Draco tapped at the door to Hermione's parents' house. His heart hammered in his chest at the prospect of seeing the muggle tooth-driller again. After all, their first meeting had not gone well. Considering Draco's reasons for going to meet her parents, he was even more intimidated. Right. Breathe in, breathe out. This was a rite of passage for all respectable young wizards.

He pressed the doorbell. Mrs. Granger - Doctor Granger, he reminded himself - opened the door.

"Oh! Draco. What an... unexpected surprise." She smiled warmly. "We were just having supper. Is Hermione with you?"

"No." His voice sounded reedy. "I wanted to speak with your husband."

She grimaced at that, and Draco fleetingly wondered if he'd made some unpredictable Muggle faux pas. Was this another one of these not being a chauvinist pig moments that Hermione was always harping on about?

He didn't have much time to mull over that thought, as the husband spotted him immediately.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where's Hermione? We were just about to eat supper."

"She hasn't come with him, Reginald. Are you hungry, Draco?" Hermione's mother asked. "We've ordered takeaway from Bombay Cottage. There's more than enough if you'd like some."

Hermione's father - that, in Draco's mind, was easier than confusingly referring to both as Dr. Granger - scowled at his wife and began to shovel into a massive plate of rice, steadfastly ignoring Draco.

The man wasn't making this easy.

So, Draco tentatively approached the table. He took some solace in Hermione's mother - she was shooting a look of sympathy, at least. Draco sat down in what he knew was Hermione's chair at the dining table.

"Sir. I've been thinking about Hermione lately."

"That's nice. Cynthia, pass the chutney, will you?"

Cynthia sat across from Draco and shot him a small smile. "What have you been thinking about, Draco?"

He relaxed a bit. Hermione's mum seemed like a decent sort. She poured him some tea, and he took the cup with a grateful nod.

"I've been thinking that I'd like to ask her to marry me," he blurted out. "And I wanted to know if you would approve, Sir."

Mr. Granger's spoon froze, horrifyingly, halfway between his plate and mouth. His dark eyes latched onto Draco, wide and incredulous. This awkward moment seemed to last an eternity. Draco's heartbeat sped up, and he had a horrible sinking feeling.

"Are you joking?" Hermione's father asked. "She's far too young to get married. She isn't even done school! She hasn't a job! Not to mention you - I've not heard much about your academics or industriousness. No, absolutely not. Maybe in a couple of years."

His stomach felt as if it was full of ice. So that was it. The horrible Muggle tooth medic had turned him down. No marriage. No reason to pursue this further. Clearly, this horrible, grumpy old man wanted to keep Hermione for some young, rich Muggle professional - maybe a young apprentice tooth driller or something.

"If Hermione wants to get married, I think it's lovely." Cynthia piped up. "Just make sure you both have your plans settled for the future. Nothing's worse for a relationship than money problems, Draco."

He smiled wanly at her, but his stomach roiled. He felt like vomiting. His plans did not royally fuck up like this. Seriously, was he that terrible of husband material? Maybe to Muggles, he came across as a total arse - that was the only explanation he could think of.

"Do you want a plate?" Hermione's father asked gruffly. "You need to eat, you look pretty thin."

Draco felt like laughing. Now the man was offering him dinner after insulting him!

He stood. "No, thank you, Sir. I better be going."

He nodded at each of them and walked out the front door. Cynthia Granger shot her husband a chiding look, and he had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"Oh, stop trying to make me feel guilty," he muttered. "What I think doesn't matter anyhow. She'll be ringing us in a day to tell us about his proposal."

Malfoy found it incredibly unnerving when Harry Potter, Ginny Potter, Ronald Weasley, or various other Gryffindors would show up at his flat unannounced. Or, technically, their flat, since Hermione had moved most of her things in, and she rarely ever went back to her own rooms. Hell, even that orange-furred monster, Crookshanks, had taken up residence in his place (generally, in his tie drawer, leaving said ties coated with orange fur).

Today was the worst. Not only had the Arsehole Granger Father scuttled his matrimonial plans not twenty four hours ago, but he now had all three of Hermione's old friends sitting awkwardly in the sitting room. Trying to make smalltalk.

"So, erm, Malfoy. How is work?" Weaselette asked.

"As unpleasant as ever," he replied. "I need a drink."

"Oh, lovely, I'll have one," she piped up. "What is it?"

He bit back the I wasn't offering you that sat on the tip of his tongue.

"Creme de violette," he replied, pouring out a glass for the girl. "Here."

"Oh, thank you, Malfoy." She sniffed it. "It reminds me of something... oh, that perfume you bought me, Harry."

So it was Potter who had such rubbishy taste. Typical. But, he had to admit, Weaselette was being rather polite, and he decided that she wasn't nearly as bad as her idiot brothers.

"So, ah, Malfoy, you're joining us for supper?" Potter asked tentatively. "I didn't know you went to Muggle restaurants."

"You don't have to worry about me crashing your dinner. I have plans with Blaise." He pursed his lips. "And what makes you think I don't go to Muggle restaurants? I've gone to several, actually."

"Name one," Ron replied irritably.

He searched his memory. What had been the name of that tacky Scottish place? The one they'd gotten chips and Fanta at on the way back from the Granger house?

"MacKinnon's? MacDougall's? I don't remember. It had a large yellow M in the window and no proper waiters and all they seemed to sell was beef patties on a bun."

"McDonald's," Potter said. "There are better Muggle restaurants. She took you to the worst of the worst. We're not going somewhere like that tonight."

Ron looked sulkily at the floor, clearly expecting that Malfoy had been lying to save face.

At that point, the door to his flat burst open, and Zabini walked in. Zabini was dressed fussily, even for him - a perfectly pressed blue pantsuit, a white silk shirt, matching shoes, and a cocked hat. Draco wondered what he was up to, given that they'd planned only to hit up the Three Broomsticks.

"Oh, you lot are going out for supper as well?" Blaise said. "How coincidental!"

"I don't see how it's coincidental. It's Saturday and it's suppertime," Draco replied matter of factly.

"Well, if we're all going out for supper, why don't we go together? After all, the more friends the better."

Draco stared at Blaise as if he had two heads. Blaise seemed oblivious, and stared at the sofa where the two Weasleys were sitting.

"I don't know..." Weaselette began, shooting nervous looks between Ron and Draco.

"Actually, it's not a bad idea, Zabini," Ron said. "After all, Hermione and Ferret are in a relationship. We really should make an effort to be friends, eh?"

Have I stepped into some kind of alternate dream world?

Clearly Potter thought the same, as he shot Malfoy an utterly confused frown. It was an unexpected, and odd, moment of cameraderie between the two men.

At that moment, Hermione walked out of the lav, wearing a rather short, rather tarty Muggle dress. She'd yanked her hair up into a bun, and had even bothered putting a bit of makeup on. In short, she looked completely shaggable. Draco glanced over at her friends; Weasley's eyes were wide, round, and glued to her tits.

Fuck. Weasley looked ready to jump her.

"Actually, Blaise, why not," Draco agreed through gritted teeth. "The more the merrier."

The restaurant wasn't awful. Actually, it was better than most wizarding establishments he'd been to. Draco had to admit it, in fairness, even if he had silently hoped for Wizarding restaurant superiority. Even the beer was pretty good, though perhaps a bit too strong. After a couple of pints, Zabini and Weasel had gotten completely involved in a conversation over some obscure Wizarding rock band, and Weaselette and Potter had started to get all touchy-feely across the table.

"Ugh, are they going to lay off at all tonight?" he muttered to Hermione.

She took a sip of her cocktail and shook her head. "Likely not. I'll go to the lav - Ginny always loves to follow and gossip - that'll give you a break from their tentacle-snogging."

She abruptly stood. "I'm going to the ladies', excuse me."

"Ooh!" Ginny broke away from Potter's mouth. "One sec, Hermione, I'll come along too."

Potter's look of disappointment was classic, like a sad basset hound, and Draco pressed his glass to his lips to keep from laughing.

"Oi, Malfoy." Ron piped up, now that Hermione wasn't there to hear. "So you two have been living together for a month, eh? Are you just planning on living in sin with Hermione indefinitely?"

"Oh, Ron, lay off it," Potter replied tiredly. "You know it's not the same for Muggles..."

"Yeah, but he's not a Muggle. He's the most bloody pureblooded-of-purebloods, as he reminded us ad nauseam over the past decade or so."

Malfoy's lip curled contemptuously. "Ad nauseam. Big word, Weasley. Did someone buy you a dictionary for Christmas?"

"Draco..." Zabini admonished quietly.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Ron replied. "The point stands. You're a pureblood, just like me. And we don't just shack up with girlfriends as if they were some kind of Knockturn Alley mistress."

"Did you just compare Hermione to a Knockturn Alley whore, Weasley?" Malfoy snapped. "I swear to God, if we weren't in a Muggle establishment, I would..."

Potter's hand rested on his arm, and Draco nearly leapt from his seat in surprise.

"Malfoy, stop, he's just trying to get a rise out of you." Potter's mouth formed a hard line. "Though I think he's gone a bit far, if he's insulting Hermione in the process."

Ron had the good sense to look chagrined, and Malfoy, somewhat mollified, went quiet. Potter continued, calmly.

"We all understand why you're not getting engaged - well, except Ron. I mean, what, it's been seven, eight months or so, right? For Muggles, that's nothing. There's nothing wrong with taking it slow..."

"That's not it," Draco said quietly, "I can't marry her."

Potter froze. "What do you mean, Malfoy?"

"It's because she's a muggleborn, isn't it?" Ron snapped. "You haven't changed that much, I knew it!"

The faces around the table dissolved into scowls. They still thought he was capable of hating Hermione for her background. And though he didn't particularly like Weasley and Potter, neither could he stand being viewed as a massive, arseholish bigot by Hermione's best friends.

"No!" Draco blurted out, "I asked her father and he wouldn't give me permission."

Zabini and Ron gasped. Their irritated expressions dissolved into sympathy. Potter's eyebrow crooked.

"What?" Potter asked. "Why?"

"I asked her father and her father asked me if I was joking, told me she was too young, told me that he hadn't heard anything about my work ethic or academics, and told me absolutely not - though maybe in a couple of years." He paused. "And then he asked me if I wanted to stay for supper!"

Ron and Zabini were now staring with horrified expressions. This was the worst nightmare of any matrimonially-inclined young pureblood. The stuff of terrible romance novels. It just didn't happen in real life - if you were a nice bloke, with a job, the father always said yes.

Potter began to laugh.

Malfoy turned to him. "I'm glad you take amusement out of my misery, Potter. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do now? My grandmother's ring has been sitting in my pocket for a week. I may as well throw it out!"

Even Ron and Zabini were staring at Potter with a look that said what a tosser.

"Malfoy, Malfoy, stop." Potter's laughter began to die away. "Muggles are not like Purebloods. And I'm fairly certain that Dr. Granger really didn't intend for you to dump his daughter. What did Hermione's mum say?"

"Oh, she was fine with it. But she's not the one that I need permission from! What does it matter?"

"I think it likely matters a lot to Hermione. And as far as most modern English Muggles go, you don't need her dad's permission. In fact, I think Dr. Granger would be surprised that you considered his opinion at all."

Malfoy spotted Ginny and Hermione approaching the table, as did Potter.

"Malfoy, meet me at Diagon Alley tomorrow at noon. I'll help you sort this out." Potter kept his voice low. "But you remember this next time you start calling me an arsehole, all right? And a thank you bottle of wine wouldn't go amiss, if I'm successful."

The topic was abruptly dropped once the ladies returned to the table, though he noticed that neither Potter nor Weasley seemed to treat him so frostily for the rest of the night. And, he decided, maybe Potter wasn't a complete tosser, after all.

Dr. Granger stared over his desk at Malfoy and Harry with an incredulous expression. The sound of drills whirred unnervingly in the background. Draco tried not to shiver, and made a mental note to ream out Potter for this stupid idea. It wasn't going to work, and Dr. Granger would just chase him out with some kind of tooth torture implement.

"You actually were planning on not asking Hermione to marry you, because of what I said?" Dr. Granger's brow furrowed. "Why? My wife told you it was fine. You should've listened to Cynthia, she's generally more sensible than I am."

Malfoy's cheeks reddened. "You didn't give me permission, and you're her father."

Dr. Granger glanced over at Harry with an incredulous, questioning expression. Harry sighed.

"Malfoy comes from another culture," Harry offered weakly. "He's... different."

Dr. Granger looked back at Malfoy. "Look, you don't seem like a bad young man - though not the most enlightened, I must say - but I'm never going to approve of pretty much any boyfriend Hermione brings home. I didn't like Weasley, since he seemed a bit dim..."

"Very well spotted, Sir," Malfoy said with conviction.

"I didn't like that Romanian... or Russian... whatever... boy she picked up for a while." He paused. "But you don't need anyone's permission to marry her. It's a sort of cute anachronism, I suppose, to ask for it. But the only person's permission you need to worry about is Hermione's. You're not asking to borrow my lawnmower. You're asking to wed her. All I want is someone that treats her well."

"Well if that's what you're worrying about, Sir, I promise, I will be an excellent husband. I've already secured a job and a place to live and a more than adequate gift of matrimonial jewellery for her."

"Jewellery?" Dr. Granger again glanced over at Harry. "How much time has he actually spent with Hermione?"

"He's... very, very different, Sir." Harry shrugged. "But he and Hermione seem to get along well, so we generally overlook his eccentricity."

Dr. Granger pushed his glasses up his nose and scrutinized Draco for a moment.

"Look, you don't need my permission. Just go and ask her, if that's what you think she wants." Dr. Granger's brow furrowed, and he seemed to scrutinize Draco's front teeth. "How long has it been since you've had a proper tooth cleaning? I have a cancellation this afternoon, and if you're serious about Hermione, I think it's important to make your oral health a priority."

Harry stood suddenly, muttering something about an afternoon meeting and hurrying out. And Draco realized that he'd been ditched, and left to the whims of the tooth driller.

He shivered as the evil dentist began to mutter something about polishers and chisels.

He really hoped Hermione didn't turn him down, after all of this.

AN: Another day, another chapter - this time, inspired by a comment from a reader (HarryPGinnyW4eva) and a PM from another reader whom I'll keep anonymous. So, if anyone has further ideas, feel free to leave me a review... or even leave a review if you have no ideas, since they generally inspire me to write. :)