasion, tolerates her disturbance as she comes and goes in the night, and makes little judgement on her poor relationship choices. This is, literally, the only thing he has asked of her in the months she has lived her.

Sighing, Hermione throws up her hands and agrees, "Fine. It can stay here."

"'Hey', I say, again!… I am not an 'it'!"

"But as soon as the drawing room is done, it goes." She gives the painting a once over and shivers. Portraits have always struck her as being singularly creepy. This one, the image of a dead school mate, lost to unknown circumstances during the final battle and painted to virtually life size, is the most unsettling she's ever seen. "Where did this even come from?"

"Apparently with the Malfoy family gone, I'm the closest thing to a relation they found for the Black part of the inheritance. The Malfoy fortune, as I understand it, might be given to the Nott estate."

She chuckles a little, smirking. "As if Theodore needs more money."

Harry grins but agrees. "Lucky sod. Seems their families were close, socially and on their family trees."

There is a pause in which no one, including the blond in the painting, says anything. Finally, Hermione notes, "Well, I guess my night turned out differently then I'd planned."

Harry and Draco both snort at that, exchanging a glance that seems to find some common ground. On this one thing, they seem to agree: Hermione has questionable taste in wizards.

"Right, well, good night then. I'll see you in the morning. Thanks, Hermione."

"Night, Harry."

He lets himself out and closes the door behind him. The quiet of the room is a buzz, loud in her ears. Hermione is dreading having to turn around and face her dead rival. With a deep, cleansing breath, she spins slowly to find his grey eyes studying her.

"Well, if you're going to be staying here, I suppose we might need some ground rules."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Figures. I mean, it's not as if I can do much damage, apparently. What am I going to do? Eat your take away? Borrow your clothes without asking? Speaking of which," he seems to light up suddenly, "very fetching underclothes you have there, Granger. I quite like the trim… Chantilly? Or Leon?" He wriggles his brows at her in suggestion.

"That right there," she announces. "Rule number one: No sexual innuendos. Especially," she amends with a furrow of her brow, "strangely innocent ones where you know more about lace than I do."

"I can do less innocent," he offers, leering even more. "Would you prefer I comment on the surprising size of your -"

"Stop! No… less-than-innocent sexual comments, either. It's bloody awkward." She shivers on purpose for effect.

"Why? I've been lead to believe I'm quite appealing. And you certainly don't seem to be the prude everyone thought back in school."

"Because you're dead, Malfoy. Mysteriously, and, if I'm honest, somewhat tragically, dead."

That seems to peak his interest. "Tragically? Pining for me are you? I never knew you cared," he says with boyish sarcasm.

"I don't," she says, but then explains, "I mean, I do. Not about you, in particular, but it's terribly tragic how many young people were lost. I find it deeply sad that you died so young."

"That's oddly touching, Granger, but you needn't worry your bushy head about it. I'm not dead, obviously."

She gives him a pitying look. "Malfoy, you're dead. Your parents fell to rogue Death Eaters as they tried to escape. Your whole family is gone, I'm afraid."

He looks away and inhales sharply, seeming to steel himself, his voice softer than before. "I heard that… about my mother. They knew she lied for Potter, apparently. I heard some wizards talking where I was being stored." There is a vulnerability in his tone and in the set of his shoulders, but it is gone in a blink. He shakes his head then and levels her with a look. "But I am not dead, Granger. I think I'd know if I were merely a portrait."

She cocks her head and raises her brow, asking of him with a little condescension, "Oh, would you? You know this because you had so much experience being a portrait before you died that you know exactly what it feels like?"

Draco's eyes narrow at her. "Don't be obtuse. You've talked to portraits. They never argued about what they were. They seemed to know, and I'm telling you, I'm not that."

Exhausted and not in the mood to argue, she shuts him down with obligatory agreement. "Well, I suppose you'd know better than me. Look, Malfoy, it's two in the morning. I'm going to get some sleep."

"That's what Potter and I were trying to do when you so rudely popped in with your boy toy wrapped around your tits."

"Charming." Hermione slips into the large closet on the south side of her room and changes into a long gown for sleeping. She is typically inclined to sleep in a simple cotton shirt, or occasionally only her knickers, but believes she will be more comfortable in somewhat demure attire. Even if he is just a portrait, it still feels a little intrusive to have Draco's image in her room.

She emerges to find his stare on her once again and slides into bed. A wand flick and the room returns to the state of near dark it was in when she arrived. Hermione settles down, pulling the covers up over her body and letting out a sigh of relaxation. Sleep is close, and she is starting to drift when his voice breaks the silence of the room.

"I thought, if anyone, maybe you might be able to help me."

His tone, soft though it is, rouses her immediately. "Help you?"

"Figure out how to get out of here. Find out how I ended up stuck like this."

It's terribly tragic, and Hermione's heart hurts for Draco just a little. She's never known a portrait to be in denial, and that just seems like the most depressing things she's ever heard.

She is a sucker for underdogs and lost causes, after all. Ron, the underdog. House elves, the lost cause.

Among others.

Draco Malfoy: self-aware dead portrait. She can't change the reality of his situation, but she supposes it wouldn't kill her to be kind.

"I'll see what I can find out about what happened to you, Malfoy. See if I can find you some answers." Maybe if she can uncover the circumstances of his death, he can accept his new lot in existence.

He doesn't answer for a long time, when finally she hears a very sincere, "Thanks, Granger."

"You're welcome. Good night, Malfoy."

If he returns the well-wish, she is asleep before he does.

Hello! Thank you for joining me! If you are a part of the Dramione facebook groups, you've probably noticed me posting on occasion in the sprint threads over the last few months. I started this story in January and it is shaping up to be my longest multi-chapter yet. I have 23 chapters written with only a few left to tackle. I anticipate a pretty consistent posting schedule of 2-3 times per week, pending the distractions of career and children.

I hope you find this little romance entertaining and worthwhile. As always, I appreciate all of you who are reading, and am particularly grateful for faves, follows, and reviews!