The Malfoy name.

It was all Draco's parents could talk about these days.

As in: "The Malfoy name has been besmirched!" or "How would that reflect on the Malfoy name, Draco?" or, most often, "We must restore the Malfoy name to its former glory through any means necessary."

His father's reputation had been damaged beyond repair in the war, so the task of dragging the disgraced family name out of the mud fell, naturally, to Draco. As a first step in re-establishing the Malfoys as part of respectable society, Lucius used his connections to secure him a job at the Ministry.

But, with the minimal currency their name now held in the wizarding world, that alone was not enough. Overnight, the Malfoys had become social pariahs. Draco's parents repeatedly urged him to make friends at his place of work—new friends—not the kind he had known all his life; but the kind that, in a different time, his parents would have warned him against associating too closely with. Blood traitors. Mudbloods. The new war heroes.

He had spent his entire Hogwarts career avoiding (when not terrorizing) them, only to now be told that they were the key to his future.

It was funny how things turned out sometimes.

It was this pressure from his parents that had forced Draco into a menial (and embarrassingly unimportant) job at the Ministry as an Obliviator, where he was expected to be cloyingly nice to all his co-workers—something that Malfoys simply did not do. It was what had driven him to, in a fit of desperation, resort to extending a lunch invitation to Neville Longbottom (an invitation that was promptly and humiliatingly rejected). And now, in what was surely the worst of these developments, it had led him to the corridor in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement where he was now standing.

Biting back his pride at having to forsake the pureblood values to which he'd adhered so strongly for the first two decades of his life, Draco stood outside Hermione Granger's office and tried to summon the courage to knock. His heart was pounding so fast that he could feel its vibrations in his throat, pulsing through his insides as blood coursed through his veins; his palms uncomfortably clammy with sweat as he curled his hands into tight fists in order to keep them from trembling.

She'd left her office door slightly ajar, and after several painful minutes of trying—and failing—to imagine a worse fate, he finally took a brave step forward and knocked lightly before pushing the door all the way open.

Granger was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a memo, when her eyes snapped up and then widened in blank surprise.

"Hello," said Draco, swallowing nervously.

Her eyes swept over him, and he could practically feel the gears of her over-developed mind churning as she attempted to puzzle him out. "Hi," she said slowly.

"How are you?" he asked politely, and she glanced around the room as though searching for whoever had him under the Imperius.

"Good," she replied carefully. Then she waited for him to speak, watching him with caution and remaining very, very still—as if the slightest movement could trigger some sort of dangerous response from him.

"I just started working here today," he said, struggling to keep his voice airy and casual while he internally cursed the shame of his own existence. "In International Magical Cooperation."

"I see," she said, her voice now more openly confused. "Is there—can I help you with something, or…?"

"I just wanted to say hello," he replied, attempting to maintain eye contact with her and failing miserably. "Since we're co-workers now."

Her eyebrows shot up as she stared at him. "Oh," she said simply. "Well… hello."

Draco could not remember a moment in his life when he'd been more mortified. A few of her co-workers had gathered in the hallway behind him to watch, and he could feel his cheeks flaming with heat as they began to whisper to one another.

"I guess we'll be seeing each other quite often," he said, willing himself to press onward. He had come this far; there was no use turning back now. Forcing himself to remember his father's words, he attempted an unnatural smile.

"Yes," she said, still looking at him strangely, "I suppose we will."

He stammered out a goodbye before turning back towards the lifts, and her co-workers wasted no time in rushing past him into her office for all the gossipy details.

"What was that about?" he could hear them asking.

"I've no idea," said Granger. "We weren't exactly friends at school."

He had decided to start with Granger because the idea of reaching out to her somehow seemed less daunting than trying to soften up Potter or Weasley. She'd always been the type inclined towards forgiveness—less angry, more generous in spirit—an easier target overall.

As it turned out, he'd been right. She was never impolite to him (which he was fairly certain Potter and Weasley would have been, to put it mildly), and while she was clearly wary of his motives, she appeared to be doing her best to humor him as civilly as she could (he could hardly picture the moron twins extending him the same courtesy). And so, faced with relentless questioning on the subject by his father, Draco worked hard at his task, initiating conversations with Granger and building a rapport on the foundation of what was, admittedly, a rather shaky history.

But Rome was not built in a day, and old wounds required time to heal: a concept which his father seemed to have difficulty understanding.

So when he asked over breakfast—yet again—how things were going on that particular front, Draco mistakenly assumed that giving him the answer he wanted to hear—whether it was true or not—would be the fastest way to silence him.

Instead, he achieved quite the opposite.

Upon hearing that their relationship had developed into something resembling friendship, Lucius gave a slow, approving smile. "Excellent," he said. "Then you'll have no problem asking her to your boss' dinner party next weekend."

Draco froze. His fork dangled in the air, paused on route to his open mouth.

When he made no attempt to close it, his father went on. "This dinner is the first time that any of the Malfoys have been invited into polite society since the war, which means that how you behave will have a tremendous impact on people's opinion of the Malfoy na—"

"I've already asked Astoria."

"Un-invite her, then."

Draco began to sputter, "You can't be—surely you're—"

"It's unfortunate, but you'll have to make your excuses to her and take Hermione Granger instead."

"Are you joking?"

"The family's future is at stake, Draco."

"You want me to cancel on Astoria? And tell her what? 'Oh, terribly sorry, but I've decided to take Hermione bloody Granger instead?'"

Lucius set down his knife, shooting an icy glare in Draco's direction. "This is a crucial event," he said slowly, in a tone so sharp it could have cut steel, "at which countless important wizards will be present; and who you take as your plus-one reflects directly on who you are as a person—"

"How am I going to explain this to her?"

"You'll tell her that you can't take her and that you're very sorry! Your unimportant, childish attempts at romance can wait!"

"Lucius," Narcissa interrupted chidingly, but he ignored her.

"This is a rare opportunity for the family, and we must take full advantage," he continued, practically shouting. "If you falter for even an instant, Draco, a chance like this may never come again!"

With a sympathetic look in her son's direction, Narcissa began to say, "Astoria Greengrass is a perfectly—"

"Astoria Greengrass is a lovely girl, but she's a pureblood and a Slytherin, and it won't do Draco's image any favors to be associated with—"

Draco let out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, so now I'm supposed to cast aside the pureblood Slytherin friends that I've cared for my entire life? And who have cared for me?"

Lucius' voice dropped to the menacing, quietly threatening hiss that had so terrified Draco throughout his childhood. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Draco. For the first time in centuries, the very honor of this family is in question, and—"

"And whose fault is that?" snapped Draco.

The minute he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake.

His father's eyes narrowed to slits; and his mother's fingers flew to the pearls around her neck, clutching at them fearfully as she watched her husband's reaction.

"You'll go with Hermione Granger," said Lucius, in a voice so low he could barely hear it. "End of discussion."

If Draco never saw the corridor outside of Granger's office again, he would die a happy man.

He had waited until the week right before the dinner to ask, in the hope that putting it off until then would give her time to make other plans and force her to decline. But when the week arrived and he finally found himself awkwardly mumbling out an invitation in that hateful corridor, Granger said nothing about a prior engagement.

Instead, she stared at him blankly, looking positively bewildered, before saying, "Me? You want me to go as your—as your date?"

He grimaced at the word—he'd deliberately used 'guest' instead—but nodded nonetheless. "I'm supposed to bring someone, and I thought that, well, maybe…" He trailed off lamely.

Her eyes, cautious but not unkind, scanned him as though searching for answers. Then she asked bluntly, "Why are you asking me?"

Why? Unprepared for this sort of direct questioning, Draco panicked for a moment before his instincts kicked in and he lied, "I don't have anyone else to ask."

The tactic worked. Her gaze softened somewhat, and she looked at him with an unfamiliar expression as she said, "All right. I'll go."

"You will?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" she said kindly, before turning to leave.

It was only later, when he was remembering the incident in the privacy of his own office, that Draco realized to his horror that the expression he had failed to recognize was pity.

As he left the wizarding world on yet another case to Obliviate a traumatized Muggle, Draco wondered idly whether it would be possible to invent a way to Obliviate thousands of people at once. An entire city, even. If he could just wipe the collective memory of the whole of wizarding Britain, he thought longingly, if he could make them all forget—well, it would certainly solve all his problems. At the very least, he wouldn't need to jeopardize his relationships by begging Hermione Granger to escort him out on the town. It was a frequent daydream of his: as someone who spent his days modifying others' memories, it was easy to fantasize about what it would be like to Vanish the war from everyone's awareness—including his own.

He cast his wishful thinking aside as he entered the bank where a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad was holding the Muggle in question captive.

"Ariadne," he said, giving his co-worker a curt nod of acknowledgment. "How bad is it?"

"The usual—mumbling about wands and people popping out of thin air. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Draco took a closer look at the man in the chair, who was currently shaking his head violently as he battled his restraints. "No," the Muggle whispered, seemingly to himself, "it isn't possible. It just isn't possible!"

"All right," he said wearily, "let's get this over with."

With a jerk of his head, the man turned to look up at Draco, as if he had just noticed his presence. "Who are you?" he cried out in alarm, as Draco took aim with his wand.

"Someone you won't remember," he said, before breathing the word that would erase himself from the man's mind forever.

Draco was almost pleased at the murmurs of surprise when he arrived at the dinner party with Granger in tow. The entire room was staring in their direction—an experience that was not unfamiliar to him—and it gave him a certain thrill to know that he had caught them all off guard. In fact, for the first night in months, he felt as though his confidence had been restored: he was finally Draco Malfoy again, and he commanded attention wherever he went. As the other guests whispered to one another about the nature of their relationship, Draco guided Granger over to his boss with the casual elegance of aristocracy and made a formal introduction where he knew none was necessary.

"Of course I know exactly who this is!" Plumsbury said delightedly. "Welcome, Miss Granger—I had no idea you were so well-acquainted with Malfoy here—"

"We went to school together," she replied, with a smile both polite and slightly uncomfortable.

"Well, it is certainly an honor to have you here at our little get-together. You must let me introduce you to my wife—oh, Mathilda? Come meet Hermione Granger!"

By the time they were seated (after Plumsbury's wife and friends had finally finished fawning over her), Draco was starting to feel entirely in his element. This was more like it: he was out at an exclusive gathering, dressed to the nines; and furthermore, there was a celebrity in attendance—a war hero—and he had brought her. He was unstoppable. Tonight, he thought, would be the beginning of his return to the top—no one would leave him off their invite lists after this. Draco Malfoy was back.

And then he heard them.

Directly across the table were Brayden Fettersworth and Stella Hopkirk. Fettersworth was an old pureblood wizard who had once been a high-ranking Ministry official; he had been fired during the war for being a blood traitor. Hopkirk was a former nobody who had seized the opportunity to rise up in the ranks during the restructuring that followed Voldemort's demise. The two of them, along with a sleekly-dressed young wizard that Draco did not recognize, feigned speaking in hushed whispers—but their voices were loud enough to ensure that he could hear every word.

"It's completely unacceptable that they're allowing them back into the Ministry."

"Ridiculous, really."

"I mean, they're murderers."

"Should they even be allowed out on the street? It's a wonder they aren't all in Azkaban!"

"Well, most of them are, you know. But it seems the ones with money somehow managed to slither right out of the Death Eaters and back to freedom."

"Still, it's distasteful that we have to see them out in polite society, don't you think? This is no place for monsters and criminals."

They were talking about him as if he weren't there—as if he weren't sitting at the same table as them, forced to listen to their hateful insults. Their words dripped with so much venom that it was a wonder he hadn't fallen over dead. He could imagine how much self-satisfaction it gave them to witness his impotent silence; and yet Draco, who was rarely ever at a loss for words, suddenly found himself unable to speak or even to move. He had never experienced something so degrading. All he could think was: just a year ago, this could never have happened to us. Someone insulting the Malfoys like this, in public, would have been unthinkable.

Stella Hopkirk was just opening her mouth to add something scathing when someone cut her off.

"Excuse me," said a voice next to him, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

Shocked, he turned to look at Granger, but her eyes remained fixed across the table. "I also couldn't help but notice," she went on, "that you seemed to be referring to Draco."

Hopkirk and Fettersworth made no attempt to deny it, but the young wizard whom Draco could not place said weakly, "No, not at all—I'm afraid you've misunderstood—"

"I doubt that," Granger interrupted calmly. "And I just wanted to point out that anyone who was not imprisoned at the end of the war investigations was not imprisoned for good reason. In Draco's case, it so happens that he attempted to save Harry Potter's life. So unless you're comfortable openly questioning the validity of the Wizengamot's decisions, I'd advise you not to speak too loudly. I wouldn't want to broadcast my ignorance if I were you."

Draco nearly had to stop his jaw from hitting the floor.

The guests that she was addressing appeared equally speechless, for they said nothing in response; Fettersworth turned away in shame, and his two companions squirmed awkwardly in place, attempting to avoid her gaze and looking utterly humiliated. Granger's speech had attracted the attention of the entire table, and there was a tense moment of silence before she turned to Draco and said brightly, "This quail is really excellent, don't you think?"

By the end of the night, Draco had to admit that his father had been right: Granger had been the ideal date. She had been a perfect trophy, and not only had she handled his embarrassment in a graceful manner, she had actually defended him—and he could not think of a better person to have on his side in that particular argument. (Nor could he think of a witch who would have behaved as coolly in that situation.) It was no longer possible to deny the extent of the Malfoy family's fall from grace, and Hermione Granger, whether he liked it or not, was exactly what he needed.

As he escorted her to her front door, he struggled to find the words to express his gratitude and settled on:

"Thank you. You know, for earlier."

"It's nothing," she said simply, waving it off with one hand.

"No," he said, trying to sound sincere and having difficulty looking her directly in the eye, "it wasn't. You—you didn't have to do that, really."

She looked at him then, her eyes keen and appraising. "Now you know what it feels like to be on the outside."

Surprised, he glanced up at her to find a gaze that was neither warm nor unsympathetic. With a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, she bid him good night and disappeared into her flat.

Astoria, unsurprisingly, found out about his having taken Granger to the dinner and broke up with him. He'd known that it would have to happen sooner or later—he'd just hoped that it would have been later.

It hadn't been that serious—they'd only been dating for a couple months—but Draco had rather liked her, and he was starting to feel as though his world were crumbling around him. His father had always placed a great deal of pressure on his shoulders, but nothing could have prepared him for this particular burden. He wanted to laugh, really, thinking back on all the lectures his father had given him on the dangers of consorting with Mudbloods. How seriously he had taken those speeches! And how ridiculous they seemed now!

Everything about the war—everything he had suffered through, everything he had once been taught to believe in—had suddenly become utterly meaningless. He had been forced to fight for a cause because his father had espoused it; now he was being told to abandon it for the very same reasons. When Lucius went on and on about how important it was to redeem themselves, to make people forget their past, Draco wanted to scream at him: "Then why did we do any of it in the first place?"

His father, whom he had always looked up to—who had once seemed like such a grave figure of authority, like a heavy statue that could not be moved—suddenly seemed weightless and thoughtless, a fool that blew to and fro with the wind. If all the things we did in the war turned out to be a mistake, how do we know this isn't?

Still, in a way, he was glad that he hadn't taken Astoria to that party: he would never have wanted her to see him disgraced like that in public.

The next time he saw Granger, she showed up at his office.

She had never sought him out before; so when he first saw her standing in his doorway, he wondered briefly whether he were hallucinating.

"I need your help with something," she said, after some hesitation.

He closed the file he'd been reading and tossed it aside. "What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"I was hoping that you might be willing to donate to a cause I support," she explained, speaking very quickly, as though afraid that he might cut her off if she slowed down for even one second. "There's this organization that funds werewolf research, and there's an event coming up that's meant to increase awareness about the need for a cure, and we're all supposed to try and bring in donors, and… well, I was hoping that you might be willing to help me out."

Draco had to fight back the urge to grimace at the mention of werewolves. He had never had much sympathy for them, but after his experience with Greyback during the war, it was his firm opinion that all of them ought to be locked up securely somewhere—if not executed en masse. But, knowing better than to offend Granger's bleeding-heart sensibilities, he gave a thoughtful nod and examined her carefully. She seemed embarrassed to be asking him for help, and it suddenly occurred to him that he might have been a desperate last resort.

Seeing an opportunity to gain her trust, he replied, "I'll do you one better."

She looked at him questioningly, and he went on, "I'm sure you need help organizing your event. I'll volunteer. In addition to making a donation, of course; I know that's what you really want."

"Really?" she replied, somewhat disbelievingly. "You want to help raise awareness of werewolf issues?"

He shrugged innocently. "I've been through my share of misfortune. I know what it's like to be forced to be something you're not. And, as you pointed out last week, I know now what it's like to face that kind of prejudice from society." Even to his own ears, the words sounded so cheesy and heavy-handed that he practically had to keep himself from gagging as he heard himself say them, but a hunch told him that it was exactly the kind of over-earnest tripe that someone like Granger would eat up with a spoon. "Anyway, I'm willing to do my part to help."

She scrutinized him for a moment, appearing not to recognize this particular incarnation of Draco Malfoy, then nodded slowly. "Well, that's very generous of you."

"It's the least I can do," he said smoothly, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

Once she'd thanked him and left, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, full of new dread at the thought of all the work he was going to have to do for this stupid cause.

For the most part, Draco's friends mercifully chose not to comment on his newfound alliance with Granger—but mercy had never been something for which Pansy could be counted on.

So when she strode into their lunch with Blaise and Theo, her face twisted into a frown, eyes blazing in his direction, he knew he was about to suffer.

"Tell me it isn't true, Draco," she commanded.

Rolling his eyes at her all-too-typical melodramatic entrance, he picked up a piece of toast and went about buttering it nonchalantly.

"What isn't true?" asked Blaise, who apparently didn't share Draco's qualms about indulging Pansy's theatrics.

"I just heard that the real reason Astoria broke it off with Draco was that he took Hermione Granger to Plumsbury's dinner party instead of her."

Both Theo and Blaise simultaneously averted their gaze, and Pansy let out a laugh of disbelief. "So it's true, then. And is it also true that you're working on the campaign for a werewolf cure with her?"

This particular piece of information Theo and Blaise had not known, and their eyes snapped back up to Draco.

"Are you serious?" asked Blaise.

"I can't believe you did that to Astoria," Pansy said angrily, ignoring Blaise entirely. "Daphne told me you lied to her and said that you were sick, then left her to find out through the grapevine that she'd been ditched for a Mudblood."

"Don't say that word in public," hissed Draco. "I've got enough PR problems to deal with as it is."

"Is that why you're working on a sodding werewolf campaign?" Blaise interrupted, as though no explanation could be sufficient for such a shameful secret.

"Look," said Draco, suddenly furious at his friends' lack of sympathy, "none of you know what it's been like for me. None of you have been shunted to the fringe of society because you and your father are notorious Death Eaters. Do you think I'm happy about this? Hanging out with Granger? Wasting my time helping the filthy underbelly of the magical community? But this is the price I have to pay to re-enter privileged society, and it would be a lot easier if you all could at least pretend to be more understanding about it!

"And," he added viciously, turning to face Pansy, "I got dumped by Astoria. All right? She dumped me. It isn't my fault the relationship ended."

"I think it is," she replied coldly. "You humiliated her, taking another witch to such a high-profile event—and Granger, no less. It would have been bad enough if you'd taken someone pretty, but can you imagine how much it must have hurt her pride when she heard you'd taken a filthy Mud—"

Slamming his fist down on the table, Draco shouted, "What did I say about using that word in public?"

Theo gently reached out with one hand to restrain him, and for a moment, Pansy stared blankly at him in shock. Then, her expression morphing into a scowl, she sneered, "Defending your girlfriend, Draco? How valiant. But try not to cause a scene."

"Stop it, Pansy," Theo reprimanded quietly. To Draco's surprise, she obeyed, fuming in silence as she glared fiercely in his direction.

Draco found, however, that he had lost his appetite. Throwing his napkin onto the table, he snapped, "You know what, Pansy? If I have to sleep with Granger to earn back the respect my family deserves, then so be it. And you can tell Daphne to go fuck herself."

Then, as Pansy gaped at him in disgust, he rose and stormed out of the restaurant without looking back.

The werewolf awareness event went off without a hitch. It was unfortunate that Granger's hobbies were as mind-numbingly idiotic as they were—Draco would certainly have preferred to get on her good side by joining her in a more enjoyable activity—but he gamely hid his distaste during the countless nights they spent together planning the fundraiser. He could never have guessed how much work Granger put into these little causes of hers, but after finding out firsthand, he swore to himself that he would make sure his toil did not go unrewarded.

Not long after racking up all those points, he finally found a chance to cash them in: the annual Ministry Ball. The ball was a highly public affair, and the who's who of wizarding society was always in attendance. Draco was lucky to be a Ministry employee—he was fairly certain he would not have been invited otherwise. Granger, on the other hand, was practically a guest of honor. She was sure to attract attention throughout the evening, and damned if Draco wasn't going to steal some of it for his own purposes.

He was single now, after all, and there was nothing standing in his way—so he approached her as soon as he could and asked, in his most charming tone of voice, whether she might accompany him as a friend. He made sure to ask weeks in advance, in order to ensure that Weasley or Longbottom or one of her equally repugnant friends didn't get there first; and, as he'd predicted, Granger proved unable to turn him down.

"As a friend," she repeated firmly, and he tried not to let her presumptuousness irritate him. As if he could actually be interested in her in any other capacity.

He offered to pick her up, but she insisted that they meet at the Ministry before traveling to the party together.

"At the Ministry?" he asked in confusion.

"Yes, I'll want to stop by my office and check for memos anyway," she explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Draco gave a startled laugh. "Do you ever stop working?"

With a small smile, she replied, "I promise not to work at the ball."

A/N: This story will be posted in three parts.

Thanks for reading—and reviews are, of course, always appreciated! =)