Recompense - quicknotesquim - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

December 2009

Hermione rolled her shoulders back beneath her usual glamour and pushed open the creaky door. Though the sun shone weakly on the cloudless afternoon, she found the local pub as dim and dank as ever. As her eyes adjusted, she regarded the familiar motes of dust dancing through the air. She scanned the patrons inside until she landed on the one she sought, and with a huff, marched across the sticky floor.

She lifted herself onto the empty barstool next to her father. With a swish of her wand, Hermione vanished the pint in front of him with a silent Evanesco.

Hugh Granger, who knew himself as Wendell Wilkins, turned and glared at her. “Hey! I wasn’t finished with that!”

“I thought I told you to stop serving him,” she grumbled at the balding man behind the bar. He hunched over a copy of the Daily Prophet . The headline screamed IT’S ANOTHER BOY FOR THE BOY WHO LIVED!

He rolled his eyes. “And I told you, his Sickles are as good as anyone else’s.”

Wendell looked sheepishly at Hermione. “I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, but seeing as I apparently know you, would you mind paying him these Sick-things?” He patted his hands at the back pockets of his trousers. “Must’ve left my wallet at home.”

“Sure thing,” Hermione sighed. She opened her trusty beaded bag. There were fewer beads than there used to be, and little threads sprung loose from time to time. She held her chin high as she gestured to the bartender. “How much does he owe you?”

The amount didn’t matter. It wasn’t really her money she spent, anyway. She set the coins down on the polished bar and grabbed her father’s arm.

“Who are you, exactly?”

No anger welled up inside her. No tears were held back. They never came anymore. She didn’t feel anything at all as she repeated her most common phrase of the past nine years. “I’m your nurse, and I’m taking you home.”

Silence was the third companion in their walk home. Side-along Apparition would have been far more convenient, but even if she could explain it to him, Muggles never tolerated magical travel methods well. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d Apparated.

Hermione helped her father through the enchanted gate and up the hill to the property she still struggled to think of as hers. Cyclamen Cottage and its gardens housed not only their family but all manner of herbs and potions ingredients, everything from aconite to zebra lilies. Hermione tended to them all, day and night.

“Starting to look familiar?” she asked, but she knew the answer. Wendell didn’t respond.

Her mother clawed open the door as they approached. Judy Granger loomed stoic and proud, even in a full-length housecoat.

“Out numbing that skull of yours again, Wendell?”

“I don’t know who you think you are, but I’ve already had enough of a talking-to from this one,” he pointed at Hermione. “She says I’m her patient!” Wendell pushed out his lower lip in a pout, and Hermione could sense he was already sundowning. It came earlier and earlier with each passing day.

“Mum, he can’t help it, it’s —“

Wendell groaned. “She’s your mother? Why is your mother here?”

“It’s the same old song and dance with you, Hermione. Let him accept responsibility for his actions!”

Hermione dragged her hand down over her face and took a steadying breath. The same old song and dance. Wasn’t that the truth? It had been years of this.

Wendell, both faded and fading, brushed past them both and gripped the stairway bannister. “I’m knackered, gals. Going to turn in. G’night.”

“Typical,” Judy sniped, pinching the bridge of her pointy nose.

Hermione followed her father. “You’ll be over it tomorrow, Mum. Promise.”

“What happened to never going to bed angry? I’m still here!” Judy crossed her arms and huffed, an excellent impression of her daughter. When she received no response, the woman shuffled to the living room, biding her time.

❖

Sometime later, Hermione returned downstairs. It took a great deal of cajoling, but she persuaded Wendell to down her latest concoction, a new memory potion she’d infused with elements of Amortentia. She used the base notes of her mother’s cologne, the commercial-grade bleach that sanitised the original Granger Dental Centre, and fresh-cut grass.

When she’d first smelled her own Amortentia, it came as no surprise that fresh-cut grass featured among the top notes. It reminded her of Saturday afternoons before she’d gone to Hogwarts. Before she knew about dark wizards and torture and the toll of war. Hugh Granger would come in, sweaty from mowing the lawn, and he’d spy Hermione watching cartoons on the telly. He’d scoop her up in a big hug and say, “Hello, pet!” All the while, Hermione tried to squirm away. What she wouldn’t give for one of those hugs now.

Her mother sat on the couch, looking at nothing in particular. A half-finished scarf, still attached to her knitting needles, lay in her lap. “Is he in bed?”

“Yes, I’ve given him a larger dose of the new potion I’m working on, and something to calm him. Although, I’m worried he’s building up a tolerance to the latter.” Hermione didn’t make eye contact with her mother, crossing the room to her office instead. She needed to journal about the day’s events and compare them to last week, and the last iteration of the potion. But Judy followed her, undeterred by her daughter’s attempts at avoiding her. The moment she reached for her desk drawer, her mother unleashed her anger.

Judy Granger might not have all her faculties back, but she quickly eclipsed her husband, for reasons Hermione could not explain. And she was plenty capable of fury.

“Why can’t you keep an eye on him?”

Hermione sighed and rubbed tired fingers between her eyebrows. “I could ask the same of you. I’m working as hard as I can, I need to focus! I can’t be babysitting Dad while I’m handling delicate magical essences.”

Her mother snorted. “You think you’re so important because you’ve got magic. Your magic is what put us here in the first place.”

“As if I could ever forget that.” Hermione looked at her mother. Her mum. Her whole world used to revolve around her mum. Before Hermione found out she was a witch, she idolised her. She followed her around the dental centre, preening under all the attention from the oral hygienists. Just like your mum! they said, A future dentist if I ever saw one! She remembered a younger version of Judy Granger beaming with pride, over the moon that her only daughter was so smart, driven, and begging to follow in her footsteps.

Hermione almost wished that first owl from Hogwarts had never come.

“Can’t you try what worked for me?”

Hermione couldn’t bear to tell her mum the truth. What Judy thought “worked” actually didn’t. Judy surfaced, lucid and irate, only every other day. Today, she was Judy, but tomorrow, she’d be Monica Wilkins. Hermione couldn’t decide which days were worse. On Judy days, they fought. On the other days, Hermione barely got her mother to open her eyes. Some days it got so bad that she resorted to the Muggle method of tube feeding because Monica, after years of attempts to be erased from Judy’s mind, either couldn’t remember to swallow or she fought Hermione tooth and nail on everything, including what she served for breakfast. But no matter what each day brought, the nights were worse. The dark house seemed like it would swallow them all whole.

“I did try, Mum.”

“You keep saying that! You’ve said it for years! And yet he’s getting worse!”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. The silence hung between them, full of everything from the past decade. A long moment passed before Judy spoke again.

“I hate living like this. He’s here, but he’s not Hugh.”

“I know, Mum. I know.” Hermione reached deep inside herself, willing tears to come. She wanted to show the shell of a woman in front of her that she empathised, that she hurt, too. She reached out, tentatively, to hug her.

But Judy remained beyond reaching. She swatted Hermione’s hands away. “You don’t know what it’s like to see your husband like this,” She had a wild look in her eyes now — she was out for blood. “We’ve never even met the man!”

Hermione glared at her mother in a clear warning. “Mum —“

“You may have been married nine years, Mrs. Malfoy, but you have no idea what it’s like to be a wife. And you never will.”

❖

Most of the time, Hermione felt like she was drowning.

She found no solace in the past, present, or in her thoughts of the future. The past that followed her all across the Wizarding World marked her body and soul forever. Her future proved too grim to contemplate. And the present... The present required her full attention. She pushed herself to be grateful for all that she had — her parents, her health, a beautiful home in a quiet part of the country — and buried her deep longing for the things even magic could not give her.

Each day she got up early, tended to her parents’ ever-growing medical needs, and kept the house tidy. At night she conducted her research into memory, more specifically, the effects of Obliviation. It had been the routine for the last nine years.

Nine years of dwindling hope.

Nine years of failure.

Not only had she failed to fully reverse the effects of the Obliviation, a precaution she had to take during the war, but she also failed to keep her Muggle parents on a trajectory to healing physically and emotionally. She strayed from the narrow path of the light, finding that it shifted and changed all around her. It became easier to wrap herself in shadows, and as much as she thirsted for truth, she drank deeply from the well of forbidden, darker magic. She practised spells she wished she didn’t have to know, and read books so malevolent they turned her stomach inside out. They wouldn’t have made it into even the restricted section at Hogwarts, such was the twisted, deranged ranting within. But there were kernels of knowledge beneath the layers of bigotry and blood purity, and so they were the only books that had given her any hope.

That hope had come at a steep price.

Still, Hermione persevered. She had no other choice.

She stooped over her desk littered with parchment and all manner of magical and Muggle books about healing, memory, and more. Untangling herself from her current reading, Magic and the Muggle Mind , Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock. Midnight already, and the book was less than illuminating. It contained no new revelations concerning the reversal of Obliviation on Muggles.

She gently placed the book on top of an ancient tome she’d turned to time and time again. During the hunt for horcruxes, Hermione took it upon herself to investigate the old Riddle House in Little Hangleton. She’d knicked the book, thinking in spite of, or perhaps because of its provenance, it might be useful. It reeked of dark magic, and its anonymous author focused on what one could do with Muggles after Obliviation. The ideas inside horrified her, written in a hand as crooked as the author’s intentions. Several spells spoke of cruel experimentation: one for maintaining organ function on a vivisected Muggle, another for reattaching and rejuvenating mangled or diseased genitalia. Many of the potions recipes were crossed out, having done more good than harm. She refused to read a section detailing testing performed on Muggle infants.

Despite the sickening subject matter, she’d pressed on, driven by her shame and desperation. Though she battled with herself, she’d modified several of the spells and potions for her own use with some success. The scar on her arm throbbed each time she touched the book, a cursed remnant that beat in tune to the Dark Magic surrounding her. It was dangerous, what she did, but she couldn’t stop. It was the only thing to produce results.

Wendell wandered downstairs in his nightshirt. His bony knees and elbows caught the lamplight, covered in sallow, shiny skin. She knew so much more now than she had at eighteen — the brain and the body are connected, and as grey matter withers, so does the rest of you. Her father’s reaction to the Obliviation and subsequent reversal had eroded much of his frontal lobe, while Judy’s incomplete reversal made her brain look pitted and hollow on magical scans. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have made the same choices. She wouldn’t have fought so hard to bring their memories back.

“Say, where do you keep the brandy around here? I could use a nightcap.”

“Sorry Wendell,” she said, pasting a smile on her face. “Maybe there’s some upstairs?”

There wasn’t any brandy upstairs, of course, but it was imperative to get him back in bed before Judy noticed his absence. Hermione took her father’s thin arm and led him up the narrow staircase. The charmed floorboards kept their footfalls silent. She missed the way Crookshanks used to curl around her legs as she climbed each step, but he, too, was gone now. The bedroom her parents shared lay at the end of the hallway.

“You know, you remind me of someone.” Wendell’s glassy eyes scanned her face.

“Do I?” Her response had no curiosity behind it. There’d been many moments like this. She knew better than to hope.

“Yes, I’m sure of it. Maybe we met at uni….”

“Hush, you’ll wake Mum.” Hermione bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to call her mother Mum again. On Judy days, Wendell only knew her as Judy. Gods, she was so tired. Just a little further.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, pet.”

Hermione froze. If only she’d had a Pensieve, or a phial open so she could’ve captured his words. She already wanted to replay them, a secret hope blooming in her chest that Hugh Granger had spoken to her. She tried to turn him towards her, but he broke her grip as he quietly entered the bedroom and closed the door.

There was no use dithering in the hallway. Hermione sought her own room, and a wall of hot air rushed out to meet her. She always kept her fire going, in part to drive out the dampness that would harm her vast collection of books, but mostly appreciating the way the flames greeted her after a long day. But today had been unseasonably warm, and in her exhaustion all she could think about were soft, cool sheets. She cast Glacius Temporalis, a quick cooling charm of her own design, and relished the speedy drop in temperature.

None of the Malfoy properties, including this one she and her parents now inhabited, had Muggle heating or air conditioning. There were so many Muggle comforts the Grangers missed now that they were permanent citizens of Wizarding Britain. That was the one thing Order of the Phoenix member Sturgis Podmore had done for her: even after all she, Harry, and Ron had sacrificed — their childhoods, mainly — to defeat Voldemort. After endless pleas on her part, he’d allowed her to bring her parents back from Australia and live in the Magical world. Funny how the Statute of Secrecy could be bent if you had the right connections. Two years post-war, a stamp from Minister Podmore and one Portkey later, she and her parents found themselves back in Wizarding London. They lived in a dingy little flat in a seedy part of town, making do.

That’s where all the real trouble began.

But tonight was not for thinking of the war, eleven years past now. (Had there been a 10th-anniversary gathering? She wouldn’t know — she shut her Floo years ago, and turned away all owls or guests.) Nor was it for churning through memories of the friends she hadn’t seen, spoken, or written to since her marriage. Tonight she stared at the ceiling, turning her father’s words over and over in her mind. She couldn’t get too excited, that wouldn’t do at all. But he’d called her pet, he’d talked about Mum.

She changed into her pyjamas, climbed into bed, and had just settled down when the one other important happening that day burst to the forefront of her mind.

Harry! Harry had a son!

Hermione rocketed out of bed, ran barefoot back down the stairs and through the parlour, out the front door, and finally down the lane. Please, she thought, let the Dorseys still be on holiday!

The neighbouring house stood empty, and as she’d hoped, a haphazard stack of the Daily Prophet lay against the gate. A Lumos revealed the top paper bore the headline she saw earlier in the day. She tucked it under her arm and walked back home.

Back in her study, her heart galloped in her chest as she watched the moving picture. Harry, Ginny, a little boy, and a baby were cuddled together in a big bed, looking all loved up. Ginny smiled at Harry, the baby nestled in her arms. Harry ruffled his older son’s hair. The image struck her; vibrant and too real. Hermione stifled a sob. Another boy. She hadn’t even known about the first one.

What else had happened in the last nine years?

The article revealed Harry’s first son’s name to be James Sirius. A touching tribute, in her opinion. The newest Potter’s name was Albus Severus. A quote from Harry recounted how important both namesakes were to him growing up at Hogwarts, and how essential both had been in ending Voldemort’s terrifying chokehold on Wizarding Britain. She heard her friend’s voice in her mind, his signature strength and clarity of purpose ringing clear.

And at the bottom of the page, such an afterthought that she had almost missed it — another quote.

“Albus’s godparents are the same as James’s — Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Their friendship during my youth is the reason I’m alive today. Ron, mate, my boys will see your kind heart and unwavering loyalty as they grow. I hope it rubs off on them. And Hermione, my deepest wish is for them to know you as I do. Your warmth, wit, and generosity of spirit are guiding lights.”

Speechless, Hermione set the paper on her desk and leaned back in the chair. She touched a hand to her cheek. Tears flowed freely down her face, clinging to her jaw before dropping to their deaths. She observed the pattern they made on the carpet below — tiny dark daisies, blooming and spreading. When was the last time she’d cried? She didn’t need to dry them, but the evidence of emotion disturbed her. Siccesco.

Harry had two sons. She had two godsons. He didn’t hate her for disappearing. He didn’t hate her for never telling him why, and never replying to his letters years ago when she still accepted mail. She should have known that Harry would always love her. Harry Potter didn’t have the capacity to hate.

Was it enough for him not to hate her?

No. Even though she loved Harry, and he hadn’t meant to, he’d hurt her. But worse, Hermione hated herself. He didn’t know it, but she’d married their worst living enemy.

Willingly.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The morning held no frostiness, but whispers of cold air fell on her ears. Green leaves gave way long ago to orange, gold, and brown, curling in on themselves. One twirled in the wind and lodged itself in her hair as Hermione crunched upon its brethren, walking the well-worn path to the greenhouse.

Cyclamen Cottage was a rather misleading name for the estate Hermione chose as her home. Of all the Malfoy properties in Britain, the vast tract nestled in the Cotswolds was both idyllic and practical. Every season delighted her with new treasures to behold. Spring offered a smattering of pastels. Winter, her favourite, left blankets of shimmering snow. The property provided good earth for growing all manner of food, flowers, and herbs, and a modern greenhouse. It sprawled, acres and acres of garden behind the main cottage where Hermione and her parents lived. While it looked small from the exterior, much like her beaded bag, the cottage boasted ample space for every purpose. The self-restocking kitchen was large and bright; the study boasted a never-ending supply of bookshelves. Only their ledgers knew when the Malfoy family acquired Cyclamen Cottage, but whoever lived in it previously, in her opinion, had thought of nearly everything. She could live without the air conditioning.

A smaller cottage lay hidden behind the greenhouse beside a small pond. Hermione used the space to brew, bottle, and store all her potions. She kept a cache of all the most useful, everyday potions, as well as a growing number of rarer concoctions. And on summer nights, when she wasn’t too exhausted from the day’s work, she opened up the thatched roof to give her telescope an unobstructed view of the stars twinkling in the unpolluted countryside sky.

Hermione didn’t become a recluse overnight. (She married overnight, which is a different matter entirely.) Her isolation came on slowly but hung around like a bad cough. It began in the summer of 1998, when as soon as the fog of war had lifted and the rebuilding efforts began in earnest, she left for Australia to restore her parents’ memories.

She expected to succeed within weeks. Having spent the last few years in close proximity to Harry Potter, it never occurred to her that raw talent, passion, and skill might not be enough. Every night, in a little tent in an unplottable location, she waited until the boys were asleep and read. She read and read and read. She practised new spells, following faded illustrations and descriptions of delicate wand movements. She became more familiar with herbs and rare potion ingredients. She allowed her other skills to atrophy, a worthy sacrifice for the mastery she hoped to gain.

She’d planned to come clean, and reorient them to the present day. To their real name. To their magical daughter, who loved them so much she did the unthinkable to protect them. But to her horror, a few weeks using typical memory retrieval and restoration methods turned into two years of dark magical experimentation.

No one should be forced to experiment on their loved ones for their own good. Each new spell, each new concoction in her cauldron held untold risk, and she wasn’t experienced enough to know if the risks were compounded. Using a spell from the old black book from the Riddle House, so worn it didn’t even have a title, she managed to restore her mum’s memories. But it came at a terrible price for both of them.

Those two years in Sydney would haunt her for the rest of her life. Two years of struggle, of denial, of tears. Two years of letters to Harry and Ron filled with lies. Lies upon lies upon lies because how could she ever tell them what she did? And how could she live with herself if she couldn’t reverse it? Why did nothing happen the way it should, the way it would if her name was Harry Potter?

Nearly every night she experienced intense night terrors. They were all the same: someone uncovered her dark secret and splashed it across the pages of the entire Wizarding press. She hadn’t used an Unforgivable, but the way everyone turned on her, she may as well have.

In the most common nightmare, she woke to the screeching of owls and the flash of bulbs outside her window. “Miss Granger, what did you do to your parents? Why are you dabbling in magic beyond even Merlin himself? Did you Avada and reanimate them? What does this mean for your friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley? They’ve disavowed you….” By then she’d be awake, grasping the twisted sheets in her hands. Sweat coated her body, and she fought back screams until she descended into another pit of horrors.

In the vast, timeless expanse between night and dawn, she permitted herself to be angry at the injustice of it all. Everyone forgot she’d been a young girl when she helped take down the greatest evil the magical world had ever known. A Muggleborn girl, who’d scrabbled her way to the top of her class despite the perceived inferiority of her birth, and the many years she’d spent ignorant of magic altogether. How nice it would be, to finish up her studies at Hogwarts, to pass her NEWTS. It hadn’t lasted with Ron, but they were still close, and maybe he would’ve set her up with one of his brothers. Maybe it would have been her on the cover of the Daily Prophet, announcing a promotion within the Ministry. The more she ruminated on it, the angrier she became.

On the day Hermione heard from Minister Podmore with the offer for her to live with her parents in Wizarding London (he’d pulled a few strings) and start a new career as an Unspeakable, she took it to mean there would be a future for her in the realm of normal. She found it almost funny that as a girl she’d dreamt of more and found herself capable of magic — real, actual magic — but now she just wanted normalcy. Her magic was part of her, and she’d never wish it away. But there was no denying the pull of the ordinary after living through war and the fallout from it.

Of course, the job hadn’t worked out. After only two days, she’d been stressed beyond belief at the prospect of working while continuing to research her parents’ conditions, manage their care, and keep them hidden. When Draco Malfoy turned up on the doorstep of her shabby little flat, snowflakes melting seamlessly into his white-blond hair, it felt like a fever dream.

As Hermione closed the door to the greenhouse, she took a deep breath in preparation for her work. She washed her hands in the porcelain farmhouse sink, which she meticulously cleaned each night, and held them up to the light to examine them. Calloused and worn, they blistered in places from a recent battle to draw venom from her Venomous Tantacula. She kept it not only for its valuable leaves but also because its poisonous properties made it a formidable weapon. A single drop of venom from the shoots and spikes promised a slow, painful death, and once the plant got its vines around someone, it was kinder to Avada the poor soul.

In her first year at the cottage, she cultivated many such plants, fearing that despite the Vow, Malfoy might appear at any moment with demands to alter their agreement. If he dismantled her wards, she’d need a few tricks up her sleeve. Although a quick Septumsepra might also work a real treat, she mused darkly. But he’d kept up his end, and she’d kept up hers. But that didn’t mean she trusted him, and so it comforted her to know she could resort to violence if needed.

Hermione pulled a weathered wooden stool up to her workstation and settled in. She cherished this time of day, when she could luxuriate in the way the world around her fell silent. She set the pace and rhythm of her work — no one else. It was predictable, and the plants responded to her careful touch. First, she gathered clippings from the fast-growing herbs, culling each stem or leaf to allow for regrowth. Next, she made her rounds, plucking berries from bushes, fruit from vines, and nuts from trees, sorting which were fit to eat, use as ingredients, or return to the earth via compost. Finally, she ascertained which plants required more or less water, light, food — the task made all the more delicate by the mixing of both magical and non-magical flora.

When she completed her initial journey around the greenhouse, she turned to planting, repotting, and encouraging any young saplings or sprouts towards upward growth. As the year came to a close, there would be fewer and fewer flowering and fruiting plants to tend to in this way. But Hermione took special care of her winter garden, as experience taught her that the best springs blossomed from winters spent preparing for rebirth. Each season for a reason, Professor Sprout always said.

As she donned earmuffs and set to repotting a stubborn family of Mandrakes, Hermione’s inner thoughts bubbled to the surface.

First, although she had no proof anything had changed with Mum and Dad since their last round of new potions, Wendell had called her by her old nickname —pet. It was the first change she’d seen in quite some time, and it lit a small spark in her ever-curious brain. Second, she’d been thinking about going to Wizarding London for the first time since she’d been married. And Merlin help her, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Hermione closed her eyes and conjured up an image of the city. Clouds drizzled cold rain, sending wizarding folk under black brollies scurrying across the cobblestones like ants. Inside the Ministry, the dings of the elevators punctuated post-weekend recaps. She let the swish of robes and the gentle tinkling of spoons against china wash over her. The archives were empty, their leather chairs and ever-glowing lamps beckoning to her. Come, read under our light. Stay awhile.

She would never return there. Not to London, and certainly not to the Ministry. The normal life she’d dreamed of was no longer possible. An image of her name in black ink on creamy parchment fluttered to the forefront of her mind, beating its wings for only a moment before she banished the memory, a glittering Hermione Malfoy tumbling into the dark recesses below. She was no Occlumens, but she’d done a good job of burying her ordinary desires on her wedding day. Now Hermione battled a nefarious voice urging her towards more sinister magic, and she struggled to cope with the onslaught of intrusive thoughts.

She returned to the sink and cleansed her hands from the past few hours of work. As the water washed away soil and clay, it revealed what Hermione had been unable to uproot; a network of dark rivulets underneath her skin. It brought to mind the differential growth response of gravitropism, in which plant roots elongate and sink deeper into the earth. After years of exposure and bending it to her will, the takeover persisted despite her magic’s opposition. Dark magic had anchored itself in her veins like a parasitic fungi. She’d relied too much on forbidden potions lately, seeking higher potency and better results. It didn’t work every time. But when it did, even though she chastised herself, she returned to the well for more.

Light magic wasn’t enough. Upping the amount of Dittany in her last round of modified Oblivious Unction did not deliver any observable effect, positive or negative. Amortentia made both her parents feel less depressed, but otherwise had no impact. She’d begun looking beyond her well-loved copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi because Hermione had a hunch the plants weren’t limited to the functions described within.

She developed new theories constantly in her search to reverse Obliviation, but her main theory persisted: the potency and efficacy of herbs, flowers, and even fruit in certain situations could be manipulated and amplified by soil acidity, exposure to light, temperature, and more. All the environmental conditions that exist or occur, sometimes beyond our control, before magical folk even thought of including them as potion ingredients. But despite reading hundreds of applicable texts, Hermione discovered frighteningly little about healing herbs specifically, unless it revolved around the optimal planting and harvesting seasons themselves.

She checked the time. She’d been so absorbed in her work she’d missed lunch, and her parents were in need of their second round of potions. Her stomach gurgled its disappointment as she Scourgified her clothes and boots, but she lacked time for even a quick snack.

Clutching the necessary phials, Hermione pressed her back to the door and opened it into the cold.

“What, you have to open doors manually like the rest of us mortals?”

Judy Granger stood in her daughter’s path, wearing nothing but slippers and her weathered housecoat. Her wild curls, which she’d passed down to Hermione, lay limp and grey against her temples. It had been less than forty-eight hours since their last confrontation.

Hermione sighed, searching her mother’s eyes for answers. What had her up in arms so early in the day?

“Mum, I’m a witch, not a goddess. I won’t live forever. And I could use my magic for little things, but I’m channelling everything I’ve got into healing you and Dad.”

“Healing us? That’s what you think you’re doing?”

This fight again? Hermione’s entire body withered under her mother’s unrelenting stare. This argument never ended well. She tried a new tact.

“I know I’ve failed you, Mum,” she said, her constant inadequacies roiling her stomach. They mocked her even now as they travelled up her throat and pried open her teeth to taste the air. “You don’t have to tell me. The last round of potions was a bust. I’m back to the drawing board. But these have been working to keep your conditions stable.” She pushed two of the phials towards her mother.

Judy’s arms remained crossed, her hands fisted against her ribs. Her next words flew out in a gust of effort. “You were born late at night. When the nurse handed you to me, I saw a shooting star flash against the glass of my hospital room window. In that moment, I made a wish that I would have a kind, loving, intelligent daughter. And for a long time, I thought my wish came true,” she paused, and Hermione brought the phials back to her chest. “But everything changed when that letter came. Suddenly you didn’t need us. My only child left for boarding school on some enchanted train and when you returned — you weren’t you.”

“Mum, there was so much I couldn’t tell you, there are rules —”

“Couldn’t tell me? I know all about your rules for dealing with people like me. I’ve seen those books in your study, Hermione. You’ve bent plenty of those rules. I’m not daft. You could have told me. I’m your mother, for God’s sake.” Her hand came up to clutch at her housecoat.

“It’s so much more than what you’ve read.”

“Oh, so because I’m a Muggle, I wouldn’t get it?”

“There was a war going on, Mum!” Hermione forgot the phials in her arms and let them shatter on the pathway as she shouted. “I brought down a wizard so evil and corrupt that he would have tortured you, enslaved you, and when he could get no further twisted pleasure from you, only then would he have killed you!”

“So you wiped our memories and sent us away. I know, you’ve told me a thousand times. You had to make a choice!” She waved her hands to the side, mocking Hermione. “Your friends needed you! The world needed you! Tell me, how many other Muggle parents had their memories altered? How many of them got them back?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione whispered.

“You don’t know. Convenient. You have answers for everything else. ‘Drink this, it’ll help. Hold still, let me wave my magic wand over you so I can see your insides. You’re both getting stronger by the day. We’re so close now to getting Dad back,’” Judy raged. “You’re such a liar.”

She couldn’t refute it. She had been lying. The old Hermione, the proud tattletale who longed to be Head Girl, hated lying. But the more she tried to stop, the more falsehoods she had to invent. It wasn’t enough to hide her inadequacies and embarrassment — she lied to erase them. It was easy when nothing else came easily; the lies offered her their warm bed.

“You aren’t getting worse, but I haven’t seen the progress I’d like to see. But where we are now — it’s still manageable. Your conditions are stable,” she emphasised.

“Oh, yeah, I feel real stable, Hermione. On the days I wake up as myself, I have no recollection of the past twenty-four hours. I have no idea what that other woman has done with, or worse, to my body. And no idea what you’ve done in the meantime, either. Sometimes I’m not sure which is worse.”

The words were as good as a slap to the face. Her mother knew about Monica. She'd assumed her mother's brain smoothed over the gaps between the two women. Yet more evidence Hermione herself slipped from scientific rigour into blind optimism.

“You’ll never know how sorry I am, and I won’t stop trying to make it right,” Hermione vowed. “The spellwork that separated you from Monica in Australia — I can’t perform it again, and I haven’t used any spells on you or Dad since, I want you to know that. Dad doesn’t remember me at all, and he has trouble navigating the magical world because it never existed for Wendell Wilkins, but isn’t it better to have something of him than none at all?”

They talked about Australia once, right after the move to Cyclamen Cottage. It was the only time Hermione had told another living soul what had happened when she first tried to reverse their Obliviation. Harry and Ron knew about the original sin, but as far as they were concerned, Wendell and Monica were no more. Hugh and Judy Granger were reunited with their daughter and themselves — they merely preferred the warm weather of Sydney to the constant clamminess of Britain. And who could argue with that?

She’d thought she was doing everything right. There was a plan. She’d knock on the door, Confundus. Sit them down. Start with the simplest methods of reversal, up the difficulty level as needed. And she was sure she wouldn’t even go halfway down her list. Yes, it would take serious magic. But she’d come so far, and faced down much worse than this. She was a heroine now, whether or not she’d asked for the mantle, and what kind of heroic tale would this be without the happy ending?

Judy’s cracking voice brought her back to the present. “You’re not listening, Hermione. You’re still making this all about you. You never ask me what I want.”

Hermione looked at her mother. Judy’s once sharp, bright brown eyes now hid behind milky clouds. Her sallow skin sagged, creating crinkly crevices. The hands betrayed her condition most of all, and they trembled under any duress, as they did now. Magic, both light and dark, prematurely aged all Muggles, but this level of continuous exposure was practically unheard of.

And Hermione’s responsibilities to her mother increased all the time. The part of her that housed Monica, in particular, was in the initial stages of failing to thrive. Her behavioural decline had been gradual, but her recent weight loss and forgetfulness accelerated at a rate that age could not explain. All the usual screenings and scans showed dark lesions on the brain. Each week they’d gobbled up territory, planting black flags on white tissue.

“Mum,” Hermione said softly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I haven’t for a long time. Still, I have to do everything just so, you know? I’ve got a routine. It’s supposed to be good for you, and your memories. And it’s all on me. I’ve got to know if it’s a ‘Judy’ day or a ‘Monica’ day. I’ve got to keep track of everything you do and everything I do as well. What potion I administered and when — if it was even successfully taken. What happened afterward. I’m constantly searching for signs of change. Regression, progression, personalities bleeding into each other, any sign of Dad…. And then I’ve got all the upkeep for the cottage. Plus, I’ve got to find time to brew, research, and document, usually after you’ve gone to bed.”

Hermione desperately wanted her mother to see how hard she’d worked to find a solution — how many nights she’d gone without sleep, all the meals she’d skipped, the dark magic she’d steeped herself in. She craved affection, touch, safety. She longed for her mother.

But Judy’s cold, remote demeanour persisted. “That isn’t a long-term solution.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she wiped the tears streaming from her eyes.

“Ask me what I want.”

A lengthy silence unfurled between the two women. Hermione knew she had to ask, but she feared the answer. Finally, she gave in.

“What do you want?”

“I want to die.”

“Mum, you can’t mean that —”

Judy rounded on her daughter. “I suggest you stop telling me what I do and do not mean. I know you think about it, too,” she turned her head, her crepey skin almost translucent, and tilted it towards the south end of the estate. “You can’t fool me. Those three graves up there didn’t dig themselves.”

“I need more time,” Hermione begged.

“It’s been over a decade,” Judy said in a defeated voice.

“Just a little more time, Mum. Please.”

“I’m a God-fearing woman, so I won’t do it myself. But the next time I ask you, Hermione, set me free. Kill me. I’m sure you can figure out that much.”

Judy glanced down at the shattered phials and, without meeting her daughter’s eyes again, trudged off towards the main cottage.

Hermione’s mind rattled with rage, helplessness, and grief. She fell to her knees, not caring if she cut herself. Intrusive thoughts surfaced like bubbles of toxic sludge. You’re hopeless, Hermione Granger. Give up. Give up. Give up.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Hermione came in from the cold and set her baskets in the kitchen. She rubbed her hands together to warm her chilled skin. When that didn’t work, she cupped them over her mouth and exhaled deeply into the little cave they made. She turned the corner and saw that a fire licked against the grate in the study.

Hermione’s heart raced as she followed the rise and fall of her father’s chest. Wendell slept in a chair pulled a little too close to the fireplace. With a tartan thrown across his lap and his glasses askew, he looked the picture of an ageing parent. However, it was too soon for him to look this old — he was only in his fifties. Overuse of magic on the Muggle body left it weak, muscles wasting and the immune system near defenceless. Sleep came to Wendell less and less. She crept into the room so as not to disturb him.

A sickly-sweet voice beckoned from the direction of the fireplace. Come closer, lay yourself on my pyre . She shook away the intrusive thought. It was as if the floodgates of her psyche had opened with those simple tears a few days ago. Everything inside her mind clamoured for attention, rattling her brain and pressing against the top of her skull. They piled on top of one another like bodies climbing up a muddy pit, desperate to see the light of day.

While her brain banished the terrifying images, Hermione’s foot caught on the edge of the rug. She tripped and Wendell woke in an instant.

“Who’s there?” he rasped, eyes narrowed as he watched Hermione walk towards him.

“It’s me,” Hermione assured him, resting her hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own.

“Oh, Hermione! Yes, yes. I remember you now. I was having such an awful nightmare.”

“Really?” She moved towards the desk and withdrew her journal and a pen. In Hermione’s mind, the humble ballpoint pen would always be superior to any quill.

“I was home. In Sydney. Monica and I were walking on the beach, down by the waterline. A little girl in a red and white polka dot bathing suit came up to me. Monica ran back to get our kite — I think the girl wanted to see it. She was young, bright. Wanted to know everything about me, but no matter what I said she got angrier and angrier. I looked around for Monica. She’d been gone for so long. How long does it take to get a kite? I didn’t see her, but I saw the kite — it was floating away. And it was getting dark. I turned back to the girl, to tell her maybe she should run along and get back to her parents. And she smiled at me with all these teeth — there were so many teeth, Hermione — and then she bashed my head in.”

Hermione heard her pen clatter to the floor.

“Isn’t that terrifying? Fortunately, children aren’t capable of that kind of violence in real life.”

“Naturally. That’s how you know it’s a dream,” she croaked.

“How was your day? Monica made me take all my medicine, in case you were wondering. Do you know what it does? I haven’t the foggiest. It keeps me up at night, but I think that’s a side effect.”

“Maybe insomnia runs in your family. I’ll consult your medical records.”

Wendell touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t think I missed that you didn’t answer the question. You’re a wily one, Hermione.”

Hermione gave him a weary smile. “Aren’t I though?”

“How’s your husband?”

So he was going into this line of questioning. First her husband, and then how were her friends, how were her parents getting on? This was a common conversation with Wendell on days where he remembered her name, so much so that she had the script memorised. But his recounting of the dream unnerved her and made her lose her footing.

“I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. Years, in fact.” She pressed her palm to her mouth, wishing she could swallow those words back. Hermione never discussed her marriage with her parents.

“You haven’t seen your own husband in years? I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but that’s frightfully odd. Are you separated?”

“In a sense, yes.” In for a penny, in for a pound. Or a Galleon.

Wendell’s eyes roamed her face with a mix of pity and kindness. “Take it from me, and try to mend it. Monica and I, we’ve had our ups and downs. Still do, and we’ve been married for over thirty years now. We’ve gone to bed angry, even woken up the next day still angry, but we’ve always made up. And making up can be quite explosive, you know. Sometimes after waiting for a while — well, you know, you’re a married woman.”

What could she say to that? It’s been nearly ten years. Sometimes I can smell his skin on my skin. When I step into a steamy shower, I’m reminded of his breaths, urgent and hot against my neck. He tasted like spearmint. The likelihood of making up with him is slim to none. Slimmer than slim to none — impossible. For both of us.

“Any man would be lucky to have you, pet.”

There it was again. Pet . But he focused on the dying fire.

“I do have a friend I’d like to make things right with — not in the way you mentioned. My oldest friend, actually, Harry. I recently heard he misses me, and that he isn’t angry anymore, if he ever was.”

“That’s excellent. Are you going to reconnect? Maybe you could meet for tea. There’s a cute little bakery right across from the pub. Biscuits are rubbish, but the tea is top hole.”

“I’d love that. But his wife recently had a baby. Their second — another boy. I don’t think he’ll be straying too far from home for a while.”

“Why don’t you go to him then? Bring something for the little chap.”

Why don’t I go to them? Oh, I might have made a promise not to return to Wizarding London. Ever.

“Seems a bit rude to drop in unannounced after all this time.”

“Begging your pardon, but your excuses are a load of bollocks. Life is so short, Hermione. If he’s a real friend, this Harry, it wouldn’t matter how you came back into his life, if you were sincere about staying in it.”

Hermione’s voice ventured into shrill territory. “I am sincere about staying, but I can’t make that kind of commitment right now. You know my priority is you and Monica. Your well-being is of the utmost importance to me. I’ve always wanted the best for you, and I always will.”

“You’re like the daughter I never had, Hermione. But please, don’t miss out because of me. I made my choices in life.”

No, you didn’t Wendell. I did. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“Wendell, are there ever parts of yourself you don’t recognize?”

“My memories change over time. Right when I think they’ve crystallised, they’re molten again, ready to take another shape. I’ve read some of your books here — and while I don’t understand all of it, I know that so much of what we remember as a species is false. Only the actual experience before it’s a memory is real. We’re just remembering the last time we remembered it. Every time you remember something, you’re getting further and further away from what actually happened. My heart breaks thinking about it — maybe I didn’t score the winning goal in my first ever football game, or my Monica’s loose curls on our wedding day were really up in a bun — but I don’t enjoy those memories any less. It’s the truth now, even if it’s also false. It can be both.”

All the tears welling at her waterline began to fall. The room shimmered through the wetness as if viewed from the bottom of a pool.

“I think I know what I need to do. Thank you, Wendell. This has been unexpectedly helpful.” Hermione picked up a small phial from the desk and held it up to the light.

“I trust you, Hermione. You’ll know the answer when you see it. And you will see it.”

❖

Hermione climbed the hill in the darkness, the tip of her wand lighting the way. With her other hand, she held the opening of her oversized knit cardigan together. The wind committed unspeakable acts to her curls, whipping them in every direction. The damp night settled in every bone, every shallow breath.

It was steepest before the crest. She kept her eye on the moon.

The howl of the wind reached its full potential at the top of the hill. No one would hear her scream, cry, or beg the skies for forgiveness. The moon had seen it all before, her silent judge, jury, and executioner.

Three graves gaped up at her. Parallel, perfect rectangles, made on a night just like this one.

Hermione believed death could not be predicted. It could not be divined. It could not even be beckoned. And there were many things worse than death. But she’d toyed with the entire spectrum of magic now, from light to dark. There was a middle ground, even if Harry and the others refused to believe it. Hermione would never take the position that complete darkness is the absence of light. Even Voldemort, she could see now, was salvageable as Tom Riddle, before the eclipse of his soul.

The eclipse crept up so slowly, the descent sweeping but long. She’d felt the same shadow pass over her, and the icy shudder gave way to perfidious warmth. Whatever power you sought, the darkness pulled from your hands and drank itself. It would seduce anyone. She thought back to a whisper of black ink on the tip of a white peaco*ck feather quill and dismissed it with a roll of her shoulders.

Too much darkness destroys you. Too much light blinds. Hermione found the middle survivable. In the penumbra of her magic, she could become someone new. Unlike Tom, she didn’t want to gain anything. She wanted to unburden herself.

It was more of a plunge into the third grave than she’d planned. Dirt drove itself under her fingernails and into the coils of her hair. Even this deep down, the keening of the wind’s sorrows did not lessen. She drew a weatherbeaten book and three phials from her beaded bag with steady hands.

She pried open the book from the Riddle House she’d returned to time and time again, which had tried valiantly to sink its fangs into her, and turned to the bookmarked page.

For Regeneration

Bone of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the foe, forcibly taken

Now, for her modifications. She recited them as loud as her voice would carry:

For Rehabilitation

Blessing of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the beloved, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the self, forcibly taken

The first phial held her father’s words from earlier that evening. I trust you, Hermione. He trusted her to act for all of them. For him, for Judy, for herself. She’d lost that trust before. But Hermione resolved to earn it back. She would do this and she would take care of them. She’d promised it when she’d entered the Granger home that July night. She’d promised them again when she searched in vain for answers in Sydney. And now, for the third time, she would promise, here in a grave she once thought would be her own.

Each time she had meant it. After tonight, she would finally deliver.

The second phial contained a single orange paw. The last bit of her familiar, the one being in this world who had known the real Hermione. Crookshanks had given all for her, even when she didn’t know to ask.

Lastly, channelling all her strength, she used a slicing hex to cut her wrist and poured her blood into the final, empty phial.

Hermione gently tipped the contents of each phial onto the earth beneath her. She did not need to wait long.

Her stomach lurched as the hill formed its own swale of space-time, rending her spirit in half as it sucked her into orbit, unable to resist. The cyclone lived inside her now, swirling in search of a still point. Hermione bit her lip and drew more blood, offering up the salt and iron. The seismic waves of her long-held grief melted through the rich soil, filling its coffers with more and more of her pain. Her wandtip grazed her forearm and melted flesh from muscle. She did not cry. She did not scream. She surrendered.

All at once, the wind ceased. There was no light, no sound. She rose from the pit to meet the void. But the moon hung low, in its proper phase, and reaffirmed what she already knew.

Hermione Granger is dead,she thought, cradling her wounded arm. Long live Hermione Malfoy.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

“I think it’s time I re-entered magical society.” Hermione sat across from Wendell and Judy. While they sipped at tea and shuffled eggs across their plates, she vibrated with the energy of transformative knowledge; of moving forward. Surely even the room itself knew — the shadows from the kitchen window danced across stark white walls, taking the forms of grey leaves thrown from floor to ceiling as the wind blew outside.

The events of last night gifted her the first real clarity she’d had in years. She’d woken up after a sleep blissfully uncorrupted by nightmares. She threw on a heathered black hoodie to cover her scar and the purpling burn next to it, obtained from her wand during the ritual. Her veins looked grey through her skin, but she hid them easily with a little makeup. She’d smiled at her parents, and hummed as she made breakfast.

“Sounds like she’s made up with her husband,” Wendell confided to Judy in a loud whisper. He cleared his plate, leaving the two women alone.

“I know I shut you and Dad out after things got serious with Voldemort,” Hermione began. She’d told her mother the entire story of the war as soon as Minister Podmore exempted her from the Statute of Secrecy. Judy didn’t fully understand, but she grasped more than most Muggles would. “I thought if I clung to my magic, everything would work out. If I stayed close to Harry and Ron, helped them, whatever little scraps of luck they cast in their wake would cling to me and I’d become like them,” she paused, getting up to pace.

“It’s a beautiful lie, isn’t it? It was so easy to believe that I could be like them. It was a fairytale, but I woke up one morning as an ordinary eleven-year-old and by nightfall, I slept at a school for witches and wizards. So at that time, fairy tales didn’t seem as farfetched to me as they once did. I reasoned that if I stuck by these boys who rescued me from a troll, I might escape the hard realities of being a buck-toothed Muggleborn girl. If I studied harder, and took more courses, surely I would be accepted. If I flicked my wrist more delicately or more forcefully, they’d wake up and see me as an equal witch. I only wanted to be equal, back then. Ordinary in the Wizarding World.

“I dreamt I’d settle down, and maybe have some children. They’d be magical, of course, and I’d guide them through Hogwarts. I’d have a high-powered career, naturally. I had my heart set on a seat of the Wizengamot. They sorely need more female representation, and there’s never been a Muggleborn member. Think of all I could contribute!

“All these plans wouldn’t be achievable if I didn’t help end the looming war. And I couldn’t play the role Harry needed me to if you and Dad were constantly on my mind. It wasn’t even that altruistic! I knew that sacrificing you both for your safety was a risk. I didn’t even give you a choice of how or when! It haunts me.” Hermione’s hands were in her hair, fingers flexing, pushing firmly into her scalp.

“You made a new life in the magical world and you had to protect it. We’ve been over this. I get it, we held you back from achieving all your dreams,” Judy said snidely. “You didn’t even last a week at your fancy Ministry job that you dragged us to the magical world for. And now we’re stuck here.”

“You’re twisting my words, Mum! I love you both and I always want you in my life. I thought I could have it all, both magical and Muggle. Just because I leaned into my magical side —”

“Leaned in? Hermione, every summer you came home, I lost a little more of you to magic. We didn’t watch telly together, visit the dental centre, or cross off more libraries on our quest to visit every library in London. Sometimes we couldn’t even have a conversation, and if we did I saw you weighing each word. You erected an invisible barrier between us. And I never let you see it, but I grieved you then. My only child, my bright and beautiful daughter, lost to magic.”

Hermione sobbed quietly into her hands. It was useless to explain to her mother that magic had never accepted her, not like her family had. Her bravery during the war meant little in the end. With no castle to go back to, she never completed her studies. She’d been so sure the Ministry would understand the circ*mstances. McGonagall, the Weasleys, they’d help. But no, she didn’t have any job offers after the war. Harry couldn’t swat them off with a beater, but no, nothing for the Golden Girl.

In the end, her legacy translated into fodder for Witch Weekly. Sometimes they even spelled her name wrong. After everything she did, the magical public reduced her to little more than a footnote, a hanger-on who rode Harry and Ron’s coattails. Her actions helped kill Voldemort once and for all, but because she barely registered as pretty, and she had Muggle parentage, she would never be accepted, let alone lauded.

But her magic would not lie quiet. It pulsed through her whether she liked it or not. She’d liked it, loved it, become addicted to it, hated it, and everything in between.

Hermione thought she’d accepted the status quo. Here in the Cotswolds, she was in, but not of, the magical world. But she was really in a deadly tango. Her parents survived only with the help of darker and darker magic, and it took from Hermione each time she tapped into the source. Eventually, there would be nothing to draw from. If she kept on this way, they’d all lie in those graves before the year was out.

She lifted her head and dried her eyes. “I’m going back to London.”

Her mother revealed no emotion. “What happened to your promise to Mr. Malfoy?”

“He didn’t specify it in our...terms,” she said pointedly. “And although I’ve avoided the newspapers as requested, I can technically read those too if I happen to see them lying about.”

“You’re much more comfortable with breaking rules than I remember.”

Tell her about the time you kept that reporter in a jar. All that power…. You’ve never felt more alive. She shook her head, dismissing the intrusive thoughts that crept in. “Listen, I had a revelation last night. I love you Mum, and I have done all I can for you as your daughter. I will always love you, but who I am now isn’t the best person to care for you. I thought I could do it all and heal you.

“When I was a girl, magic seemed the answer to all my problems. Finally, an explanation for the stardust rocketing through my veins. If that stardust could save the world, why couldn’t it also save you?

“I’ll regret what I did for the rest of my life. But there’s more I can do, and it’s time I do it. For you, and for me. For us.”

Her mother held herself rigidly. Several moments elapsed before she asked her next question.

“When are you leaving?”

“The day after tomorrow, just for the day. It’s a ‘Judy’ day, so you’ll be you, and I’ll leave specific instructions on how to care for Wendell. He and I had a chat by the fireside last night and he was so much like Dad. I want to preserve whatever part of Dad I can and help Wendell, too. They’re both real, you know? He’s Hugh and Wendell, and you are Judy and Monica.”

“I don’t want to be both. I want to be myself again, all the time, with Hugh.”

The weak sun trickling through the window did nothing to warm Hermione. She considered telling Judy the truth — she’d be intertwined with Monica forever if there was any hope for regrowth. Hermione had been too busy playing surgeon — trying to carve, excise, seal — to see it before. She hung her head, unable to meet her mother’s eyes.

“I’m going to inquire about beds for you both at St. Mungo’s. The healers there run the best memory care ward in the Wizarding World,” Hermione said, infusing false enthusiasm into her voice, thinking back to her encounters with Lockhart and the Longbottoms. “And if there’s time I might call on Harry.”

“I thought you weren’t speaking to Harry.”

“I’ll have to see him at some point, and I’ll already be in town. And if it goes badly, well,” She hesitated, unprepared to consider losing her best friend for good. Once he found out about Malfoy, all bets were off.

“What about your husband? Have you thought about the consequences?”

“I truly doubt I’ll see him,” Merlin, he would be the worst possible person to see. How could they meet each other’s eyes again after their disaster of a wedding night? Her heart rate spiked. She pushed away the mental images of rumpled sheets and Malfoy’s scarred white back hunched over the bed as he cried. “But it’s probably best to let our solicitor know I’ll be in town. Not that Malfoy would be caught dead anywhere near a public Wizarding hospital.”

“I don’t know how well your father will do alone with me. He relies on you, you know.”

Her heartbeat drifted back to baseline. “He does. I’ll only take the tour, okay? No visits to Harry or anyone else. Just there and back,” Hermione leaned across the table, daring to hover her hand over her mother’s. When Judy didn’t recoil or flinch, she gently rested it on top of hers. “Mum, this could help. You said you’d give me a little more time to figure something out. I’m trying.”

Judy leaned forward, all business, but didn’t remove her hand from underneath her daughter’s. “Let’s talk through the instructions you’re going to leave me.”

❖

The gravel skittered underneath her feet as she made her way to the greenhouse. Hermione left notes for Judy on most surfaces in the cottage — the nightstand, the pantry, the kettle. Each potion was labelled with directions on how much to take and when to take it. Hermione waffled a bit about whether she should ask the Dorseys to do a wellness check but eventually decided against it. Even if she catastrophised to the nth degree, there was only so much damage her parents could do in a day, and she had her mother’s word that she wouldn’t hurt herself or Wendell.

Now to harvest. There was a chance St. Mungo’s wouldn’t have space for her parents immediately, and in that case, she would still need the herbs within.

In her mind, she heard winter’s icy knuckles cracking, itching to frost the earth from tip to toe. She ached for deep winter, who she welcomed to feed delightedly on what was dead and gone. It spoke to her, scavenger to scavenger.

Hermione paused outside the greenhouse doors and gazed out at the pond. It lay pristine; glass-like. Several times she’d gone out there on her skates when the ice was too fresh and prone to cracking, leaving little circles of white agony. Each year she dared to cut her blades deeper and deeper, searching for answers on airless days.

But in the end, she rushed back to warmth and safety every time. It was one thing to flirt with the abyss, another to close the deal. She shook out her curls, opened the doors, and relaxed into the hiss of steam hitting the cold air.

❖

She went about her work until the light tapping of an owl’s beak on glass caught her attention. Hermione quickly jostled the belladonna in her hands into the waiting phial and shucked her gloves off to let the bird in.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing? Please thank the Dorseys for letting me borrow you,” she cooed as she attached her note to the owl’s leg. “There you are. Deliver this note to Theodore Nott of Nott & Associates, London.”

With that done, she returned and finished her preparations. The moon winked knowingly through the skylights, finally dissolving into the fog.

❖

The first thing Theodore Nott noticed as he entered his office was the towering stack of mail in his desk inbox. Merlin’s great f*cking beard. Isn’t this what I have a secretary for? He ran a hand through his dark hair, which in a characteristic act of defiance, fell right back into his face.

“Dovie! Anything important in here or can I chuck it all in the bin?”

A bespectacled redhead craned her neck around the doorframe and squinted at the monolith of parchment. “Somewhere in there is the written order for the Wattle case, a death certificate from Azkaban pending family identification of the body — oh, and a letter from Mrs. Malfoy.”

She vanished before Theo could pick his jaw off the floor. Mrs. Malfoy had written?

He’d never been the type to wait until after dinner to eat dessert. With a slash of his letter opener, he laid Hermione’s missive bare.

Mr. Nott,

This letter is to inform you that I will be in London on unavoidable business tomorrow, the 12th. While Mr. Malfoy and I have no binding agreement on the matter, I understand he would rather not see me whilst I am there. Please notify him so he can develop alternate plans, should he need them.

Best,

Hermione Malfoy

The balls on that woman. That’ll be a fun Floo call to Draco. Yes, I’ve just heard from your wife. She says stay the f*ck out of the city tomorrow if you know what’s good for you.

Next, he opened the giant envelope from Azkaban. The thick charcoal paper featured an embossed black dementor ominously circling his name and address. Inside was a form letter.

To whom it may concern:

This letter serves as initial notification of the death of

LUCIUS MALFOY II

A prisoner at AZKABAN. The remains will be transported to ST. MUNGO’S, LONDON for verification of identity to take place on 12TH DECEMBER, 2009.

The letter continued, but Theo dropped it in his lap in shock.

“Ding dong, that bastard’s finally dead!”

He jumped up and ran down the hallway to the nearest Floo, all other business — including Hermione’s letter — completely forgotten.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

The trip was a disaster.

The series of Apparitions to London was much harder than Hermione remembered, and the effort drained her magical reserves. She was so out of practice that on the last jump, she was certain she’d Splinched herself. She thanked Circe when she felt rain pelting every part of her body.

The London she met with was nothing like her most recent fantasies. The city’s grime oozed forth from overflowing dumpsters and leaky overhangs. Bold graffiti coated every available signpost. Wanted posters lined construction fencing, showcasing wild-eyed Death Eaters and their deranged smiles. She’d lost count of the number of rats darting in and out of alleyways. Two had run across her boots, and a third was halfway up her sock before she could shake it off. She remembered one of Judy’s favourite sayings. Everything bad always comes in threes .

It didn’t bode well for her appointment at St. Mungo’s.

Hermione made certain to keep her glamour up as she stepped into the famous hospital — the last thing she needed was to be recognised. Patients and their families sat in a bleak waiting room, where a single Healer worked the reception desk.

“Hello,” she said, shrugging off stray raindrops. “I’m here for a tour of the Janus Thickey Ward.”

“Name?” The Healer’s eyes remained fixed on the schedule before her.

“Sylvie Snowdrop.”

“You’re early. Have a seat.”

She stretched a smile across her face in case the woman lifted her eyes. “Thank you.”

She found a plasticky chair next to a young wizard covered in puce boils trying valiantly to shield himself from view with a copy of the Prophet . DARK LORD’S FAVOURITE SOLDIER NO MORE! He turned the page before she could see the deceased Death Eater’s face, his blush matching the disgusting pustules.

From this vantage point, the dire conditions of the hospital were plain to see. The ceiling above her sagged and bubbled in numerous places. There was no pleasant sterile scent like in her parents’ dental office. Instead, her nostrils were assaulted with the odours of bodily fluids in varying stages of ripeness. The tile beneath her feet was smeared with something — dirt, blood, faeces — or perhaps all three.

It was unbearable. Abominable. There was no way she’d tour this place. How this level of squalor was acceptable anywhere, especially in a hospital, was beyond her. St. Mungo’s was the only home some of the heroic, ageing witches and wizards within would ever see again.

She looked again at the man bedevilled with blisters. How long had he been waiting here for medical care? Hermione deduced from the way the abscesses wept down his cheeks that it had been at least twelve hours. And the way he gripped the armrests made her suspect they hadn’t provided even a meagre pain potion. He winced at her examining stare.

Does the Ministry know about this? Does Harry? Who is in charge here?

Hermione lept into problem-solving mode. She should get a photographer out here. Interview patients. Raise a fuss about the foetid floors and disgraceful conditions. She shivered as she imagined what might pass as bed linens or food here.

But that would require giving up her anonymity. And as bold as she’d been yesterday, she wasn’t sure she wanted to relinquish it yet. In the meantime, if she could be assured it would go to good use, she could donate some of the Malfoy family money. She never heard a peep from Malfoy or his solicitor about her spending. Perhaps the pursestrings had more slack than she realised. It wasn’t as if the Malfoys hadn’t been exceedingly generous post-war. According to Harry’s letters, Narcissa and her son bankrolled the entire restoration of Hogwarts, Gringotts, and established a scholarship fund for Muggle-born students. As for Hermione, she’d made several sizable donations, all anonymous, to charities aiding magical creatures. She chuckled at the thought of Malfoy seeing those each month.

“Miss Snowdrop?” a bored voice droned.

In the midst of these thoughts, Hermione realised she’d dodged two hexes with her visit that day. First, her parents would never, ever set foot in St. Mungo’s if she had anything to say about it. Second, it hadn’t occurred to her until now as she heard her alias, but she could have never checked them in here even if she wanted it more than anything.

Judy. It was so obvious Hermione nearly slapped herself. Judy didn’t know exactly what Hermione did to them in Australia, but if someone were to pry, they’d gather enough information from her to realise someone had been using advanced, forbidden dark spells and potions on her parents for many years. And that someone was one of the most famous, beloved witches of all time. Hermione Granger.

She could see it now. Actually, it’s Hermione Malfoy. Yes, married to Draco Malfoy, why do you ask?

She’d live out the rest of her days in Azkaban.

Why did I think I could do this? Why did I leave the safety of the cottage? Why do I always set my sights too high?

This is a nightmare , she thought as she unstuck herself from the heinous chair. Her glamour flickered in front of her eyes, then disappeared as she used the last of her magic to separate her shoes from the viscera on the floor.

She had to get out of there before she was recognized. The doors were only a few feet away. She’d find somewhere less crowded and rest before attempting the journey home.

Then, the third hex, the one she couldn’t dodge, turned his grey eyes on hers.

❖

The trip was a disaster.

Yesterday, Draco Malfoy received the best news of his life. His father, Lucius Malfoy, was dead.

His childhood friend and trusted solicitor Theodore Nott strode alongside him now, navigating the ramshackle hallways of St. Mungo’s Hospital. Passersby would think them an odd pair. Theo wore a conservative set of dress robes and kept his dark locks long. Draco stood a head taller, dressed in a black Muggle jumper and black jeans in sharp contrast to his short platinum hair. But in reality, the two had much in common. While they weren’t close during their tenure in Slytherin, they were both the first and only sons of Sacred Twenty-eight families and the epitome of Pureblood stereotypes. In short, they were the most quick-witted, foul-mouthed polite gentlemen in London.

They’d formed a fragile trio with Greg Goyle after the war, but Lucius soon put an end to that. His claws extended far beyond Azkaban’s walls, maintaining the mangled network of Death Eaters that remained loyal, even in a world without the Dark Lord. Goyle felt the absence of Crabbe like a phantom limb, and while Theo and Draco determined that the future welcomed all magical beings of any progeny, Goyle cast his lot in with Lucius and never looked back. Draco didn’t know where he was now, and he was none too eager to find out. He worried not only for his own safety if Goyle knew that Draco's loyalties had changed, but the safety of those close to him, too.

So many of his friends were lost, either to death or worse fates. He blamed Lucius for this and so much more.

“They’ve put him in the basem*nt. Fitting, really,” Theo said.

Draco said nothing.

He was about to see Lucius for the first time since his mother’s death. He wondered if the years had been as cruel to his father as they’d been to him. Draco’s own brief stint in Azkaban haunted his dreams, although it hadn’t been the focus of his nightmares for the past nine years. As if demanding attention, his prison identification tattoo began to itch. He rolled up his left sleeve to scratch it, the snake of his Dark Mark flickering its tongue between the numbers.

Lucius made him take the Mark in his sixth year. He was a bully, a tyrant of a father. He manipulated everyone he came across, but especially his son. In public, Lucius acted proud of the little dragon. But in private, all Draco knew was the sharp end of his wand and the backside of his hand.

Did his father have a good death? He hoped not.

Draco ducked under a pipe that jutted from the low, soggy ceiling. Brown droplets of an unknown substance plopped from the rusted metal to the floor below. “Sweet Circe, this place is disgusting.”

“Concerned about your Merino wool?” Theo taunted.

“It’s cashmere, you uncivilised swine. Let’s get this over with.”

A sudden temperature drop precipitated their discovery of the morgue. Both Theo and Draco cast warming charms over themselves, their visible breaths the only hint that it was below freezing. The double doors swung open and a plump man with rosy cheeks emerged from the chill. He wore a face shield, plastic apron, and flimsy shoe coverings. After confirming their identities and handing them their own protective gear, the mortician escorted them through.

The trek to the basem*nt had horrified Draco, but he still wasn’t prepared for the squalid conditions of the walk-in refrigerator. Lucius deserved such treatment, or worse, if it existed, so he was unbothered as the mortician slid a body, covered in a white sheet, out of a giant drawer. But presumably, there were other good souls here, souls that did not deserve to lay naked on slabs that hadn’t seen a cleaning charm in decades.

The scent of death and decay was so pungent that Draco stepped out into the hall and applied a Bubble-Head charm. Theo caught on quickly and did the same. The mortician, unbothered, wandlessly procured a clipboard and began rattling off the required questions.

“Which one of you is related to the deceased? Or is it both of you?”

“I’m his son,” Draco replied in a curt tone. He thought he felt his Dark Mark burn.

“Thought so, although you never can tell who’s related these days, what with the end of bloodline preservation. Don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he tsked.

Lovely. A sympathiser. Draco turned to Theo, who had enough disgust for the both of them written all over his face.

“Yes, we Purebloods really do have it rough, don’t we? Well-educated, rich as hell, and dare I say it, so good-looking that women just—”

“Theo,” Draco warned. It wasn’t the time or place to convert more magical beings to their new way of thinking. And it would fall on deaf ears. The mortician ignored them in favour of the form on the clipboard.

“This says you’re Draco Malfoy,” the man squinted through the face shield.

Here it comes .

“So this must be Lucius Malfoy. Merlin’s beard,” he let out a low whistle. “We went to school together. Never got in with his crowd, but I knew of him. I suppose everyone knew of him these past few years. No matter where you were, you couldn’t escape the Malfoy name.”

“You’re teaching to the star student,” Theo muttered.

“Right then,” the man flushed a deeper red. “Let’s have a look.”

He flipped back the sheet without ceremony. There, naked and tinged blue, laid the corpse of Lucius Malfoy II. Other than a missing index finger, he looked almost exactly the same as the last time Draco saw him.

Draco didn’t hesitate. “That’s him.”

“Excellent. I mean, thank you for confirming. Not excellent that your father’s dead.”

“No, excellent is the right word for it.”

“Do you want a moment?”

“No. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Just one more thing…” his reedy voice trailed off as he scanned the form once more. “How would you like to dispose of the body?”

“I don’t care what you do with it.”

Theo cut in. “What are his options?”

“We can transfer it to a funeral home. They can walk you through the process of either preservation for burial in the family plot or cremation. You can check his will to see if he had a preference. I can recommend Cole & Hathaway, they are the best money can buy and the funerals themselves are very tasteful. Azkaban reported the cause of death as natural, and his face isn’t too banged up so if you want to have an open-casket affair that’s an option. They do the graveside service, luncheon afterward, the whole thing. Or you could donate his body to magical science. We’ve got several groups of researchers keen to learn more about the long-term effects of dark magic. Your father is probably the best specimen they could hope for, considering he’s mostly intact despite his years of imprisonment.”

Draco stared the man down. “Let the Devil’s Snare have him for all I care.”

“He’ll donate the body. If only for the tax deduction,” Theo joked.

“Oh, there’s no tax deduction,” the mortician said. He rummaged around in his desk drawer for another form.

“How is it a donation then?” Theo whined. “No breaks for Purebloods, indeed.”

Draco rolled his eyes and signed the stack of forms handed to him on the clipboard, sealing them with his own magic to confirm the details within. And with that, Draco and Theo found themselves in the maze of hallways once more. They waved away their Bubble-Head charms and looked for signage to lead them out. There was none.

Theo chose a direction and Draco followed his billowing robes. “This place is beyond appalling. I’d vomit to prove my point but it seems plenty of people have done so before me,” Theo gestured to a wall covered in sick.

“Maybe I should make a donation. As my solicitor, can you make sure it’s the deductible sort?”

“Done.”

Draco had plenty of money, even after his many contributions to charity and contributions to Ministry officials. A wise young witch once showed Draco and his mother the light, and Draco hadn’t strayed from it since. He secured his inheritance years ago when he married his second choice of bride. Surprisingly, his wife wasn’t bleeding him dry, though, in his opinion, Granger was well within her right to drain the coffers. Theo shared with him the financial reports each month, although he didn’t read them. Whatever Granger — it was too weird to think of her as Mrs. Malfoy — wanted to buy was her own business.

An image of his wife the day of their engagement and wedding ceremony sprang to his mind. She’d worn black, her curls tumbling around her shoulders. He thought of her now and then, especially when he hit the bottom of a bottle — less frequently now — the same colour as her eyes. Though the wedding night was undoubtedly one of the worst nights of his life, and that was really saying something, there’d been something about her that stuck with him.

His fingers twitched, remembering their awkward coupling. The Malfoy marriage ritual required it if it was to be legal, and that had been the whole point of the thing. She’d scratched her nails deep into his flesh, extracting the pound he owed her. He’d done his best to give her pleasure, bringing her to org*sm even as she sobbed. He’d cried too, afterward. On sleepless nights that blurred into early mornings, he thought of the taste of her lips as he stirred honey into his tea. He knew so much and yet so little of her.

They turned a corner and at last found the lifts. An assistant healer in lavender robes exited one of them, pushing a cart loaded with potions. As he passed, he hawked a gob of spit onto Draco’s boots.

“Death Eater scum,” the man hissed.

Draco didn’t even turn his head. Theo held the door of a lift open for him, and once the doors closed, he examined his boots for any lingering expectorate.

The lift doors parted and the friends found themselves in the lobby once more. A healer called out for a tour of the Janus Thickey Ward.

“Draco, let’s go the other way mate.” Theo’s voice sounded thick and strange.

Draco didn’t want to spend another second in this hideous excuse for a hospital. “This is where we came in. I can see the doors from here.”

“Yes, but —” Theo started. Draco followed Theo’s panicky gaze across the bustling room. His eyes were stuck on a brunette witch standing with her back to them.

“I know you’ve just had to see my arsehole father’s corpse, but it’s not like you to be this struck by a woman,” Draco said. “Excuse me, Miss —”

“Shhhh!” Theo said, pulling at Draco’s arm. If he wasn’t careful, he’d create a hole in the cashmere, and wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of this f*cking day?

“Theo, as your best mate, I’ve never seen you like this,” Draco said with concern. “Come on, ask her to tea. Madam Puddifoot’s is right around the corner. I swear I’ll make myself scarce.”

“I’m not interested.”

“In that witch? I don’t believe you for one second. You can’t take your eyes off her. She’s bloody fit from behind, I’ll give you that.” Draco tried to catch the witch’s attention again, but she seemed focused on extricating her shoe from the sticky floor.

“Draco,” Theo pleaded. The witch finally turned and all the blood drained from Draco’s face. “That’s your wife.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Draco allowed his eyes to wander down the length of Granger’s curves before snapping them up to meet her bottle-brown irises. Fear radiated through her motions as Granger gulped and adjusted the beaded bag on her shoulder. Her eyes flitted towards the doors, likely calculating if she could outrun him. She must’ve come to the correct conclusion that he’d overtake her before she reached the exit, and she remained rooted to the floor, resigned to their inevitable confrontation.

“Somebody’s going to recognise her,” Theo hissed.

Moving on instinct, Draco marched across the room and grabbed his wife by the wrist, dragging her out of the waiting room and onto the street. Rush hour was still a ways off, but he glanced around for passersby just in case. As luck would have it, the area surrounding the hospital lay deserted.

“Unhand me right now, if you know what’s good for you,” Granger seethed.

“Draco,” Theo scurried to follow. “You may as well have thrown her over your shoulder! Can we be civilised, please?”

Draco grunted and tugged Granger into the alleyway. Theo followed, wringing his hands and muttering about the legalities of kidnapping.

They reached a dead end and Granger wrenched her arm from his grip, rubbing her wrist and glaring at him. Draco crowded her against a pile of abandoned medical waste bins. Knowing Granger, she already had a plan to hex him and flee, and he’d need every advantage he could get. He moved in even closer, catching a sweet aroma. Honey.

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? I wrote your solicitor here — “ Granger turned her fury on Theo. “And explained I had to be here today.”

Draco ignored her pitiful lie. Theo would have told him if his wife intended to be here today. He knew how much it mattered to Draco. “You made a promise not to come back to the city. I trusted you enough not to put it in the Vow. Merlin and Morgana, I was so stupid. Worst decision of my life.”

“Same,” she spat back at him.

He towered over her, leaning in for full effect. “Well, dear wife, why are you here reminding us both of it now?”

The bold witch in front of him faltered. “My parents,” she stumbled over the words. That wasn’t like the Granger of yesteryear. “They need more care than I can provide at home. I planned to take a tour of the memory care rooms, but…. What happened to St. Mungo’s? I remember it being the best.”

Her lips trembled as they returned to a close. Draco realised how closely he hovered over her and stepped back. “Yes, well, the donations aren’t exactly rolling in these days. sh*t’s f*cked at the Ministry, Podmore’s in over his head. He’s so concerned about prosecuting Death Eaters and getting the public behind his crusades-of-the-week, all our other institutions are crumbling.”

“It’s been years! How many more of them can there be?” Granger pushed off the wall. The stench of the alley replaced the decadent scent of honey as her curls retreated over her shoulder.

“You, Potter, and the Weasel cut one head off a hydra. The Dark Lord’s loyal soldiers haven’t given up their ideals, especially since the Ministry seized most of their assets.”

“If they’ve seized so much, surely they could spare some for St. Mungo’s. It’s not fit for even a Death Eater in there!”

“On the contrary, I thought it a fitting place to see my father for the last time,” Draco drawled.

She looked stricken. Didn’t she hate his father as much as he did? “Lucius is dead? Draco, I —” Granger reached out to him. Draco yanked his arm away.

Theo broke the tense silence that followed. “That’s why we ran into you today, Mrs. Malfoy. I got your letter, but I completely forgot about it when I got the identification request from Azkaban. Also, as your family solicitor, please try to remember you’re in a public place right now. Anyone could walk by and see —” He waved his hands dramatically. “All of this. You. And you. Together.”

“f*ck, he’s right,” Draco swore. He locked his eyes on Granger. She looked to be hyperventilating. “Don’t come back here. I mean it.”

“Trust me, you’ll never see or hear from me again after this.” Draco held her gaze for a moment as if to confirm she told the truth.

“Good. I can’t say it was pleasant running into you, Granger, but I do hope you find the best place to help your parents. I’ve heard Muggles age more quickly, but I didn’t realise they’re already needing that level of care.” He didn’t know why he offered the olive branch. A twig, really.

She gave him a confused look. “Um, yes. I’ve never been more grateful for the exemption from the Ministry. No Statute of Secrecy for the war heroine’s parents and all that.” Her cheeks flushed as she fumbled with the pockets of her Muggle denims. Circe, what made her think she could simply stroll into London today with that pathetic excuse for a glamour? Gryffindor bravery. Stupidity, more like.

“It’s a good thing they’re receptive to magical healing. If you need additional funds, write to Theo and I’ll make sure they’re made available to you.”

He watched her swallow hard. “Thank you.” Ah, some manners. They could be civil once in a blue moon.

His ears picked up on a faint snapping sound nearby. Draco whirled towards the other end of the alley, wand at the ready. They’d overstayed. Had someone seen them?

“Theo, will you escort Granger here to the nearest Apparition point, or have you forgotten where that is as well?” He smirked, signalling he hadn’t forgotten Theo misplaced Granger’s missive. Perhaps they should have a little heart-to-heart later.

Granger jumped in before Theo could reply. “Actually, a Floo-connected fireplace would be better. It’s been a long day.” It dawned on him that she looked exhausted. That explained a lot — she must have emptied her magical reserves Apparating here. Is that why she acted so strangely? Surely she’d have calculated the distance between Cyclamen Cottage and St. Mungo’s? The Granger he knew would have every detail of her travels planned down to the minute. It didn’t add up.

Yet he was convinced it was indeed Hermione Granger — rather, Hermione Malfoy — in front of him and not some Polyjuiced pretender. Unfortunately, he knew far too much about his wife.

“Well, goodbye then.” It was better for her not to get any ideas about Draco being a gentleman, and he detested waving — so awkward and floppy — so he simply nodded and walked past her as Theo offered her his arm.

His boots hit the main street when he heard her strained voice for what he hoped would be the last time. “Goodbye.”

❖

Draco felt the wards welcome him back, warm and familiar. His housekeeper had already left for the day, and the spacious penthouse flat was silent.

Perched in the poshest section of Wizarding London, this particular building had been in the Black family for only a few generations, which meant it had few portraits and no house elves. Its white 19th-century exterior boasted black shutters and large windows of varying sizes that moved about during the day in order to capture the best light. It had taken some getting used to, but it was much nicer than the moving stairways of Hogwarts. Draco lived on the eighth floor, the only occupant and sole beneficiary of sweeping, unobstructed views year-round.

It was a beautiful house. But it was not home.

Draco, never one to allow himself to get too comfortable anywhere after his stay in Azkaban, stocked only the necessities. Committed to his life of solitude, he kept one set of bedding, one set of utensils and plates, and two bath towels. The second towel was for emergencies only.

But he was far from ascetic. His sheets were spun from black Acromantula silk. His cutlery was silver, and the dishes were bone china. The towels, two of a kind, exuded luxurious softness because they’d been bestowed with pure unicorn tears.

Over the last nine years, he’d travelled extensively, mostly to follow any new leads, but also to broaden his horizons and escape the temperamental English weather, especially in the dead of winter. It was once his favourite season — all the jewel tones were in his colour wheel, after all — but now Yuletide hung about his neck like an albatross. It had to be endured, but it did not have to be endured in Britain.

In the empty bedroom joined to his by a jack-and-jill bathroom, he stockpiled all manner of treasures from the many countries he visited. Eschewing chintzy souvenirs, Draco preferred to acquire oil paintings, statuettes, vases and other fine art. He gravitated not towards investment pieces or appreciating goods, but instead to the pieces that made him feel something. Anything at all. And lately, he struggled to find anything that could move him. So he turned to the things from his boyhood that offered escape — books.

He’d always been rather bookish. Most Purebloods were invested in books detailing family history and accounting, but Narcissa insisted Draco have exposure to modern magical texts as well. Lucius disapproved, but he said nothing against Narcissa when her mind was made up. She read to Draco every night, using her magic to illustrate exciting dragon fights or Quidditch matches. He would never have admitted it to anyone, but those first few nights at Hogwarts he found it difficult to drift off without the sound of his mother’s gentle voice. When he did sleep, he dreamed of one day being a Seeker, and cosying up with a wife and child after a game to replay the best bits for them.

Although he outfitted the Slytherins with brooms and kits, Lucius assured him that a Quidditch career was out of the question. It was one thing to play while at Hogwarts — it was prestigious and spoke of good health, which would attract the right sorts of Pureblood families with the right sorts of daughters. But he was expected to hang up his broom after marriage, provide grandchildren, and learn estate management.

Young Draco said nothing, like every other time he disagreed with his father. Defiance was unthinkable. A tiny piece of him whispered that perhaps he would earn his father’s love someday, there had to be a way. What a fool he’d been.

He entered the room that served as his personal library and approached one of the many shelves. Each of them was laden with books, organised by genre and then author. Draco smiled to himself as he ran his long fingers across their spines. Granger would absolutely hate his cataloguing methods. He couldn’t help but picture the girl he knew at Hogwarts, frizzy-haired and obstinate, scolding him and beginning to reshelve them mid-tirade.

Having taken nothing from the library at the Manor, these books were all newer and in pristine condition. Many of them he had yet to read. In fact, he’d been in the middle of choosing his next book last night when the figure appeared outside his window.

Draco didn’t need a pensive to recall the fresh memory. He played it back in his mind with stunning detail.

The window had moved with the moon, but at that late hour, he’d lit the lamps as well. He’d caught the faintest flicker out of the corner of his eye, accompanied by an eerie wail. It was too low pitched to be an owl, and too close to be a Kneazle on the prowl. At first he dismissed it. Not altogether of course — Draco’s caution increased tenfold after the events of nine years ago. His wand stayed strapped to his hip in a holster of his own design. His fingers ghosted over the wand’s outline in his jumper. But before he could commit to retrieving it, the room was plunged into total darkness.

Blinded by a flash of green light, he stepped backwards into the bookcase and fumbled for his wand. He drew it, eyes adjusting, when to his astonished horror he discovered the source of the disturbance. A Death Eater in full regalia hovered right outside the glass, its wandtip glowing a menacing green. It wailed again from beneath the mask, then shot into the sky and out of sight.

He snapped back to the present, shaking his head, even less certain of what he saw. He rolled his shoulders, like that simple action could shake off the memory. After all, hallucinating a grieving Death Eater could be written off as a premonition that his father had died. As strange and terrifying as the encounter had been — the echo of that strangled sound sent shivers up his spine even now — it wasn’t worth mentioning to Theo. Not worth another sleepless night.

It unsettled him, seeing his father laid out like that today. They’d had no communication since Draco assumed control of the vast Malfoy inheritance. It had once been far more vast, but spending was the least of his worries. However, with Lucius dead, he felt lighter than he had in years. It struck him that it wasn’t how most sons felt when they lost their fathers. But then again, most sons didn’t commit the atrocities he had for his father. Draco left that frigid room hoping he would never think of the man again.

And then he’d run into her. Granger. His wife.

He supposed it was only natural that the only woman he’d ever slept with still captivated him. The Golden Girl. Nearly a decade had passed since they wed, but she was no less golden, no less beautiful. He’d always thought so, since the Yule Ball their fourth year when she made her grand entrance. But it wasn’t her gown or her curves that set his mouth to watering. It was her scent. He knew the truth as soon as it invaded his senses, that someday he would brew Amortentia and it would smell like Hermione Granger. It was sugary but not cloying. It was summer and haze and hours lost out on the lake. Clover, moss, honey. Not for him, of course. She could never be for him. But Draco Malfoy coveted all things beautiful, and so he longed for her all the same.

Draco approached the mirrored bar cart and poured himself a finger of Firewhisky, then thought better of it and added another finger. He settled into one of the wingback chairs and thought back to the day he approached Hermione Granger to marry him.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

December 1999

The sun’s rays pierced the windows of the Manor, harsh and unwelcome. He hadn’t slept. Draco closed the door to the dining room, entombing what lay within, and made certain all the appropriate people were owled — and paid. He was preternaturally calm and covered in blood when he closed the gates of Malfoy Manor, never to step foot inside again.

There was only one place to go after a night like that.

Draco’s shoes squelched as he landed on his solicitor’s priceless rug. Theo, busy checking his tie in preparation for another long day at the office, did a double take at his oldest friend standing in his living room. He was by Draco’s side in an instant. Draco braced for the questions, the accusations, the disbelief. But none of it came. And when he fell to his knees and banged his fists into the floors until they were as bloody as the rest of him, Theo held him, silently.

The events of the previous night slowly tumbled from his trembling lips. Still, Theo said nothing.

“What am I going to do, Theo?” Draco croaked. “They won’t even look at anyone else for this once they know a former Death Eater was there. I can’t go back to Azkaban.”

“It was good thinking to come to me first, and pay off the press. They’ll release the news in a few days, then?”

Draco nodded. “And whatever investigation the Aurors conduct will start then, too.”

The room threatened to implode in on him. There would be an inquiry. He’d be tried — again. And this time there would be no sympathetic words from war heroes. Not that a murder sentence could be lessened. He put up his Occlumency walls. Now wasn’t the time to go into shock.

“We’ll be ready for it. But any minute now, the Ministry’s births and deaths records will update, and neither you nor your father can make a claim on the Malfoy holdings as long as all Malfoy men are unwed. You could inherit.”

“That’s in the trust and estate paperwork?”

“It’s my job to know these things. You need to get married. Today.” Theo paused, waiting for Draco to show some emotion. None came forth, no matter how his rage and anguish battered the walls of his mind. “It’s impossible to contemplate right now, I’m sure, but we have no time. It’s the only way to keep him from remarrying and revising the terms of the inheritance. If you marry before he does, it passes to you automatically.”

“I…I can’t,” Draco choked as realisation dawned. “I haven’t even mourned her — it’s unconscionable, Theo.”

“There will be time to mourn. I swear it, Draco. But now, as your legal counsel and as your friend, I’m telling you. You have to make your move.”

“Who would I even….Pansy’s out now. Obviously not Daphne….” He spiralled, terrified at the thought of seeing Daphne and Greg Goyle again.

“You won’t like my suggestion.”

It was the understatement of the century.

All the anger lying in wait under his grief erupted with the shock and fury of a long-dormant volcano. “Under no circ*mstances am I asking Hermione Granger to marry me.”

“Draco, think about it for a second —”

“Absolutely not. What about your secretary? She seems like the type who wouldn't mind an ironclad confidentiality agreement. f*cking hell, Theo. Anyone but Granger.”

“Not that you have to tell her anything, but Granger is excellent at keeping secrets. No one knows what in Merlin’s great bushy beard she’s been doing in Australia, and believe me, the public wants to know. Did you read her interview with the Prophet? She barely answered a single question. And she looks like hell,” Theo’s face softened, and his voice came out gentler as he spoke again. “You won’t be tempted by her, if you’re worried about it.”

He hadn’t thought of his boyhood attraction to Granger in years. He wouldn’t think about it now. He willed himself to keep his walls up against the onslaught of memories and emotions.

“The Malfoy binding ritual….if it has to be legal….” He swallowed, unable to continue.

“There’s nothing in the estate planning documents that says your wife has to be Pureblood. Your ancestors assumed every Malfoy would wed only the purest princesses until either the line dies out or the sun explodes.”

Draco shook his head. That wasn’t what worried him.

“Ah,” Theo placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, avoiding one of many setting bloodstains. “It’d be only one night, Draco.”

He looked into Theo’s sad eyes. They both knew better than most — so much could change in one night.

“You’ve got money, and rumour has it she’s practically destitute. Considering she’s a Muggleborn, I’m inclined to believe it. You’ve got room to negotiate terms.”

“She can’t stay here. There’d be too many questions. And I’m never going back to the Manor.”

“So you’ll live separately. I’ll witness an Unbreakable Vow to that effect if it helps. And marriage certificates can’t be sealed but I’ll file it myself. No one will know except Minister Podmore himself, and that’s only because everything crosses that desk at some point. He likely won’t even notice.”

Draco stayed silent.

“Do you really want that scum-sucking bastard to get everything and write you out forever? After everything he did to you? I’ll bet anything he’s the one who did this.”

Draco chuckled darkly. “And who’ll believe me? He’s in maximum security. Obviously, he had someone do it for him but Theo, I’m the one standing here with blood on my hands.”

❖

He finally showered, though only at Theo’s insistence.

“There’s a ninety-nine percent chance she’d refuse you even on your best day.” Theo threw him a towel and a look of pity. Draco relented, smearing deep red gore over his friend’s white marble floors with every step, and lost himself in the thrum of the hot shower.

An hour later, armed with an address purloined by Theo’s private detective, he donned his warmest black wool coat and dragonhide boots, and set off. He found her in a tragic little flat in a bad neighbourhood. She opened the door, bleary-eyed, the pull-out sofa preventing it from swinging all the way in. Granger looked brittle and hollow as bone in an ivory turtleneck and fleece-lined pants. He recognised the deep purple under her eyes — it matched his own. His Occlumency kicked in, and Merlin knows what he said, but it must have been convincing, as with only a backward glance, she plucked her thin coat from a hook and followed him to the rooftop where they could talk privately.

Snow fell from the grey sky in a steady stream. The flurries formed tiny cyclones, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. Despite the strongest warming charms, they simultaneously clutched at their coats, their breaths briefly visible before being carried away by the December air. They were losing daylight.

What a strange world, he thought as he faced his old enemy, that Hermione Granger was now his best chance at securing his inheritance after his father destroyed his happiness. He would never forgive the man, but he wasn’t too proud to claim the money he was owed. For becoming a Death Eater, for ruining his engagement — for all of the abuse. But there was only one way to get it.

“I need a wife.” He nearly had to shout it. The wind was picking up, drowning him out.

Granger gave a bitter laugh. “What makes you think you can knock on my door after everything that’s happened and ask for my help in finding a wife? Have you tried dating, or has it proved a touch tricky with that Mark on your arm?”

Draco took a risk and grabbed her elbow, pulling her towards him. She’d know how desperate he was, but he didn’t care. Last night he’d left his care, his love, his future at the Manor. He shivered, thinking of their bodies lying there. He should’ve buried them. No one was going to believe him. His innocence was long gone. He would die in Azkaban. Unless….

He had to fight to bring himself back to the problem at hand. “You mistake me. I need a wife today.”

She understood him immediately. He released her arm, but both their limbs remained suspended in mid-air, collecting a fine dusting of snowflakes, locked as much as their gazes.

“My father has made a move to disinherit me,” Not the whole truth, but not a lie, either. “And if I marry today, I can circumvent his plans.”

“Why me?” She reached a fever pitch, her words nearly swept away. A shiver — or maybe a shudder — brought her closer.

He shouted back. “If the papers are true, you need money and privacy, yes? I can offer you both. And you’re available.”

“You hate me.”

He didn’t. He felt nothing for anyone. Not anymore, anyway. But she didn’t need to know that.

“And you hate me. But you need someone, right?”

She stuck her little reddened nose in the air. This was it. The ever-proud Hermione Granger would spin in her snow boots and leave him here to face the encroaching night alone. The rejection lay on the tip of her tongue, ready to spring forth and deprive him of what meagre hope remained.

Maybe she heard it in his voice, worn thin from hours of begging, crying, screaming. Maybe she saw his knees shaking, not from cold but from exhaustion and grief. She didn’t meet his eyes, but he knew they were bloodshot. Draco Malfoy was the picture of despair, as miserable and wretched as he’d been that night at the astronomy tower, looking for someone to save him.

And for reasons he couldn’t grasp, she said yes.

A short time later, they found themselves defrosting in Theo’s office and hammering out the details over tea. Draco would never step foot on another Malfoy property again, both to secure Granger’s privacy and to begin to distance himself from the Malfoy name after the events of the morning. Granger could have her pick of the existing estates. She chose Cyclamen Cottage, a fair distance from the city. Theo made a note to have it prepared immediately for her arrival tomorrow. Draco impressed upon her that while he would not put it in the Vow, since she stressed that the Wizengamot had subpoenaed her before, London was heretofore unavailable to her.

He didn’t tell her that he feared she might be next, if Lucius found out he’d taken a Muggleborn as his wife.

She insisted that her parents, who shared her squalid excuse for a flat, come with her. Apparently, the Ministry made an exception for the parents of popular Muggleborn war heroines. She’d always been a family-first sort of witch, and he could admit he admired that about her. It was the one thing they had in common.

Granger would have access to all his accounts, and he set no limits to her spending. Surprise lit her features as she reviewed his face, searching for evidence of deceit or a snide comment. Frankly, he didn’t care what she spent, or how. What did it matter? They were set for several lifetimes.

The last point was his, and it was non-negotiable.

“You can never have another lover,” he said, sorrow creeping into his voice despite his best attempts at Occlumency. “Any children would be considered by our family magic to be born from our union, and the Malfoy line ends with me.”

Her eyes widened as she clattered her teacup into its saucer. “There are charms —”

Draco cut her off. “No. I won’t tolerate even the most minute of chances. But I’ll hold myself to the same standard. We’ll have tonight, and nothing more.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

She tilted her head. “Do you even know what you’re giving up?” Her cheeks blossomed a pale pink. She’d likely meant for the question to be more accusatory, but instead betrayed a certain interest.

He considered bluffing, but Granger’s tense posture warned him off. “No, but I don’t think you do, either,” he ventured.

Her indignant huff and downward glance told him all he needed to know. Draco felt unsure whether this new information ramped up the pressure on his performance in the bedroom. On the one hand, they had no firsthand knowledge of sex, so the playing field was level. But on the other, they’d never have the potential for partnered pleasure ever again. He resolved to make it as good for them both as possible.

Of course, she made it difficult to stick to that resolution. “I won’t agree to that.”

“Then you can go,” Draco gestured towards the door. “I’ll find someone else.” His heart raced, each frantic beat bringing him closer to a panic attack. The clock read close to midnight. This day, the worst day of his life, which had dragged along like a dying cat, now sped towards the finish line. There was no more time, and there was no one else.

Granger exhaled. “You won’t find anyone else. But you’ve caught me on one of the worst days of my life,” she paused, taking him in. He propped up his Occlumency walls with all he had. “I can’t support myself and my family on a Ministry salary. And my friends…. It’s a long story. I thought once I returned things would improve, but they’ve deteriorated to a degree I couldn’t predict, or else I wouldn’t be standing here with you now.”

Curiosity cracked his hard shell. “Are your problems really that insurmountable, Granger? This is irreversible. Inseverable. We’ll be magically bound together.”

She shifted on her feet. “Unless you’ve got a Time-Turner tucked away somewhere, this is the best solution I’ve got.”

Theo cleared his throat. “If we’re going to do this, now’s the time.” He closed the curtains and lit candles to prepare the space.

First, they made the agreed upon Unbreakable Vow with Theo as their Bonder and witness to their legal marriage. Separate lives, shared money, no other partners and therefore no children. Granger clutched his elbow in a vise grip as ribbons of purple spiralled up and down their joined arms. After they both said “I will,” it was time for the magical ceremony.

Theo made his exit while Draco untied the leather cord of a knife roll. The blade inside winked in the low light, the handle scored with ancient runes and inlaid with emeralds. Beneath it he withdrew a small piece of parchment, battered by time, and reviewed the words of the Malfoy family ritual.

Draco stood next to Granger and held the parchment between them. “How’s your French?”

Her eyes widened as they scanned the faded ink. She answered in a flawless Parisian accent. “Il suffit de savoir que tu ouvriras ma paume avec cette chose.” Good enough to know you’re going to slice my palm open with that thing. She gestured to the heirloom knife.

“We say it at the same time, and I’ll make the cut for both of us,” Draco confirmed in English. “Then we press our palms together. That should do it.”

It was nothing he’d wanted for his wedding. He’d hoped for an all-out bash with all the Slytherins, a destination wedding in Paris. He wanted a brass band. A tower of champagne. Floating ice sculptures and fragrant roses handpicked by his mother. He choked up at the loss of a dance with her. What would she say, if she were here? What would she think about his second choice of bride?

And what would his almost-fiancee think? His beautiful bride-to-be, who he left cold and stiff just this morning, her hand clutching Narcissa’s? Please,he thought. Forgive me.

He would never have that wedding. The business with Granger was more of a funeral than anything else. She hastily transfigured herself a simple black dress and sensible heels. He wore, as was tradition, a set of Black family robes, embroidered with runes for protection, wealth, and love. They exchanged no rings, only blood and promises under the flickering of candles and the smoky swirl of incense.

Their voices filled the office as they spoke the words that would bind them together:

Tu es lié à moi, et moi à toi

Mon amour pour toi

Toujours pur

Et ton amour pour moi

Toujours pur

Saigne-moi, saigne-moi

Je te suivrai dans la mort

Je te suivrai dans cette vie et dans la suivante

Je te donne tout

Maintenant nous sommes un

Toujours pur

Draco sliced a thin line across her palm, and then his own. His grey eyes met her gold ones, and there he discovered not only the bravery he’d expected, but traces of so much more. Anger, to be sure, but also curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite place.

Before he could investigate further, a shot of agony ran up from their joined palms through his arm. He laced his fingers through hers, as if she might ground him. She jumped, but didn’t scream, as a phantom snake with pure white scales emerged from between their hands and coiled itself around them, constricting so their bodies crashed into each other. The squeezing sensation faded into tortuous heat beneath his skin, and it must’ve had that effect on Granger, too, because she pressed into him harder, rubbing against him, seeking relief. Draco sought her lips unthinkingly, and at first exquisite contact, the snake hissed its satisfaction and dissolved into the ether.

They burst apart as the clock chimed midnight, their breaths quick and hot. Draco wordlessly offered Granger his arm, and they Apparated into the cold air of a new day.

Later, he tried to ignore his new wife’s breathy whimpers as he trailed his fingers across her satin skin. He did his duty by her, and gave her his virginity, meant for someone else. And when the ritual was complete, scattering stardust over their bodies as they turned wordlessly away from each other, he barely registered the unfathomable loss of the remains of his heart.

❖

December 2009

The fire guttered in the grate, wrenching Draco’s mind back to the present. Tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, the dry ache in his throat a prelude to a sleepless night. He smashed his empty tumbler on the hearth, firelight licking rainbows through shattered glass, and buried his face in his hands.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

First, Hermione made sure both her parents slept soundly in their bed. With that accomplished, she collapsed into her own, pulling the covers up and over her head and back down again.

She’d forgotten to open the Floo at Cyclamen, so Theo side-alonged with her, bidding her goodbye at the gate. He spouted multiple apologies about the encounter with Draco, and entreated her to reach out to his office when she selected a care home for her parents. She waved him off, eager to sleep off the rest of the day. Yet back in the draughty room, sleep eluded her.

Hermione blinked up at the ceiling, banishing the floaters from her eyes. Exhaustion draped itself across her body like a thick, heavy blanket. Every time she left the house, her problems multiplied. Heads off a hydra, exactly like Malfoy said. With St. Mungo’s stricken from her list of care options, she now needed to research and vet additional facilities, likely abroad where no one recognized the name Granger. At least she’d have whatever funds she needed, courtesy of her husband.

This new Malfoy supplanted the previous versions in her memory. She’d never forget her first meeting with him — slicked-back hair, jeering face. And sixth year Malfoy, freshly Marked, a cornered wild animal. The man she married elbowed his way to the forefront of her mind. He’d been pale as porcelain, and just as shatterable. Nothing of the domineering, snobbish, clever, and conniving man lived on. Instead, she was greeted with a ghost.

It wasn’t the ghost that hauled her out of the hospital lobby today. Hermione gently pressed the burgeoning bruise he left on her arm, biting her cheek at the residual pain. This was the handiwork of a pushy, prideful Malfoy. The one she’d expected on her wedding night, but for some reason, got yet another version instead. A version she didn’t think about if she could help it.

No, the Malfoy today exuded wealth and quiet confidence. Malfoy’s unexpected choice of Muggle daywear, a finespun crew neck jumper, hugged his broad shoulders and trim waist. He cut an imposing figure in all-black, a sharp contrast to his hair, platinum as ever and longer on top. The undercut suited his angular features, rendering him, Hermione could admit, rather appealing. He stood as tall as she remembered, but his eyes seemed sharper, as did his tongue. But she was touched by his concern for her parents, especially after recently seeing one of his own dead. Although he didn’t appear too torn up about it.

Why was she thinking about a man who had so little regard for her when she could be sleeping? She kept a phial of Dreamless Sleep in her nightstand for emergencies, and the way her mind replayed the image of him hovering over her in the alley was starting to feel like it qualified as an emergency.

From the moment they met, Draco Malfoy brought Hermione nothing but pain. She suffered years of slurs and bullying from him and his simpering stooges. That cursed dagger would have never carved her flesh if not for him and his family of sycophants. Wherever Draco went, stupidity, bigotry, and idolatry followed. And if that wasn’t enough, then he used her to get his filthy hands on his Pureblood money.

No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. The Malfoy she knew would never stand for a single speck of dirt under his fingernails. She barked a little laugh. Even under excruciating pressure, his arm emblazoned with the Dark Mark, he couldn’t kill Dumbledore. And that’s what didn’t add up for her, a girl gifted in every subject including Arithmancy.

Why did Malfoy pick her?

She’d always assumed he and Pansy Parkinson had an unspoken agreement to wed. Pureblood marriage, from what she’d read, required approval from the families involved, but even if Pansy wasn’t Lucius and Narcissa’s first choice of daughter-in-law, surely they’d favour her over Hermione Granger. Pansy must have been unavailable. Or perhaps Pureblood witches turned their backs on him after he took the Mark but the war was lost? It wouldn’t surprise her. Rot often lay beneath the thin veneer of wealth and privilege.

Her thoughts returned to Malfoy’s parents. Lucius was gone now, and had been in Azkaban since the war, but what about Narcissa? Hermione knew only a little of her post-war charitable endeavours, relayed to her in Harry’s letters while she was in Australia. Did she know her son married a Muggleborn witch? The sole guest of their wedding was Theo, and he’d also played witness and attendant. It had been last minute, but wouldn’t Narcissa, who so famously doted on her only son, stand beside him on such a sacred occasion? Hermione thought it likely that Narcissa knew and respected her son’s Slytherin power grab but not his methods. Did it break her heart to know her son would marry not for love, as she did, but for money? Is that why she didn’t attend?

Hermione would have given anything for Hugh and Judy to attend her wedding, even if it was to her schoolyard bully. There were rites of passage that she would never regain. Tears rolled down the slopes of her cheeks as she imagined Judy helping her shop for a wedding gown. They’d have perused the flower shops together and spent hours eating dark chocolate and giggling over Muggle bridal magazines, because in a normal, ordinary world, her wedding would have elicited nothing but radiant elation.

And Hugh. She cried in earnest now. Her father should have been there, escorting her down the aisle. Hermione considered herself a modern woman and never wanted to be given away to her groom. But she longed to know what he might have said on their journey to the altar. Maybe he would have had sound advice. It was even more likely he would have made her laugh through tears of joy and hope. What would he have thought of the man who snarled at her today?

Hermione tugged the coverlet up to her face and blotted away her tears. Crying never got her anywhere. It would be best to focus on getting her parents squared away, and be thankful she had the resources to do it.

And however faded it might be, there existed a silver lining. Her face relaxed and she released a cleansing breath. She’d never see Malfoy again.

She slid the drawer of her nightstand open and peered inside. The phial winked at her in the moonlight, assuring her of its potency. Her burn stung, shooting hot sparks of pain up her arm to her shoulder. Relief was a sip away, but she’d been gone all day, and who knows what might happen with her parents tonight. With a sigh, she shoved the drawer back into place, the sound of the rolling glass tinkling like a distant bell.

❖

Hermione wiped the damp trail of drool off her face. The light streaming through her curtains signalled to her she’d overslept. She pulled a threadbare dressing gown from the hook on the back of her bedroom door, slung it over her shoulders, and headed to the bathroom. After a speedy shower and change of clothes, she plodded down the stairs, unsure of what she’d be walking into. It had been a risk leaving Judy in charge yesterday, but she wouldn’t hear about how it went until tomorrow.

Neither Monica nor Wendell were in the sun-streaked kitchen. Hermione put the kettle on for tea and peeked her head into the living room. Empty. Hermione frowned as the kettle called her back to the kitchen. It was such a beautiful day, maybe her parents were out for a walk around the gardens? It had been a long time since Monica had left the cottage.

She looked out the window as she poured the boiling water over a sachet of mint tea, scanning the grounds for any sign of them.

“He’s at the pub again.”

Hermione jumped and sloshed the piping hot tea over her hands. “Monica!” She quickly healed the burn with a swish of her wand.

“I can’t control him, Hermione. He’s got a mind of his own, my husband. Is your hand alright? I’m going back to bed.” Monica yawned, her constant exhaustion overpowering her. Most days, Monica only got out of bed to eat or use the loo. It was impossible to hold a conversation with her, but at least she was eating on her own today. Her left hand gripped a scone, which she nibbled as she ascended the stairs.

Just as Hermione refilled the kettle, a dark owl cast a shadow over the stove. It pierced her with yellow beady eyes, willing her to open the window without so much as a hoot or tap. This must be Theo’s owl, she thought. He’s discreet.

Mrs. Malfoy,

I hope this note finds you well.

I have an urgent matter to discuss with you and Mr. Malfoy. I’ve cleared my schedule for the day. Please come to my office at your earliest convenience.

P.S. Feel free to give Albert a treat. He’s usually a process server, so as you can imagine, he doesn’t get much love. He’s partial to the Eeylops Premium sort, if you have any lying about.

P.P.S. For Merlin’s sake, use the Floo this time.

There was no way she could leave Monica at the cottage alone, not to mention Wendell was on the loose. She fished a cracker out of the pantry and offered it to Albert, who eyed it suspiciously. She gave up and tossed it in the bin, stomping away to the fireplace in her study as the owl took flight back to the city.

“Nott and Associates, London,” she commanded her now-open Floo.

A red-haired secretary in a conservative shift dress appeared through the flames. “Hello, love. You’re Mrs. Malfoy? Mr. Nott’s expecting you.”

“Would you kindly tell him that I’m unavailable today, as my parents aren’t well? I can be in this office first thing tomorrow.”

The secretary shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know that you’ll want to wait that long, dear. As Mr. Nott said, it’s urgent.”

“Does he need me to sign something?” Hermione grew impatient. Who knew how many pints Wendell had already knocked back? The one day she’d slept in and everything was falling apart.

The secretary stepped away for a moment, and the lanky frame of Theodore Nott replaced her.

“Mrs. Malfoy, I know you didn’t expect to see me again so soon. I’ve been anticipating your arrival. Draco is already here.”

“I can’t come right now, Theo. I can call you Theo, right? As you know, my parents are ill and need me. I can’t simply drop everything with no notice.” She left their illness purposefully vague. Hermione wasn’t going to even begin to get into her parents’ conditions, including her mother’s dual personalities.

Theo sighed and ran his hand over his face. He locked his steely gaze on her. “I’ll send someone to you who can help. As soon as they arrive, Floo here.”

Hermione bristled. “They need more than babysitting, you know. And I don’t want anyone else to know my parents are here. Besides, how can I trust whoever you send won’t run their mouths to the press?”

“I can draw up a contract, and with their permission you can Obliviate them after you return, no need to —”

Hermione cut him off with a shriek. “No!”

Theo gave her a quizzical look and put his hands in front of him in surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Alright. How about this — I’ll send a Healer who will operate with utmost discretion.”

“I hardly think that will work,” she said, drawing deep breaths into her lungs to calm herself after her outburst. If Theo drew any additional conclusions from her outburst, she hoped they were benign. It wouldn’t do for him to know her secrets. She wasn’t in the habit of trusting Slytherins, no matter how reformed many of them claimed to be.

“I’m not sending just anyone off the street. He’s a personal friend, and I assure you he has no blood prejudices or biases. The Grangers will be in excellent hands. You have my word, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Unused to hearing the Malfoy name associated with hers, she corrected him. “Call me Hermione. Please.”

She saw him struggle to say it. “Hermione, then. I’ll have Dovie get in touch with Blaise now and have him over within the hour.”

“Blaise Zabini? Absolutely not,” Hermione panicked at the thought of yet another Slytherin’s involvement in this mess. “He’s—”

“What? A Pureblood? A Slytherin? He’s a high-profile Healer, and the most close-lipped person I know,” Theo clapped his hands together and she jumped at the sudden movement. “We’ve wasted enough time. Look, I understand you need reassurance. Blaise typically guest lectures at the hospice centre on Tuesdays during tea — in fact he should be nearing the end of his talk now. I’ll give you the address, and you can connect via Floo. When you hear him speak, you’ll understand my recommendation.

“Write down everything Blaise needs to know, and after you introduce him to your parents, come over here. Make sure you eat something, all the takeaway options near the office are rubbish. Can’t even get a good curry.”

Before she could utter another word, he ended the connection.

❖

Hermione shouted out the location Theo gave her and peered through the Floo.

Blaise Zabini, resplendent in lime green Healer robes that fit him as if they were the latest couture, addressed a packed house. He didn’t fidget, stutter, or deviate from the notes displayed behind them, arriving and departing with elegant flicks of his wand.

“The four tenets of hospice care, which you are all familiar with, are of equal importance. And yet we focus so little on the third tenet — the needs of the families of the dying. The patient requires physical care, but what of their emotional state? Healing trauma before death, with assistance from the family, is best for all parties. Remember, the patient will die. Best efforts have already been exhausted by the time the patient enters your care. A good death is the goal. But after the patient is deceased, the family lives on. It’s possible one of them will enter your care before your career is over, seeking that same dignity and resolution that you offered their family member.

In my many years of practise, I’ve had the honour of guiding many esteemed members of the British Wizarding community through the thicket of the unknown. I would be remiss to merely do my duty by the patient and ignore the truth so few Healers face: everything we do in regards to the patient is intimately interconnected with their family. Therefore, adopting a holistic approach to the third tenet of hospice care will not only yield the desired result of a peaceful transition for our patient and their families, but it will also guide you to a more fulfilling career with unique opportunities to serve your community. Thank you.”

Applause rippled through the auditorium. Blaise bowed but didn’t linger, exiting the stage and crossing right in front of her Floo connection. She didn’t miss her opportunity.

“Mr. Zabini,” she called out.

“Miss Granger,” he intoned. She didn’t correct him. “Did you enjoy the lecture?” He shook a colleague’s hand and nodded at another.

“Very much so. I had no idea of your interest in Healing.”

“It’s my understanding you have little idea of me at all. However, your reputation precedes you, and you wouldn’t be loitering now unless you needed something. How may I be of assistance?”

She blinked at his direct manner. “Theo Nott recommended you to me. My parents are unwell.”

“Your parents are Muggles.”

She would not be so easily dismissed. “Yes, however they suffer from memory impairments,” she swallowed hard. “Brought on by Obliviation.”

❖

Wendell sulked all the way upstairs, where Monica fitfully slumbered. Although he protested, Hermione administered him some new potions to help him sleep off his afternoon of indulgence. She jotted down the dosage of each in her notebook. The phials she gave them practically overflowed with liquid, and they continued to multiply in number. Hermione made a mental note to revisit her idea for an undetectable extension charm for glassware. They were illegal, of course, but so were most of the contents of her greenhouse. As she closed the bedroom door, she lifted her sleeve and scratched the scar on her arm. It had never healed, and was becoming more bothersome lately.

She’d scarcely entered her study when the Floo roared to life, announcing Blaise Zabini’s arrival. Hermione jerked open her desk drawer and flung her notebook inside, slamming it shut before the man imposed on her privacy.

Blaise Zabini stepped out of the fireplace into the messy study. He stood before her the picture of Pureblood elegance, unruffled by his recent travel. His posture remained perfect, despite the large medical bag he held at his side. His calculating, serpentine eyes finally landed on her.

“Miss Granger,” he nodded stiffly.

“Hello, again” she said cautiously. “Thank you for coming.” Unsure of what to do next, she held out her hand for a handshake.

He ignored it. “I’m here strictly in a professional capacity. You have instructions for me?”

“Yes, I’ll need you to monitor my parents while I’m gone,” Hermione paused, walking backwards to retrieve the carefully written directions for her parents’ care from the sideboard. If Blaise noticed that she didn’t want to turn her back on him, he said nothing. “I have a brief medical history for both of them here on the first page. I’ve already given them the potions listed on the second page, and here are my suggested dosages for any additional potions they may require. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone exactly, but I assume I’ll be back before nightfall. On days like today, they mostly sleep upstairs, so they shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

She held out the two pieces of parchment to him, which he accepted with spidery fingers. His eyes raced back and forth over the medical history.

“These are your parents, you said? Why does this say Wendell and Monica Wilkins?” His eyebrows raised in mild puzzlement.

“Do you need to know, in your ‘professional capacity’?”

“Touche,” he grinned, flipping to the second page. The grin immediately vanished. “Granger, these potions are — how long have you been dabbling in dark magic?”

She avoided answering him. “I’ll relieve you tonight. Please take good care of them, Mr Zabini.”

Hermione brushed past him, gathering Floo powder in her palm and shakily stating the address for Theo’s office. She’d seen more people she knew in the past forty-eight hours than she had in nine years. The sooner she handled this urgent matter, the better. Then she could see her parents settled, talk to Harry…. When she tried to think beyond that, the memory of the ritual called out to her, a voice on the edge of her mind whispering that she would be capable of so much more now.

Capable of what? She wondered.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Theo’s office looked much the same as it had nine years ago. Rather than a shrine to his achievements, the room served as home to rows and rows of filing cabinets that surrounded a wide, cluttered desk. The desk held an artist’s palette of different inks and parchments, all labelled according to their colour and usage, as well as an overflowing inbox and outbox. Three chairs rounded out the furniture: A large, official-looking leather chair with a long white wig jauntily hanging over the back, and two smaller tufted chairs across from the desk, adorned with brass nailheads. A solitary window presided over it all, fogged over with moisture.

Malfoy, eyes-closed, slumped in one of the tufted chairs, his long arms laying limply over the armrests. He wore the same clothes as the day before, and Hermione detected the faint scent of alcohol. Whatever Theo had summoned them here for, it wasn’t good. She stepped over his legs and a pile of documents and sat on the edge of the other chair as Theo entered the room.

“Hermione, Draco,” he nodded to both of them. Malfoy didn’t stir.

Theo slapped his hand on the desk. “Draco!”

Malfoy opened one eye lazily. “Oh, are you holding court now? I think you have to say ‘May it please your Honour….’” He waved his hand in a motion for Theo to continue.

“I doubt you’ll think you’re funny once you read this.” Theo shoved a copy of Witch Weekly into Malfoy’s lap. Hermione snatched it away from him before he could open it.

It wasn’t front-page news — there’d been another Death Eater rally that devolved into violence outside the Ministry which made top billing — but it was close enough.

Hermione read it aloud.

GONE GIRL GRANGER SEEN WITH MISCREANT MALFOY.

This journalist finds it highly suspicious that only a day after the death of Lucius Malfoy II, his son Draco Malfoy was spotted canoodling with Hermione Granger near St. Mungo’s Hospital. My confidential source tells me Mr. Malfoy visited the morgue to identify his father’s remains alongside his solicitor, Mr. Theodore Nott of Nott and Associates. Might Ms. Granger have been providing much needed emotional support to her beau in the wake of such tragedy? Perhaps she’s been in hiding, since surely the deceased would not approve of his son romancing a Muggleborn. While we here at Witch Weekly are no fans of Death Eaters, we do love a good redemption story, and it seems Ms. Granger has seen something in the Malfoy heir. We’ve reached out to Nott and Associates, and it appears a statement is forthcoming. I think I speak for all of us when I say we are eager to see how this love story unfolds.

Malfoy leaned in, his eyes scanning the picture of them in the alleyway, which featured Hermione reaching out trying to touch him in an infinite loop. The angle made it look as if they’d been caught in a moment of intimacy. He loomed over her longer than was comfortable, so Hermione relinquished the paper to Malfoy and picked up one of Theo’s inkpots, fiddling with it to keep her hands distracted. She wanted to wring Malfoy’s neck.

“We never should’ve been there,” she said with a toss of her curls.

At this, Malfoy burst to life. He was like a cat, one moment lounging lazily in the sun, the next moment a blur of teeth and claws. “You should have never been in London with the most pitiful excuse for a glamour I’ve ever seen! Longbottom disguised himself better than that in fourth year. Then I wouldn’t have had to drag you out of a crowded waiting room to the nearest private back alley.”

He stood, angrily throwing the paper to the floor. It took its time floating down, which spoiled his intended effect. Hermione couldn't help her smug smile. She opened her mouth to respond when Theo spoke.

“Since we don’t have Time-Turners, the discussion of who was where and why is moot. We have to move forward. Now, as the article said, I’ve promised a statement. Your marriage will inevitably be revealed, and I think it’s better if the news comes directly from our camp.”

Our camp? Did Theo really expect her to be full Team Malfoy because of one article?

Malfoy gave voice to her thoughts. “Our camp? What’s your grand plan, Theo?”

“Move in together.”

“You can’t expect me to live with her in my flat,” Draco sneered.

Hermione leapt up from her chair and shot him her most withering glare. “You couldn’t pay me to move in with you, especially not in your flat.”

Malfoy didn’t back down. Instead, he stepped close to her so they stood toe to toe. He peered down at her as he spoke. “You’re right, I already pay you an astronomical amount to be my wife.”

Hermione lifted her hand to hurl the inkpot at him with everything she had, but he wandlessly Vanished it. “f*ck you, Malfoy!” She reached for another, even larger pot full of crimson ink, but he’d moved away, and her aim was poor.

Malfoy, a practised Seeker, merely sidestepped the projectile. It crashed through the wall, leaving a jagged hole surrounded by blood-red spatter.

“Draco —” Theo cautioned, but he was interrupted.

“f*ck me indeed. There’d be nothing in that paper right now if you’d stayed away like you promised. I’ve held up my end.”

She balled her fists at her sides as she yelled back at him. “Your end was much easier! You have no idea what I’ve endured the past nine years!”

The blonde’s movements turned lazy again as he crept closer to her again. “Really? Oh, poor Mrs. Malfoy, living in one of her many idyllic properties, spending thousands of Galleons a month on whatever she fancies while never lifting a finger…”

“Whatever I fancy? Never lifting a finger?” Hermione knew without being able to see herself that she was red in the face. She stepped into his frame defiantly.

He tucked a finger under her chin like she was a child and tutted, further stoking her rage. His eyes met hers, only slivers of grey peeking around black pupils. “Don’t say I don’t take care of you.”

She found herself unable to tear away, the heat of Malfoy’s chest radiating into hers. His arm flexed, challenging her to refute him. Whatever fiery retort she’d planned died on her tongue.

Theo cleared his throat at a volume far louder than necessary. “Malfoys!”

Hermione jumped back from him as if burned, but Malfoy merely turned his head towards Theo. As she returned to her seat, she winced at the damage she’d done to Theo’s wall. He seemed to sense her regret and directed his attention to her first as he came around the desk and leaned against it.

“Hermione, do you think this will all just go away? You could empty the Malfoy bank accounts trying to shut this story down and they wouldn’t bat an eye. Think about it. The Golden Girl out with the Death Eater is all they had today. But I guarantee you someone at The Daily Prophet is down in the Ministry Records department right now looking up everything about you both. Your marriage certificate will be on the front page tomorrow. Tomorrow , Hermione. Are you ready for everyone to know everything, and I mean everything, on top of that? If we get ahead of it, anything else you want to keep private has a chance to stay that way.”

Hermione shuffled in her seat. He was right.

“And Draco, before this photo, public opinion of you couldn’t be lower. But the angelic glow of the Golden Girl here could go a long way in rehabbing your image. We can shape the narrative. You’re star-crossed lovers avoiding the spotlight, afraid of judgement for your love.”

Malfoy snorted. Theo dismissed this and continued. “I know you’ve changed. We’ve been friends for years. But the world at large doesn't know that. They spit at you, for Merlin’s sake. Aren’t you tired of it?”

“If they’d drop their assumptions —”

“What’s easier, to get someone to believe something else, or to affirm what they see?” Theo’s voice held a heavy, resigned sadness.

Hermione watched as something passed between the two men. Malfoy clenched his jaw before sitting back in his chair. What was that about?

After a beat, Theo continued. “They see a war heroine comforting a Death Eater after his father died. A woman with a pure heart reaching out to touch your black one.”

“My pure heart,” she laughed miserably, avoiding Malfoy’s eyes. “But Theo’s right. It won’t be hard to convince them we’re happily married. I’ve had a lot of experience with reporters. I might need a refresher, but if I could handle Rita Skeeter as a teenager, I can certainly flirt with a few reporters looking for a love story.”

“We’ll need a bit more than that, I think. A solid backstory and a wardrobe befitting a Malfoy, for starters. But it sounds like we’ve convinced you?” Theo sounded eager, hopeful.

Hermione hesitated before answering. “You have. But I have conditions. The big one is that my parents have to come with me.”

“You do realise we’re married and you don’t need a chaperone, let alone two?” Malfoy didn’t meet her eyes, busying himself with non-existent specks of lint on his jumper.

The man was insufferable.

“They are fully reliant on me at this point. You’ve no idea the extent of their memory issues. I owe them everything, Malfoy.” Her eyes watered, a hot tear rolling down her cheek. She chastised herself for showing him the depth of her devotion. He’d only find a way to use it against her.

But just as before, Malfoy’s shoulders softened and he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “I — of course. It’s a large flat, and there’s plenty of room. I don’t have any house elves — yes, I remember your activist phase — but I employ a housekeeper, Mrs. Tannenbaum. She’s a Squib. Very resourceful woman. Get her a list of what you need and she’ll make sure you and your parents are as comfortable as possible during your stay.”

She nodded, incapable of a larger reaction to his uncharacteristic display of kindness. “Thank you.”

Theo clapped his hands together. “Hermione, probably best for you to go back to Cyclamen and pack for a few weeks. I doubt it’ll go longer than that. Blaise can help transport your parents. We can talk more about your additional conditions tomorrow. Draco and I have a few things to sort out here.”

Malfoy nodded to Theo in acknowledgement. “I’ll change the Floo wards. Address is 10 Ennismore Gardens, Kensington.”

Hermione wiped her cheek and eyes before standing and steadying herself. “Alright. Alright. This is happening.”

Draco clenched his jaw. Theo swooped in to end the conversation. “Draco will see you and your parents tonight then?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “See you tonight.”

❖

Draco didn’t expect to watch his wife walk out the door, but he found himself mesmerised by the gentle sway of her hips. As she left his line of sight, he realised himself and shut the door more firmly than intended. Theo, who never missed a chance to aggravate his friend, gave him a knowing smile.

He remained standing, resisting the urge to punch something. Granger had the right idea, heaving the nearest weighty object through the air, even if it was directed at him.

“I know we have to do this, but it’s a f*cking terrible idea, Theo.”

“I just laid out why it’s f*cking brilliant. One of my best ideas, really.” Theo sifted through his desk drawers, ostensibly searching for a replacement inkpot.

“It’s dangerous for any woman to be associated with me. I don’t particularly care for Granger, but I don’t want her to end up dead.”

Theo sighed, giving up on his pursuit. “I highly doubt she’s in any danger now that Lucius is gone.”

“Whoever he sent to kill them might still be out there. The Aurors never opened a case, they didn’t even accuse me of anything, and we still don’t know why!” Punching something sounded better and better with each passing moment.

“Draco, you have a mountain of problems already. Don’t add to them.”

Draco lowered his voice for his next admission. “I have more than you know about. I thought I saw someone, two nights ago.”

“Who? A Death Eater?”

Draco nodded.

“Were you sober?”

Draco hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Theo looked as if he wanted to bite back his next words. “Is it becoming a problem again?”

“No, no. I’d had a whisky. It won’t be like that again, Theo. You have my word.”

It had been all too easy, once Granger was gone and the accounts at Gringotts were transferred to him, to spin out. Draco obsessed over the paper, waiting for the Aurors to drag him back to Azkaban. But as months passed without Dementors darkening his doorstep, he decided to take matters into his own hands, doggedly following Death Eaters all over the continent. He ran to exhaustion, duelled for hours — first with Theo, but then with anyone who looked at him the wrong way. It was never enough, and as the years stretched on with no leads, he needed to fill the hours with something else.

It started innocently enough. Draco had always been a talented potioneer. He brewed late into the night, not sure what he sought to create. The temptation to sample his own wares became too great, and before long he popped potions to sleep, stay awake, feel something, feel nothing.

After months of missed duelling appointments, Theo tracked him to a club in Berlin, where he found his schoolmate-turned-client passed out beneath the strobe lights, slouched in the corner in a state of undress unbecoming of the richest wizard in Britain. Theo was no stranger to the insidious arms of addiction, and with the help of Mrs. Tannenbaum, he provided the round-the-clock care that wrenched Draco from the potions’ deadly embrace.

Since then, Draco couldn’t so much as look at even the most benign brew.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

“What, that my father dies, a Death Eater makes their presence known right outside the flat, and my wife reappears?”

“You’re right. I don’t doubt you, Draco. You know I’ll always believe you.” Theo clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder.

He’d arrived at Theo’s office many years ago now, covered in blood and tears, shaking and desperate. The former Slytherin Head Boy stopped him from going to the Aurors first, which would have only ended in a second, endless stint in Azkaban. Theo saved his life.

“I know,” Draco reached out and hugged him. “And I’ll always believe you. If you think this farce with — what do I even call her?”

“Try ‘Hermione.’ I think Mrs. Malfoy might be a little too formal, even for you.”

Hermione? Nope, that wasn’t going to happen. “If you think this farce with Granger will help things, I’ll do it.”

“I do. I want justice for your mother and your former fiancee as much as you do, and I think your association with the Golden Girl is our only hope. She’s got friends in high places. Can you at least try saying Mrs. Malfoy? She’ll come around to it once you both get settled in. I think we’ll need to bring in the big wands to make it all believable, though.”

Theo could only mean one person. “No. Absolutely not. Do not bring her into this.”

The devilish solicitor was already leaning into the hallway. “Dovie! Can you get me….” He was out of earshot, but Draco knew exactly whose help Theo wanted.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

“Draco, darling. It utterly scandalised me when I got Theo’s note. In the best way, of course.”

Pansy Parkinson of Parkinson Public Relations perched on Theo’s desk as if she owned it. Clad head to toe in red and sporting a chic bob, it occurred to Draco that Pansy looked every bit the powerful kingmaker she’d become. After renouncing her parents, she founded her public relations business, whose sole purpose was to rehabilitate the reputations of notable witches and wizards. Notoriously picky about her clientele and a perfectionist to a fault, Pansy established herself as the most highly sought-after professional in the field.

She clucked her tongue at him. “Married to Hermione Granger for nine years. And you never told me! We could’ve launched your redemption tour much earlier.”

Draco snorted. “It would take more than magic to bring her to heel.”

Theo leaned back in his chair. “It’s true. You said she looked fit at the hospital, though.”

“I saw her from behind and from that vantage point, yes, she's fit. But be realistic, Theo. We'll be splashed across the front page of every paper. She can't be wearing those awful Muggle denims.” He scrunched his nose at the mental image.

Pansy looked up from examining her oxblood-painted nails. Her face contorted with disgust. “Wait, you were at St. Mungo's? I wouldn’t set foot in there unless I was actively dying, and maybe not even then.”

“That's where the whole thing started. Lucius finally kicked the cauldron and Draco, as next of kin, had to identify the body. Hermione was there for a tour of the memory ward. Her parents, who have special permission to receive magical care, aren’t doing well.”

Theo was calling her Hermione now? Draco pointed his wand at his friend and narrowed his eyes. “And you knew she’d be there, let’s not omit facts, Mr. Nott, esquire.”

Theo put his hands up. “I did. Guilty as charged. But I’ve got Pansy involved now, and I’ll cover the costs to work with her firm.”

Draco slipped the wand back into its holster with a nod. He had no intentions of allowing Theo to foot the bill, but he’d let it lie for now. Pansy got up to pace, her quick steps echoing across the hardwood floor.

“First things first — good riddance to Lucius. He was horrendous to you and I’m glad he’s dead. It’s not ideal that a reporter got wind of your little reunion, but my team will make some calls. We’ll persuade the press to pause for a day or two while we put together the perfect marriage announcement. I’ll need to hear the complete story and then we’ll figure out the angle.

“That being said, you married well, Draco. Granger is too clever by half. We know she cleans up nicely — even you were salivating after her at the Yule Ball. Don’t look at me like that! Ladies notice these things. If you can convince her to help your cause, you'll be sorted by the Solstice Ball.”

“Sorted? You’re just going to sort my life out? No, Pans. I’ve had enough people think they can steer my life towards their aims. I don’t need your help, and I won’t try to convince her to help me, either. That's pathetic. I don't beg or plead. Can you imagine me on my knees in front of Granger?”

Theo exchanged a look with Pansy. “You need her, mate. You're dead in the water without her. The public hates ex-Death Eaters, particularly you, and if you’re ever going to get the case solved —”

Draco interrupted him. “I need her? She needs me. What does she have that I didn't give her? My money, my homes, my name — and what did I get in return?”

“The very money you’re referring to, for starters. Look, you're stuck together at least until the ball. This might help you reintegrate and find new leads. With her by your side, all those Ministry knobs will have to take you seriously. And Hermione will help you. Think about it. She’s not about to let your marriage destroy her reputation. Hermione might be rusty from her, well, rustication, but she’ll always be the beloved little bookworm who helped Potter limp to victory. Pansy can coach you both and make it believable.”

The Solstice Ball. The ten year anniversary of their deaths. All the right people would be there. Maybe Granger could… he swatted down the idea.

He put on his most antagonistic grimace. “And what, you want me to glean everything I can from her? Orbit her like a lesser moon?”

Pansy leaned over Draco in his chair, her cloying freesia perfume invading his senses. “You can't hide forever, Draco. The Malfoy name carries weight, and you two are the only ones left with it. Own it or it will sink you. Granger may hate your guts, and you certainly hate hers, but this marriage might save both your legacies.”

“Her legacy is in no danger. There's a statue of Granger, Swot Extraordinaire, outside the new war memorial.”

Pansy sighed. “Your flat is in the most fashionable neighbourhood in London, but you may as well live under a rock. Rumour has it she doesn’t talk to any of her old friends. I know for a fact that includes the Potters and Ron Weasley. Luna told me Ron broke up with Hermione via letter, so it was odd, but not inexcusable, when she skipped his wedding to Neville. That’d put a dagger through any witch’s heart. But no one’s seen her since she left her Ministry job — the one she held for only a few days.”

“I made her promise to leave London and never return unless it was absolutely necessary. It was for her safety,” Draco explained. This was mostly true. He’d had some inkling of why his mother and intended bride were killed, and with the killer still free, he didn’t want Granger’s association with him to lead her to an early grave. But Draco’s self-interests were never far behind, and their arrangement was also for his comfort. He had the freedom to live his life without worrying he’d see Granger around every corner. “She notified Theo about her trip, which definitely didn’t meet the threshold of ‘absolutely necessary.’ We could’ve told her St. Mungo’s was a pit. But I’m not so cruel as to ban her from speaking to her friends. Maybe they visited her at Cyclamen?”

Pansy shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was close with Luna, and she’s never extended an invitation to her — or to me.” She twirled the shiny silver band on her ring finger.

“Have you given any thought to the list of her spending?” Theo summoned a heavy book and cracked it open.

“I don't keep tabs on it, no.”

Theo slid the book over to Draco. He flipped through the pages with gentle flicks of his wrist. Theo groaned. “Why do I even bother? Draco, she’s blowing through potions ingredients. You eclipsed us all in Potions, but even I know what's in Dreamless Sleep. Some of it I've never heard of but — “

“She's got a habit?” It wasn’t shocking to hear of a war survivor turning to Dreamless Sleep. But her?

“You've been down that road, Draco,” Pansy said softly.

“And I don't pretend otherwise. Firewhisky only now, thanks to Theo.”

“Draco, you want justice. We’ve pulled all the strings we can. But Hermione Granger — Hermione Malfoy — has more clout than anyone save Potter himself. This could be it. For you, and for both of them.”

Draco knew which “them” Theo referenced. He looked away from his friends, out the window, where snow flurries began to stick.

“So I help her — with her parents, the potions. She helps me with the public and gets the Aurors to open and solve the case.” It wasn’t a Slytherin plan — there was give along with take. But it might be his only chance.

“We’ll help you. Both of you.” Pansy nodded resolutely.

❖

Hermione found her parents sleeping peacefully, empty teacups and phials on their dresser, and crept downstairs. Fog had rolled in mid-afternoon, and she craved a co*cktail before preparing for the move. Packing would be the least of her troubles. Hermione fretted to herself about her parents’ delicate present and future.

Her mind was on rum and ginger beer when she opened her study door only to discover Blaise Zabini coiled in her chair, reading her notebook. She’d assumed he’d left an hour ago. Infuriatingly, he didn’t look up at her as he thumbed through years and years of her parents’ medical history and data.

Blaise spoke before she could unleash her wrath. “Who else knows about this?”

“No one. Well, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, but as far as they’re concerned, I’ve got it under control.” She clenched her fist at her side.

“Hermione,” he said, lifting his eyes to hers. It didn’t escape her that he’d dropped the formalities between them. “I wouldn’t describe anything about this situation as ‘under control.’ You’ve been experimenting with powerful dark magic.”

He frowned at the notebook in his hands, and Hermione seized the opportunity to snatch it away from him.

“I’ll take that,” she seethed. She shrunk the notebook and tucked it in her beaded bag.

“Not going to do you much good now, I’m afraid. I’ve got an eidetic memory,” he paused, his face devoid of emotion. “Unless you plan on Obliviating me, too? It’s funny, in our first meeting you omitted the fact that you were the one who cast the original spell. It’s no wonder you’re struggling.”

“f*ck you, Zabini. Get out.”

Blaise didn’t move. “I understand you’re embarrassed. You must deeply regret your actions, even though I’m sure without them, your parents would’ve been victims of the Dark Lord and his ilk. And you’ve made considerable progress here, despite your lack of formal instruction. My reservations about your methods aside, I’m impressed.”

Hermione approached the sideboard and withdrew a glass, shutting the cabinet door more forcefully than was necessary. “I appreciate what you did today, and I respect your work, but I have no interest in further help from you.”

She poured herself a healthy amount of rum, followed by a miniature bottle of ginger beer, focusing on the repetitive ting of the metal stirrer against the glass as it irritated the two liquids together. Blaise sighed, perhaps expecting an offer for a drink that was not forthcoming.

“You know, I’ve seen a case like this before. It was difficult, to say the least, to watch the patient deteriorate so rapidly. In hospice, we accept we can’t save the patient. We’re one step removed and therefore remain clear-eyed through the decline and ultimate demise of our patients. But you are both their carer and their family. You have my sympathy, Hermione. This can’t be easy.”

“I’m not providing hospice care. Just because I’m searching for a better situation for them, and for me,” she conceded, “doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”

“Then neither will I.”

“I’ve already told you. I don’t want your help.”

Blaise leaned forward in the chair. “I’ve trained for years to become an expert in this field, and I’ve made a name for myself with my unique approach. I involve every member of the family at every juncture. Not every Healer would allow you to interface with them if they knew everything in that notebook, and you know it. I’d offer that continuity of care, and in fact I’d welcome your input. I’ve helped high-profile witches and wizards, much like yourself — and their families. Former members of the Wizengamot, previous Ministers for Magic, so on and so forth. I’m happy to provide you with references.”

Hermione lifted her drink to her mouth, but lowered it back down without wetting her lips. “Why would you do all that?”

“I’m curious by nature, and you must admit, cases as unique as this don’t come around often. It’d make a terrific case study. I’d keep all the major details anonymous, of course. Publishing case studies is the only way for Healers in my field to receive research funding. In addition, I’d consult a team of Healers all around the world and develop a protocol for your parents, as well as future cases similar to theirs. It’s unlikely your parents are the only Muggles to have suffered from an Obliviation gone awry. It might help Magical people as well. The bottom line is, something good could still come out of this. And before you say anything else, I know you probably don’t have much money, so I’ll waive my fee. Let’s just say you’ll owe me a favour.”

“The money won’t be an issue,” Hermione stated between sips. “My husband will take care of it. My parents and I are leaving Cyclamen tonight to join him. I should be packing right now.”

Blaise arched a doubtful eyebrow. “You’re married?”

“Yes. To Draco Malfoy.”

If he’d been the one drinking, he would’ve choked.

“I believe you know him?” She couldn’t resist a small smirk.

He ran a hand over his perfectly faded hair. “It wouldn’t be right, taking money from a dear old friend — or his wife. Let’s call it one favour, then.”

Blaise stuck his hand out, ready to shake on their deal. She hesitated to trust him, despite his renown and experience, but he already knew her secrets. And the undeniable truth was she needed help with her parents sooner rather than later, especially in an unfamiliar flat in the city. If Wendell wandered… Hermione shuddered, horrific mental images tipping her over the edge.

Hermione took his hand in hers and gave it a firm pump. “One favour it is, then.”

“Excellent,” Blaise said, smiling with all his teeth. “When and where should we begin?"

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

To Hermione’s great relief, it was the housekeeper and not Malfoy that greeted them. A tall woman in her fifties with a countenance brooking no nonsense, Mrs. Tannenbaum helped Blaise, Hermione, and her parents out of the Floo and into Malfoy’s flat. Monica and Wendell stumbled forward, dazed from the abrupt change in scenery. Mrs. Tannenbaum simply ushered them all into a sitting room with a full tea service, including biscuits shaped like her surname. There she gathered their bags, coats, and other cold-weather gear, and exited without a word. It was a warm welcome, all things considered. Hermione appreciated the crisp lines of royal icing on her biscuit as she took a tentative bite and gathered her bearings.

The flat drew the eye upward, thanks to vaulted ceilings. A nautilus-shaped skylight provided a glimpse of the darkening sky. Although it was spacious, modern white walls and black and white chequerboard marble flooring created the illusion of a much larger home. Instead of the old portraiture styles, the walls bore black and white photographs, including one of a woman in a rose garden. Despite facing away from the camera, Hermione quickly identified her as Narcissa Malfoy. She’d recognize that hair anywhere. And yet the photo didn't move.

Aside from the tufted black sofa and the glass table occupied by the tea service, few furnishings remained, and all were on theme. Light reflected off each spotless surface, unfiltered by colour or clutter of any kind. Hermione lightly tugged at the sleeves of her pale pink jumper, one of her favourites, stealing a glance at Blaise. Her arm burned again, but she transformed her gritted teeth into a grin. He returned her smile with a cat-like one of his own. It was as if he felt perfectly at home, his back straight even as he sat on the edge of the sofa.

The sitting room opened up to a large kitchen, an expanse of white granite and stainless steel. There were more Muggle touches here than the photographs. Her parents would appreciate that. As she filed that thought away for later, Hermione jostled her teacup against its saucer as she witnessed the kitchen window slide from one side of the sink to the other, adjusting itself to capture the fading daylight. Monica gasped and reached for Wendell, who hadn’t noticed the shifting pane, his eyes fixed on the nearby bar cart.

Mrs. Tannenbaum reappeared and invited the group through the hallway towards the bedrooms. Her reedy voice rippled across the marble. “This way, please.”

Hermione and her parents’ bedrooms lay across from each other. Although tempted to see what room Malfoy chose for her, she guided her parents inside their room to get settled.

The room on the whole appeared much softer in style compared to the main living area. Though it, too, was white, lush carpet greeted her feet, and the large bed was piled with a vast array of downy pillows. It struck Hermione, not for the first time, that Malfoy had many faces, and what her husband presented to the world and what he valued in terms of comfort could be quite different. While Monica and Wendell yawned, Blaise made suggestions on additional items Hermione’s parents might need, and Hermione added them to the list Malfoy suggested she make for the housekeeper. After handing it off, Mrs. Tannenbaum gave a slight bow.

“There’s no need for that,” Hermione said. She hoped she’d come across as firm but gentle. “Thank you for helping us during our stay.”

“Yes, thanks ever so much,” Wendell chimed in, testing the mattress. Monica gingerly sat down beside him, exhaustion written all over her face.

Mrs. Tannenbaum established herself as the perceptive sort. “I’ll be back with these tomorrow morning,” she waved the list in the air. “Breakfast is at 6:30, and the linen closet is just down the way, across from Mr. Malfoy’s room. Enjoy your evening.”

Blaise didn’t dawdle either, and after a brief confirmation of his arrival time tomorrow, he left Hermione to tuck her parents in.

“It’s only for a few weeks,” she assured them, smoothing Monica’s hair back from her face.

After she turned the light out and shut the door, Hermione relaxed and rolled her shoulders forward and back. Only for a few weeks, she reminded herself as she took the doorknob of her room in hand. A sliver of light peeked out from under the door, so she at least wouldn’t step into darkness.

She turned the knob and nearly gripped the frame in shock. The cosy room featured a large portrait window which looked over the city. A fireplace, a four-poster bed with a red velvet comforter, and a large mirrored armoire completed the furniture. Hermione opened it cautiously, finding her clothes and a large tray of glittering jewellery. Were these the famed Malfoy jewels?

She decided to freshen up and get to bed. Although she didn’t anticipate sleeping much, she changed into her flannel pyjamas and tied up her hair. As she crossed the threshold of the bathroom, she quickly realised it wasn’t hers alone.

The bathroom was an old-fashioned jack-and-jill. Two sinks shared a marble worktop, one claimed by her toiletries. The other looked unused, but Hermione felt unease creep into her stomach. Next to the full glass shower was a door identical to the one she’d just walked through.

Hermione checked that the lock worked, twisting it back and forth a few times. She hesitated. She had a feeling she knew what lay on the other side of the door. Did she really need to confirm it?

Malfoy’s bedroom looked unchanged from the last time she saw it. She’d only seen the one room, and only out of necessity. The bed was wide, and the black sheets looked as soft as she remembered.

His voice curled around her like smoke. “Returning to the scene of the crime, Granger?”

She spun around to face her husband and laid a hand over her heart, as if the gesture would stop its racing. “Malfoy, you scared me. I didn’t think you were here.”

He gestured to the fireplace behind them. “Just got home,” he said, his eyes travelling up and down her person. She experienced his leer as cruelty, like a rare butterfly in a frame, pinned while her wings fought against the glass.

“Your housekeeper left to get a few things. Blaise had some helpful suggestions. He’ll be helping me, for the time being.”

Malfoy strode across the room to his armoire and leafed through the clothing inside. It occurred to her that it matched the one in her room. “I suppose half that list is potions ingredients.”

“Yes. Of course I’ll go back and forth to the greenhouse as needed for ingredients I’ve stored to get through the winter.” She realised she sounded more like a squirrel than a scientist.

“I’m sure there’s a lot you’ll need that would be considered black market.”

“I’m using most of it off-label, as they say.”

“I’m sure you are,” he snickered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Theo’s kept me apprised of your habit.”

“I don’t have a potions habit,” she said, hackles rising.

He dismissed her claim with a wave as he lay pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown on the upholstered bench at the foot of his bed. “There’s no use denying it, I’ve seen the ingredients you buy.”

“They’re not for me.” Her voice rose far above her normal volume.

He continued avoiding eye contact, shoving past her into the jack-and-jill bathroom. “We won’t let it get out, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’d ruin both of us. My fate is tied to yours, whether we like it or not.” He turned the knob for hot water.

“Malfoy!” Her shout ricocheted off every hard surface. “They’re for my parents, okay?”

Malfoy shut off the water and finally met her eyes. His searched hers for an extended, uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the slow drip of the tap. His question came out in a deceptively neutral tone. “Why would your parents require—”

She wasn’t ready to have this conversation with him, especially not near a toilet they were apparently meant to share. “I like the room.”

“...Good. It served as my personal library before your arrival. Try not to re-catalogue everything.” As if accepting her avoidance, he turned the water back on and washed his face.

She stayed rooted to the floor, attempting to ignore the smell of his soap. Lavender, maybe?

“Was there anything else?”

She sent him her patented glare that used to have Ron running for the hills. No effect. He simply continued to move through his routine. “How long do we have to keep this up?”

“There’s a winter celebration at the end of December, before Christmas,” Malfoy said, drying his hands.

“The Solstice Ball. I’ve heard of it.”

London’s annual Solstice Ball, a secretive formal affair, attracted wizards and witches from far and wide. Invitations could not be bought or transferred to anyone else, and therefore were highly coveted by social climbers and party lovers alike. Many a Ministry career sank or floated based on whispered conversations on the dance floor. Sacred Twenty-Eight families traditionally announced engagements at the ball, signalling the end of years of courtship for bright-eyed young Pureblood couples. In recent years, the guest list diversified, with Half-bloods and even Muggleborns in attendance for the night of feasting, dancing, and dramatic displays of magic.

He brushed past her again, more gently than before. Hermione followed him into his bedroom. Malfoy picked up his pyjamas and looked back at her pointedly.

“What?”

“What was it like, the barn where you were raised?”

His meaning hit her like a bludger to the skull, and she whipped around to give him privacy. The hair on her arms raised at the sound of leather gliding through metal as Malfoy undid his belt, and she felt a flash of warmth at the soft fall of his street clothes. She remembered the white scars underneath his all-black attire, coating him like pith on a wedge of citrus, and she startled when he resumed speaking.

“Pansy thinks it’s best that we make an appearance together. We’ll pose for photos, dance, rub elbows, perform our best impressions of a happy couple and leave. And you won’t stay here in the flat forever, either. We’ll get you something in the same building, although I doubt anyone will track our comings and goings over time. There will probably still be some occasions where we’ll want to present a united front. You can count on me to be on my best behaviour and I hope I can rely on you as well.”

“Pansy’s involved now?”

“She has a PR firm. She’s the best at what she does.”

Malfoy, Theo, Blaise, Pansy. Hermione was drowning in a pit of snakes.

The shuffling of fabric ceased, and Hermione surmised that he’d finished changing clothes. She spun to face him, her fists and teeth clenched. “I don’t plan on attending anything past the Solstice Ball. I’m sure it surprises you, considering your reputation as a peaco*ck, but I have no desire to re-enter the spotlight. I don’t need a flat in this building. I’ll return to Cyclamen.”

Malfoy stood, legs wide and arms crossed. His wand stuck out, tucked under his right elbow, but Hermione ignored the potential danger, distracted by the open dressing gown flowing over his broad chest. “What makes you think Cyclamen Cottage is still yours to return to? You broke our agreement.”

“Our agreement, but not the Vow,” Hermione pointed out.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny she was right. “It was some risk you took, coming back. You’re as bad as Saint Potter, so used to everything working out. He couldn’t stand to lose even a House Cup,” He paused. “This isn’t the Cotswolds. While you’re here, don’t go anywhere unaccompanied if you can’t manage a glamour or Polyjuice.”

“Fine, as long as Cyclamen remains mine. As long as we’re setting boundaries, Harry’s off-limits. And so are my parents. Don’t even speak to them,” she threatened.

“I wasn’t planning on it. What would we even have to discuss? ‘So, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, how did you raise such a delightful little witch?’” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“I’m sure you’d have them spouting out anti-Muggleborn sentiments in no time.”

“That’s changed,” he said abruptly, setting his wand on the nightstand. He turned to face her. “For me, Theo, Pansy — everyone I still associate with. I don’t tolerate slurs. I was awful, Granger. I swallowed every bit of nonsense my father fed me. But someone… close to me showed me the light. We’ll never get along, you and I. Hate me all you want. I deserve it for everything I put you through. But I will never lay my hand or my wand on you. You have my solemn vow.”

“I — um,” Hermione stammered, stunned at his confession. Malfoy didn’t believe those same things anymore? His face was sincere, his left hand slightly shaking. Was he nervous?

She stood in his bedroom, in his flat, in his city. She was trapped here with him for the next few weeks, at least. Hermione had worried he’d cage her like an animal, force her to perform for the world at large without care for her well-being. But here he was, acting as if she held the keys to the entire zoo.

Who changed his mind? Theo?

Another Malfoy mystery she didn’t need to uncover in her short stay. Curiosity burned through her brain, but she told herself there were better uses for it. Besides, it would take much more than an apology for Hermione to trust the man in front of her. But she couldn’t help but admire the way the lamplight washed over his face, earnest, and somehow, younger.

Malfoy began to turn down his bed, signalling that the moment had passed. He pushed a pile of decorative pillows to the left side of the bed.

When he spoke again, his voice wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t scathing, either. “Pansy’s coming early tomorrow so we can get our story straight. I suggest you get some rest. If there’s anything else you need, Mrs. Tannenbaum is probably back by now.”

“There’s jewellery in the armoire,” Hermione blurted out. She hadn’t meant to mention it. But the picture of Narcissa in the garden, the way her gloved hand met the grayscale rose petals, weighed heavily on her mind.

He froze, gripping his top sheet. “It belongs to the matriarch of the Malfoy family,” he paused as if contemplating his next words carefully. “Which is you.”

“How long has she —”

Her voice failed her as she immediately realised she’d said the exact wrong thing. Hermione gulped as Malfoy’s long legs carried him across the floor in seconds.

There was no mistaking the swell of anger in his eyes as he strode closer, backing her into the bathroom. She opened her mouth to say something, but Malfoy had already shut the door in her face, locking it from the other side.

❖

Draco pressed his back against the cold door and didn’t move until he heard Granger extinguish the light and shut her door. With a sigh, his eyes snapped open and he ran a hand through his hair.

Granger was intolerable at the best of times. They’d only ever interacted in small doses, and it always ended in tears or bloodshed. Now they shared not only a home, but also a loo. As long as she stalked the halls, he’d have no peace.

He glanced at the four-poster, and instead of an empty bed, his memory of their night together transposed itself on the sheets. It had ended so fast, which was to be expected of a first time. His body charged forward, hungry and desperate, even as his brain warned it would be his only time. His heart cried out for another, its sorrow buried by Occlumency.

But when he was alone — so miserably alone — he allowed himself to recall the long flushed column of her neck, her arched back, her sculpted legs. The scent of honey in her wild hair, the taste of it on her soft skin. The way she —

“Oi, Draco,” A gruff voice from the fireplace interrupted his reverie. “Nice dressing gown, ponce.”

Greg Goyle’s face loomed large, green, and bulbous.

Draco raised his Occlumency walls to cover his shock. He hadn’t heard from Goyle in years. Draco had no desire to speak to him after Narcissa’s funeral, and their big fight. It had been a falling out for the ages, splitting their long-standing friend group into Theo and Draco versus Daphne and Greg. Blaise loved to say he was a neutral party, but Draco knew his position was political, and therefore he straddled the fence of the two sides.

“Greg, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Draco modulated his voice to an appropriate mix of surprised and welcoming of the intrusion.

“It’s been too long. And before you say anything, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink at a funeral, and you know, it was so close after we lost Vince… I’m sorry.”

Draco kept his guard up. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry, too. I should’ve contacted you sooner. My grief consumed me, and I lashed out at my oldest friend. It wasn’t right.”

Goyle seemed to accept the false apology and barreled on. “And your grief now, well it’s unimaginable, mate. I heard and I knew I had to get in touch with you. We all loved Lucius. He was like a father to all of us.”

“Yes, yes he was,” Draco prepared himself for the next lie. “He was the best father a boy could have.”

Goyle’s friendly smile twisted. “I know. That’s why I found it so odd — Daph did, too — that there’ve been no services announced.”

Ah, so Goyle was here to shame him. He could handle that. “I’m sorry to say my father’s body was in no state to be displayed, and I worried about who might come out of the woodwork. He didn’t care for anyone to make a scene, as you know. And after Mother’s funeral, it didn’t feel appropriate.”

“I thought you might say that. You’re a considerate son.”

The compliment fell flat. Goyle was always a terrible liar.

“Thank you, Greg, for your condolences,” Draco said with a nod, intending to end the conversation. The bed called his name.

He didn’t take the hint. “That’s why I took it upon myself to organise a vigil for Lucius. Nothing big, you understand. Feel free to invite Nott Jr. if you like. Tosser still owes me an apology, but I’ll let bygones be bygones, you know? Now more than ever, we need to stick together.”

Draco’s blood ran cold. By ‘we’ did Goyle mean Purebloods, or Death Eaters? Draco hadn’t had many opportunities, beyond charitable donations, to show society he had moved beyond the Mark on his arm and all the hateful ideology it represented. It was public knowledge where the Malfoy family stood during the war, and his trial and subsequent stint in Azkaban did him no favours. Wizarding society rarely evolved, and therefore didn’t expect its members, let alone a Pureblood heir, to change his stripes.

Theo, meanwhile, told Goyle exactly where he could stuff his opinions at the last funeral they’d attended together. It descended into an all-out duel, and Goyle, outmatched, slunk away to lick his wounds. But the man bore signs of Slytherin despite his limited wit, and Draco thought perhaps he’d also been plotting his revenge.

Goyle cleared his throat. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. It makes sense that you didn’t do something big, and a gravestone would be covered in graffiti. I’m sure the Muggleborns would dance on it night and day. It’s just that Lucius did so much for us, and he deserves a final send-off.”

“I’ll think about it.” Draco, eager to end the conversation, made an uncharacteristic misstep. He opened a proverbial window, and Greg climbed through.

“Come on, Draco. What’s there to think about? He was your dad,” his former best friend wheedled.

“When and where?”

“Tomorrow, nine o’clock. The Greengrass property, in the mausoleum. Very private, only a few trusted friends will be there. They only want to support you in this difficult time.”

More like they wanted to sniff out his loyalties and anoint a new leader. Lucius, to Draco’s knowledge, continued to support the cause, even after Draco cut him off. He tamped down his rising panic. Plus, he couldn’t face the Greengrasses. He hadn’t been back there since… he couldn’t finish that thought. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“It’d mean a lot to Daph. She’s torn up about Lucius, you know. We've lost a few young men lately. So much good blood spilled, and now this. Too much, but we’ll change that, eh?”

Good blood spilled. Draco’s throat caught, images of his mother and bride-to-be’s lifeless bodies flooding his mind. He hid his discomfort with a cough and simply nodded.

“One more thing... what's the deal with Granger? Throwing them off the scent?” His too-wide grin was back.

As Draco discovered in their second year, Goyle could in fact read. So of course Goyle had read the paper and knew of his marriage to Granger. The meeting with Pansy couldn’t come soon enough. He and Granger needed to get on the same page, fast.

“Off the scent of what?” He let his other question remain unspoken. Who was ‘them’?

Goyle winked. “I see you. We'll talk about it at the vigil tomorrow.”

And with a flash of green light, the odious man was gone, leaving Draco alone in the deafening silence.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

“Your mother’s fine, but I had to sedate her,” Blaise said as he closed the door behind him and stepped into the corridor. “Your father asked about a trip to the pub later.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath. “I knew she’d be confused when she woke up here. I had the conversation planned out but she panicked, and then I panicked... Thank you for stepping in.”

She hadn’t expected her mother’s reaction to her new surroundings to be so severe. Despite Hermione’s efforts to keep everything else as consistent as possible, Judy bristled at Blaise’s presence and lashed out at her daughter. As tensions escalated, Blaise suggested Hermione step outside.

“It’s my job, Hermione, it’s no trouble. Now, as you know, I’ve read your notes, but if you’ve got the time I’d appreciate you filling in the gaps. I have about an hour before my next patient.”

Hermione led Blaise to the kitchen where she poured them both tea — a blend Blaise made himself. He spoke at length about the research he’d done to unlock its calming properties, and her mind wandered, recalling her own late nights spent hunched over books, cauldrons, and her greenhouse worktop. She missed the privacy and familiarity of Cyclamen Cottage. Was it snowing there? Here snowflakes and ice coated the windows, although the one over the dining table made a marvellous attempt to shake them off.

Blaise opened his line of questioning, and she answered him with surgical precision, avoiding a painful recounting of the two years in Australia, her brief stint at the Ministry, and the past nine years at Cyclamen. She also skipped anything related to Malfoy, focusing solely on her parents’ treatments. Now and then her eyes flickered to the Floo, anticipating Pansy’s arrival at any moment. She wasn’t looking forward to that reunion, mostly because Pansy’s idea of peacemaking involved offering up her best friend’s head on a silver platter.

The low timbre of Blaise’s voice snapped her back to the present conversation.

“With your permission, I’ll conduct new physical exams and run a few tests. Remember, nothing happens without your consent, Hermione. I have no doubt you’ve been accurate in your assessments, but my main concern is these potions you have them on. I’m unfamiliar.”

The only worthwhile strides she’d made required the use of the old, dark spellwork she’d found within the book from the Riddle House, maintained with magically and physically demanding potions. The spells themselves terrified her so much she could no longer perform them. She’d felt her life force leaving her, pouring itself into her mother before she interrupted the process. Her Patronus, the playful otter, stretched outwards from her, the silvery cord that tethered it to her soul becoming so taut she thought it would snap from her body. Her wand had clattered to the floor right before both she and her mother fainted. Hermione remembered fighting to stay awake, fearing she might never wake back up.

“We could wean them off,” she suggested, leaving her real question unsaid. Was it possible for her parents to stop taking the potions but retain the little progress she’d made?

“You brought about a week’s worth, right? That’s too fast of a taper. We’ll have to brew more.” Blaise muttered a few more notes to himself, his quill scratching across the parchment in front of him with frenetic movements.

Hermione neglected to mention that each time she brewed, it took a terrible toll on her. The blood loss alone made her dizzy and weak, not to mention the little parts of her soul she gave. But the searing pain of her sacrifice paled in comparison to the agony of the potion invading her body. Its fumes permeated all magical and Muggle forms of protection, leaving her brain buzzing and her vision cloudy. A powdery black film coated her cauldron, and it burned if touched by her bare hands. Even when the side effects lessened, and Hermione returned to feeling like herself, she couldn’t shake the suspicion that there’d be a price to pay.

She thought back to her lessons with Professor Snape. Dark magic extracts a toll from the user, he’d said. But her gut warned her there might be something left behind by the dark magic, as well.

She opened her hands now, palms up. They almost looked normal in the gloomy light. But if she held them up to the window, sunlight revealed the truth. Darkness ran through her veins, and it would be impossible to hide if she had to brew while she and her parents were under Malfoy’s roof. Each time she prepared her experimental potions, the magic pooled underneath her skin, threatening to spill her secrets and her blood. The blistering burn on her arm from the ritual the other night was just one of many dark magic-related injuries she’d sustained over the years.

Just then, a lean leg ending in a pointy stiletto emerged from the fireplace. Blaise stood, but Hermione remained frozen in place as the rest of the woman came through. Pansy Parkinson, a little older than when they’d last met and much more statuesque, straightened her pencil skirt and offered a practised smile to both of them.

“Blaise,” she dipped her chin in lieu of a longer greeting before turning her attention to Hermione. “Mrs. Malfoy, a pleasure. Please go ahead and finish whatever you’re working on and I’ll expect you and Draco in the sitting room in five minutes. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Good luck with that,” Blaise said under his breath. Then he spoke so Pansy could hear. “We’re all done here. She’s all yours, Pansy.”

❖

“She was available on short notice. What do you want me to say?”

Pansy took her quill in two hands, testing the extent to which it would bend but not break. “Draco, you’re not even trying.”

Hermione had to agree.

An hour had passed and they were no closer to having a romantic — let alone believable — account of their courtship and marriage for the hungry press. Malfoy draped himself across the sofa as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Hermione sat on the edge of her seat, wishing she was back in the classroom at Hogwarts, where she felt like she had all the answers.

“Pansy, maybe you could drill us on what questions we might be asked? I’ve come up with a few already.” Hermione made a move for her bag when Pansy cleared her throat.

“No, maybe Draco has a point. Instead of what I want you to say, how about you both tell me what actually happened? Get it out of your systems.”

This caught Malfoy’s attention. “Theo didn’t fill you in?”

“I know bits and pieces. But I don’t have your wife’s perspective. And let’s face it, the public thinks they know why you’d fall for her. You simply need to act smitten. What they really want to know is why she would ever fall for you,” Pansy brushed the quill across her upper lip, thinking. “So, Mrs. Malfoy, why don’t you tell me how this came to be and we’ll embellish from there?”

Hermione had never been one for improvisation. “Well, Malfoy came —”

“Draco,” Pansy corrected sharply. “That’s your first giveaway that this isn’t real. You need to start calling him Draco.”

“Draco,” she tested. His name didn’t roll off her tongue so much as clunk down it. “Draco came to my flat after I got back from Australia with my parents. I’d accepted a job with the Ministry, but the job wasn’t enough money to live on. I didn’t have vaults like Harry, and I wasn’t talking to Ron so I couldn’t ask him for help, not that his family had money but maybe I could’ve stayed at the Burrow… basically, I needed the money.”

She left out the fact that the spotlight weighed on her for those few days right after her return. She’d been recognized everywhere she went, pestered for pictures or harassed about Ron’s career, her friendship with Harry, and most annoyingly of all, her love life.

Hermione braved a glance at Malfoy through her lashes. He looked down at the floor, toeing the edge of the rug with his dragonhide boots. At first glance, he looked bored, but surprise flashed through her as she realised he was actually nervous. Was he worried she’d tell Pansy too much?

She pared down her words. “We came to terms rather quickly. Theo helped with the Unbreakable Vow and we wed that night.”

Pansy’s eyebrows shot up. “Unbreakable Vow? We’ll leave that out, and the terms, of course. Those details won’t play well, especially with the older demographic. And we’ll come up with a story to cover up your absence from society.”

Hermione nodded. “No one’s seen me, so that should make it easier. It’s truthful to say I’ve been doing research on a classified project.” Pansy wrote that down.

“I’m not sure how to ask this question, but someone will,” Pansy said, a gentleness infusing her voice. “Is this marriage one that, if you, say, greased the right palms, could be annulled?”

“It’s perfectly legal,” Hermione contributed.

“That’s not what she’s asking,” Malfoy murmured, not looking up from his feet.

“I’m sorry to ask. It’s not that I personally want to know. But I’m worried it’ll come up.”

“f*cking piranhas, all of them,” he fixed his steely gaze on Pansy. “Granger and I performed the Malfoy binding ritual. It’s a true marriage in every magically legal, traditionally Pureblood way. The only difference is I didn’t hang the bedsheets from the balcony. Does that answer your question?”

Pansy went white, but Malfoy didn’t look away from her. If anything he narrowed his eyes even further before he flicked them over to Hermione. If she wasn’t mistaken, a question lay behind the look. Are you okay? Hermione gave a small nod.

Pansy cleared her throat. “Alright, while my team and I consider the best approach and weave the most flattering narrative for you both, you have homework.”

She withdrew two pieces of parchment from her leather briefcase and handed one to each of them. Hermione immediately identified it as magically spelled parchment. Little sparks bit her hands as she read such questions as “What do you love most about your partner?” and “What is your partner’s favourite dessert?”

“If this has any chance of being halfway believable, you need to talk and get comfortable with each other. If a reporter somehow breached the wards and appeared in this room right now, even if it was filled with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, they’d immediately know you aren’t together. I don’t think we can even consider bringing an intimacy coordinator in at this point —”

“An intimacy coordinator?” Hermione’s stomach lurched.

“Unclench, Hermione,” Pansy soothed, switching to her first name. “They’ll help you with the physical part of this. When to hold hands, how to deliver small but significant touches, stage kisses, that sort of thing.”

Stage kisses? Her head spun. This was too much, too fast. She stole a look at Malfoy. Hermione noticed his skin shone with a thin film of sweat, his face tinged green like he was going to vomit. Was he really as over his prejudices as he claimed?

“I want you to have a conversation tonight. This parchment should help you get talking. Get through as many of these as you can, and record the answers. If the answer is untrue, the parchment won’t register it. That way you can use these answers in interviews and therefore present a united front but also have the truth on your side. So Hermione, let’s say you ask Draco…” she paused, scanning the document. “Let’s say you ask Draco what his favourite dessert is.”

Hermione stared blankly back at the witch. Pansy gave her an exasperated look.

“Draco,” Hermione began. His name didn’t sound as misshapen this time as it passed her lips. “What is your favourite dessert?”

“Lemon tart,” he replied curtly.

Pansy handed Hermione her quill. Hermione wrote the words lemon tart onto the parchment, but they faded from existence within seconds.

“Well, now you know that was false,” Pansy sighed and went to rub her eyes, but stopped. “I worked too hard on this mascara to mess it up this early in the morning. When we reconvene, I expect to see some answers, alright? Draco, you can take your leave. Hermione and I have a few things to discuss.” She dismissed him with a flutter of her fingers.

Malfoy stood in one smooth motion, his parchment scrunched in his fist. He bowed to both of them and made his exit, closing the door behind him.

Hermione folded her hands in her lap to keep herself from picking at her fingernails. Her heart rate accelerated as Pansy dug around for a compact mirror, which she groaned when she opened. Strange that she felt more nervous without Malfoy in the room.

“This is a lot to take in,” Hermione ventured.

“Don’t let him intimidate you. He thinks he’s an acid pop, but he’s more of a chocolate frog than anything,” Pansy said matter-of-factly as she rearranged the contents of her briefcase. “He’s got a soft middle, that man. But don’t tell him I said so.”

Draco Malfoy, a soft-hearted kind of man? Doubtful.

“It’s just that I only arrived yesterday —”

Pansy quit her rummaging to interrupt. “Yes, but you weren’t born yesterday. You can pull this off. You’re both hard-headed, but chat tonight. I’ll hold up my end, so don’t worry about any of that. For now we’ve got to get you looking a little less grungy and a little more Golden Girl.”

Hermione’s hackles raised. There were a lot of things she didn’t miss while she hid away from society, but aside from the expectation to be a certain breed of feminine, especially alongside Harry and Ron, she actually missed the ritual of getting ready. She was long overdue for a wardrobe refresh, since she only owned denims, old jumpers, trainers, and various smocks for gardening and potioneering. Pansy was probably just doing her job, but Hermione didn’t appreciate the implication.

She put on her best Malfoy impression. “Just like the old days, hmm? Not fashionable enough for the rich Purebloods?”

“Come now, Hermione. I’m sure Draco’s told you, but no one in our circle believes that rubbish anymore.”

“Did you have a change of heart, or a change in societal status?”

The hit didn’t land. “You’ll find my heart much changed, I think. Also, I’m a wildly successful businesswoman with a loving wife waiting at home for me. I’m not here to stage a sleepover, spill my secrets, and give you skin care tips,” she dipped back into her briefcase for a card. “Here. I’ve made you an appointment at Genevieve’s. It’s haute couture for the modern witch. Not that you ever paid attention to magical fashion trends, but only the very old-fashioned — and Theo, who never listens to me — wear dress robes these days. There’s a list on the back of that card of everything you’ll need for daytime, eveningwear, and the Solstice Ball. I recommend you stick to warm colours and neutrals, but I’ve got it on good authority that you positively glow in periwinkle.”

Chastened, and a little bit flattered, Hermione murmured her thanks and took the card from Pansy’s soft, manicured hand.

“I also recommend a haircut."

“Say no more, “ Hermione said, reaching up and fingering one of her curls. “I’d like a trim, actually. And a trip to the nail salon would be nice, too,” she looked again at Pansy’s nails. “Truth be told, I’ve been using Muggle nail clippers for the past nine years and they’re as awful as you think.”

Pansy shot her a wide smile. “Perfect. Let me know if you’d like company. My Luna and I would love a day of pampering.”

My Luna? “Luna Lovegood? Luna is your wife?”

“Of five years. We’ve no children, two businesses, and thousands of creatures roaming our backyard,” she let out a breath. “Who am I kidding? It’s an animal sanctuary and I’m just living in it. The other day she rescued a basket of crups who’ve made themselves at home in my powder room. This morning I went to reapply my lipstick and discovered the runt chewed through the leg of a hideous centuries-old vanity.”

Hermione couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Perhaps she could test the friendship waters with Pansy, considering she married her favourite Ravenclaw. “The little menace. I’m really happy for you, Pansy. About the marriage — and maybe also for the demise of the hideous vanity.”

Pansy leaned towards her, as if they were accomplices and not recently reacquainted rivals. “She misses you, you know. We both hoped you might be at the wedding. I think the Potters and Weasleys hoped so, too.”

The corners of her mouth twitched at the mention of her closest friends. “Weasleys? Last I heard from Ron, he was with Neville. They’re still together?” She didn’t expand further. It didn’t burn anymore that Ron broke up with her. They’d been young, and during the war there hadn’t been much time to explore their sexualities. Ron and Neville spent time together while she was away, and one thing led to another… It had been hard to read, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

“You didn’t know? They’re married too. I thought it was sweet Neville took his last name. Apparently he’s always wanted to belong to a big family. Luna and I aren’t close with them, but in her line of work, she hears things.”

“What does she do?”

“She runs The Quibbler. Ron’s in the Auror department and Neville’s an Unspeakable, so they’ve both been recent sources of information for her from within the Ministry.”

“I always knew Neville was interested in men, but Ron really threw me for a loop,” Hermione confessed with a half-smile.

“It’s early, but it feels like we should be having a glass of wine with this conversation,” Pansy laughed. Hermione adjusted herself in the chair and looked away. “Too much? I— I would like to be friends. You’re married to one of my best friends, after all. He’s been through a lot, more than you know, these past few years. And I’m married to one of your fellow Dumbledore’s Army volunteers. Sweet Circe, that sounds ridiculous out loud.”

Hermione gave a choked laugh. “Like when you have to tell someone you fought in a war.”

A silence moved between the two women. Hermione worried she’d said the wrong thing.

“Exactly. Except some of us were on the wrong side,” Pansy was the one looking away now. “I was on the wrong side, ready to hand over Potter. Do you know, Hermione — I thought it would save me. And now I’ve been to his house, spent time with his wife and children and I can’t imagine it being any different.”

Her chest tightened like someone took a wrench to her windpipe. Pansy Parkinson now spent more time with Harry and Ginny than she did. Sat on their couch, shared their table. She probably brought seasonally appropriate flowers and gifts. She was more godmother to James and Albus than Hermione.

Hermione’s brown eyes met Pansy’s darker ones before darting away. At their reintroduction, Hermione assumed the other woman was conniving and cruel, mentally static at eighteen. But Luna wouldn’t be with someone like that, and Harry certainly wouldn’t let his kids around anyone who would hurt them. She was forced to consider that there might be a friend sitting across from her. But she was rusty from years of solitude. Unsure of how to proceed, she decided to try humour.

“I admit that I forgave you a little as soon as I realised I wasn’t getting a guerilla-style makeover,” Hermione admitted. “Also, is that an illegal extension charm on that bag?”

They shared a conspiratorial laugh, neither looking at each other, but smiling all the same.

❖

Draco leaned over the kitchen island, carefully examining the fruit bowl when Pansy emerged. His mood only continued to sour as he stewed. Someone had eaten the last green apple, Blaise whistled on his way out, and the loo had been occupied when he tried the door this morning. His home played host to more people in the past two days than in the past nine years, and the simple knowledge that he would never be truly alone for the foreseeable future brought on a massive headache.

He swirled his wand in time with his selection, an orange, as it unpeeled itself in one long coil. “How did it go? Is Mrs. Malfoy ready for the gossips and ghouls of London?”

“She’ll do fine. And seriously, you’ve got to start calling her Hermione.” She slid elegantly onto the stool next to him, spearing him with her stare.

He chose to ignore her and pop a wedge of orange into his mouth. “Still can’t believe this is happening.”

Pansy reached across him and plucked a plum from the fruit bowl. “What, that we’re alive in our late twenties?”

“Hilarious. Would you like ten points for Slytherin?”

“You and I both know points for Slytherin were absolutely meaningless, particularly under Dumbledore. Maybe that’s why Snape killed him?” Pansy paused, taking a juicy bite. Draco didn’t laugh. “Your wife is actually pretty great, Draco. I like her.”

“Of course you’d say that. You married Loony Lovegood. By choice, might I add.”

“Hey, watch it. I love that Ravenclaw. Have you ever considered that the Gryffindor in there might be precisely what you need?”

Draco, without more orange to distract himself, began picking through the fruit bowl again. “I don’t need anyone.”

She slid off the stool as quickly as she’d slid onto it, rolling the pit of her plum towards him. “Have fun dealing with thousands of Howlers, then.”

She wouldn’t really leave him like this, would she? Her blunt bob bounced swiftly through the room, determination in her gait. When she opened the jar of Floo powder, he knew she was serious.

“Pans,” Her childhood nickname was out of his mouth before he could force it back in. “Don’t.”

It was as much as he could muster.

Pansy didn’t turn around. “I’m not hearing a ‘please’ in there.”

So much for not begging.

“Please.”

She looked at him and sighed, back at his side just as quickly as she’d left it. Moments later, he leaned his head on her shoulder. The ends of her hair tickled his ear, but he didn’t move. As much as he and Pansy irritated each other, they’d always had each other’s backs. When Pansy came out to her parents after the war, Draco stood in the cavernous foyer of Parkinson Manor, ear pressed to the door, ready to hex them to Siberia if needed.

“You know I love you. And I know this is difficult. All I’m saying is that you’ve both clearly been through some rough sh*t these past nine years. Your whole lives, really. I don’t know exactly what happened to her but Draco — don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t hurt her?” Pansy had gone soft. Maybe it was the nargles.

“She seems fragile. Less angry than I remember, and definitely more tired. We’ve all changed,” Pansy picked up another plum, thought better of it, and placed it back in the bowl before finally pushing the entire thing away. “She’ll help you Draco, if you’ll let her. I think you need to tell her about why you asked her.”

He knew what she meant, but acted as if he didn’t. “I’ve told her. After my mother was murdered, my father was no longer the head of the Malfoy family, and therefore my inheritance was available to me if I could marry before he remarried. And I wanted to cut the bastard off. Granger was available — Theo saw her in the papers that day, freshly back from Australia. And that was that, really.”

“Theo just so happened to see her, eh? Convenient,” she let out a heavy sigh. Draco tried to read her expression, but her face quickly reconfigured itself into her signature look of aloof reproachfulness.

“It’s what happened, more or less.”

“Oh, what a flimsy web you weave,” Pansy tutted. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you weren’t a Slytherin, let alone a Malfoy. Hermione isn’t going to buy that story when she finally thinks it over. And what if Theo or I slip up and tell her? Do you really want her to find out like that?”

Draco drew away from Pansy and towards the bar cart. She shot him a look. It was early in the day, but his pounding head told him it wouldn’t hurt. “You and Theo would never slip up.”

“Come on, Draco. Can’t you say her name, after all these years? Don’t you think she deserves to live on, in that way?”

“I didn’t deserve her in the first place.” Glass clinked against glass as he poured, not meeting his reflection in the mirror beneath the various bottles.

Pansy couldn’t deny it. No one could deny it. His intended bride had been kind, and true, and he’d loved her as much as an idiot Pureblood boy could. She deserved so much better, in life and in death.

He squinted down at the amount of whisky in his glass, swirling it around for good measure. A little more wouldn’t hurt.

“You didn’t. And I didn’t deserve her friendship. She opened my eyes. I wouldn’t have Luna without her.”

“I miss her. Especially when it’s like this.” Draco raised his glass and looked outside at the driving snow. Thinking of her only increased the hurt. His head throbbed, his heart ached, his eyes watered.

“Me too,” Pansy said. “Do you still love her?”

He paused.

“Sometimes I forget what colour her eyes were. When I went to the vault for her ring, I wanted the stone to match her eyes. But now I can’t remember if I brought back an aquamarine or a sapphire. I left it beside her, in the Manor,” Draco took a long drink from his whisky glass. “I loved her, because she made me think and laugh and hope. And she loved my mother. But I don’t think I loved her as I would a wife. I think I would’ve been a good husband, if we’d had the chance, but— “ He couldn’t finish.

Pansy held her arms open to him, and he crashed into her embrace. She took the whisky from him and stroked the back of his head.

“Shh, I’ve got you.”

He couldn’t hold back the torrential wave of grief.

“Astoria,” he gasped into Pansy’s black blazer. “Astoria, Astoria, Astoria.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Greengrass Manor made a mockery of time. It loomed, unchanged by war or man, over a vast front lawn, lit only by a large floating lantern. The green flame within contorted into writhing humanoid shapes, reminiscent of everything and everyone he hoped to forget. Draco shivered and upped his warming charm.

But the manor wasn’t his destination tonight. To the right, bathed in moonlight and ice, a flagstone pathway cut a glossy trail through the white snow. Voices rang out, echoing across centuries of forest and granite.

He didn’t have to go. Didn’t have to make small talk in front of Astoria’s tomb. Didn’t have to raise his Occlumency walls so high they’d stick out the top of his skull.

Draco resolved to go back the way he came when a black leather glove landed on his shoulder.

“Draco,” Yaxley simpered. “My condolences. Your father was a great man.”

Draco did his best not to be too rigid, instead adopting a haughty posture as he faced the man. He could do this. It would be easy to fall back on his old ways, if he had to.

“Yaxley, good to see you,” he drawled. “Father would be pleased to know you are in attendance tonight.”

In head to toe Death Eater regalia, Yaxley could have been the one floating outside his window a few nights ago. Draco gave nothing away, hoping the vile man would move on. There was no getting out of attending the vigil now that he’d been seen, but perhaps he could feign deep sadness and return to the flat early — although a different axe hung over his head there. He had no desire to talk to anyone, especially Granger, tonight.

His hopes were dashed when the Death Eater responded in a careful tone. “And are you pleased?” Yaxley’s grip loosened, his eyes fastened on Draco’s, searching.

Why the f*ck would Yaxley care if he was pleased?

Before Draco could conjure a response, Goyle appeared out of nowhere, smelling of cheap liquor and iron. “Draco, Yaxley, good to see you both. We’re about to begin.”

Goyle led them to the mausoleum, an amphitheatre of stone cascading from the top of a hill down to a ravine. The crunch of ice beneath his boots made Draco’s teeth clench as they approached. A swarm of Death Eaters buzzed, their loud conversation more appropriate for a raucous reunion than a sombre affair. When he glimpsed Astoria’s likeness, immortalised in gold-veined marble, he broke off from them without a word. He walked delicately around the ancient grave markers and away from the swirling black hole of dark magic threatening below.

He found himself kneeling in front of her tomb. Snow seeped through his trousers, numbing his lower legs, but he made no move to rise. His tongue lay thick and useless in his mouth.

“Astoria,” he shivered again. He thought he would feel her warm presence, or hear the tinkling of her laugh. “I should have come sooner.”

He brushed fresh snow from the inscription underneath the giant statue. Her date of birth, and her date of death stared back at him, as did a large set of roman numerals, representing the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But the Greengrass family motto, antiquum assero decus, was strangely absent. Had they known the truth?

Before Draco could contemplate this revelation further, Daphne came into view. Her pale glow raised something from the well of his mind, but he released the rope and sent the bucket clattering down into the darkness. He stood and bowed.

“Draco,” she said softly, joining him by her sister’s tomb. She hesitated, and then hugged him as one might a patient just released from hospital. Her black robes smelled like cedar.

“Hello, Daph.”

“It’s been awhile.” She weighed and measured him with a once-over.

This time, his mind didn’t stop the bucket from rocketing up and sloshing its contents over the edge.

Daphne, a black veil covering her deep blue eyes. Daphne, laying a single red rose on his mother’s coffin. Daphne, pulling Goyle away from him as they screamed obscenities at each other, wands out and primed to hex.

“How are you?” f*ck, that came out weaker than he’d intended.

But if anything, that drew her closer. “Not great. It’ll be ten years next week.”

“How could I forget?”

Goyle slithered past them and through the crowd. As Death Eaters let him pass, Draco recognised more than a few faces. Rowle, MacNair. He wasn’t sure how they’d slipped through the Dementors’ savage lips. But the real surprise was how many he didn’t recognise. Many of them looked his age, or younger.

“Is Blaise with you? Greg asked him to come and show his support.”

“No, he’s actually helping Gra—” An elbow belonging to someone jockeying their way to the front of the gathering interrupted him before he said something stupid. Goyle had likely spread the word about his marriage to Granger, but he’d be damned if he discussed his wife in front of his onetime future sister-in-law.

Daphne didn’t seem to notice the near misstep.

“How’s London?”

Draco eyed her curiously. “How did you know I’m in London?”

She didn’t bat an eye. “Greg told me. We’re engaged. And I know what you’re thinking, Draco — took him long enough. But I don’t want a winter wedding, so he’s agreed to wait until summer. I hope you’ll be in attendance.”

He ignored her invitation. “What else has Greg told you?” It was hard to tell in the dark, but Draco thought he saw a flicker of mistrust cross her face. Did she already know about Granger?

Just then, Goyle shot a burst of green sparks into the sky. They rearranged themselves to depict the face of Lucius Malfoy, glittering menacingly over the hooded figures below. The Death Eaters soon stopped milling about, some leaning onto headstones or statues. Their mutterings ceased as Goyle cleared his throat ceremoniously.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many of the faithful in one place. Welcome, brothers and sisters. Tonight we honour the life of someone close to the Dark Lord and his mission. A man who spent his dying days in Azkaban, but never once succumbed to the horrors within those walls. Lucius Malfoy,” he paused for effect. A few wands raised in the air in acknowledgement, sleeves receding down to shoulders. Draco stiffened at the sea of Dark Marks.

How were there still so many of them? What were those good-for-nothing Aurors doing? Why were they all here tonight, so openly remembering his father?

“Lucius Malfoy,” Goyle repeated. “He was the best of us. Though we have no body to lay to rest, we do have his son here with us tonight to say a few words.”

Heads swivelled, searching for Draco. His feet were like lead as he parted a black sea of cloaks and hoods towards a beaming, triumphant Goyle.

He had two choices. The first would sign his own death certificate. He could tell them all what he really thought about his father, the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord. Lambaste their ideas of magic and purity. Castigate them for their crimes. The Killing Curse would ring out from every direction.

It would be quick, and it looked easier than suffering under the Cruciatus. The old Draco Malfoy might have done that. He missed his mother more than anyone else in the world, and there had been many nights he’d contemplated joining her in death.

But he couldn’t leave this astral plane without knowing who killed her and Astoria. It occupied his thoughts from the moment he woke each day to the moment he gave himself up to sleep and the tortuous, unending nightmares that ruled his nights.

And so he chose a second path. Deception.

Occlumency was his friend as he shook Goyle’s outstretched paw with a grin.

Draco tipped his wand to his throat to broadcast his voice to the waiting Death Eaters. He twisted the hawthorn wood in his hand, testing his grip, applying unnecessary pressure to his carotid artery. Better to die by one’s own hand, if it came to it. “Goyle, thank you for organising this. I share his sentiment — it’s been far, far too long since I’ve seen so many of you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming out to show the Malfoy family your support."

“Our kind has lost so much these past few years. Family, friends, our homes, our money. My family has been particularly hard hit. My father was my last living family member that kept the old ways.”

“The pure way!” A man yelled out in a hoarse voice.

Draco soldiered on. “He taught me everything I know. He’s still teaching me, even now. Change is coming,” he paused, hoping it looked like he was suggesting the Death Eaters would rise again instead of his true wish, which was that they’d all drop dead. “Remember Lucius, my father, who never gave up. He kept the faith, when others were lured away by promises of Galleons and glory. Even after the first war, he never let so much as a blemish of betrayal or illegitimacy stain the Malfoy name.”

His stomach twisted as he forced the final words out in a shout. “He never gave up on the Dark Lord, and most importantly he never gave up on all of us!”

The applause was thunderous and instant. Death Eaters flocked to him from all sides, congratulating him on the speech, offering their condolences. It seemed like hours before they subsided, although it could only have been a few minutes. Draco remained composed, aloof, icy — like his father trained him.

After an interval, Goyle sent more sparks into the air, demanding the attention return to him.

“I’m proud to call Draco my longtime friend, and even more proud of the plans he has to restore us, and the Dark Lord, to our rightful places!”

“Hear, hear!” Shouts of agreement rang out.

Draco focused on retreating into the recesses of his mind. Plans? He had no plans. What was Goyle on about?

“You’ve all felt it. Our Marks,” Goyle gestured to his own. “They’ve been burning, itching, writhing across your forearms, have they not? And those of you without Marks before, they etched themselves into your skin a few nights ago, yes? The night of Lucius’s death. You know, he wrote to me often. He told me Draco had the power to lead us. And I believe he will. He’s got the knowledge, the might, and the magic only Purebloods can wield. And he’s got a secret weapon.”

He caught the glint in Goyle’s eye. No.

“He’s got Potter’s Mudblood.”

Horrified cries echoed through the ravine, and one woman, whose dramatics reminded him of Aunt Bella, pretended to faint.

“The press will have you believe they’re together. They’ll tell you true love has redeemed the last living Malfoy. But we know the truth. Draco would never sully himself with that foul Mudblood bitch. A plan is in motion. I can’t say more, but ready yourselves, brothers and sisters. Keep your wands close, and your wits about you. When Draco summons you, be prepared to meet the Dark Lord again, and account for all you have done in his name. Until then,” he raised his wand to the sky. “ Morsmordre.

The Dark Mark materialised above them, but Draco didn’t look up. Instead he stared at Goyle's wide eyes and manic smile underneath the Mark’s green glow.

❖

Draco melted past his wards, sapped of all energy. He shucked his greatcoat and scarf and tossed them onto the bench at the end of the bed. Exhaustion and cold lapped at his bones as he sat down to remove his boots.

It had been a huge mistake to go tonight.

Who’d have thought Goyle had it in him to be so cunning? He’d roped Draco into some diabolical plot he didn’t understand under the guise of a vigil. Draco tightened his hands into fists. There was nothing he hated more than being made to look foolish. It had been so easy to lure him to Greengrass Manor, into the den of Death Eaters. Goyle must have known Draco couldn’t resist seeing Astoria again, if only in stone. When had he become so predictable?

In the near decade since the murders of his mother and Astoria, how many visits had Goyle made to Lucius? Draco shunned his father, and never saw him after their last conversation. He’d asked not for permission to marry Astoria after their long courtship, which had been gleefully arranged by the Greengrasses and Narcissa, because he didn't need or desire Lucius’s blessing. No, he needed access to the box of engagement rings in the family vault, the password to which was safely guarded by the eldest married Malfoy man.

At first, his father appeared thrilled, speaking of duty and continuing the family line. He provided the password but suddenly startled, as if remembering something long forgotten.

“Wait. The younger Greengrass, not the older one?”

“Astoria,” he’d confirmed.

“Draco, my son, she is — you cannot marry her. I forbid it.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re not in a position to forbid me from anything.”

“Don’t walk away from me!” He rattled the bars of his cell as guards closed in, wands at the ready. “Draco, I won’t let you do this! Draco!”

The next day, Draco had gone to the vault and extracted a ring for Astoria. He couldn’t casually pop into one of the Diagon Alley jewellers and make a selection. Only the Malfoy family rings had the power to provide an heir. All Malfoy men, until they wed, were under a spell that rendered them infertile. While Pureblood men were encouraged to save their virginity for their wife, the spell was cast in the interest of keeping with the family motto, Toujours Pur , in case a man slipped up before marrying.

Draco could barely recall it now, but he’d been incandescently happy. Astoria, limpid-eyed like her sister, but otherwise nothing alike. She inspired wonder and joy wherever she went. She made his mother laugh for the first time in years, and that made the decision easier for him. He had to marry eventually, and why shouldn’t it be her? He’d been skittish, but she spoke of bubbling springs and ribbons and children — and he convinced himself his platonic love for her would crescendo into desire.

When he’d arrived back at Malfoy Manor, he expected to hear Narcissa’s smooth soprano reverberating through the kitchen, singing along to whatever music Astoria had playing in the dining room as she set the table. It had been their tradition ever since the courtship began. All three of them sat around a much smaller table, one that Nagini had never eaten anyone on, and served themselves, being that the Ministry had, after much wailing of the centuries-old creatures, transferred the Malfoy house elves to other homes. But they didn’t talk about the war, or anyone’s blood status. They smiled at each other and shared stories and intricate desserts.

Instead he was greeted with silence, and the horrifying scene that replayed itself in an unending loop each night when he finally fell asleep, if he slept at all.

It could only have been Lucius, but Draco didn’t know how he’d done it. Had he hired someone? Asked a Death Eater? Performed a dark spell remotely? And why his mother, too? Lucius claimed to love her and Draco more than anything, and while he knew his father’s version of love was corroded at the core, he never thought Lucius would kill his own wife.

Draco never answered one of his father’s letters again, and eventually they stopped coming. He assumed the man’s body and soul rotted away in Azkaban.

He should have never underestimated Lucius Malfoy.

Draco tried the door to the bathroom, but it was locked. Either Granger was in there, or she’d left it locked by accident. Or, he mused, to irk him. He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing from the other side.

“Granger? Are you in there?”

He received no response.

“I’m coming in,” he warned. “ Alohamora .”

The bathroom lay empty. The only signs that his wife shared the space were a tube of the tooth goop she used, a pile of hair pins, and a hairbrush exploding with strands of curly brown hair. He picked it up and ran his hand against the bristles. The door to her bedroom, his former library, was shut.

Draco contemplated wandering in. After all, she’d invaded his space yesterday, and who knows what state she’d left the room in. He expected it would be as wild and unkempt as her hair — wrinkled sheets, piles of clothes. But before he could give it further consideration, he heard shouts from down the hall.

He set the hairbrush down, drew his wand and slowly moved back into his bedroom. Merlin, this night of surprises refused to end. He entered the dark corridor, flattening himself against the wall as he crept towards the source of the shouting.

Draco stopped inches from Granger’s parents’ room. Granger’s father yelled something, Granger yelled back, and then he heard the sound of breaking glass. His heart nearly beat out of his chest as he pressed an ear to the door.

“I can’t live like this, Hermione! I won’t!” Granger’s mother screamed. “You have to do something. Make me forget again, I don’t care. You’ve always done whatever you wanted to, whatever your magical life requires. I’d rather die than be locked here like a prisoner another day!”

“Hermione, we just want to know what’s going on,” Granger’s father implored.

“I don’t. Maybe it’s foolish to think you’d ever give me a choice, but if you ever loved me, make me forget again so I at least believe I have my husband back.”

What the f*ck?

“Mum, please believe me, I love you. I didn’t want to do this! I didn’t want any of this,” Granger whimpered. Whatever she uttered next was too quiet for him to hear, but the bitter tang of magic filled the air and two large thumps followed.

A tense silence followed.

He’d promised Granger he wouldn’t interfere with her parents, but fear and curiosity overwhelmed his better judgement. Before he could consider the ramifications of breaking a promise to his wife, he turned the doorknob and nearly fainted.

Granger was bleeding. A sparkling spiral of glass shards, some tinged with red, encircled her kneeling form. Her parents lay stunned in their bed. When he blinked, he saw his mother and Astoria laying in a pool of blood on the dining room floor, surrounded by bits of glass and broken porcelain like some sort of twisted mosaic. It was all he could do to prop himself up against the doorframe and not pass out.

He blinked again and shook his head, calling upon his Occlumency.

“What are you doing here?” Granger hissed, wiping tears from her cheeks. “We had a deal!”

“You of all people should know deals can be broken,” he said pointedly. “I heard the yelling and — Granger, did someone Obliviate your parents ?”

She didn’t meet his gaze.

“This is why you hid them from me, isn’t it?”

“You and the entire wizarding world, yes.” She shifted back on her heels and, observant of all the glass, stood to face him. She looked nervous, but he didn’t know her well enough yet to decipher her emotions.

“How have you been caring for them alone?”

“I had to, it was the only way,” she said, as if she was pleading with him.

Draco reminded himself he could be cool and unattached as long as he was behind his walls. He could keep her talking. “This explains why they needed all those expensive potions ingredients.”

“You’re quick, Malfoy. Though it pains me, I’ve always admitted that much,” she said. Her voice had a hoarse and hollow quality to it.

“There’s just one thing I can’t figure out. My father and his merry band of murderers never found your parents during the war, and if they had, they would have killed them on sight. So if it wasn’t Death Eaters, who did this to them, Granger?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment, as if Granger debated answering it.

“I did.”

Her words hit him like an Unforgivable, and his walls came crashing down for the first time in nearly ten years.

“You’re a monster.” He staggered away from her, covering his mouth with a fist.

He was going to be sick right in the hallway.

Granger did this. Granger, who’d insisted she loved her parents. To think he’d felt sorry for her the other day, believing she was a dutiful daughter, when all this time he’d been bankrolling her depraved experiments. How had she Obliviated them to the point where they required constant care? It took extreme magic, maybe even dark magic, to reduce a human being to such a state. And she’d used it on Muggles. Her own family.

She lunged at him, grasping at the space he once occupied. “It isn’t what you think — Malfoy!“

Draco didn’t wait for her to explain. He ran straight for their bathroom and vomited directly into the porcelain sink.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Draco fell backwards onto the hard floor, short of breath. The acrid smell of singed fabric and the ache in his arm from the stinging hex exacerbated his headache. Despite a Sober-Up potion and several glasses of water, the untold number of drinks he’d had the previous night resulted in a piss-poor performance. He should have been dead several times over.

“You’re distracted,” Theo said, offering his hand. They’d been at it for an hour and Draco hadn’t so much as disarmed his longtime duelling partner.

Draco took it and Theo pulled him up. “You would be too. I’ve lived alone for years and now I’ve got three more people living in the flat. Granger and I share a loo, for f*ck’s sake.”

Theo quirked an eyebrow. “That bad?”

Draco ignored the question and readied himself for another round, turning and walking the required ten paces. Theo repurposed the room at his spacious flat in Chelsea years ago for this exact purpose, when Draco first decided he would have to be the one to bring the murderer to justice. Draco never expected he’d still be coming here weekly, honing his skills, but he was grateful for the distraction after last night.

He debated telling Theo about the vigil and the Death Eaters. Theo had more reasons than most to stay away. He’d denied Pureblood supremacy and his family’s wishes much sooner than others in their circle, and combined with his reputation for locking away the Dark Lord’s loyal soldiers, he was perennially at the top of their hit list. He’d been cornered a few times, but as a duellist he was positively lethal, and so Theo made quick work of his assailants. But as their numbers grew, so did the danger, and as much as Draco wanted to tell him, he wanted to protect Theo more. The less Theo knew about Death Eater activity, the less of a target he made himself. Draco could handle it.

And in truth, the situation he’d walked in on with Granger last night was the event that weighed more heavily on his mind. The screaming, the glass, the blood — it was all a horrific slurry in his mind, mixed up with memories from years ago.

They spun to face each other, and Draco blocked Theo’s disarming spell. He cast a jinx in response that went nowhere. They battled back and forth for several minutes, Draco wiping sweat from his brow as he advanced, allowing Theo no quarter. But his friend didn’t give up, giving as good as he got. After years of practise, the only way to gain the upper hand was to do something unpredictable.

“Granger Obliviated her parents,” Draco blurted out.

“What?” In the split-second it took for Theo to register Draco’s statement, Draco hit him with a Tarantallegra. Theo immediately sprang into a complicated tap dance. Draco twirled his wand so the thin-lipped solicitor performed a ridiculous pirouette. “Very funny.”

Draco couldn’t resist a laugh before ending his friend’s misery. “Finite.”

“I’m done for the day.” Theo summoned a towel and a glass of water, and Draco followed him into the living room. “Did you mean that? Granger Obliviated her parents?”

“She didn’t think to cast a silencing charm over their room and I heard them screaming at each other. Her mother knows she did it. I opened the door and found her bloody and her parents stunned.”

“Sweet Salazar. So that’s why you showed up smelling like a distillery this morning.”

Draco shot him a look that he hoped conveyed his annoyance and settled into an overstuffed chair. “You’d be drinking too.”

Theo’s face twisted into an expression Draco couldn’t place. “Maybe she had her reasons. Didn’t you think it was strange she insisted on bringing them with her originally?”

He leaned back and summoned his own glass of water. “As you might recall, I wasn’t thinking much about it at the time.”

“Sorry,” Theo winced. “Did you ask her why?”

“What possible reason could you have for Obliviating your Muggle parents and doing such a sh*te job of it that they’re permanently addled? Granger was always going on about being a proud Muggleborn and loving her parents. It doesn’t add up.”

“Which further proves my point. You should talk to her.”

“I’m not keen on shacking up with someone with loose morals. And I’m even less keen on starting an inquiry into Granger and her personal philosophy.”

“It’s not shacking up if you’re married,” Theo shrugged and headed back towards his room, raising his voice as he walked away. “Besides, aren’t you curious? She said she came back because she needs help for them. You could help. Do something productive for a change.”

A quick glance at the grandfather clock told Draco the solicitor needed to be at work soon. Draco cleaned both their empty glasses and sent them back to the kitchen with a few flicks of his wand. His only task done, he tapped his long fingers on the arm of the chair.

Did Granger have a good reason? She seemed sensible in both her mannerisms and attire. Sure, she hadn’t gone about progress in an effective manner at school — her overly enthusiastic initiative to free the elves came to mind — but what had he accomplished in that same vein? Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were all in the business of helping others. He’d told himself he was, too, by dedicating himself to finding and eliminating his mother and Astoria’s killer. The world would certainly be better off. But Draco hadn’t had a lead in awhile, and it terrified him to think that not only had the trail gone cold, but he might be stagnant himself.

“I’m starting to think you like her more than you like me,” Draco pouted as he adjusted his wand holster.

Theo came back into sight, wearing a fresh set of robes and gleaming wingtip boots. “Don’t be a brat. I thought you’d grown out of that snide, jealous little prince phase.”

Draco snorted. “Too bad you never grew out of your obsessive need to be right about everything.”

“You’re exasperating.” Theo looked at the clock. “I’m going to be late. Same time next week?”

“If Granger doesn’t scramble my brain by then.”

“I don’t know, maybe you should let her. Might be an improvement.”

❖

She’d really missed Wizarding London.

Even though she wore a glamour since she and Malfoy were keeping a low profile for now, Hermione felt at home amongst the throngs of wizards and witches doing their Christmas shopping. Street vendors called out, selling chestnuts and Yuletide candies. Children chased each other, arms laden with goodies, their laughter pealing through the frigid air.

She paused at a newsstand, pretending to be interested in the latest Witch Weekly as she covertly scanned the headlines of the major papers. A wave of relief washed over her. None of them featured any stories about Malfoy or herself. A black magazine cover with green sparks coming from the tip of a wand caught her eye as she adjusted her freshly purchased dresses over her arm. The Quibbler proclaimed Death Eater sightings were up across the country. Curiosity piqued, Hermione reached for the glossy magazine, but retracted her hand as she thought better of it. Her days fighting Death Eaters were over. Let the Aurors do what they do best.

She’d checked off everything on Pansy’s list during today’s excursion. As it turned out Genevieve was an elf, and very discreet. The mountain of dresses Hermione purchased to show her support had a Featherlight Charm on them, but they were still unwieldy. She hitched them up again, thankful that she’d already popped to Muggle London and gotten her hair cut so she could head straight back to Malfoy’s flat. Their flat? No, Malfoy’s flat.

Ordinarily she would have gone right back, but the cheerful holiday mood swept her out into the streets. For the first time in a long time, Hermione smiled. She pulled herself away from the small but intriguing selection of books and, in a moment of inspiration, shrank her dresses down to fit in her beaded bag. Her magic had been stronger since she turned over the care of her parents to Blaise, and her magical sensibilities were returning, too.

She still felt a bit off. A glamour usually covered any remnants of dark magic, but it didn’t subdue the deep ache of the chemical burn on her wand arm, and it didn’t hide it, either. The wound had fully blistered over, angry red outlining the large black oval, and it stung like a thousand little needles. She’d have to ask Blaise for a salve.

Once this business with Malfoy was over, and she found the right Healer for her parents, maybe she’d move to a city. Perhaps even London, if they got divorced, although Theo had made it clear when they wed that divorce wasn’t an option. Maybe not for Purebloods like them, but for Hermione Granger? If anyone could figure something out, it’d be her. Unbreakable Vows surely had workarounds, didn’t they?

Hermione shook her head, taking determined strides through the crowds. That was the kind of thinking that had gotten her here in the first place. Thinking that she could do anything, and do it alone.

She fiddled with her bag when a woman with bright red hair several metres ahead of her caught her eye. She had a shopping bag in one hand and a young boy holding the other, and wore a baby strapped to her chest — Hermione could see tiny booties sticking out on either side of the woman. Her heart stopped.

The woman crouched down momentarily, smiling at her son and fussing with his hat. One glimpse of her side profile was enough for Hermione to know exactly who she’d unwittingly followed. Ginny Potter and her two boys, Hermione’s godsons.

In another life, she’d have joined them on this shopping trip. They’d get presents for Harry, Ron, the kids — and maybe Hermione would have her parents and her own little family to shop for, too. It was her fantasy, so she indulged herself even further, imagining that Harry and her husband would meet up with them and treat everyone to hot fudge sundaes or cocoa at Fortescue’s. But any time she tried to picture her loving alternate-timeline husband, Malfoy’s face popped into her head.

She was right up on them now. Hermione tried to tear her eyes away, but lost her focus and instead dropped her beloved bag. A few beads popped off and bounced across the cobblestones. Hermione dove for it without hesitation, but the little boy — James — picked it up first.

They stared at one another for a split second. His eyes reminded her of Harry’s, clear and green. He offered her the bag with a shy look. “Miss, you dropped this. Happy Christmas.” Ginny ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Thank you. Happy Christmas,” Hermione murmured.

It happened in an instant. Ginny looked at the bag, then squinted at Hermione.

“Where did you get that bag?”

Hermione didn’t respond. She panicked. She snatched the bag out of James’s hands, saw an opening in the rush of people and leapt into it.

“Hermione!” Ginny yelled. “Hermione!”

But she didn’t look back. She ran until she couldn’t feel her feet, her breath coming out in quick little pants visible in the cold air.

❖

She could avoid Ginny, at least for now, but she couldn’t avoid Malfoy.

Last night, the only thing she’d wanted was to explain herself to him. But this morning, she slipped out of the flat as quietly as possible. Now, he sat at the kitchen table, head resting on his fists like a disappointed parent awaiting a teenager who’d snuck out the night before. A plain sheet of parchment lay before him.

Malfoy said nothing as she approached, sans glamour, and set her bag down. He didn’t bat so much as an eyelash when she withdrew her shrunken shopping and returned it to normal size. Dresses, boxes of shoes, quills — both real and sugar — as well as various makeup and hair products filled the room, covering every available surface. It occurred to her that this brand of extravagance was probably what Malfoy would’ve expected from a real wife.

Instead, he had a wife who grew forbidden herbs and dug graves in the moonlight.

What could she possibly say to him to make him understand what she’d done, and why she’d done it? Harry and Ron had taken it rather well, but they’d been used to shouldering far more than they could carry, and they loved her. She was under no delusion that Malfoy felt anything for her other than acute repulsion.

Hermione decided to focus on their assignment. She could handle a little homework. Her face felt hot as she swept aside a shoebox containing a pair of strappy heels so she could see Malfoy’s face. To her relief, he looked more amused than disgusted.

“We’re supposed to be working on Pansy’s enchanted parchment. What’s this?”

He flipped it over to reveal a list written in neat script. “Since I can’t think of even one nice thing to say about you right now, I figured I’d make myself useful another way.” He slid the parchment across the table to her. “It’s a list of Healers that specialise in memory care.”

She thumped down in the chair, forgetting it held an entire wardrobe of clothing, and shot right back up, backside smarting.

“I’ll get it.” He raised his wand, signalling for her purchases to follow him. It was a strangely kind gesture.

Hermione moved behind the worktop to make herself and her parents some of the herbal tea Blaise provided. It had already proven useful for relieving her parents’ stress, and Blaise attributed the results to slippery elm bark that dampened nerves. Hermione found it tasted rather medicinal, but she needed something after the shock of running into Ginny. She set a stasis charm over the cups for her parents until Mrs. Tannenbaum could take it to them.

“Don’t go in my room,” she called as he walked briskly through the hallway. “I’ve warded it against you.”

“It’s cute how you think some simple wards are going to keep me out of anywhere in my own home.”

Simple? Cute?

Sparks flew into the hallway, interrupting her train of thought. Malfoy shouted something angry and unintelligible.

“Told you,” she crowed. A smug smile flashed across her face as she turned her attention to the parchment before her. It was quite thorough. Malfoy had listed not only the name, credentials, and location of each healer, but also their subspecialties and publications.

“This is helpful, especially for you. Why are you doing this?” She yelled down the hall.

He stormed back into the room, his clothing shredded by her wards. Malfoy’s ripped trousers revealed black pants, and strips of his white oxford shirt hung from his shoulders. Hermione stifled a laugh. He looked like a busted, muscled pinata. “Because I’m the one who’s pure of heart in this — whatever it is we have. I threw your shopping bags into the room, by the way. It’s a right mess now.” He waved his hand through the air in irritation, and despite herself, Hermione admired the bicep that revealed itself through the remains of his sleeve.

She couldn’t hold a laugh back at that remark. “No, really. Why are you helping?”

She levitated an orange from the fruit bowl with her wand and unpeeled it in one long, satisfying go. Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at her. Maybe he was upset she’d taken the last one. She held out a slice to him, which he took, but only stared at as it lay in his hand. After a moment, he spoke again.

“You can thank Theo. I spoke with him this morning while you were out.” Malfoy didn’t look at her, fully focused on repairing his tattered shirt.

“You told him?”

Her mind raced with all the things Malfoy might have said. Theo was his solicitor — their solicitor — and would undoubtedly keep her secret. She surprised herself, feeling relieved rather than angry at Malfoy or fearful of Theo. In the past few days, more people learned about her parents’ situation than in the last decade. And all of them were trying to help.

“We have a standing duelling appointment, and when I turned up, in his words, ‘smelling like a distillery,’ he knew something was wrong. Your secret is safe, Mrs. Malfoy. In fact, he concluded you must have had a very good reason to do what you did.”

“He did?” She arched an eyebrow, both doubting Theo’s reaction and surprised at his new name for her.

“In any case, we both agreed I should try to assist you in finding your parents the best, most discreet Healer as quickly as possible. Blaise is undoubtedly skilled, but from what I understand he focuses on end-of-life care. The goal is to fully restore your parents, yes? And though my connections are not what they used to be, I’ve assembled a list of Healers to start with. Of course we’ll have to research them thoroughly. Not only should we take a tour of any memory care facilities you’re interested in, we should also look up any instances of medical malpractice, that sort of thing.” He retook both his seat at the table and the list, his warm hand brushing hers during the transfer.

Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. We? Malfoy, offering help, beyond money?

“Whether we like it or not, you are a Malfoy. You already exhibit some of our key traits — lying, dabbling in the dark arts,” he paused, whether for effect or to gauge her reaction, she couldn’t tell. “But also loyalty to one’s family above all else. You did this to them. But you didn’t abandon them. There, I suppose I can say one nice thing about you.”

How could she have abandoned them? It was unconscionable. Whatever they were to each other now, they would always be her parents. If she closed her eyes, she could see them as they used to be: Two people in love, singing along to old songs on the wireless in their former living room while dinner simmered and rain pattered against the windows.

She gulped, remembering the way she’d run from Ginny and her boys today, and how she hid away from the world the last few years — Harry, Ron, the other members of the Order. More people she loved, and that she actually had abandoned. Before this moment, she’d never stopped to think how she might have hurt them. She was protecting them by keeping them from the knowledge and fallout of her transgressions. Wasn’t she?

At least with Malfoy it wasn’t so unequal. His sins weighed even heavier, if there were scales to measure and judgement to be assigned. And though he didn’t know the whole story, and at first he ran from her, he came back.

“I’d be grateful for your help. Thank you.”

He nodded with a slight tilt to his lips, as if he understood how much the simple words cost her.

“This entire situation is f*cked up, but I know you suffered for them. Maybe I know it because we both excel at self-created suffering and like recognises like. But I think there’s more to this. Whatever your reasons were, Theo believes — and I suppose I can believe — you explored every possible option before Obliviating your own parents.”

He offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted, dabbing at her eyes. “I did. I tried everything. This is big of you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s expression was shuttered. “It’s nothing. Besides, I’m practising for our upcoming gauntlet of events and the relentless onslaught of deeply polarised public opinion, as you should be doing. All the world’s a stage, you know. And the more we know about each other’s secrets, the better.”

Before she could process the fact that he’d quoted Shakespeare to her, he continued.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he paused. The long white column of his throat bobbed. “About my mother.”

Hermione took in a sharp breath.

“She was murdered. On December 21st, 1999.”

❖

Despite a skilled Reparo, Draco might as well have been naked in front of Granger. Whether it was the shock of her secrets or simply the events of the last few days, he couldn’t say, but all his cold cunning drained from his brain whenever he was with her.

“The day we married,” she said, her voice infused with pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, especially not hers. He didn’t want anything from her.

Draco nodded.

Twin tears fell from her doe eyes. “You married me on the same day your mother was murdered. Draco —”

He interrupted her. “Going to call me a monster, Granger?” He couldn’t help the challenge in his words. If Granger took the bait, they could fight. He knew how to fight with her. She even made it enjoyable.

“Why would I do that? I remember, on the rooftop….” She trailed off. He’d made it worse. She clutched the handkerchief even tighter.

Draco threw up his Occlumency walls. He had to tell her, but maybe hiding behind his magic would make it easier. He pulled the bucket up from the well of his mind, filled with memories of his mother. Salazar, he needed a drink.

“Mother and I were supposed to have dinner that night. I still lived in the Manor. She needed me, you know. We had so much to repair,” he stumbled on the last word. There’d been so much more than the estate itself to repair. They’d had to work on their relationship, too. Draco had found it impossible to understand why his mother stayed faithful to his father when she didn’t hold the same set of beliefs or values.

Astoria had helped. But it didn’t feel right to talk about her now. No matter what Theo or Pansy or anyone thought, talking never helped. It simply gave your enemies more ammunition.

But he had to talk, because the one person who might make him look worthy of justice sat across from him, hanging on his every word. Draco reminded himself she was still an enemy. He needed to tread more carefully inside these walls than out in the world.

Yet, an enemy of his enemy might just become a friend. While his wife hadn’t told him anything about her relationship to the Ministry, Draco held suspicions that it was frayed. She’d abandoned her post without notice after their wedding, and for weeks the papers speculated on her whereabouts. Podmore couldn’t have been too thrilled at losing one of his most powerful vehicles for propaganda. Plus, if Granger knew what Goyle was up to —not that he would tell her where he’d been last night — she would be twice as disgusted as he was now.

It was to his advantage to tell her the truth that most benefited him and advanced his cause. Theo was right. Draco burned with the need to know who killed his mother and Astoria. He’d hunt their killer to the ends of the earth. Avada Kedavra would be too quick, too easy — he’d use his bare hands. Only then would he have some semblance of peace.

He would tell Granger — his wife — only about his mother’s murder. He didn’t need to drag Astoria and her secrets into this.

“Malfoy? Where did you go?”

He startled, shaking a little — the permanent aftereffects of Aunt Bella’s Crucios. She’d been more than happy to dole out punishment at Lucius’s command while he was out on official Death Eater business. The tremors were worse under stress.

Draco focused on shoring up his walls, the stoniness dropping back into his voice. “Sorry, where was I?”

“You’re an Occulmens,” she whispered. A look of awe passed over her face.

She’d caught him out. He sighed. It was one more thing he’d have to talk about.

“Yes. My aunt taught me.”

If the mention of the woman who tortured her bothered Granger, she didn’t let it show.

“Snape tried to teach Harry,” she offered. “Harry didn’t put the work in, though, and he’s still not very good at it.”

“Saying a word against Saint Potter?” Draco sneered. “My, how the mighty have fallen.”

At last, an opportunity to fight.

But Granger sidestepped his trap. Instead she rose from the chair, flinging down the handkerchief. It landed with his initials up, a cursive DM embroidered in silver thread. “He’s not a saint; he’s stupidly lucky, and half the time it’s wasted on him. I’d have made a far better Occlumens. Merlin, I didn’t mean to say that. I’ve been saying exactly what I think lately.”

Draco looked up at her. Her hair was shorter, but no less tame, and her cheeks were flushed. Something uncoiled within him, unfamiliar and familiar at the same time.

“I came home at dinnertime,” he began, willing his words into steadiness. “Everyone says this, but it’s true — I knew immediately something was wrong. I called out to her, and when she didn’t answer I started running. By the time I found her, she’d bled out. She’d been dead maybe a few minutes. I stayed with them — her — didn’t even think to look for the murderer because in my heart I knew who did it.”

“Your father.”

“Got it in one. He sent someone, or someones, to kill my mother.”

Granger moved about the kitchen, running her hands through her wild hair and worrying her lip. “It makes sense now, all of it… when you said he made a move to disinherit you, you meant he’d killed your mother. Merlin and Morgana.”

Draco pocketed the handkerchief after a wandless Scourgify. “Precisely.”

“This is why you didn’t want me to read the papers, in case they charged you with murder? You were there when the Aurors arrived, weren’t you? Did you stand trial?”

Now he rose, bumping into her mid-pace. He caught her by the arms, realising for the first time just how much taller he was than her. She flinched and he released her immediately. “Worried I murdered her?”

Granger didn’t even pause. “No. I testified for you after the war, and I’d do it again. You’d never do that.”

Fat lot of good that’d done. It was one thing for the Ministry to acknowledge a Muggleborn girl helped win the war, and another to listen to her diatribes about rights and lecture them with quotes from their own settled case law. They dismissed her as easily as they might swat at a persistent gnat.

“You’d be the only one who’d believe me,” he said, unable to keep the bitter edge out of his voice. “The Aurors didn’t arrive.”

“What do you mean? Any time magical blood is spilled, especially that of a Pureblood, Aurors are notified.”

“You’ve figured out everything this far. Tell me why they didn’t come,” he growled, stalking her across the kitchen. “Tell me why they didn’t come!” His broken shout echoed through the flat.

His wife remained silent, pressing her back against the worktop. She didn’t run. She didn’t hide.

Draco closed the distance between them in two strides and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark. “This is why, Granger. This is why.”

To her credit, she didn’t shy away. The unflappable Gryffindor held his gaze. “They didn’t care about some Death Eater’s mother getting killed.”

“No matter what my mother and I did after the war — and we did a lot, by any standard — the powers that be only saw us as backwards bigots. Even though I stood before the Wizengamot after the final battle, supposedly receiving a fair trial, and told them under oath I only wear this disgusting brand on my skin because I wanted to protect my mother, this is all they see. And even worse, it was an election year when they — when my mother died.” He corrected himself quickly. He had to stop saying ‘they.’

She looked away. “No new bodies. Can’t have it impact the polling. Nothing to see here.”

“Precisely. But more than that, things were getting better for Half-bloods and Muggleborns. As they should,” he said, appreciating the fierce nod she gave him. “But Podmore needed to unite them against something. It was the only way for him to hold onto power.”

“It wouldn’t be a stretch to further demonise Purebloods.”

Gods, she was quick. The conversation made his blood sing. Maybe Theo had been right about talking.

She pressed the pad of her finger into her full lips. “But he’d create the same problem all over again… Purebloods are the most likely candidates for Death Eaters. And even though there’s no chance Voldemort could ever come back, there’s a power vacuum. They’ll make a play at some point. Maybe they already have. The Minister can’t be so blind.”

“No? He turned a blind eye to the murder of Narcissa Malfoy, the best example of reintegration and unification possible. The whole Ministry is taking bribes from Pureblood families not to seize their estates and accounts.”

“That means some of them are already taking bribes from Death Eaters. Maybe knowingly.”

“I don’t doubt it, I pay them myself. And every year it’s always a little more. I paid off the reporters too, asking about what happened to my mother. I’m nowhere close to bone dry thanks to numerous investments abroad, but Pansy was nearly broke before her business took off. Why do you think Blaise is a Healer? And Theo never wanted to go into law, but it keeps him close to the powers that be.”

“This isn’t what we fought for.” Granger’s hand dipped into her pocket and clutched the end of her wand. Her knuckles turned white.

He smacked his hand on the worktop behind her. “These are the same people who let us fight their war. Maybe it wasn’t what you were fighting for, but they got the spoils all the same. I remember that sh*tty flat they put you up in, and the minimum wage desk job they offered you. I, the former Death Eater, have enough money to make it work, but yet you, a bloody brilliant Muggleborn and war heroine, have to marry your childhood bully to get a decent roof over your head.”

Draco realised he’d now said many, many nice things about his wife, who just last night he’d called a monster. If she’d noticed, she didn’t show it. She stood with her arms crossed, the only evidence of her mood. But he’d been in enough classes with her to know the look on her face now. The wheels of her mind were whirling.

“We have to do something about this, Malfoy.”

The sly smile rippled across his face before he could school himself. “Why, Mrs. Malfoy, I couldn’t agree with you more.”

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Hours later, Hermione finished hanging her new clothes in the armoire and ran her hands across the variety of lush fabrics. She’d insisted on everything being cruelty-free and ethically sourced so she could truly enjoy each piece. She had to admit it felt nice to have new clothes, and most of them proved practical as well as beautiful. Not that there wasn’t room for the strictly beautiful. Her heart gave a tiny leap as her fingers brushed the bodice of her Solstice Ball gown.

The leap turned into freefall when Malfoy rapped gently on the open door. “I know better than to try entering without your permission again.”

She slammed the armoire door shut, drawing her wand. He held up both hands and turned them in front of her twice. “I’m unarmed, darling.”

“First of all,” she said, keeping her wand between them. “You might be unarmed, but I’m sure you’re still quite dangerous.”

That earned her an eyebrow lift.

“And secondly, don’t call me darling.”

He remained in the hall, but dared to lean against the open door. “You’re in no danger from me, dearest.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of Malfoy’s playful side. He’d always loved games, to be sure, but only if they served him. More likely he behaved this way because he’d shown too much of himself earlier. It worried her that she was enjoying it. “Somehow I doubt that. What’s with the nicknames?”

“Now kitten, you very well know I can’t say Granger anymore. What will our adoring fans think if they overhear me talking to you and I call you by your maiden name? We need them to suspend their disbelief. They have to be transported into an alternate universe where we’ve been feathering our love nest over the past decade. Hmm, maybe lovebird will work.”

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh as she lowered her wards and allowed him entrance. She tucked her wand in the waistband of her new trousers. “Do I have any say in this?”

He strolled in as if he owned the place, which, to be fair, he did. But it still raised her hackles to have Malfoy in the only space she called her own. She held her ground as he glanced around the room. “Of course, pet. Any of these striking your fancy?”

Pet. Her father's name for her. She struggled to maintain her composure, firing back with all her ire instead.

“None of the above. And definitely not pet. Do you want them to think you locked me in a cage all this time?”

“Don’t kink-shame, Grang— my dove. A lot of women would love to spend some time behind bars with me. I got a lot of letters in Azkaban, you know.”

She let his latest endearment slide. “I’m sorry you served time.”

“It would have been more if you hadn’t spoken up,” he said, shattering the moment by abruptly clapping his hands together. When he spoke again, his voice boomed. “So, Pans is going to have my head if we don’t have our assignment done before we see her next.”

“I fail to see the problem here, Malfoy,” she smirked.

He sat on the edge of her bed, tucking one fist under his chin. “Malfoy, hmm. No, I don’t fancy that one. How about hubby?”

“Malfoy.”

“Not cutesy enough? Maybe snooku*ms. That’s one you don’t hear often.”

“ Malfoy. ” She infused his name with all her annoyance.

“Ah, so you want to go the other direction with it. Master, ” he said darkly.

Heat swept across her cheeks. “Absolutely not.”

She hated to admit it, but joking around with him awakened a side of her she thought she’d lost. It was almost fun, if one could forget they shared a life raft with a vulture. He’d be fine with or without her. With her, he might get justice for Narcissa. Without her, he would be free of their vow. He was a scavenger, a survivor. If she didn’t plan her moves carefully, Malfoy would feast on her until her bones lay bleached by the sun.

Or worse, he’d trap her here with him forever, playing the dutiful wife, let out for good behaviour on special occasions.

“We’ll keep workshopping. For now, I think we should work on these,” he held up the spelled parchment. “Together.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “I need a drink.”

He grinned. “I have a wide selection. What’s your poison?”

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“Biscuit, we can’t go anywhere public. Probably not even Theo or Pansy’s offices. You never know who we might run into in the corridors, ready to sell our information to the highest bidding rag.”

“We could go to Muggle London.” She held her breath.

Malfoy tilted his head. After a moment, he said, “Lead the way, sweetheart. I’ll get our coats.”

❖

She let Malfoy Apparate them. Even though Hermione’s magical strength resurged since she hadn’t brewed the potions recently, she didn’t trust herself to Apparate them unscathed. Her scarred arm still throbbed from the ritual she performed not even a week ago, and the black veins in her hands stubbornly remained. It was nothing a little makeup couldn’t hide, but usually the effects of dark magic had worn off by now. She shivered, trying to convince herself it was the chilly night air.

“This place looks good. Not too crowded,” she said, pushing in the door of a ratty pub. Laughter rang out from their fellow patrons who sat in cosy booths with maroon leather backing. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled around numerous miniature Union Jacks and other bric-a-brac. Malfoy took her coat and they made their way to an empty booth in the back.

“I’ll order for us at the bar,” Malfoy volunteered.

Hermione scanned the drink menu. “You’ll probably want a whisky. They’ve got a few varieties.”

“I know what I like. I’m not new to Muggle nightlife.”

She paused and caught his gaze for a moment before returning the menu to the holder between the mustard and brown sauce. “I’d like to hear the story behind that.”

He shook his head, and she saw him build his walls again. “Another time. What would you like? It’s on me.”

She resisted telling him whoever paid, it was his money. “You have Muggle money? You’re full of surprises. Alright, alright, I’ll have a Poinsettia.”

When he returned with their drinks, she turned his attention to a nearby shelf and wandlessly checked her drink for any alterations. “Look, they’ve got Muggle board games.”

She found none. The lip of the glass passed hers, and bubbly bravery ran down her throat, cold and delicious.

Malfoy eyed the games as he sipped his drink. “Let’s play something. You pick.”

“We’ve got work to do.”

“Well,” he said, picking up Monopoly. “Maybe this will help with our work. You can learn a lot by playing games.”

“Not that one. It’s classist rubbish. How about…” Hermione scanned the boxes. “Connect Four! Oh, I used to love this one when I was a little girl. Used to play it with my— my dad.” She stumbled over the last words as she remembered her dad, younger and jollier, pulling the blue and yellow box from the game closet.

They scooted back into the booth and Hermione unpacked the game. The plastic pieces had seen better days, but all were accounted for.

“How do we play?”

“The idea is to connect four of your discs — these red and black pieces — either vertically, horizontally, or diagonally. Whoever does this first is the winner. We take turns dropping discs into the slots, one per turn. I’m always red,” she said, sliding the red pieces towards her side of the slightly wobbly table before continuing.

“So I drop a disc into this middle slot and you can see it falls all the way to the bottom. Now you would drop one of your discs into a slot — either above me or in one of the slots beside me to block one of my paths to connecting four. And if neither of us can connect four, it’s a stalemate, although that doesn’t happen much.”

She slid the plastic tab on the bottom of the game to release the little red disc. It bounced to a stop on the tabletop, landing in front of Malfoy. He picked it up and squinted at it.

“And you loved this game? It’s obvious that the first to move has a clear advantage.”

Hermione stirred her drink, sending cranberries floating up to the fizzy surface and back down again like miniature ping pong balls. “I played hours of chess at Hogwarts. Ron always liked chess. He’d set it up in the Gryffindor common room, and when the weather was too bad for flying or visiting Hagrid, and I’d finished the homework for the next week, we’d play. It's got strategies like any other game, but after your opening moves, so much depends upon the players' demeanors. I was never very good at it, mostly because I could never figure out a sure path to victory." She took another drink before continuing.

“Theoretically, chess is solvable, but the number of possible moves is so vast that it would be incomprehensible to any human. Muggle computers could calculate it if they were powerful enough, I suppose. But it’s not considered a solved game, and I enjoy true solved games, even if a lot of people find them pointless. Tic Tac Toe, for instance — you can map out all possible scenarios and it's clear that in perfect playing conditions, the first to move, X, will always win. Unless you're playing with a child or someone inexperienced, you know exactly how it'll play out. There's something about it, you know. Knowing exactly how to trounce your opponent. You just have to move first.”

Malfoy met her eyes. “And if you move second?”

Her throat was suddenly dry. “Then they have to make a mistake, and more importantly, you have to capitalise on it.”

He made something of a humming sound. “Let me guess, ladies first?”

“Don't mind if I do.”

She picked up a red disc and initiated the game. Malfoy responded quickly, cutting her off vertically. They went back and forth until, as Malfoy had predicted, Hermione won. It had taken her less than 2 minutes to defeat him.

“Maybe let’s ask each other these questions between moves. Might stretch the games further,” Malfoy said, subtly casting a Notice-Me-Not charm. Hermione pulled out a quill for each of them.

She decided to start with an easy one. “What is your favourite dessert?”

“Lavender and honey macarons.”

She scratched down his answer. He told the truth: Her handwriting didn’t disappear.

“Yours?”

“Chocolate mousse,” she admitted. “I have a terrible weakness for all things chocolate. I’ve always got a few squares stashed in my bag.”

“Maybe we’ll tell the press I surprised you with homemade chocolate mousse on our first anniversary.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “There’s no way you know how to make chocolate mousse, Malfoy.”

“Yes, but I’ll let you in on a little secret about reporters. They don’t have magical lie-detecting parchment,” he said, dropping one of his black discs into the centre slot. “They’d never get anything published. Also, it’s Draco.”

“You still won’t call me Hermione,” she countered, blocking his assault with a disc of her own.

“Another astute observation, dear heart.” Another piece fell into place.

Hermione calculated her next move and confidently dropped her red disc into a slot left of centre. “You’re in zugzwang.”

Malfoy froze with his glass halfway to his lips. “Are you attempting Parseltongue?”

“No, I’m telling you you’re in zugzwang.”

His grey eyes shone with concern. “I regret to inform you that either you’re having a stroke or your only drink of the night has gone straight to your head. Either way, we should probably get you some medical attention,” he said as he rose.

Hermione jumped up and pressed his shoulders down forcefully, seating him back in the booth. “I’m perfectly well, Malfoy. Zugzwang is a situation in which the obligation to make a move puts you at a disadvantage — usually one you can’t come back from.”

Malfoy squinted at the game. “I see. It’s like checkmate. No matter where I drop my next disc, you win. Here,” he pointed, “you’ll put yours on top and win horizontally. And here, diagonally. And in the other direction as well, if I fill the gap here.”

“Ten points to Slytherin.”

“That does me no good and you know it. You’ll award fifty bonus points to yourself at the last minute and take the cup,” he joked, a hard-won smile crossing his face. Hermione smiled back without thinking.

They went back and forth, falling easily into gentle ribbing as they answered the remaining questions. By the time they’d shared their favourite songs (“I’ll write down ‘some Muggle tripe’ — will that cover it?”), best friends (“Buckbeak is one word, right Malfoy?”), and how they liked their coffee (“How interesting; we both prefer it unsweetened.”) their drinks were nearly empty and Connect Four long forgotten.

Last call rang out as they came down to the final question. Hermione held up the parchment and read aloud. “What is your favourite memory with your partner?”

Draco said nothing as he plucked the parchment from her hands and wrote his answer on it. He signed it at the bottom, rolled it up and handed it back to her.

Hermione couldn’t guess his game. She gripped the scroll in a tight fist, unsure whether she should open it and read it. Would his answer embarrass him? Or worse, would it embarrass her? Nervousness bubbled in her chest. “Alright then. Mine is watching you scurry around after Crouch Jr. turned you into a ferret,” she bluffed. She regretted it as a long silence unfurled between them.

Malfoy finished his drink and turned the tumbler in his hands, the green and red Christmas lights refracting through the diamond-patterned glass. He stared at her for a moment. “Is it?”

He’d caught her out. While she previously recounted the memory fondly, with time she’d seen it for what it was — cruelty draping itself in justice. “No.”

She fidgeted in her seat. Malfoy looked at her like he was searching for something, but evidently he didn’t find it, because he broke eye contact to give her his own parchment. “Here, you don’t have to say it aloud.”

The nervousness was replaced by crushing regret. They'd had such a nice evening together, she and Malfoy. Now she'd ruined it, first with a joke that went too far and then with her reluctance to tell him the truth, which is that her favourite memory with him had been made tonight.

Hermione hastily scribbled her answer, rolled up the parchment and put both scrolls in her bag. When she withdrew her arm, she cried out, clutching at her forearm.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

"Ahhh," she hissed through gritted teeth. "This happens sometimes," she curled in on herself, rocking gently in the booth.

"Let me see," he said, a worried edge in his tone. He reached for her hand but she pulled her arm tighter against her chest.

She shook her head. "It's just a chemical burn. I must have agitated it somehow. It'll pass."

"Chemical burns don't come and go."

"I said it's fine!" She jumped up out of the booth. "Let's just go."

But even as she put on a brave front, she stumbled as a new symptom hit her. Hermione could only watch as the world fell away and she found herself transported to a nightmare.

She sat at the head of an endless dining room table. Curls of smoke, heady with the scent of incense, strangled her nose and mouth. Hermione clawed at the ornate silver chair, but found herself pinned down by heavy coils of a giant snake. Shrouded figures, their bodies obscured except for their skeletal hands, raised goblets overflowing with blood into the air. With horror, she realised they were toasting her, chanting something ancient and arcane. Unable to escape or scream, she finally looked at herself. Her hands were translucent and veins fully black, accentuated by peeling fingernails.

Hermione snapped back to reality outside the pub. Malfoy walked alongside her, his arm supporting her good one. The pain in her other arm dulled, but only minimally. What the f*ck was happening?

His lips were moving, but she couldn’t focus. The concern in his eyes ratcheted her heart rate right back up.

“What?”

“I said, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Have Blaise take a look at it, though, don’t slap one of your homemade poultices on it and call it good.”

How much time had she just lost? What had she said while she was in the throes of the hallucination?

She swallowed her questions to digest later. “I’m glad I’m better, too. I’d hate to ruin our date.”

“Is it still a date if we’re married?”

She hoped he mistook her shaking for a silent laugh. “I think so.” She hadn’t intended to let that truth slip, but he rewarded her with a smile that brought out the subtle crinkles around his eyes.

They stopped in the middle of the street, deserted at this late hour. Malfoy wore a halo woven by the dim light of the streetlamps, and though he looked down at her with genuine warmth, she’d never felt further from heaven. A deep sense of wrongness claimed her heart. His smile faded, and they resumed walking towards the Apparition point.

“Can't believe I'm going to agree with Weasley on something, but I much prefer chess to Connect Four. Solved games might suit you, muffin, but I need more intrigue.”

“Oh?” She still didn’t feel capable of conversation, but she nudged her brain along.

“I like to know that whatever's behind me, there's still a chance to win. There has to be a chance. And nobody has to make a grave error to give me that chance.”

“You want to make your own luck.”

“Technically, we can,” he smirked. Felix Felicis. Of course.

Hermione had to laugh at that. “Would you rather be lucky or good?”

“Why not both?”

“Say you had to choose.” Teasing him made her feel more like herself.

“If I have you by my side, I'd choose good.”

His answer unmoored her. She’d been so certain he’d choose lucky. Luck usually brought fortune, success, renown. All the things she’d known him to covet.

“Why?”

His grin rivalled the devil himself. “Because if that's the case, I'd have already used all my luck.”

Was Malfoy flirting with her? She pushed the ridiculous idea from her mind and focused on the road ahead. “What’s our plan, Draco?”

She didn’t miss the upward quirk of his lips at the sound of his first name. “Our plan for what?”

“Finding out who killed your mother. Bringing down the Ministry.”

“Whoa there, my Gryffindor girl. Let’s start with solidifying our story with Pansy. Once the world knows about our marriage, and we're more comfortable with each other, we’ll go out. Gather intel, find allies, etcetera. Aren’t you the one who has experience with this sort of thing? Bringing down evil and all that with your meddling crew?”

Hermione didn’t bother stifling her laugh. She tucked her hair behind her ears and raised her head to get a better look at him. She hadn’t seen it before, but he’d grown out of his pointy boyish features. He was solid and clean cut but the raw undercurrent of his magic gave him a mysterious edge. In fact, Malfoy could be quite handsome when he was joking.

“Aye aye, captain,” she mocked with a salute.

“Am I a piratical sort, or one of those stodgy types? If you’re taking my preferences into account —”

He stopped, reaching inside his coat where she knew his wand lay snug in its holster. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from something.

“What?” She had the good sense to whisper her question.

“Quiet.” He issued it not as a warning but a command.

All the warmth and humour they’d kindled during their outing vanished from his face. He was tense, poised to strike. If he had fangs, they’d be bared.

He turned from the darkness and pulled her to his chest, and the unease that crept up Hermione’s throat was forced back down by the familiar pinch behind her navel as Malfoy Apparated them both away.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Draco bid a confused Granger goodnight outside her door. The wards shimmered as she stepped through the portal, and something unknotted in his chest. He couldn’t shake the idea that something, or someone, had been lying in wait outside the pub tonight.

It was ridiculous. Probably just some Muggle drunkenly staggering home.

The alcohol had long since faded from his system, but he still felt drunk himself.

Granger positively glowing under Christmas lights. Granger’s tongue slipping out to wet her lips as she contemplated her next move. Granger as she triumphantly lifted her honeyed eyes to his every time she won a game or got in the last word.

Draco didn’t want to think of her this way. Well, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t allow himself to think of Granger. Granger and the way she hummed after he said something that pleased her.

He was doing it again.

It didn’t help that he admired her more and more each time they spoke. When he’d had a chance to think about why she might’ve Obliviated her parents, it all made sense. She was protecting them in the only way she knew how. She’d known the Death Eaters would become desperate for any way to draw her out and her Muggle parents would be entirely vulnerable.

Hermione Granger was no monster, just as she was no fool.

There was only one fool under this roof. And he needed to remind himself why this business between him and Granger was just that — business. Nothing more.

He’d protected her the only way he knew how. Like he wished he could’ve protected Astoria.

Draco slid his arm out from underneath the covers and opened his bedside drawer. He didn’t look, simply patting his hand across the litany of items that tend to gather in bedside drawers until he felt the familiar stack of letters. Pulling them to his chest, he opened the first one. The letter that started it all.

Draco,

Thank you for the tour of the hedge maze yesterday. I confess that the subtle art of topiary design eludes me, but your mother assures me that with practise, I will become as deft a hand as she. I hope to live up to her expectations, and yours.

Do you hope to have a most traditional wife? Where would you like to honeymoon? Do you wish to reside at Malfoy Manor together, with your mother? I know so little of you, and you so little of me. Tradition instructs us that this is the way it’s always been done. But aren’t you scared, Draco? To magically bind yourself to someone you hardly know?

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m flattered beyond belief to be your intended. It’s only that our courtship is so new, and we’ve never been alone together. There’s so much about me I want my husband to know. Since our correspondence is our own, might I tell you?

I look forward to tea next week. Daphne takes her role as chaperone quite seriously, so perhaps be more subtle this time if you want to steal a moment alone. I still haven’t gotten the wine stain out of my gloves.

Sincerely,

Astoria Greengrass

Gods, those satin gloves. Spilling the red wine had been a true accident, but it’d launched their friendship. He’d bought her a new pair just to see her smile.

He couldn’t stop torturing himself. He flipped the pile over and brushed his thumb across the last letter he’d received from her. The stationery, bordered with tiny blue hyacinths, was thin and soft from almost a decade of folding and unfolding.

D,

Cissy’s been acting off this week. She’s been rather cagey about dinner tomorrow night, and she can’t keep a smile off her face. Does this mean what I think it means? I promise I’ll act surprised.

If I’m right, and I suspect I am — just think, in a few weeks we’ll be married and cavorting around Venice. I’ll twine my fingers through yours whenever I like. Do you think you’ll be able to snog me on every bridge in the city in just one week? I’m told there are over 300.

I’ve bought my Solstice Ball dress. Don’t ask me what colour, because it’s a surprise. And I can hear you worrying already, but Cissy says you’ve something in your wardrobe to match. No man has ever cared about fashion as much as you, Draco Malfoy. It’s one of the many reasons I adore you.

I also picked up a few things for the London flat. You’re sure? We can always move back if you miss Wiltshire too much. I ran into Pansy while I was there. She said she’s asked Luna on a date. We should all get together after we unpack.

About my last letter… I’ve never been so scared in my life as when I posted it. You deserved to know, but D, I want to be with you more than anything in the world. The thought of losing you because of something I can’t change almost destroyed me. I believed deep down you’d accept me, after all our conversations and trips to Muggle London, but I doubted you’d continue our courtship. I promise you, I’ll be a devoted wife and mother, and we’ll be happy together.

You’re the only one I’ve ever told. Not even Daph knows.

Turns out even a half-blood Squib like me can fake it pretty well at Hogwarts if her family greases the right palms. Father couldn’t stand for anyone to think he couldn’t keep my mother in line, and so despite everything, he’s propped up this lie. And now they think they’re getting one over on you and your family. They don’t know you at all.

You’ve changed so much.

I may not be a Greengrass by birth, but our future children will be Malfoy through and through. There’s a chance they’ll have your magic. You can say you don’t care all you like, but I know you want to fly any child of ours up on a broom as soon as they can sit up independently. I want to see it, too.

One day, maybe we’ll tell the truth. Maybe our love will change the world.

Yours,

Tori

Draco flung his arm over his face and silenced the room. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he pressed the letter into his chest as if the words weren’t already stamped across his heart.

❖

Hermione winced at the excruciating pain radiating through her entire arm. She threw her bag on the bed and went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror, patting her clammy hands into her face.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to believe it.

What happened back there? One minute she was in the pub, the next she was transported somewhere she’d never been before. Somewhere awful, dank and dark. She closed her eyes in an effort to recapture the vision. Looking back, certain details made even less sense than before. Why would Death Eaters drink to Potter’s Mudblood? Why didn’t the snake, who must’ve been Nagini, constrict itself around her ribcage to crush her? Mostly she remembered her hands, the prominent veins scrunched and black underneath her skin.

Was it her, or was she someone else in the vision?

Her brain almost refused to process it, reverting back to the memory of walking to the Apparition point with Malfoy.

A sharp lance of pain encouraged her to roll up her sleeve. She quickly cast a silencing charm in case the pain was even more acute when she assessed the injury — in case she screamed.

She didn’t have to roll it up far before she broke into a sweat. The bubbling burn had taken on a familiar shape. A banded snake emerged from a human skull, onyx-eyed, tongue flickering to taste the fleshy part of her wrist.

The Dark Mark.

It slithered a sinister greeting, and she yelped and shuddered as if someone had just walked over her grave.

Hermione staggered back from her reflection in horror. This couldn’t be happening. Surely this was a nightmare? She pinched her upper arm, the way Muggles do in movies. Chiding herself for her foolish reaction, she pulled her wand and cast a litany of detection spells. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.

Within minutes, she arrived at the unfortunate conclusion that she was awake, and this was all too real.

A loud squawk sounded from the window and Hermione’s heart threatened to pound out of her chest. She spun around and nearly hexed the owl that swooped down and landed delicately on the window ledge. The creature bore such distinctive cream colouring that Hermione surmised she could only belong to Pansy. Hermione invited the bird in, dispensing her of her note, and offered a treat. If beaks could be turned up haughtily, the proud owl would have raised hers as high as possible. Without waiting for a reply, it ruffled its long, brindled feathers and took to the skies once more.

It was not an invitation so much as a summons.

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,

I received an owl from The Daily Prophet this evening revealing their intent to go public with your marriage. They invite us to submit a photograph and offer comments.

As soon as you receive this message, come to my office to discuss next steps.

Best,

Pansy Parkinson

Parkinson Public Relations

Hermione glamoured her arm in a panic, but to her dismay, the Mark resisted, just as it had before when she’d thought it was a burn. No no no.

Had she somehow accessed Voldemort’s memories when she performed the rehabilitation spell? The explanation didn’t quite fit — the Death Eaters in her vision weren’t cowering like they usually did in the Dark Lord’s presence, and the hands she saw were her own. So not a memory, then.

If only Harry was here. He’d been inside the Dark Lord’s mind. He’d know what this was. But what would she even say to him?

“Hey Harry, I know it’s been awhile. Sorry I stopped writing to you — turns out I couldn’t reverse my parents’ Obliviation and lying to you was easier. In the meantime, I married Malfoy, who actually isn’t so bad after a couple drinks. Oh, also, I unintentionally took the Mark because I’ve been wielding ancient dark magic. Could really use your help with that. Anyway, how’re the kids?”

That wouldn’t do at all. If any chance remained of restoring their friendship, she certainly couldn’t turn up on Harry’s doorstep like this. She took a deep breath in an attempt to quell her rising terror.

Only a few hours earlier it felt like things were on the up and up. She and Malfoy had exchanged secrets, and actually got on well enough. Blaise now shouldered some of the immense pressure of caring for her parents. Pansy retracted her claws long enough for Hermione to ponder friendship, and her relationships with Luna and the Potters seemed the perfect way to reintegrate herself with the friend group.

All that progress dissolved in the wake of the writhing brand on her arm, wearing her Mudblood scar like a tilted crown.

A crown. A leader, power-hungry and mad.

It was entirely obvious. She should’ve seen it all along. That book wasn’t an original text from centuries ago that just so happened to be at the Riddle House. It might have been worn, but it wasn’t rotting or falling apart. Someone had copied from other texts, compiled it all together. And that someone was Tom Riddle himself.

What that meant exactly, she couldn’t be sure of yet. Terror rose in her chest, her heart banging against her ribs like a desperate prisoner rattling their cage. She had to keep her wits about her. This was no time to unravel.

A quick Accio guided gauze and ointment into her hands. Hermione paused, afraid to press into the Mark. Would she summon someone? Could she somehow be summoned? She reasoned her jumper applied light pressure throughout the day, and so she coated the affected area with ointment and wrapped her arm from elbow to wrist. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she’d need Blaise’s help. She’d show him in the morning and formulate a plan.

Tugging her sleeve down over the bandage, she composed herself as best she could and tried the bathroom door that led to Malfoy’s room. Expecting to find it locked, she stumbled into his room only to find him adjusting his clothing. He shoved something in his bedside drawer with a loud bang.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect —” she swallowed and tried again. “Pansy sent for us.” She waved the note in the air like a white flag.

Malfoy marched across the room and snatched the note from her. “You really ought to knock, Granger. You’ve no idea what I get up to in here.”

A flash of embarrassment followed by heat swooped through her. She had some idea. Probably the same thing she got up to, since they’d agreed all those years ago to abstain from seeking release with others.

He crumpled Pansy’s note and took a fistful of Floo powder, co*cking an eyebrow at Hermione. “You coming?”

His question fanned the flame within her, and she was fairly certain he’d done it purposefully, because a knowing smile curled his lips. She stepped onto the hearth next to him, and as he called out their destination, it occurred to her she felt safe.

❖

Moments later, they arrived at Parkinson Public Relations. Despite the late hour, an assistant met them in the lobby, where a large Christmas tree glittered in the corner. Someone had charmed it to redecorate itself every few seconds, strands of ribbon and light wrapping themselves up and around the fluffy branches. Hermione couldn’t help but smile as the lights switched from a soft white to multicolour.

“I used to have those same lights growing up. My dad made popcorn and we’d thread a bit of fishing line through it. Usually we ate most of it so not much actually ended up on the tree.”

She looked up at him awaiting his response. Maybe he’d share a memory of his own. But Malfoy said nothing. Hermione’s smile dimmed as she followed the assistant through a set of double doors. She noted he didn’t walk beside her or offer her his arm as he had earlier. Instead, he trailed behind, his footfalls and the faintest hint of lavender the only evidence he was there at all.

A sharp loneliness lanced through her. In such a short time, she’d come to rely on his presence. She brought her hand across her chest and clutched her right upper arm. It did nothing to soothe the worry bubbling up inside. She hadn’t meant to walk in on him earlier — maybe he valued his privacy after living with Voldemort for so many years, and she’d rattled him. Or maybe in the afterglow of their outing he regretted their frank conversation. Surely he didn’t know about the Dark Mark developing like a Muggle photograph on her skin.

The assistant left them in Pansy’s immaculate space. Hermione sat on the far end of a tufted settee, leaving plenty of room for Malfoy. But he remained standing near the door like a sentry awaiting orders.

Before she could inquire what spurred this change in him, Pansy strutted in. Everything about her spoke of flawless poise and limitless energy, as if it wasn’t past midnight and she always wore sheath dresses and sky high heels. She nodded to both Malfoy and Hermione and took her seat behind a glass top desk.

“I appreciate you both arriving so quickly. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I couldn’t sleep,” Malfoy said with a frown.

“You both finished your assignment?” Pansy asked. Hermione suddenly regretted not looking more closely at their answers.

Hermione walked the parchment over and, feeling unsure of what to do with herself, remained standing by Pansy’s desk. Pansy, unruffled by the awkward hovering, set a Quick-Quotes Quill to work recording their answers. When it finished, she returned the pages to Hermione who stuffed them in her beaded bag indiscriminately. “Excellent. This’ll come in handy if we need to give the article itself more colour. I haven’t received a draft yet, but I’m sure they’ll take as much editorial licence as the law allows. But there’s no need to worry, we’ll have the final say.” Pansy, missing nothing, clocked the distance between them and continued.

“I couldn’t get the intimacy coordinator out tonight, but you both need to practise a few poses before the photographer gets here. You’ll need to look natural holding hands, arms around each other, kissing…” Pansy prattled on, but Hermione felt the world melt away. Unlike the hallucination, which enmeshed itself so thoroughly with her mind that she was transported, this was the absence of all sensation. A tsunami of anxiety gathered its forces at the edge of her thoughts, threatening to wash away her sanity.

“Granger,” Malfoy’s voice calmed the waters, smoothing them back towards the shoreline of her mind. “Are you still with us?”

Hermione gulped. “Now?” She darted her eyes towards Pansy and then to Malfoy.

Malfoy seemed to follow her line of thought. His eyes locked on hers, but when he spoke, it wasn’t directed at her. “Pansy, do you think you could give us some privacy?”

“Draco, it’s almost midnight. The photographer will be here any minute.”

As if pulled by an invisible string, he walked over to Hermione and flattened his palm against the small of her back, steadying her. Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and allowed herself to relax into him. Malfoy, seemingly unaffected by their new proximity, stood firm. “Please. Just a minute to get our bearings.”

Pansy issued a glare to rival Medusa. “Fine. Do what you need to do. But don’t play games, Draco. It’s not my head the public will want on a spike if we don’t get this right.”

Pansy exited the room, and Hermione waited for the click-clack of her heels to fade before she dared meet Malfoy’s eyes. They seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I know we don’t have much time.”

“Your comfort is paramount. This doesn’t work without you,” he paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “We’ll take all night if you need it.”

She nodded, and he moved his hand upwards, applying light pressure over her spine all the way up to the nape of the neck. He squeezed gently, reassuringly, before pulling away, taking his lavender scent with him.

“I won’t do anything without your permission. Do you trust me?”

Merlin, she couldn’t explain it, but she did. He’d turned the tide, kept her dark thoughts from swallowing her whole. Already she felt the absence of his warm hands. “I trust you, Draco.”

His eyes blackened at the sound of his name on her lips. “Close your eyes, Hermione.”

She let her lashes flutter shut. Tempted though she was to open them again, she pushed down her hesitancy and focused on relaxing her body.

“We’re at dinner, a fancy place in Diagon Alley. There’s a white tablecloth, a single camellia in a crystal vase surrounded by tea lights. They’ve just cleared away our main course. We’re celebrating, and we’ve both had a few glasses of champagne. Can you taste it?”

He must’ve used his magic, because fizz danced on her tongue and heat coiled in her belly. “Yes,” she sighed.

“Ah, there’s our dessert. Chocolate mousse for you, in a martini glass. You bring the spoon to your lips, but I make you laugh, and you miss your mouth, just a bit. A dollop of mousse lingers on your perfect little cupid’s bow.”

Unthinkingly, Hermione opened her watering mouth to lick the imaginary chocolate away.

“Ah, ah, wait. May I?”

She nodded, shutting her eyes even tighter. Would he kiss her now?

Before she finished the thought, the rough pad of this thumb swiped across her lip. A sucking sound followed. “Delicious.”

He’d just pretended to lick the mousse off his fingers. Gods. The suggestion of champagne was really hitting her now, the warmth lighting up her veins.

“Do you want to try mine?”

“Macarons? How are you going to manage that? Gamp’s Law —”

“Do you ever turn that brilliant brain of yours off?” His chuckle sent a spike of desire through her, cutting through the floaty, bubbly feeling he’d induced in her earlier.

“We finish dessert, and the other patrons have slowly filtered out. There’s no audience. It’s just you, me, and a little dance floor in the middle of the place. All night I’ve hoped to spin you out, then pull you close. Would you do me the honour?”

He didn’t move to restore contact. He simply waited for her answer.

“I’d love to,” she replied, lifting her right hand into the air as gracefully as she could manage.

One palm met her hand, the other cradled her elbow, gently guiding her to somewhere in Pansy’s office. Hermione tried to picture the dance floor and almost opened her eyes.

“Keep them closed, I’ve got you,” he reassured. “May I hold you?”

The fragile quality of his voice had her leaning towards him, anxious to soothe and be soothed. “Yes.”

He wasted no time wrapping her in his arms, his hands skimming up and down her pyjamas as if they were a silk ballgown. “You’re breathtaking tonight. We’re dancing to your favourite slow song. Everything in me wants to kiss you, but the moment’s not quite right yet. And it has to be perfect.”

He spun her out, somehow in time to the soft music playing in her head, but never let go of her hand. Hermione should be scared, she knew, blindly tumbling down into this fantasy with a dangerous man. But her heart raced with adrenaline, drowning out all logic and reason.

Malfoy drew her back in, silencing further thoughts as he clutched her to his chest. “The song is ending now, Hermione. The choice is yours. Shall I dip you, and drag my eager lips up your throat?”

Here and now, she had a choice. She could open her eyes, gather her wits, and give him a perfunctory kiss, just enough to pass muster. Surely they weren’t expected to glow with passion after almost a decade of marriage. Or she could submit to the fantasy. Her body cried out for the second option, her thighs aching with the first blush of arousal.

His mouth hovered just above her ear, his raspy words meant just for her. “I will be grateful for whatever you grant me, Granger.”

Her stomach flipped at the way he said her last name, tumbling from his lips like an endearment sacred between just the two of them, and the last of her resolve crumbled. “Kiss me, please.”

She expected him to move like lightning, but instead he was like thunder rumbling in the distance. He brought them to a stop and brought his hands to her jaw, massaging slightly. His fingers charted a course for the base of her skull, where he gently tugged her hair. Hermione gave a small, involuntary gasp as his hot, slightly minty breath ghosted across her cheek, blazing a trail to her mouth. Every inch of her skin erupted into flame, waiting for Malfoy, no, Draco, to press his lips to hers.

Just then, Pansy burst in, followed by a parade of staff.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

“The photographer’s here!”

Draco swore and Hermione jumped back, opening her eyes. Dizzied by the return of her sight and the desire her husband stoked within her, she hardly registered the stream of witches and wizards pouring into the room.

In mere moments, two witches presented Hermione with outfits, while another assessed the state of her hair. Rejecting a slinky golden dress — she didn’t need any further comparisons to her reputation or the trio — she landed on a sheath dress in an orchid hue. Black pumps appeared on her feet, and delicate pearl studs completed the look.

From her place at the centre of the tornado of primping, Hermione caught Draco looking at her bandage. She set a glamour over it, but when that didn’t look quite right, she asked for a cardigan.

“Pansy,” one of the witches beckoned her boss closer. “Where are the rings?”

“We don’t wear rings,” Draco growled as a witch powdered his nose. He waved her off, his tolerance for the whole affair clearly waning.

Pansy tapped her toe. “It’s fine. They’re soul-bonded, so they don’t need rings. I know readers want to see a big bauble, but it’s more romantic this way.”

As quick as they’d descended upon them, Pansy’s staff backed away into the corners of the room, ready to apply an extra dollop of Sleekeazy’s or adjust Draco’s lapel if called upon. They’d put him in a tailored suit with a pale moth orchid in his buttonhole. He wore it like a second skin, and when he turned his eyes on hers, she found herself floating to his side.

He ran a gentle hand down her arm, and Hermione got the message. Yes, there were far more people in the room with them now, but it was still just them.

“Perfect! Hermione, can you cross the room to him again?”

They both flinched at the photographer’s request. Hermione nodded and staggered, unaccustomed to wearing heels, back to her original position. She looked to Draco, recalling the feel of his hands on her, and gave him her most sizzling look. It was bold, but if he’d felt even one joule of the heat he’d sparked within her, she wanted him to know she could give as good as she got.

If he hadn’t, well, she could pass it off as playing it up for the cameras.

“The camera loves you! Show us the depth of your passion, make us believe you’re soulmates!” The click of the shutter matched the beat of her heart in her chest.

If he was acting, he should join the theatre. Draco swept her into his arms, narrowing her world to his face. They adopted several poses at the photographer’s suggestion, and even the ones that made them awkwardly laugh seemed to thrill their audience. Only Pansy remained quiet, and if Hermione wasn’t imagining things, she fought back a small smile.

“Can we get a kiss?”

Hermione tensed only slightly, but Draco noticed. His grip on her slackened, and he clenched his jaw. Hermione wanted to tell him it wasn’t because she didn’t want to kiss him. Quite the opposite, in fact. But she didn’t want their kiss to be a performance.

This was moving too fast. Just days ago she hadn’t seen him in years, and then she’d thrown an inkpot at him. Now she could think of nothing but how it might feel to rake her fingers through Draco’s platinum hair and pull his lips towards hers.

Pansy saved them. “I think that’ll be a better candid shot, don’t you? Got to leave them wanting, after all.” The photographer grinned in agreement.

After a few more shots, the photographer clapped his hands. “I think we’ve got it. Thank you everyone,” he unfurled some parchment and handed it to Pansy. “Here’s the first draft. Macmillan’s open to edits, and he’s marked where quotes from the Malfoys would round out the article…”

Hermione turned her attention to Draco. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Granger.”

Granger. But not the way he’d said it when they were alone. And not ‘buttercup’ or ‘dearest’ or ‘light of my life’. Draco must think she didn’t actually want to kiss him, that she’d been caught up in the moment when she’d asked him to place his lips on hers. He said it himself. It was nothing.

Before she could respond, Pansy’s staff hauled her away to change back into her street clothes. One of the witches held up a mirror for Hermione to remove her makeup and cleanse her face with a series of quick spells. She didn’t meet her reflection’s eyes.

“The announcement is more favourable than I thought,” Pansy said as Hermione and Draco situated themselves on the settee. He slumped artfully into the corner, much like he did in Theo’s office the day they’d been discovered.

Pansy cleared her throat and read. “The Death Eater and His Golden Girl: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger’s Decade of Romance. Recently unearthed marriage records reveal Draco Malfoy, 29, wed Hermione Granger, 30, in a secret ceremony on 22nd December 1999. The family’s solicitor, Theodore Nott, Jr., confirmed the marriage via owl. ‘The Malfoy family appreciates the many well-wishes on their happy marriage. They are private citizens, and request their privacy be respected.’ The lovebirds have many estates, including the notorious Malfoy Manor, but reside together in London.”

It didn’t sound bad at all. Theo did well, avoiding the idea that reactions would be anything less than positive.

Draco spoke first. “What about something like, ‘My wife and I are grateful for our past decade together, and look forward to the next ten years.’”

Pansy shook her head in dismissal. “That’s too corporate. Sounds like you committed to a merger, not a marriage.”

Hermione twisted her lips in thought. “While we prefer to keep a low profile after so many years in the spotlight, we’re thrilled to share our love with the world. Draco and I will attend the Solstice Ball as our first public event together.”

Pansy’s quill scribbled away. Hermione didn’t dare sneak a glance at Draco.

Our love , she’d said, as if there was any lost between them. She had to remember who she dealt with. One almost-kiss did not a relationship, let alone a marriage, make.

Draco’s drawl cut through her thoughts. “Hermione’s love for me proves that even the least likely among us can, with the right motivation and support, find redemption. I don’t deserve her, but I try a little harder each day to be a worthy husband.”

“That’s lovely, Draco,” Pansy whispered. “Just perfect.”

He stood up and, avoiding eye contact with anyone, hurried out of the office. “Coming, Granger?”

❖

“Good morning, Blaise.” Hermione sipped her third lashing of tea as Blaise entered through the Floo. The caffeine did little for her, unsurprisingly, as she’d crawled into bed sometime after three in the morning. Nevertheless, she wore one of her new outfits and styled her hair into a loose braid, telling herself that it was good practise for her return to society.

It was certainly not to impress anyone who almost kissed her, said lovely things, and after a tense Floo trip back to the flat, slammed his bedroom door without so much as a goodnight.

“Hermione,” the Healer nodded. He sidled up to the kitchen table while Hermione poured him a cup. “Are your parents up?”

“Not yet. I’d like to chat, if you have a minute.”

“As would I,” he said, taking a seat across from her. He didn’t touch his tea. Hermione took stock of his posture, the way his hands laced together, and the grim line of his mouth. Whatever he wanted to discuss, it wasn’t good.

“There’s no easy way to say this, but I ran some diagnostics yesterday, and the results showed a precipitous decline in both your parents’ health. Based on this new information, I don’t think they have much time left. I’ve consulted with a few colleagues regarding their condition, keeping their information private, of course. The consensus is that even if we knew more about the methods you employed or attempted barbaric Muggle treatments, they will not recover. I’m sorry.”

“But my mum, she’s half herself,” Hermione protested. Blaise couldn’t have the right of it. She’d been at this for years.

“You wrote it yourself in your notes. The potions are becoming less effective, and the recent change in scenery didn’t help matters. Your father’s brain in particular shows his grey matter is shrivelling at a rapidly increasing rate. Your mother is either raging or completely catatonic. It’s unsustainable.”

Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest. “I could go back to the drawing board. Maybe you could put me in touch with some potioneers? Maybe Slughorn has some connections,” she begged, clinging desperately to any hope.

“I don’t know. Maybe if they’d received proper care sooner —”

“Proper care?”

Blaise pushed the cup and saucer away from his person. “Hermione, we’ve been through this already. You’re not a Healer. You’ve no specialised training,” She wilted at his pointed remarks, and tears blurred her vision. “Do you need another sycophant to tell you you’re bloody brilliant? Because it won’t be me.”

“I kept them alive,” she said as a tear stained her cheek.

“Yes, you kept them alive when Voldemort rose to power again. But if you’d left well enough alone afterwards, or reached out to professionals, Wendell and Monica Wilkins would be living out their golden years in sunny Australia none the wiser. It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, but you have to accept it in order to heal.”

Hermione wept, deep shame engulfing her as the reality set in.

She’d waited too long.

Her parents were going to die, prematurely, in soggy London.

“This can’t be happening.”

Everything she’d done had been for nothing. Returning to Australia. Cutting off her friends. Bending the Statute of Secrecy. Marrying Draco. Slinking off to the Cotswolds.

It had all bought her the wrong kind of time.

She’d used that time, that precious time, to trick herself into thinking she could undo it all. She’d return triumphant, her parents the picture of health. And then, what, leverage her war stories to a position at Hogwarts? Help her ex-Death Eater husband take down the Ministry?

She, the witch who’d always thought ahead, who always saw the danger around every corner, who burned so brightly, had been reduced to ash. This morning she’d been thinking about snogging, not her parents withering into desiccated husks in the room across from hers.

Hermione wished the wind would blow her away.

Blaise remained stiff-backed in the chair. He didn’t move to hold her hand, nor did he offer her a handkerchief. He waited her out, his eyes focused on some distant point over her shoulder. Perhaps death didn’t phase him after a lifetime of murdered stepfathers and years of training at hospital bedsides.

Or perhaps even he thought she was irredeemable.

Hermione’s tears slowed, even though she willed them not to stop. She could cry forever and it wouldn’t fill the hole inside her heart. A hole she hollowed out herself.

“I’ll make them as comfortable as possible,” Blaise finally said. “And I will support you through this, as I do all my patients’ families.”

“Will we have one more Christmas together, at least?”

He looked thoughtful. “I think so. I suggest you let them rest. Your mother in particular gets worked up when you’re around.”

“I have to do this whole…” she waved her hands, sniffling, “Thing with Draco. I won’t be around much leading up to the Solstice Ball. But after that, I’d like to spend as much time with them as they can handle.”

“I’ll give them Dreamless Sleep for the next few days. It’s not like we need to worry about them becoming addicted. And you’ll need to brew one more round of their current potions regimen,” he said with a sour note. “I’m sorry to ask it of you. Sorry for all of it.”

She accepted his condolences with a nod. “Thank you.”

Blaise smoothed his robes as if he meant to leave, but then remembered her earlier request. “You said you had something you wanted to talk about?”

Hermione baulked. She was still grappling with the news about her parents. All she wanted to do right now was run to her room, cast a silencing charm, and scream into her pillows. At that moment, her arm burned as if in protest, and Hermione steeled herself. The worst mistake of her life had been borne of prideful delay. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t write it in my notes. I performed a spell out of the same book where I found the one that helped my mum, and like the other spells, I modified it,” she confessed as she rolled up her sleeve to reveal the bandage beneath. She slowly unhinged the tiny clips holding it together and unwound the gauze. “My intent was to unburden myself of the intrusive thoughts and other sinister side effects of my potions work. And at first, I thought it worked. I had a surge of energy. I thought I’d been reborn.”

The last of the bandage fell away, and the horror beneath wriggled to life, as if it missed being on display.

Blaise grabbed her wrist and pulled it across the table towards him. “No. Hermione… please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

The words came out tinny and small. “I accidentally gave myself the Dark Mark.”

Hermione waited for him to say more, but she’d stunned him speechless. He rotated her arm in his grip, examining the skull and snake from every angle as if he couldn’t believe they were really there.

He shot her a wild-eyed look. “Draco didn’t give you this?”

“No, why would he? He’s reformed.”

“Right,” Blaise said, brow furrowed.

Seconds passed, and he said nothing further. Hermione’s wrist began to ache.

“Blaise,” she said. His head snapped up, as if he’d been lost in thought and she’d called him back to the present. “Can you help me remove it?”

“No Death Eater has ever been able to get rid of the Dark Mark. They faded, after the Dark Lord was defeated….” He trailed off, his eyes trained on her Mark. “I’ve had Death Eaters in my care who took the Mark after the war, and theirs are a greenish grey. They don’t look deep black like that.”

“Are you telling me this is something different? Maybe it just looks like the Dark Mark?” She pulled her arm away and reapplied her bandage. She was lying to herself now, indulging in the fantasy that maybe it was just a magical tattoo gone wrong.

“I don’t know.”

“Can we do anything?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “But you definitely shouldn’t experiment on it.” His words stung.

“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you? Not even your colleagues, Blaise. Please.”

Blaise sighed. “You should give me that book. Where did you say you got it again?”

Hermione chewed her lip. On the one hand, she wanted Tom Riddle’s bloody book as far away from her as possible. But on the other, she didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. Yes, Blaise had done nothing but help her and her family. The Healing community trusted him. And she’d seen his forearms; he never took the Mark. But what did she really know of Blaise, when it came down to it?

“Let me look through it first. Maybe I missed something.”

He didn’t push, which made her breathe a little easier. “Okay, but don’t modify any more spells until we know what we’re dealing with here. In the meantime, keep it clean and dry, like any other wound.”

As if this was like any other wound. “I won’t do anything beyond that,” she promised.

“Who else knows about this?”

“No one.”

Blaise nodded, picking up his bag and moving down the hallway towards her parents’ room. “It’ll be our secret, then.”

❖

Draco lay in bed, hands behind his head. The late morning sun streamed into the bedroom, but exhaustion pinned him down and he didn’t bother to reach for his wand to draw the curtain. He closed his eyes, but further sleep escaped him. With a sigh, his thoughts drifted back to the night before.

Hermione, her eyelashes fluttering against her skin. Hermione, all legs in a clingy little dress. Hermione, who he definitely wasn’t avoiding.

He hadn’t actually had a wank before going to Pansy’s office, but it had been bloody fun to let Hermione think he had. In reality, he’d been overcome with guilt and remorse over the fact that he’d stopped thinking about Astoria and started thinking about his wife. But that guilt didn’t penetrate the haze of lust that settled over his mind now as he remembered their near-kiss.

After years of celibacy as a youth, and then as an adult, he’d learned a little imagination was a powerful thing. He trailed one hand down underneath the covers and took himself in hand. He was half-hard already, and it was all too easy to think of Hermione again.

They’d had a brilliant time at the pub. Hermione lit up as she taught him the ins and outs of Connect Four. She’d always been intelligent, but her confident instruction was surprisingly sexy. He couldn’t admit to finding her pretty during their time at Hogwarts until her strut down the staircase with Krum at the Yule Ball — every red-blooded male had noticed her then — but years later she proved a real beauty. And now… Gods.

Draco stroked himself to the memory of her flushed face, aching for his kiss. His mind took their moment together further than it had actually gone. He kissed her roughly, luxuriating in her honey scent. He massaged her perky little breasts and palmed her bum through her dress before unzipping it and watching it fall to the floor. He imagined tracing his fingers along her hourglass shape until she begged him to touch her elsewhere…

f*ck, it had been such a long time since he’d touched her like that. It’d been too long since he’d touched himself as well, because before he knew it he’d found his release.

He enjoyed only a few moments of relief before the guilt that had been looking for a way in pierced his heart. Disgusted with himself, he vanished the evidence and got up to get dressed. All he could think about as he tugged a grey jumper over his head was how this was such a betrayal to Astoria’s memory.

He shared the flat that was supposed to be theirs with the woman that replaced her. Hermione — No, Granger , better to think of her as Granger — slept in the room that Astoria’d hoped might one day be a nursery for a little boy or girl with her almond-shaped eyes and his white-blonde hair.

Reading the letters last night was supposed to help him resist her, but he felt powerless against his attraction to Granger. And the worst part was — he couldn’t even blame it on the Malfoy family ritual. The bonding magic that curled between them on their wedding night was only to help with the first time together, so everything he felt for Granger now… it was real.

❖

One long shower and another guilty wank later, Draco joined Granger and Theo for tea. He sat directly across from the portrait of his mother. That ought to keep his newfound libido at bay.

Theo made polite inquiries into Granger’s comfort and her parents’ condition, and she rewarded the solicitor with a dazzling smile and her signature thorough answers. Draco smiled to himself as she reassured Theo that things were good at the flat, carefully sidestepping anything that might reveal the state of their marriage.

Granger asked about his workload, and if he’d met anyone special. Theo brought an ankle up across his knee, bouncing it, the only tell that he was irritated she’d turned the interrogation around on him. Smart girl.

Soon the conversation turned to their strategy for solving the murder. Murders.

“Draco, do you really want the Aurors involved, after everything?” Granger handed Theo a cup of tea and two biscuits, which he accepted and promptly tore into. Draco simply stared at the witch in disbelief.

She continued to use his given name. And in front of Theo, who of all people knew what a sham this whole thing was.

“They’re our best chance,” Theo intervened after a bite of biscuit. “They’ve got the resources, the knowledge. No matter our personal feelings about this mess of a Ministry, the Aurors still do good work. I’ve got several connections on the criminal defence side of things and they abhor going up against the Ministry’s prosecutors because the Aurors usually provide unimpeachable evidence. I don’t know who made the call back then not to investigate, but that’s a puzzle for another day.”

Granger offered Draco a biscuit, which he declined. She shrugged and popped it in her mouth instead. He flexed his fingers over his knee in an effort to stop wishing he was the biscuit in question. “Who heads the Aurors these days?”

Theo cleared his throat. “Ron Weasley.”

He nearly spat. “They put the Weasel King in charge?”

“Ron is very strategic, and he’s a good leader,” Granger protested. “We both spent plenty of time in Harry’s shadow. We know what it takes to keep calm and carry on, as the saying goes.”

Draco snorted.

“What?”

“You’ve really lost the plot, Granger.” He licked his lips, caught himself, and put his hands in his trouser pockets.

She leapt out of the chair and poked her finger into his chest. “I’ve lost the plot? You’re the one tearing down someone who would put aside old grievances to help you, especially if I asked him to. You claim to have changed, Draco Malfoy, and I don’t need to be an Auror to see there’s little evidence of that!”

He rose, and her eyes followed his ascent. “Oh, and you’re so much better at asking for help? I’ve got two witnesses down the hall who would testify you’re rubbish at it.”

f*ck. He shouldn’t have said that. What was it about her that had him saying all the wrong things?

Granger stepped back from him with a hiss. “That was low, Draco. Even for you.”

Draco stared at her, silently formulating an apology. She stared back with glorious fury. Good, he couldn’t stand to see her cry. He could work with anger. Maybe if they could get back to the status quo of outright hatred, he’d stop thinking about her. And her lips, which she pressed into a firm line of irritation. He’d definitely stop thinking about them. Any minute now.

Theo sighed. “Hermione, I need to confer with Draco for a moment. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Thanks for your help, Theo.” Her eyes didn’t leave his, as if to say this isn’t over .

In the end, he blinked as she bent to gather the tea tray so he didn’t burn another image of her fantastic arse into his brain. He suspected she did it to torture him, since the housekeeper normally handled that sort of thing. As soon as Granger made her exit, Theo cast a silencing charm.

“You’re falling for her.” Theo stated it as a fact.

“I am not. Have you taken leave of your senses? We can’t even be in the same room together.”

“You’re pushing her away because you still haven’t told her about Astoria.”

“I am not. And I’m not falling for Her — Granger. I mean her. Granger.”

Salazar.

Theo chuckled knowingly. “Mate, I’m happy for you. You’re attracted to your wife! This is a good thing!”

“She doesn’t need to know that. Theo, the announcement hits the papers tomorrow. We’re days away from the Solstice Ball. This whole charade will be over soon. Something will knock us off the front page and then Granger will go back to Cyclamen. Hopefully her connection with Weasley,” he paused, as if the name left a foul taste in his mouth. “Will pan out and the Aurors will finally do their damned jobs.”

“And what about after that, Draco?”

He waved his hand off to the side. “I don’t know. I’ll sell this place, for one thing. Too many memories.” He didn’t clarify that it wasn’t only old memories plaguing him now, and in fact the new ones had already begun to exert a stronger gravitational pull, knocking him off his axis.

“And then?”

“What do you want me to say, Theo?”

“I want you to say you’ll stop denying how you feel! I want you to find happiness, Draco. You deserve it.”

Draco sank into his chair, spitting out bitter words. “I am the least deserving of happiness.”

“Fine. Do what you’re going to do. Look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, why don’t you, while the rest of us would kill to have any woman, let alone one as lovely and brilliant as Hermione Granger, look at us the way she looks at you. And you look at her the same way, Draco.”

“Theo, I —”

Theo’s robes billowed out as he walked swiftly to the fireplace. “Not another f*cking word, Draco. Owl the office if you need our legal services. I’ll see what I can transfer over to Michael Corner. I’m not going to be witness to whatever the f*ck this is.”

“Theo, come on,” Draco huffed, unwilling to let the surprise and hurt reach his eyes. “We’ve seen each other through worse than this.”

Torture, addiction, and death, for instance. None of those ruffled Theodore Nott. Not like this.

“I have to go.”

In a puff of green smoke, his best friend disappeared. Maybe for good. And maybe he deserved it.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Hermione slammed her bedroom door behind her and pressed her back against it. A quick wave of her wand silenced the room. She hung her head, curls obscuring her vision for only a moment before banging her fists surely and swiftly onto the wood.

“Damn you, Draco Malfoy!”

If only she hadn’t run into Draco in St. Mungo’s.

If only she hadn’t married him.

If only her parents had gotten better.

If only Voldemort hadn’t cast a shadow over her magical education.

If only Dumbledore had seen fit to help Harry in a more obvious way, or even helped Tom Riddle.

So many things would be different.

But the wishes on her ‘if only’ list weren’t really what angered her most right now. Yes, she nursed a deep desire to change everything and reshape the world, but she lived with those thoughts every day of her life. No, what boiled her blood was how he’d been right.

Draco Malfoy saw her better than anyone else. He knew Hermione believed she could do everything herself, and now he bore witness to her parents’ suffering at her hands.

He didn’t intrude on their privacy, but she noticed the little things Draco had done over the past few days to make their stay more comfortable. Hermione had even overheard him in the kitchen asking Mrs. Tannenbaum about Muggle holiday decor for their rooms. She’d been so wrapped up in everything that she’d forgotten how little touches like that could make such a huge difference.

How had she lost sight of what got her here in the first place? She could blame Purebloods and Hogwarts professors, but her own pride landed her in nearly every mess she’d ever been in.

When she founded S.P.E.W. as a swotty teen, she thought she knew best concerning the well-being of house elves. She didn’t listen to what they wanted, or learn their way of life. She simply decided they were enslaved, whipped up some badges, and marched under the banner of righteousness. Yes, some, like Dobby, desired their freedom. But house elves (like all magical creatures, she quickly discovered) are not a monolith.

Hermione continued despite the criticism and words of caution. She took matters into her own hands, time after time. Other people created obstacles. They weren’t committed to finding solutions.

Not like she was.

Ron used to squint at her essays in the dim light of the library like he was searching for flaws. Meanwhile, his own parchment was blank. And Harry, well, he’d beg with his big eyes to copy whatever she’d written. Even then she’d known it didn’t really matter if the Chosen One turned in anything legible, but it made her feel important to help him. And it wasn’t like she had any other friends.

When she’d figured out they’d be on the run, she needed to be prepared. Book by book, she taught herself darker magic, more advanced potioneering and herbology. She told herself she pursued the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. What could be more noble?

The war ended.

But her mouth watered.

And like the first woman, soon she found herself conversing with a snake. The snake had come before her, bore witness to the extremes one could be pushed to in the name of progress. It curled around her neck like a vestment and encouraged her to climb higher. If her potions became less potent, or her magic more faint, it was her own fault for resisting the darkness that would deliver the most success.

She closed ranks around herself, eschewing the company of even her most trusted allies. They weighed her down when she was destined to ascend. But every time she gave into the darkness, the top of the tree and the promised sweetness of the fruit dangling from it seemed further and further away.

Now Hermione contended with a terrible truth. The snake had shed its skin for her own.

She pushed up her sleeve and ripped off the bandage covering the Dark Mark. Her Dark Mark. She’d given it to herself, after all.

It struck her as odd, now that she thought about it, that she’d given herself the Dark Mark. As far as she knew, there was nothing in the Riddle book about it specifically. And Hermione had only ever heard of Voldemort bestowing the Mark on his own followers, never his followers branding themselves or others. Not that she was a follower, now or ever.

Hermione eased herself into a chair and examined her arm more closely. How had she done it? Her modifications to incantations and potions she got from the Riddle book usually resulted in weaker effects, not stronger ones. And until recently, she hadn’t used one of the many dark spells since Australia.

Blaise’s composure reassured her that it could be healed. Plenty of Death Eaters had tried to remove their Marks, but none so quickly after it first appeared. If she went back over the spell, she could probably figure out where she’d gone wrong. Blaise could consult as many Healers as he wanted, but she imagined none of them would have seen anything like this, not even during the war.

He was really too cautious, Blaise.

The Riddle book didn’t try to maim her as it normally would when she opened it. She shivered. It recognised her. Pages fluttered until they rested on the Resurrection Spell.

For Regeneration

Bone of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the foe, forcibly taken

And she recalled the changes she’d made:

For Rehabilitation

Blessing of the father, unknowingly given

Flesh of the beloved, willingly sacrificed

Blood of the self, forcibly taken

Hermione dissected each line, beginning with the blessing. She doubted her father’s blessing had done this. He’d placed his trust in her, and she’d intended to regain her power and agency to help both him and her mother.

The flesh of beloved — Crookshanks’s preserved paw. It contained bone, but since it wasn’t human but familiar, it likely didn’t matter. She bit her lip, wondering if she’d strengthened the spell by switching from flesh of a servant to flesh of someone beloved. Servants had meant little to Voldemort, and she could think of no one he would have ever loved. After all, love defeated him, in the end. If she added love to the mix…. Her head pounded.

Lastly, she’d substituted her own blood for the blood of the foe.

Blood.

This was no ordinary dark magic. She’d performed dark blood magic.

It might as well be an Unforgivable.

Hermione threw the book into the other wingback chair as if it burned her. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them into her eyes, thinking back to that night under the full moon.

She’d been slipping for years, feeling less powerful, her wandless magic fading. Judy’s desperate plea had her clawing at any scrap of hope, both for herself and for her parents. But this… this was unacceptable. Unthinkable. Irredeemable.

Who says you need redemption? Maybe this is what you deserve.

“No!” The shout tore out of her. Her intrusive thoughts were back. And the voice sounded strangely like her own.

I never left. I’ve been waiting for you.

She shouldn’t keep this to herself. It would be a mistake to become her own experiment. Hadn’t she already done enough of this to her parents? She had to stop.

Hermione stood up and paced.

On the one hand, yes, years of experience taught her she was playing with fire if she continued to create her own remedies, whether in spell or potion form. She should temper her impatience; wait for Blaise to consult professionals, and follow their treatment plan. After the Solstice Ball, where she would help Draco form connections with Aurors who could carry out justice for Narcissa Malfoy, she would be free to return to Cyclamen with her parents and cherish whatever days they had left together as a family. And then maybe she’d help her husband in his quest to reshape the Ministry.

But on the other, she could avoid anyone finding out. She could come back to Harry and Ron as a friend who was simply too embarrassed by her past actions and sham of a marriage, not a witch who’d not only drunk from the well of dark magic, but had willingly climbed into the bucket and lowered herself down into its watery depths.

The temptation to hide was too great.

Morning gave way to afternoon, and afternoon gave way to night. Hermione scribbled notes in the margins of her notebook, but no revelation came to her. She rubbed at her temples in short, clockwise motions.

Still, her stubbornness prevailed. She wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of being right this time. Draco Malfoy would eat his words.

She’d fix this herself.

She didn’t want to think about what might happen if she didn’t.

❖

Draco brooded in front of the fire in his bedroom. Even the window slunk away from him, cowering like a dog during a storm.

“This came for you earlier,” Mrs. Tannenbaum handed him a single letter sealed with wax. She stepped back in observance of his mood, smoothing a grey tendril of hair in the midst of a valiant effort to free itself from her chignon. “I know it’s none of my business, but how are things going with Mrs. Malfoy? I noticed she still hasn’t moved into the main bedroom.”

He didn’t miss her artful avoidance of saying your room.

Draco pocketed the letter and sighed. “It’s only for a few weeks, like I told you. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine. And I heard you arguing with Mr. Nott.”

“Didn’t you say this is none of your business?”

Mrs. Tannenbaum opened her mouth, closed it, but then opened it again. “I know you planned for someone different to be here now. She was supposed to stand beside you, sleep next to you, face the world with your hand in hers. You’re worried if you let Mrs. Malfoy in she’ll erase Miss Greengrass. But she won’t. No one can replace my cousin.”

“How do you manage,” he croaked. “I don’t know how you can stand to look at me, let alone continue in my employ after all these years.”

“You knew the truth, and you loved her anyway,” she shrugged. “And you didn’t renege on the job offer even after she died. It’s hard for Squibs out there.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know.”

A silence, shatterable as frosted glass, held for only a few moments before splintering.

“Mr. Malfoy, Miss Greengrass sought me for many years, and I knew her for only a few short weeks before her passing. She left a lasting impression, to be sure. And I feel confident in saying that she wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

She was right. Draco had never moved on, not really. He’d used his wedding vows to shield him from any opportunity to find comfort in another woman’s arms. It had been difficult, but not a burden by any means, to be with his wife that one time. He’d tried so hard to focus on the necessary completion of the ritual, tamping down the lust her delicious scent and luscious, soft curves aroused within him.

But now, there was something real happening between him and Granger. Yes, he still lusted after her, but underneath the surface, something delicate and exciting percolated. He’d tasted it in the air just before they nearly kissed. For as much as he held her at arm’s length, all he wanted to do was hold her close, for as long as someone like his wife would allow herself to be held. Because she made it clear that not only did she not want him, she wanted no one at all.

Since Astoria’s death, he’d freewheeled through the stages of grief. Sometimes he was in denial, thinking she’d walk right through the door after a long day in the garden tending the rose bushes with his mother. He’d bargain for her life, but there was no one to bargain with, because he didn’t believe in the old gods (although he took their names in vain on a regular basis). Never had it felt more cruel than to have all the Galleons in the world to purchase something that couldn’t be bought. He’d have offered any price to have his mother and Astoria back among the living.

As for acceptance… It was unacceptable.

Nights were dreadful affairs. When he wasn’t devoid of emotion, he was climbing the walls. And when his anger curdled to sour anguish, he’d turned to potions. His addiction to Dreamless Sleep would be with him his whole life long, and he was forever indebted to Theo who’d insisted he seek treatment.

Draco abstained. He eschewed. Most importantly, he ceased and did not touch so much as a hangover curing potion.

He was good at adhering to things. Sometimes too good.

He’d been uncommonly devoted to Astoria, but then again, his father had been deeply devoted to his mother. And Astoria trusted him with a secret that required such vulnerability, such faith…. No one had ever confided in him like that.

Draco’s heart raced remembering all the things the people who used to be in his life expected him to do, awful things that shredded his stomach, like killing Dumbledore and revealing Harry Potter to his deranged aunt, Bellatrix. He didn’t do those things, of course, though at the time it was only because he was a shallow coward.

When Astoria put her faith in him, for the first time, he’d been brave. And that was why he loved her.

But he could be brave again. He’d have to be, or else he worried the gaping maw of loneliness would invite him in, and he’d go willingly, content to be chewed, swallowed, and digested. The only way forward was to starve the beast.

Bravery started now.

“I think there’s something there, between Hermione and me. More than our marital bond.”

“You wouldn’t be this scared if there wasn’t,” she agreed.

“I’m not scared,” he jutted his chin out, but his attempt at lying failed. The woman who’d guided him through the worst of the past few years as a sort of surrogate mother saw right through him, but he persisted. “She’s got loads of worries already, and she doesn’t need to add a husband to the mix.”

“But she already has, hasn’t she?” Mrs. Tannenbaum folded her arms in challenge.

“Yes, well,” he stammered.

“Take it from me, Mr. Malfoy. Good women don’t come along every day. You almost married one, Merlin rest her soul. Another good woman, one of the most infamous and intelligent witches to ever wield a wand, became your wife. You let her go once, when you were grieving and lost.”

“I had to let her go,” Draco whispered, looking away from his wise housekeeper and into the crackling fire. He gripped the back of the wingback chair. “It wasn’t safe. And she hated me. Hates me.”

“I don’t know about that. In any case, she’s here now, just on the other side of that door, and very much alive,” Her hand curled over his. “A second chance is the rarest thing of all, rarer than phoenix tears. Will you really let it pass you by?”

Draco fought the lump in his throat, pushing his words past. “I’ve had more than my fair share of chances, Mrs. Tannenbaum.”

“There’s a Muggle saying my father used to tell me. ‘All’s fair in love and war.’ I think he meant that anything can happen when it comes to passion. Boundaries will be crossed, continents traversed, second chances issued. We’ve all seen enough war for several lifetimes, but especially you and Mrs. Malfoy. Who’s to say that whatever you think is between you now can’t be love?”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she patted his hand and exited the room, wearing a smile filled with triumph and hope. Her parting words rang in his mind. Who’s to say that whatever you think is between you now can’t be love?

It wasn’t love, of that he was certain. But it wasn’t war, either.

He’d almost forgotten about the letter. Draco brushed his thumb over the coin of wax embedded with the Goyle family coat of arms. He sliced through the top of the envelope, withdrew the parchment, and read:

D.L.M.,

Caught wind you’re announcing your union with the Mudblood tomorrow. As usual, the Prophet’s got it all wrong. You’d never really marry the bitch.

Owl me at Greengrass Manor. We need to meet and discuss the next phase of your plan. Everyone’s anxious to get started, but I’m holding them back for now. Better to lay low like you have these past few years and not attract attention until we need it. Smart.

You won’t have to hide much longer. We’ll make your father proud, mate. I promise.

G.G.

Draco clenched his jaw so tight he shook. Greg had another f*cking thing coming if he thought Draco would ever meet with him again, especially after the previous ambush. He crumpled the note and threw it in the fire. He needed to have a good long think, and that called for a hot bath.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Draco changed out of his clothes and into his dressing gown, laying his wand and holster on the bed. He tried the door to the bathroom. Finding it unlocked, he assumed it was unoccupied and strolled in. He was instantly met with the sight of the only other person alive with the surname Malfoy.

“Have you come to apologise to me?” Hermione, her wand speared through her nest of curls, leaned over the tap, testing the water temperature with the back of her hand. Perhaps she also found the bath ideal for puzzling through her latest problems.

“I actually came to take a bath,” Draco said, eying her red dressing gown. The silky fabric clung to her round arse and hips. “But it seems you’ve read my mind and drawn it for me. Thanks ever so much.”

She snorted. “This bath is to you like living on land is to Merpeople.”

“Oh goody, I do love analogies. I’ve missed your little barbs since our last Defence Against the Dark Arts class together. But as the tub’s almost full, enlighten me as to your intended meaning.”

“It’s not for you,” she said definitively, reaching for the narrow shelf over the tub. Hermione picked up one bottle of scented bubble bath after another, narrowing her eyes at the labels. “You have lavender, wild lavender, French lavender, and lavender with bergamot, as well as a separate bottle of pure bergamot.”

A hint of defensiveness crept into his tone. “Those lavenders are quite different, I’ll have you know.”

“And the bergamot?”

“They don’t make wild lavender or French lavender with bergamot. And as you know, a proper bubble bath is a potion in its own right. I like to tinker with the ratios.”

She shook her head, a smile breaking like dawn over her lovely features. “What do you recommend?”

“Well, if it was my bath, I’d choose French lavender.”

“Let me guess — it’s the most expensive.” It wasn’t a question, but instead of rolling her eyes, she laughed.

“You wound me,” He flung his hand over his heart to exaggerate his mock-hurt. “No, I simply find French lavender to be the most calming. But this is your bath, as you say, not mine. Are you trying to relax before bed?”

He didn’t miss the pink tint creeping up her neck. “I… I like to think in the bath. I do some of my best work there.”

“Working, even in the bath. You have the work ethic of an American, you know.” That earned him another tinkling laugh. “For you, I suggest vanilla.” He scanned the rows of bubble bath, located the bottle in question, and offered it to her.

She didn’t take it from him.

“Some people think vanilla is plain,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes.

“Good thing I’m not ‘some people,’ then. They’re missing out.”

Appealing to her curiosity had been the right move. She looked at him with her golden gaze, pupils alight with academic interest. “How so?”

He rotated the bottle in his hand, ruminating. “Vanilla is stunningly complex, and subtle. It’s beautiful on its own or when paired with anything else, from fruit to florals, even woodier and spicy scents. Or honey,” he paused. Especially honey. “I’d never suggest you were plain, Hermione. Plain is as much a word for you as living on land is for Merpeople.”

Hermione accepted the vanilla bubble bath from him but didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on pouring a few capfuls in the hot water and turning off the tap. Foamy, sparkling bubbles rose and filled the tub, obscuring the water beneath. The vanilla scent, exotic and intoxicating, scrambled Draco’s thoughts.

She straightened, hand on her sash, and co*cked an eyebrow at him. “I’d like to get in now. Or maybe it was you who was raised in a barn?”

It was a callback to her first night here. More than that, it was an opening. A small one, but an opening nonetheless.

She likely expected him to exit the bathroom and call it a night, but instead he turned around and faced the door to her bedroom. After a pause, he heard the silk gown slide off her skin, a series of small splashes, and a soft sigh. His hand twitched.

He kept his back turned to her. “I won’t pretend I came in here to apologise, firstly because I didn’t know you were in here, and secondly because, as you know, my intention was to be in that bath you’re taking now.”

“It’s quite nice,” she teased.

“I’m sure it is. But I’ve ruminated on our earlier altercation, and I would like to sincerely apologise to you, Hermione. I shouldn’t have said those things about you and your parents, especially in front of an audience. Those words are a poor reflection of my esteem for you. I’m sorry.”

A gentle swirl of water accompanied her quiet reply. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Please,” he cut his hand through the air, although he still didn’t face her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’ve tried to change over the years, but I… someone who helped me isn’t here anymore. She’s been gone for many years now. And her absence created this massive vacuum in my life.”

“It must be hard to talk about her.”

Oh, if only she knew.

“Theo and Pansy have been there for me, seen me at my absolute lowest, but gods, it’s so empty. The days stretch on forever, and nights are worse. Everything and everyone has moved on,” his voice cracked. He hadn’t intended to share this much, but it was somehow easier confessing everything without having to look into her eyes.

“But I’m stuck. I can’t move on. I can’t get a job to pass the time with this thing on my arm, not to mention I have a criminal record. The Ministry syphons off any goodwill I might try to gain, and extorts me for money when it suits their political agenda. My family is dead, and until recently, my wife, whose hand I forced into marrying me, hated my guts. And you had good reason to hate me, you know. This isn’t an excuse and the last thing I want is pity. I’m not trying to make this about me, but what I’m trying to say is….”

“You’re lonely,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you antagonise me, you get a reaction. And that makes you feel less alone.”

“Old habits die hard,” he admitted.

Her pained whisper took his breath away. “Bad habits, too.”

“Bad habits, too,” he agreed. “At the pub, we had a grand time together. I hoped things would get better. But I opened my mouth this afternoon and well… It’s me who keeps f*cking everything up. Maybe if I’d been kinder to Potter and offered my handshake in the right spirit all those years ago, we’d be proper friends now, the Golden Square or some sh*te.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair in agitation. None of it was coming out right. He should be complimenting her, winning her over, not digging himself further into the hole.

“I’m lonely, too, you know.”

Draco’s throat ran dry at her admission. “You are?”

“You can turn around,” she said softly. “It’s awkward talking to your back.”

As soon as he faced her, he was overcome. Hermione relaxed into the curve of the tub, skin flushed from the warm bath. Bubbles hid everything from her collarbone down, but Draco didn’t miss the way they clung to her breasts, moving minutely with her shallow breaths. Her bright eyes reminded him of the faerie queene. He would be glad for her to lure him deep into the perfumed waters and drown him then and there.

She was simply the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld.

Being in here, with Hermione — it was something he never thought of doing with Astoria. If they’d lived in one of their respective manors, they would never have shared a bathroom. She might have been uncomfortable sharing this one, had she ever moved in.

That thought ferried him to another question: How well would he have known Astoria, really? What if the woman he wrote letters to wasn’t the same woman who would have shared a life with him?

He’d never know.

Hermione wandlessly transfigured him a seat out of a bath mat, which he gratefully took by the edge of the tub. It seemed they both wielded powerful wandless capabilities.

“I spent the first two years after the war in Australia, trying to fix what I’d done when I Obliviated my parents. I told myself I kept them hidden for their protection, but the truth is, I didn’t want the world to know. Harry and Ron knew where I’d gone and what I went there to do, but they were the only ones. In theory, the spell was reversible, and I expected to be back within a few weeks. But, as you know, it didn’t work.” She sniffed, eyes watery.

It took her a moment to continue. “We kept in touch via letters. In my absence, Ron embraced his true sexual identity, and we agreed to part ways. Harry pressed me for details on the breakup and what was happening with my parents… it stressed me out so much I had a nervous breakdown. I lied to them both and said all was well and I’d be back soon, and then I stopped answering their letters. I was essentially alone in a foreign country.”

“Merlin. I had no idea.”

“No one did. I came back after I begged Minister Podmore to let me take my parents with me and remain in the magical world. We were both in the Order, and I guess he felt sorry for me because eventually he acquiesced. Huge violation of the Statute of Secrecy, I know, but I’d gotten little else out of my stint as a war heroine.”

Draco sighed and rested his forearms on his muscled thighs. “That’s surprising, and yet unsurprising at the same time.”

“I’m a Muggleborn, first and foremost in everyone’s eyes. I wasn’t offered a spot to continue my studies, or even an entry-level job at the Ministry. He had to pull strings to get me the job I had when you found me, and it paid basically nil. I had no money, I’d lied to everyone who mattered in my life, and now… now,” she choked, tears rolling down her face. “Now they’re dying and I don’t know how to save them!”

Without thinking, Draco reached down into the bath and took her in his arms, her sobs barely muffled by his shoulder. His sleeves were soaked with water, the robe likely ruined, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Mostly he tried not to think too much about the fact that only a whisper of silk prevented them from being skin to skin.

He held her until her crying grew softer, and her fingers on his back faded from desperate clutching to a much more uncertain grip. Hermione pulled away, only a little at first, and Draco got the message and closed his eyes. She slipped from his arms and back into the water. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t miss the way she hid her injured arm from him, dunking it forcefully into the bubbles.

“Blaise told you they’re dying?”

Hermione nodded, red rimming her eyes. “He gave me the news this morning. He confirmed their prognosis with several specialists.”

Draco thought for a moment. “You said you do your best thinking in the tub. You’re trying to figure out a way to save them, aren’t you? That’s why you’re in my tub. You haven’t given up.”

“I believe this falls under communal property, so it’s our tub. And I didn’t realise I’m that transparent.”

“I like to think I’m getting to know you,” he smiled. She smiled back, and it sent sparks all the way down to his toes. “Why don’t we consult the Healers on the list I made?”

Her lips trembled, and Draco had a fleeting fantasy of sweeping her out of the tub and quelling them with his own.

“What if they concur? Or what if they have an even more dire prognosis? I don’t know that I could take it.”

He knew just what she meant. Some things were worse than death.

With a quick Accio , the list popped into his hands. He scanned it quickly.

“One of them is your old friend, Patil.”

“Padma?”

He hummed in confirmation. “The very same.”

“I don’t know. I remember her as harsh. Judgmental.”

“She’s taken an oath to heal and respect the privacy of patients and their families. I doubt she’ll judge you.”

“I think Blaise does.” Her voice wavered again.

Draco cracked his knuckles, his magic fizzing hot under his skin. If that was the case, he’d deal with Blaise later. But he didn’t want to scare his wife, who right now needed convincing that he could help her.

“You have important, firsthand knowledge of everything that’s happened with your parents. We could meet with her,” he plodded on, the idea sounding better and better. “Even if she has the same opinion as Blaise, it would be good practise to talk about what happened. I mean, you do plan to talk to Potter and Weasley again, don’t you? They’ll see the article. I’ll be shocked if they’re not knocking at our door the minute it appears in print.”

“They’ll probably bash it in. No subtlety, those two,” she shook her head fondly. Her gaze bordered on tender. “You’d really go with me?”

“To speak with Potter and Weasley? I don’t have a death wish,” he said, leaning back on the seat. “But of course I’ll be by your side to meet with Patil. Seems like the husbandly thing to do. Besides, it’s people like her I need to convince that not only have I changed, but also, I didn’t murder anyone.”

Mostly, he wanted to convince the woman in front of him.

Hermione shifted in the water, sending the remaining islands of bubbles careening towards the porcelain walls of the tub. Draco sucked in a breath and hoped she didn’t notice how much of her gorgeous body was suddenly on display. He summoned one of his towels and folded it over the edge of the tub. If the goosebumps along the tops of her breasts were any indication, the water had grown cold.

She stroked the towel, running her palm over the soft fibres. “You’re incapable of murdering anyone. Anyone with sense can see that. No one knows about what happened to your mother besides you and Theo, right?”

“And the killer, I suppose. I’ve hired private eyes, paid for dubious information, examined the warding around the Manor… I can’t figure out how they got in. And I don’t know why my mother didn’t fight. Her wand’s last spell was a stasis charm to keep our dinner warm. The only thing I can think of is that the intruder was a friend of hers. But what society witch would commit murder?”

“The killer has to be someone she trusted. Or maybe someone your father told her she could trust,” Hermione posited. She finally made a move indicating she’d like to exit the bath, and Draco did the gentlemanly thing — not the husbandly thing — and gave her privacy. He strode over to the corner, but not before glimpsing a whirl of the white towel and her long, bare legs in the mirror.

He bit his fist and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling.

Focus.

“Maybe, but it’s unlikely. My mother remained loyal to my father in the marital sense, but she and I were both moving on. Once we were out from under his influence, and I completed my sentence, we were free to manage our affairs. With the Dark Lord dead and no longer holding court in our home, we renovated. The drawing room,” he couldn’t see her face, but he surmised it paled at the mention of the locale of her torture. But Draco needed her to know it was gone. “The dungeons… anywhere that he or that hideous snake touched, we destroyed and rebuilt. My mother’s roses bloomed again. We had a year to ourselves at Malfoy Manor, and I can safely say it was the best of my life.”

“You’ve always seemed close with your mother.”

“Not as close as we could’ve been. Pureblood society aims to cleave the bond between mothers and their children, and my father held firm to tradition. My first few years at Hogwarts seemed designed to tear me down, push me away from my potential and bend me towards my father’s ideals. I mean, you know from the trial…”

“Tell me again,” Hermione encouraged.

Was he imagining the warmth at his back? The nearness of her hushed voice?

He swallowed hard. “He persuaded me to take the Dark Mark, conscripted me in the Dark Lord’s army without a care for my welfare. Meanwhile, he lied to my mother, told her it was the only way I’d be protected. He lied to me and my friends, promising the Dark Lord would reign supreme and my loyalty would be rewarded when Potter’s reckoning arrived. All the while I consoled myself with the thought that he acted out of love.”

Her hand alighted on his shoulder, as light and precious as a butterfly. “That’s not love, Draco.”

“I know that now,” he whispered, all out of words.

Should he face her? Put his hand over her own?

She stood so closely, as vulnerable in her towel as he was now, revealing the depths of his childhood trauma. He tried to lean into the first gentle touch he’d experienced in years. Hermione’s hand asked for nothing, only offered tenderness and empathy. But it was as much a balm as it was a burn, because her nearness stoked a fire in his chest.

Her hand slipped away, and Draco instantly mourned both its loss and his cowardice.

Another chance, gone. You idiot.

But as quickly as he chided himself for the missed opportunity, her hand found his, and before she could change her mind, he squeezed. She squeezed back, harder, and let go. Their interlude concluded with the unmistakable sounds of Hermione putting on fresh clothes.

A whoosh of breath left his chest. A small triumph.

Hermione came back into view as she walked towards the door that led to her bedroom. She’d let her hair down, the ends a bit damp, and she wore blue silk pyjamas with H.M. embroidered on the chest pocket. Mrs. Tannenbaum’s handiwork? His wife continued to surprise him. He didn’t try to touch her again, but his fingers dug into his damp dressing gown for something to do.

What did one say after a mutual baring of the souls, the night before their marriage would be revealed to the world?

He met her honeyed stare and said what was on his heart. “I’m less lonely with you around, Hermione Malfoy.”

It surprised him how much he meant it.

“I like you, too, Draco Malfoy,” she smiled back at him. A rogue curl fell over her face, and although it tempted him, he didn’t tuck it behind her ear. Tonight had been enough.

It wasn’t cowardice that held him back as she smiled and turned the doorknob — instead he bravely faced the possibility of true friendship with his wife.

Surely that would be enough.

Wouldn’t it?

Gods, he was so f*cked.

❖

Draco entered the kitchen the next morning to discover Mrs. Tannenbaum baking whilst humming a medley of Christmas carols. Hermione seemed in good spirits and sang along between bites of a hearty English breakfast.

He was almost afraid to disturb the domestic scene. “Did we get the paper?”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed his housekeeper. “See for yourself, Mr. Malfoy.”

To his relief, the article quoted them both correctly. Draco arched a brow with a small smile, supposing that was just one of the many advantages of having Pansy Parkinson at your side.

EXCLUSIVE: The Death Eater and His Golden Girl

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger’s Decade of Romance

Recently unearthed marriage records reveal Draco Malfoy, 29, wed Hermione Granger, 30, in a secret ceremony on 22nd December 1999. The star-crossed lovers were just 20 and 19 years of age at the time. The match comes as a surprise, to put it mildly, as the two aligned with opposing sides during the war, and it was widely thought that Mr. Malfoy would choose a Pureblood bride.

However, Mr. Malfoy is clearly smitten after almost ten years married to the Wizarding World’s heroine. “Hermione’s love for me proves that even the least likely among us can, with the right motivation and support, find redemption. I don’t deserve her, but I try a little harder each day to be a worthy husband.”

“While we prefer to keep a low profile after so many years in the spotlight, we’re thrilled to share our love with the world. Draco and I will attend the Solstice Ball as our first public event together,” Hermione Malfoy, née Granger, informed us.

The family’s solicitor, Theodore Nott, Jr., confirmed the marriage and the couple’s desire for privacy via owl. ‘The Malfoy family appreciates the many well-wishes on their happy marriage. They are private citizens, and request their privacy be respected.’

The Malfoys have many estates, including the notorious Malfoy Manor, but reside together in Kensington Gardens, London. The Daily Prophet offers their warm congratulations to the Malfoys.

But what struck Draco was the photograph Pansy chose to introduce he and Hermione to the public as a happily married couple.

In the half-page photo, Hermione looped her arms around his neck over and over again, a playful smile lighting up her features. The ease of her movements spoke of routine, a habit established over a decade of marital bliss. For his part, he held Hermione close to him, leaning into her touch, a gentle but clear possessiveness in his eyes.

Mine, Draco thought. I look at her like she’s mine.

(Credit: Ene131/@chestercompanyy)

Although his mind time travelled back to those moments in Pansy’s office, savouring the memory of her body against his, he finally found his voice. “Any reactions so far? Have we heard from Pansy?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, spearing some eggs with her fork without looking up at him. Draco wondered if she avoided him out of nervousness. And if she did, was it the potential negative reaction to the article making her nervous, or was it him? Did she regret their interlude in the bathroom last night? “I cast a reverse silencing charm over the house and directed all mail to Pansy’s office. I assume we’ll see her later?”

Before Hermione finished her sentence, the Floo activated. “On the contrary, you’ll see me now. There’s no way you’ll be going to my office, or anywhere else, for that matter, anytime soon,” Pansy strode in with a broad, sincere smile on her face in a smart skirt suit, starched to perfection.

She triumphantly marched to the nearest window, whipped out her wand, and with a few quick motions, enlarged it and beckoned to both Draco and Hermione. Neither of them moved.

“I’ve charmed the window so no one can see you. Come and look,” she waved them over, implying any refusal would be futile.

Without thinking, Draco reached for Hermione’s hand. His heart gave a small flutter as she took it without pause. They approached the window and looked out, utterly unprepared for what they saw.

A crowd had amassed in front of the flat and spilled out into the surrounding street. Instead of a boiling sea of rage, the people below were all smiles and laughter. Many held signs aloft, with messages of felicitations for the happy couple.

“You did it, darlings. Your love story is a huge success — my crowning achievement, really. Macmillan ought to lay flowers at my feet for all the papers I’ve sold today. You’ve received hundreds of owls, and they’re overwhelmingly carrying well-wishes. Some people even sent gifts. There’ve been a few Howlers, but we expected that.”

Hermione’s mouth hung open in awe of the display below. “Pansy, you’re a genius.”

The other witch smirked. “Can I quote you on that?”

Hermione shocked them both by pulling Pansy into a hug. “Thank you.”

Pansy’s gaze met Draco’s over Hermione’s shoulder, and he read her expression as only friends with a long history can. He detected more pride there than the satisfaction of a job well done. It hadn’t occurred to him to Occlude, but even if it had, his happiness and gratitude refused to be concealed.

A series of impatient knocks made the women jump apart.

Draco drew his wand, edging closer to the door. “Pans, I thought we agreed to increase security.”

“I did, and Hermione updated the wards. They should be foolproof,” she insisted.

A vaguely familiar male voice bellowed between blows to the front door. “HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER! OPEN THE DOOR THIS INSTANT!”

Along the outskirts of his peripheral vision, Hermione stuck her wand into her bun and ran past Draco towards the door.

“Hermione!” Draco shouted. “Are you mad?”

She flung open the door, and Draco, temporarily blinded by flashbulbs, cast the first spell that sprang to mind.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Harry Potter’s wand whizzed through the air and landed in Draco’s outstretched hand.

Of course Potter would find a way in.

Hermione shut the door in the faces of the gathered reporters and quickly resealed the wards. Potter waited until she finished to pull her into a hug. Draco bristled at the way the other wizard brought one hand to rest on the back of his wife’s head as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

Potter’s next words came out quietly, muffled by Hermione’s curls. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me, Harry, it’s me,” she said, trembling.

Draco twirled Potter’s wand between his hands and tried not to glare, failing miserably. But as glares go, it lacked the heat he’d always had boiling inside him when it came to the Chosen One. It pained him to admit that Harry Potter, once again, had all the things he wanted: a wife, children, and the ability to walk down Diagon Alley or pop over to Hogsmeade without people cowering in fear, trying to provoke him, or assaulting him in some way.

Some people had all the luck.

After an eternity, Potter’s eyes landed on him. “Out of all the spells available to you, I didn’t think you’d go with Expelliarmus, Malfoy.”

That smarted a bit. “Expecting Avada Kedavra?” He sneered at his former nemesis and sent the wand sailing back to its owner.

“Not exactly,” Potter caught the wand, deft as ever. “But now that he knows Hermione’s here, Ron will want to show you a few of the new defensive spells they’ve developed in the Auror department. These wards were bloody tricky to get past, though.” Hermione pulled away and, stifling a laugh at Harry’s shredded robes, cast a quick series of Reparo.

“Sorry Harry, those were my handiwork.” Hermione beamed brightly at Potter, and for a moment, Draco was fifteen again, peering longingly from the shadows at the tight-knit friends.

“I don’t think I need Weasel’s help, thanks very much,” Draco sniffed, approaching the reunited pair. “I’ve got Theo Nott.”

At least, he thought he did. His last letter to the solicitor had been returned with a terse reply from Wizarding Britain’s most insufferable prick, Michael Corner.

Pansy pressed the back of her hand against her forehead as if she had a temperature. “I need to go see some photographers about some film. It might cost you, Draco darling. Good to see you, Harry. Give my best to Ginny and the boys.”

“You too, Pansy. I’ve actually got Luna’s nargle hunting equipment on me if you —”

“Please do not give that back,” Pansy begged, and perhaps deciding she’d rather swim with sharks than let Potter return the borrowed instrumentation that would ensure more magical creatures joined their menagerie, she flung the door open and leapt into the waiting jaws of the reporters.

Hermione turned her eyes on him in a silent plea. Whether she begged for civility, sensibility, or anything else, Draco couldn’t find it in himself to refuse her. Right now it seemed as if she needed privacy to speak with her friend. He cleared his throat.

“I actually need to catch up with Blaise. You remember Zabini, Potter? He’s a Healer now, been here nearly a week actually, helping Hermione’s parents, you know,” Hermione shook her head sharply. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. Feel free to make yourself at home. Any friend of my wife’s...”

“Too thick, Draco.” She didn’t beam at him as she did for Potter, but he’d earned a smile that put a delightful crinkle in her nose.

“I thought as much. I’ll see you in a bit?”

Without further thought or comment, he lifted her hand to his lips, sliding his thumb across her fingers. He winked at Potter for good measure.

As he left, he could’ve sworn he heard Potter say to his wife, “Did you just call him Draco?”

❖

Hermione led Harry to her room and took her seat in one of the tufted wingback chairs, offering the other to her friend. His eyes landed on the armoire, then the bookshelves, then the bed, where her pyjamas bearing the initials H.M. lay neatly on the duvet.

This was not how she wanted to see her best friend again.

She’d imagined a public place, maybe a cafe. Somewhere they’d both need to remain composed.

Hermione fidgeted, pulling gently on her fingers. Harry stayed perfectly still.

Weak sunlight washed over them both, illuminating Harry’s face. Fine lines wove their way across his countenance, bursting forth from the corners of his eyelids like confetti from a Christmas cracker. They spoke of mirth, joy, cosy family gatherings and storytelling. These years had been happy for Harry, if his face told the truth. Of course the scar still situated itself between his brows, but it had smoothed and faded, no longer the first thing anyone noticed about him. And in a very small way, it broke her heart.

Harry didn’t look at her when he finally spoke. “I thought you were dead, you know? When you first stopped writing all those years ago. Ron told me about the last letter he sent you, and suddenly your absence made sense. I thought maybe you were just heartbroken and needed space.”

“Harry,” Hermione leaned forward to grasp his hand.

He leaned away, and she flinched at the rejection. He’d hugged her so tightly just minutes ago. What changed between then and now?

“Hermione. I have to get this out. Please,” he paused, his green eyes piercing. “And then you were back in the city with a Ministry job, but before I could see you, you disappeared. No note. No trace. Ron almost opened a missing magical persons case. He got the whole department in a frenzy, and they made enough noise that Kingsley got involved. He ran it all the way up the flagpole to Minister Podmore. That’s when he implied that we should look in the archives for recent marriage certificates.”

Hermione immediately regretted all the loose ends she’d left when she fled the city. “So this whole time….”

“I knew. I knew you married Malfoy.”

The enormity of his statement had her clutching her stomach. He’d known about her marriage for years. She fought back the urge to dry heave. It took her a long moment to regain the power of speech.

“Who else knows?”

“Ginny, naturally. Ron, who went ballistic, so we had to tell Neville. I made them all promise not to talk about it with anyone until it was public knowledge.”

She hung her head. “Harry, that’s more than I deserved. That’s so incredibly decent of you. Thank you.”

If Harry hadn’t kept her secret, everything might’ve been so much worse for her and Draco.

“My primary concern was your safety. The Minister allowed me to go to the Time Room with an Unspeakable.”

“You visited the Time Room?” It had always been a dream of hers, ever since she held a Time-Turner in her hands.

“One of his better efforts to recruit me to work for him, I’ll admit. I can’t tell you exactly what I saw there, but it proved to me that you were safe, and since you and I hadn’t spoken in so long, I let it lie. Plus, I had no idea where to even find you and Malfoy until today. How could you be here in London this whole time without telling me? Without coming by to see your godsons?”

“Harry, I haven’t been in London, I promise. I just got here a few days ago, and it’s been a whirlwind. Please believe me, I wanted to see you with all my heart but I —” she choked on her words. She did want to see him, but she was still angry. “Couldn’t you have asked Pansy?”

“Asked her where you were? Did she know?”

“No, but she’s Draco’s friend. She could’ve asked for you if you couldn’t find him,” she paused, fixated on Harry’s face as he clenched his jaw. “Don’t be cross with her though, Harry. She didn’t know about us. But you might’ve asked.”

Why did he give up so easily? If the roles were reversed, she would’ve never believed Harry had gone willingly, Time Room be damned. Time could be manipulated, much like memory. It wouldn’t matter what she thought she saw. She would have spent her nights like Draco, traversing continent after continent, looking for clues; seeking answers.

A new thought bloomed in the back of her mind. Draco would have never stopped looking for her.

Harry paused and carded a hand through his unruly hair, and the weight of all she had lost, already impossibly heavy, crushed her a little bit more. “Hermione, I’m sorry. I told myself you had your reasons, and you don’t owe me anything. I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done for me. But I hope, as your best friend, you’ll tell me — why Malfoy? Why him?”

She swallowed and considered where to begin.

“I didn’t tell you the truth about what happened with my parents.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was honest with you and Ron when I told you I Obliviated them before the war. I went to restore their memories in Sydney not long after we defeated Voldemort. But it had been too long, I think, or the Obliviation was done with such powerful intent that I couldn’t reverse it. I still haven’t been able to reverse it. All the letters I sent you and Ron were full of lies,” Hermione hung her head. “I lied to you for two years. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth, Harry.”

Harry’s knee jiggled uncontrollably, and his tone sharpened. “You couldn’t tell me the truth? Or you didn’t want to? Hermione, I’ve proved time and time again I have your back and I would do anything for you. For Merlin’s sake, I just broke into Malfoy’s flat and I’m sitting here, hearing you out!”

“I didn’t want to, okay? I was scared, and embarrassed, and, and… jealous!”

He jolted back in his chair. “Jealous?”

“After the war ended, you were the hero. Bloody hell, long before the war, you were a hero, but it never bothered me until after we left the ruins of Hogwarts. The entire world loved you, anything you wanted was available to you. Any city, any job, any institution of higher learning. Ginny and all the Weasleys were by your side. And you lost so much, and I’m not discounting that at all, Harry, but I was without any options. I had no money, no family, no home, no connections. I thought surely McGonagall would offer me a position, although in hindsight that was a teenage delusion. I was desperate, surely you can see that?”

“I would’ve given you money! I’m the richest half-blood alive. You don’t think I would’ve written a letter of recommendation for a job or a university?”

“I couldn’t ask you, Harry. I needed you to offer,” She gathered every bold bone in her body and met his eyes. “I have always offered you whatever I have. My books. My Time-Turner. I have dark magic permanently embedded in my veins courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange because I would give my life for you. And you didn’t ask me to, but the fact is you never had to, because I love you. You and Ron are the closest thing I have to brothers. And I know it was another lie, but I told myself you were too busy for me. I wasn’t useful to you anymore.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “It seems I haven’t been very good at showing it, Hermione, but I love you, too. I’m sorry. I wish I’d gotten my head out of my arse and thought about all our futures more. It’s just that even after Voldemort was dead...”

“The future was impossible to imagine. I know.” Hermione considered reaching for his hand again, but the fear of facing rejection a second time kept her hand firmly in her lap.

“It’s no excuse. I want to teach my sons how to be a good friend and I’ve been a poor example,” Harry looked to the side and swallowed, some painful emotion she couldn’t identify flickering in his eyes. Her heart sank, remembering she used to read him like a book. “What about your parents? Does he know about them? Are they with you here? Are they doing okay?”

She took a deep breath.

“He knows now. It was a shock at first but he’s surprisingly supportive, actually. And they’re… stable. It’ll be a long road,” she said, avoiding going into further detail. The last thing she needed right now was a lecture.

The tension in his face eased. “That’s good to hear.”

“After I came back to London I realised that even with a job at the Ministry, I couldn’t support my parents on my salary, let alone provide them with the potions and healing they need. He found me at my lowest point.”

Harry tilted his chin down and looked at her straight through his trademark eyeglasses, his tone like thunder threatening in the distance. “Tell me he didn’t Imperio you.”

“No, no, it was nothing like that,” she assured him, relieved when his shoulders dropped and his hand moved away from his wand. “No one forced me down the aisle. We negotiated and drew up a contract. Then we married in his solicitor’s office.” That was as much as she wanted to tell Harry. He didn’t need to know the finer details of her wedding night.

“Theo Nott? Malfoy mentioned him. I remember him being in the Hogwarts library a lot.”

“He’s not bad, for a Slytherin. None of them are, actually. In any case, it was very transactional.” She waved a hand, attempting to downplay how she felt about her wedding night.

Unbidden, a memory flashed across her mind’s eye. A pale hand twisted a black silk sheet, then, as if conceding a fight, skated up her stomach and kneaded her breast, the inquiring touch turning urgent.

She wondered what Draco’s touches might be like now. She wondered if he knew she’d welcome them.

Harry’s next words brought her back to the present. “I’ve befriended a few Slytherins myself. But this is Malfoy we’re talking about. Why didn’t you divorce him?”

“We married under the Malfoy family ritual. There is no divorce.”

“That explains Narcissa and Lucius’s relationship, I suppose. While he was raving about reclaiming his power in Azkaban, she donated quite a lot of money to the Hogwarts Restoration Fund. She was actually rather lovely to both Ginny and I the last time we saw her, before she passed away.” Harry paused. “It was sudden. Maybe you should talk to Malfoy about this. It’s not my place.”

Hermione twisted her lips in thought. She’d have to tell Ron soon, so she may as well tell Harry. “He told me she was murdered.”

“What?” His mouth hung open in shock.

“You can’t tell anyone. He thinks it was a Death Eater, sent by Lucius.”

“As despicable as Lucius Malfoy was, I can’t believe he’d have Narcissa killed by one of his henchmen.”

“There can’t be that many of them left, can there? Why haven’t they been arrested?” The endless rows of grimy wanted posters she’d seen on her journey to St. Mungo’s fluttered to the front of her mind.

“I guess you didn’t read the paper much while you were — where were you, exactly?”

“A cottage in the Cotswolds with my parents. And no, I avoided the news as part of our agreement. Draco’s filled me in a little, but with everything going on I’m not fully up to date.”

Harry sighed heavily and leaned forward in his chair. “Podmore is much more populist than any of us hoped. I wouldn’t trust him to run a bath, let alone the Ministry, but here we are. He’s passed loads of anti-Pureblood legislation and kept his position secure doing it. In the beginning, he only went after Voldemort’s remaining followers. The public didn’t think twice about rallying behind stripping former Death Eaters of their money, their land, etcetera. It was easy to implement, but as a side effect it created a whole new crop of Death Eaters claiming to be a persecuted class.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m sure it did.”

“But the Ministry was still strapped for Galleons. So they wrote new laws with their golden quills, and almost overnight the Sacred Twenty-Eight became the new Undesirables. Naturally, those with the largest coffers were the first to be relieved of their funds. The problem now is that the Death Eaters, old and new, are recruiting the angry and disillusioned Purebloods, and even Half-bloods who’ve lost inheritances.”

“But that’s impossible! The Sacred Twenty-Eight would never let this happen.”

“The Minister sent his personal Aurors to ‘keep the peace’ at their estates, and he and his cabinet funnelled money to the press. Skeeter and her ilk are long gone, but the new reporters aren’t much better, and they were only too happy to print propaganda about Sacred families. The Weasleys are too broke to make the ink worth it, but everyone else who’d ever leveraged their wealth over other wizards was fair game.”

She furrowed her brow. One thing still didn’t make sense. “How has Malfoy escaped these laws exactly? He told me he’s been paying them off, but it seems impossible they’d let him slip from their grasp.”

“He’s a whale. Podmore would love to take him for all he’s worth, but everyone from the collection agents all the way up to the treasury won’t allow it. Malfoy helps fund their campaigns and galas instead of sending it all straight to Podmore and his cronies to do who knows what with it. He scratches their backs, they scratch his. Don’t know how long he can keep it up, though. The Ministry has wanted Malfoy Manor for years. The library alone is worth millions.”

It made more sense now why Theo kept track of her spending and sent the accounts to Draco. But why wouldn’t he give up his many estates as a way to stave the Ministry off, considering he could never set foot on them again?

Probably because one of them was a crime scene.

But maybe also because one of them was hers? He’d promised to protect her. Vowed she would have Cyclamen Cottage to herself.

Even now, she and her parents wanted for nothing. She’d told him she wanted to send money to St. Mungo’s and he hadn’t even blinked before pulling out his chequebook.

Hermione’s voice came out quieter than she expected. “He’s paid for everything for me and never said a word.”

Her best friend raised one eyebrow. “That’s interesting.”

“Yes,” she said, pulling a book off the shelf. She flipped through the pages without reading a single word, perhaps a first for her. “He’s not bad, you know.”

I like him, she wanted to say.

“Malfoy? Not bad?”

She shut the book. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. He’s been decent, that’s all. This whole thing between us wouldn’t be public if I hadn’t come to London a few days ago.”

Hermione sat back down and recounted her trip to St. Mungo’s and her run-in with her husband.

“It’s certainly not the place I’d want my parents to be,” Harry shook his head. The unspoken if they were alive hung in the air.

“It’s a shame, too. You’d think some of that Ministry money would go to healthcare. That place used to be the pride of London.”

“You should see the rest of the city. All our public institutions are crumbling, both externally and internally.”

“What are you doing about it, Harry?” She’d intended it to sound more challenging, but her words came out desperate. The Harry she knew always took action.

He tugged at the collar of his robes. “I’m on the board at Hogwarts. And day-to-day I’m an inspirational speaker. I want to solve the problems at the root. We have to educate the next generation about the wars. We can’t afford more trauma, more families torn apart, more destruction. Tom Riddle was born an ordinary wizard just like any of us. If we’re not careful, another wizard or witch could become the next Voldemort.”

Hermione shivered in her seat. The next Voldemort.

“Are you cold? Here. Incendio,” Harry said, lighting the fireplace.

She wasn’t, but she held her hands out to the fire. “Can’t we do more than sit on boards and give pretty speeches?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “It seemed a lot easier when we were young. I didn’t know everything that could go wrong. I didn’t have a wife and kids. Everyone seemed to agree on the strategy, which was to kill Voldemort. Now, I don’t think even you, Ron and I could get a room of like-minded adults to agree on the path forward. I mean, bloody hell, Ron works for the Ministry. He’s so convinced he can win hearts and change things from the inside. But I don’t think I could stomach it.”

“We have to do something. I don’t think this is going to get sorted out on its own.”

“Does it have to be us? Can’t someone else do the saving-the-world thing for once?”

She shifted in her seat and placed one warm hand over his. “It may have to be us.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet, but I know Draco’s with me. He wants change, too, you know. We could start small. Maybe you can write a new speech, and I could ask Theo if we can get time in front of the Wizengamot. The hearings are public. Maybe fewer people support Podmore than you think.”

Harry reached out and hugged her, squeezing her so tightly she couldn’t draw breath. “That’s brilliant. I’ll get started on it tonight. I wish we’d talked sooner, Hermione.”

“Me too,” she squeaked. And it was true. Things didn’t feel fully mended between them, but old wounds are the hardest to heal. And despite everything, their love for each other was unquestionable.

“Will you come meet the boys soon? Gin’s desperate to see you, too.”

The boys. Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t wait to be part of their lives.

Hermione deflected, remembering the way Ginny shouted her name the other morning when she dropped her bag. “Is she angry?”

“She’ll be furious for all of ten minutes. You know Gin, she’s got to get it all out there. Ten minutes later you’ll be in the kitchen together drinking a cuppa like no time’s passed at all,” He smiled the crinkly smile of a happily married man. “She’s a wonderful wife, Hermione. The best mum I’ve ever seen. I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“I think that’s always been true, Harry Potter.” Hermione smiled as she rose from her seat.

Harry stood up, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Hermione Malfoy. You’re really going by his name? That’s going to take a lot of getting used to. Can I give him the ‘You better not hurt her’ speech? Please tell me I can.”

“I’m sure you’re the finest inspirational speaker to ever hail from Godric’s Hollow,” she gave a little chuckle as Harry’s eyes rolled. She stood to face him. “But please don’t. He’s my husband but we’re only now circling a friendship.”

A little more than that, if truth be told.

Harry opened his mouth as if to say something, and then shut it.

She put her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry. No more secrets.”

“It’s not a secret. It’s just, do you think you might ever… since it’s irreversible…” He seemed to struggle to get the words out. “Do you think you might ever give him a chance to be more than that? I know it’s mad,” he said, holding his palms out towards her. “But you say he’s been decent. If you’re stuck together, and can never be with anyone else, maybe it’s worth trying. Marriage is pretty wonderful, if you work at it.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying right now.”

“If he’s done everything you’ve said, he might have the same idea,” Harry said. Hermione’s mouth fell open. “It’s not that far-fetched, Hermione. And I think he’s already growing on you.”

Hermione turned to the window, which, betraying the mood, blasted a ray of sun directly into her face. “Maybe, but there’s so much history between us.”

There was so much more to them now than the morning’s headline. The Death Eater and his Golden Girl? More like The Dark Lady and her Haloed Husband, she thought grimly.

When he spoke again, it was if Harry read her mind. “There’s more dark magic hanging around you now than what Bellatrix delivered in your scar. I can feel it.”

“How…?”

“I’ve spent more time around it than most,” he said, dropping a hand on her shoulder. “What’s happening, Hermione?”

She faced him, nearly shaking. “I know it’s been over a decade now, but do you remember that night you caught me sneaking back into our tent?”

“Not really, but I’m listening,” Harry said.

“I went to the Riddle House to investigate. I know I shouldn’t have gone alone, but you and Ron were both so tired, and I was overconfident. There were stacks and stacks of books inside, and I thought some of them might be useful for our Horcrux search — none of them were, by the way — but I also found a book about Muggle memory modification and experimentation and I took it.”

“Merlin.”

She barrelled on. It was too late to turn back now. “I thought it might have some answers for when it came time to reverse my parents’ Obliviation. In fact, I used some of the spells in it with great success. But I found one in particular that I thought I could modify and, well, it’s gone terribly wrong.”

Hermione took a deep breath, rolled up her sleeve, and unwound her bandage to reveal her Dark Mark. Harry looked from her arm to her face and then back to her arm. Shame burned through her chest, raw and aching, as she awaited his response.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“It’s not a joke. Look, it’s moving,” she said, biting her lip as the snake writhed its way through the black skull. “I swear I didn’t realise Tom Riddle had actually written the book until much later. Most of it he couldn’t have possibly done himself. Who knows where he compiled everything from.”

“What spell is it?”

She recited the spell from memory. Harry’s eyes widened in abject horror.

“Hermione, you’re playing with something even darker than you know. That spell was cast by Voldemort’s followers to bring him back during the Triwizard Tournament.”

Hermione hadn’t been there in the graveyard, but she remembered Harry’s haunted look hours after the incident. He’d told his friends of Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s rebirth, but not the exact spell the Death Eaters performed.

Her spell, now.

She hyperventilated, barely managing a question she dreaded above all others. “Harry, are you saying Voldemort could return? Has returned?”

“No, no, he’s gone forever. Trust me. I felt him leave this world. But you have to stop dabbling in dark magic,” Harry begged, shaking her by the shoulders.

She brought her hands up over his. “I can’t. It’s part of the potions that are keeping my parents with me, as much as they are, anyway. And I don’t think magic is all light or dark anymore. It’s helped me. It’s helped them.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

She blinked away a tear. “This is only temporary.”

He dropped his hands. “Have you explained any of this to Malfoy? I think the man bearing a Dark Mark of his own would have a few things to say about this. Circe, this is such a mess.”

It was even more of a mess than he knew.

“I love you Harry, but you can’t come here and lecture me on this. I know what I’m doing!” Her entire body shook, falling back into old habits.

“The thing is, I don’t think you do. And you know it. And I love you enough to be honest with you, Hermione. We agreed no more secrets. You might want to start being honest with yourself, too.”

“I’m being perfectly honest,” she lied.

“Answer me this: Have you been having intrusive thoughts? Seeing things that aren’t really there? Feeling a surge of power that fades the further out you are from using one of the spells?”

She held her arms straight at her sides, but she cracked open anyway. He was right. “I want things to be different, Harry. I don’t know what to do.” Her tears fell silent and hot on her cheeks.

Harry hugged Hermione tightly, and his familiar woodsy scent comforted her. But not quite as much as lavender did. “My door is always open, Hermione. I promise I’ll help you however I can.”

“Thank you. Blaise is helping me, too. I’ve shown him.”

“Good. But to be perfectly clear, because I don’t want you to mistake me, I’m offering everything I have in terms of resources to you. And it’s not because I feel sorry for you or because I have some saviour complex even after all these years. It’s because we’re friends, and I want to be friends with the Hermione who comes out on the other side of all this. Granger, Malfoy, Marked, whatever.”

“I missed you, Harry,” she sniffled.

“I missed you, too. And I’m going to be a better friend.”

“So am I. And a better godmother, too.”

❖

Blaise stepped through the Floo and set his kit on the hearth. “It’s really something out there. You and Hermione are de rigeur.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope we’ve got staying power,” Draco said, gripping a bottle of firewhisky by the neck like a trophy. “Drink?”

Blaise brushed him off. “Just water for me, please. I am on duty, after all.”

“That’s for the best, then, as I’ve been hoping to speak to you in an official capacity.” Draco poured himself a whisky, then cast an Aguamenti for the Healer, which he accepted only after a hard look.

“And that’s the only way I would speak to you these days.”

Draco sighed, abandoning his glass on the side table. “And so my apology tour continues.”

“I’m listening,” Blaise said, folding his arms.

“My mother, who, I might add, was a mother to you and the rest of our lot whenever we needed it, and my intended bride had both just died. It’s not an excuse for what I did, but it’s obvious I was distraught.”

The other man scowled. “First, you were blatantly high at your mother’s funeral. You hiccuped through a eulogy so unintelligible I had to convince several mourners that your grief had driven you to speak in myriad archaic languages. Then you were late to Astoria’s funeral. Theo and I got you dressed, dragged you there, and propped you up the entire time like a mouldy scarecrow. And what was the first thing you said to Daphne afterwards?”

Draco curled his fingers into his palms, forcing his nails into the fleshy part below his thumb. “I said, ‘Your sister was a Squib.’”

“Oh, so you do remember. And was she a notable stop on this apology tour of yours?”

He pressed harder now, creating little divots in the skin. “No.”

“Thought not. Also, that was an excuse you gave earlier. You were distraught,” Blaise sneered, in a way that only Purebloods could. “We were all distraught, Draco. Astoria was barely in the ground and you chose that exact moment to inflict further pain on her family and friends.”

“It’s true, though. She wrote to me before she died. Daph needed to know,” Draco insisted.

“Did she need to know it right then? Or did you need to get it off your chest so you could cope with the fact that you’d already moved on with a woman you’d only recently stopped thinking of as a Mudb—”

Draco pulled his wand and in a flash the tip dented the neck of Blaise’s green robes. “Don’t call her that. Ever,” Draco growled.

“I’m sorry, I was caught up in the past. I’ve never thought of Hermione that way, and I know you don’t think like that anymore,” Blaise eyed the wand as Draco reeled his arm in. “See how that’s done? An apology usually contains the word ‘sorry’ or ‘my mistake.’ It’s not difficult to set things right.”

“I am sorry, Blaise. I’m sorry they’re dead. I’m sorry I was an absolute f*cking mess. I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with me either. I’d just gotten married purely to f*ck my father over. But I had my reasons. And yes, I shouldn’t have spent my days getting loaded on potions. But I was roaming the streets at night, hiding under a ratty invisibility cloak to tail Death Eaters. I looked for any scrap of information I could because no one gave two sh*ts about who ki— why they died so young,” he paused. He had to reign it in. Blaise might suspect he was the one responsible for his mother and Astoria’s deaths. “I wasted years of my life, miserable and alone in the throes of addiction before Theo intervened. Where were you?”

“I’ll tell you exactly where I was, Draco. I never fell in with the Death Eaters or adopted the prejudiced views of our predecessors. Blood is blood, and magic is magic. It’s in the fabric of our very beings. I went back to school, threw myself into the stacks, and emerged London’s foremost clinical researcher and hospice Healer. I want to give people the best possible deaths, and I do. And I’m only here now because of Hermione.”

Draco reached for his drink and knocked it back in one swallow. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. She’s been acting a little erratic. Maybe it’s just the stress of it all. I never had to deal with the knowledge that my parents would die soon — they just, well, died.”

“In some ways, that’s better,” Blaise offered. “The anticipation is often worse than the event.”

“Are you judging her for what happened to her parents?”

Blaise poked his tongue into his cheek. “I know what you’re referring to and I regret saying it. What’s done is done and it’s obvious she feels guilty enough. It’s no excuse, but I’d had a long night with a patient who finally succumbed to his illness. It can be quite… all-consuming.”

“What about that wound on her arm?”

Heaving a sigh, Blaise leaned against the brick facade of the fireplace. “She showed me. It’s rather caliginous, I’m afraid.”

“f*ck,” Draco swore, raising his arms above his head and grabbing at his hair. “I had a feeling it was bad.”

“We’ve all spoken to her about the risks of dark magic, and this is a side-effect borne of an accumulation of factors. And, most unfortunate of all, she’ll need to keep brewing the potions that fuel the wound as her parents are wholly dependent on them at this stage in their disease.”

“What do you recommend?”

“As a Healer, I’ve told her to keep an eye on it while I do some research. Darkness has permeated her very being. As for you, as her husband, I would suggest you stay by her side. It’s difficult to predict when she might have an episode. It’s imperative that you don’t leave her alone,” the Healer pressed.

An episode? Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. He should go to her now.

“Blaise, have you ever wondered how we ended up here?”

Blaise gazed into his drink and stayed quiet for a moment. “I think about it all the time.”

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

Hermione caught up with Harry before he reached the front door. The reverse silencing charm still in place, it was impossible to know whether the buzz outside had died down. It seemed unlikely since the Boy Who Lived had spent the past hour or so there, but one could hope for breaking news that would send the reporters scrambling over each other — and more importantly, away from their doorstep — for the scoop.

“Harry, before you go… Do you think you’d speak to Ron for me?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I want you two to reconnect more than anyone, but I’ve no desire to be a middleman. I’ll give you his address,” he said, summoning a quill and parchment from the pockets of his robes. Harry scribbled the information down, squinted at his atrocious handwriting, and extended it to her.

“Thanks,” she nodded, accepting the proffered parchment. “It’s not that I don’t want to see him; it’s just that I don’t know where to start. I need to apologise, of course, and I want to hear everything that’s happened since I’ve been gone. But I also want to ask him to look into Narcissa’s murder. And I’m not sure it’ll go over well.”

“Like I said, Ron works for the Ministry, but he’s not drinking the pumpkin juice. Plus, it’s you, Hermione.”

She picked at her nails. “Yes, but I’m asking for Draco.”

For us, she wanted to say.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the soft hem of his sleeve. “Maybe don’t call him Draco to Ron’s face right away,” he laughed. “Why don’t you start with an owl? Knowing Malfoy I’m sure there’s an owlery on the roof of this place. An owl for every occasion.”

Hermione grinned. “You think Pureblood families breed owls for the specific purpose of imparting things like ‘Sorry I’ve lied to you and avoided you, but now I need your help’ with the proper aplomb?”

“‘Course not. They don’t apologise,” Harry joked. Her smile faded and Hermione couldn’t muster even a hollow laugh. Draco apologised, and she’d already begun seeing him in a new light. It hurt to hear traces of the Ministry’s propaganda had nested in Harry’s mind and flown forth from his lips. Their subtle assault on the remaining Purebloods must have crept in so slowly if even Harry Potter, who knew full well blood status didn’t make the witch or wizard, didn’t realise his microaggressions.

There was an awkward shuffling of feet, the indelicate chewing of lips.

“I’m sorry, that was wrong of me.”

“No, I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve let you down. I’ve let everyone down.”

It would be easy to think that if she’d been here, things would be different. That she, surely, would not be in the cauldron with all the other frogs, slowly boiling to death. If she’d stayed at the Ministry, would she have felt the same as so many others? Certainly, revenge appealed. She’d been on the receiving end of vast emotional and physical pain inflicted by Death Eaters and Purebloods, and so had many others. Too many.

But, as the saying goes, when seeking revenge, one should dig two graves. And she’d already dug enough graves in her lifetime.

“You haven’t, and you never will,” he paused, glancing down the hall, and Hermione glimpsed platinum hair in the reflection of Harry’s glasses. “Don’t make him a project, Hermione.”

“What?”

He lowered his voice so that only she could hear. “If you care for him, don’t try to solve his problems behind his back. Work with him.”

She’d barely recovered when Draco appeared at her side. “Hermione? Are you alright?”

“Of course,” she scrambled. “Only sad that Harry’s leaving so soon.”

“Would you care to join us for dinner this evening?” Draco asked Harry. His open stance and relaxed shoulders told her it was a genuine offer and not extended out of politeness.

Harry took the shock in stride. “I couldn’t impose, plus I’ve got a new little one at home.”

“I saw the news. Congratulations. Perhaps another time.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said, meeting his old adversary’s eyes. “It’s been a pleasure, Malfoys.”

“Potter,” Draco said, stopping Harry in his tracks. His Adam's apple bobbed. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Harry turned a bright grin on Hermione that couldn’t have been captured even by the Deluminator. “Didn’t even need the speech,” he crowed.

Draco looked at his wife, a confused expression on his face.

“I can take care of myself,” Hermione protested.

“You can,” her husband agreed. Harry, examining the wards, likely to make sure he could exit in one piece, didn’t see Draco lean in close and whisper in her ear. “But I’ll endeavour to do it so much better than you could on your own.”

“I’ll see you both at the ball,” Harry said in lieu of a formal farewell. Hermione pulled Draco towards her so they could hide behind the door as he opened and shut it, flashbulbs going off again but only capturing images of the flat. She found herself pressed against his chest, reminiscent of the photo in today’s paper. Her breath hitched as he pulled her even closer, the crown of her head tucked under his chin.

The moment had passed, but Draco didn’t let go. Heat suffused her entire body, and she melted into him, breathing in his soothing lavender scent.

“I take it you aren’t ready to face the public?” His words rumbled through his chest and into hers. She shifted so her cheek could rest between his shoulder and neck, her lips close enough to taste the salt of his skin. It took all her willpower not to take a lick.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready,” she admitted. He let go of her, and she stepped away, rubbing her arms over the ghost of where his own had held her only moments ago. “But I don’t think putting it off will help matters. May as well ride the wave of goodwill.”

“Let’s go out to dinner, then. I’ll ask Pansy for a recommendation. Maybe we can get an appointment with Patil beforehand.”

She thought back to her pre-dawn vigils; wiping her mother’s brow, the small whimper emerging from Judy’s dry lips as the cool cloth met her crepey skin. Wendell, without the flush from alcohol, resembled a wax mannequin displayed in a tourist trap, a crude imitation of her father. The Dreamless Sleep kept the worst at bay, but for how long? Her parents couldn’t afford for her to delay. She’d owl Padma immediately, and maybe after dinner compose a long letter to Ron.

“Do you have an owl, by chance?”

“I have a few. What’s the occasion?”

She couldn’t help her laughter.

❖

Hermione wrangled her hair into something resembling a French twist. As she appraised her effort, Draco approached, and when she let him through her wards all thoughts of a fourth attempt at the hairstyle fled from her mind.

She tried too hard. She always had. Where her sleeves sat just so, kissing her carpal bones, his perched at the top of his forearms, rolled and slightly wrinkled. His wand lay securely in the leather holster, ready at a moment’s notice. A charcoal grey cable knit vest and black trousers completed the look. She thought she saw him flex, but couldn’t be sure.

“I thought a more casual look would be best,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “But you look absolutely —”

“You’re right, it’s too much,” she confirmed with the mirror. She reached around to her back to unzip the chestnut-hued boatneck dress, but with one arm bandaged and the other much less flexible, she struggled to locate the pull.

Draco stepped behind her and brushed her hand away. “Allow me,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His mouth quirked up. “Wouldn’t want to have to vanish this one.”

Hermione held her breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the man as he unzipped her dress, the blonde hair falling over his face and the slow glide of separating metal teeth never distracting him from their locked gaze. Draco held the dress together, although whether it was to preserve her modesty or keep her close, she didn’t know.

“Thank you.”

His breath on her neck gave her goosebumps. “My pleasure. Before you cut me off, I was going to say you look absolutely beautiful in this. But you don’t seem comfortable.”

Heat crept over her face at his genuine compliment. “Right. And we’ve been married a long time now. We should look a bit more… broken in.”

He still hadn’t moved his hand. And although it couldn’t have been any effort at all, his fingers twitched, grazing the lace of her bra clasp. “Perhaps a little more undone?”

They looked at each other in the mirror, neither moving, barely blinking.

“I’ve got it,” she assured him over her shoulder. The words emerged weaker than she intended. His eyes held bright galaxies up close, and Hermione, no astronaut, looked away as he relinquished the sides of the dress into her care. “I’ll pick something else.”

“Whatever you like,” His voice cracked. How was he still so near, but so much more remote than just a moment ago? “I’ll meet you at the front door?”

She tried not to watch him leave, but it was futile. No one can resist wishing on a shooting star.

❖

Draco stood in the fading light, twirling his signet ring around his finger. Next, he adjusted his wristwatch. Then he tucked his hands into his pockets and back out again. Though he was sweating, he resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his trousers like some sort of cretin, instead casting drying charms. He’d just had his hands on her, again, albeit through fabric.

Gods, he didn’t even have to touch her skin. He craved her at every turn, in every state of dress.

She thought she’d done too much, but the truth was he was too far gone.

Yes, he wanted to be friends with his wife, but that was at a minimum. As much as it stirred his blood to spar with her, it exhausted him to fight like kneazles and crups. But every time Draco convinced himself they’d finally reached that point where a truce made the most sense, he wanted more. Could he allow himself more? Would she allow it?

If only she knew he’d thought of letting go of her dress. Maybe he’d have played it off as an accident. He could have knelt to the floor to pick it up, and kissed up her legs to the apex of her thighs. Or he could’ve summoned his confidence and smirked at her — so much easier to do when they were angry at each other — and let her in on the fact that he’d done it on purpose.

He wandered, as he often did, over to the picture of his mother. She’d eschewed traditional magical portraits since even before the war, afraid that in death she might give something away that might harm her family. He wished now he could’ve convinced her to sit for one.

The black and white portrait didn’t showcase how powerful she’d been in living colour, but she was the definition of serenity and elegance. Draco remembered struggling with the Muggle camera, traipsing through the Manor’s gardens to capture his mother in action, rose petals and laughter trailing in her wake. Finally they’d come to the fountain, surrounded by all the bushes and vines she’d planted over the years, and she sat on the edge. She’d tucked her greying hair behind her ears, held the bouquet to her nose and breathed in, her diamond earrings winking in the light. It was the perfect shot.

Astoria developed the film at something called a Muggle chemist, which carried everything from crisps to newspapers and, much to his delight, scented bubble bath — although it wasn’t up to snuff, as far as he was concerned. She’d brought the photo back and given it to Narcissa, who’d taken one look at it and swept Astoria into her arms.

At least that was how he remembered it happening. But now he began to doubt himself. His brain set new backdrops, new costuming for them all. Astoria, in sunny yellow, at tea. His mother, in a silver gown, after a decadent dinner in the refurbished dining room. Himself, all in black, staring at a single rose on a closed, empty coffin.

His focus fell to pieces as Hermione gently wrapped her arm around his waist, as if he was a hippogriff that might spook.

“This photo was one of the first things I saw when I got here.”

“She’d changed, Hermione. She really had.” He pulled at his collar. Damn thing was choking him.

“You both did. I believe that now.”

“We never should have done the things we did. I regret it,” he managed, though the picture in front of him became blurry. “I regret every minute I spent looking at the world through my father’s eyes. And I want to be better, but here I am, the war more than a decade behind us, and what have I done? The world at large assumes I’m still carrying a torch for Pureblood supremacy, and I haven’t shown them any different.”

In fact, he’d let Goyle continue to believe it just the other day. Draco rolled his shoulders, reluctantly breaking away from Hermione’s touch. What would she think if she knew he’d stood in front of a mass gathering of Death Eaters the other night, affirming their thirst for vengeance? She wouldn’t want to comfort him then.

“You can show them now, Draco.”

“And what if they don’t believe me?”

They shouldn’t believe him. Most of all, she shouldn’t believe him. He wanted to tell Hermione everything, but he couldn’t confess now. Not when what they had — and they had something, didn’t they? — was so fragile.

Hermione patted his shoulder, her hand sliding down his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

Draco watched her go, noting that she looked much more like herself now. Her hair was down, curls bouncing with each step, and her wrap dress was an unmistakable shade of emerald green. He bemoaned the lack of zipper, but the colour signalled her intent.

She had aligned herself with him.

He wouldn’t let her down.

He’d Floo Goyle after dinner and let him know whatever plans he had, he’d better shelve them. And no one should even think about turning their wand on his wife.

Draco tapped two fingers against his wand, snug in its holster. He’d made it himself after a rough night following a rumoured Death Eater. But he’d mixed Pepper-Up with pain relieving potions, and he’d woken up face down in a scummy puddle in an alley surrounded by thugs. His wand, unbeknownst to him, had rolled behind a bin reeking of mouldy chips. The odds had been abysmal, and if it weren’t for the bouncer rounding the corner, Draco might be dead. From then on, he was never without the black leather that looped around his waist.

Draco considered himself a formidable opponent in any scenario. Goyle might be more conniving now, but he was still just a lackey who’d stumbled into leadership, chasing after the glory of more daring, sad*stic Death Eaters. However, his former friend had numbers. Better to be prepared. Draco made a mental note to get an additional duelling practise with Theo on the books. His stomach dropped, knowing how difficult that would be now that the solicitor avoided him.

Hermione emerged from her bedroom, and he immediately noticed the diamonds in her ears. “I know they’re legally mine, but they’ll always be hers. And they’re so huge, everyone’s going to know these are Malfoy diamonds.”

And everyone will know I gave them to you, he thought wickedly. Everyone will know you’re mine.

She belonged to herself, of course. But the primal urge remained. Draco was more than willing to be hers for as long as she liked.

“They suit you.”

“Your mother is one of the reasons we’re doing this. Wearing these will keep her front and centre. I think we should be public about the fact that we’re looking for her killer because the Aurors didn’t do their job.”

“Won’t that embarrass the Ministry?”

“They should be embarrassed,” she said, sticking out her chin. The diamonds flashed as if in agreement with their wearer.

Gods, she was brilliant.

“I couldn’t do this without you."

“I know.” She cast an array of protection charms over them both.

Draco huffed, crossing his arms. “I think it’s customary for you to say you couldn’t do this without me, either.”

“I know that, too," Hermione smirked.

He laid his hand over the doorknob and looked down at her. “You’re getting rather good at this whole ‘putting me in my place’ thing. Very Lady Malfoy.”

She beamed at him. “Someone’s got to keep Lord Malfoy in line,” But as she said it, a little of her glow faded into a nervous expression. “They’ll probably hound us for a kiss.”

Draco frowned. Hadn’t they come too far for her to fear him? “It’s just like the other night. I promise, Hermione, nothing happens without your consent.”

He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but bugger didn’t seem like something she’d say.

“I’ll kiss your hand, if that’s alright with you,” he offered.

“Perfect,” she replied, although her tone indicated it was anything but. Therefore it came as a great surprise to Draco when Hermione slipped her hand into his, and indicated he should open the door.

They were instantly met with a wall of light and sound.

“Draco, Hermione, over here!”

“What do you want to tell your adoring fans?”

“Is he holding you captive? Is it a sex thing?”

As the questions continued, Draco found himself squeezing her hand harder and harder, likely cutting off her circulation. His vision swam, and the undulating mass of reporters shifted into a rush of black-robed Death Eaters accosting him in the Greengrass graveyard. He blinked back the fuzziness only to be met with more flashes, more scratching quills.

But Hermione, who’d had far more experience with the hungry press, didn’t bat so much as an eye. For all her fire, she could be quite cool under pressure.

“Don’t lock your knees,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

“Hermione, give us something,” a rather rotund man with thick-rimmed glasses shouted from the back of the hallway.

“Step aside, please,” Hermione brandished her wand, sweeping it back and forth to make a path through the throng, much like a swashbuckling adventurer might hack through a dense tropical jungle. “Make way. We’ll pose for a photo on the doorstep.”

A witch with bright purple hair wearing combat boots called out to him. “Draco, what’s it like being married to Hermione?”

“It’s like a dream,” he answered, his wife tugging him along. She looked back and flashed him an adoring smile so genuine he’d take it for the real thing.

They led their assailants down the wide square spiral staircase, and when at last they arrived at the front door, Draco’s hair was much more tousled than he preferred, and Hermione’s cheeks were as bright as a raspberry gelée. His heart raced, likely from the nerves, or perhaps the exertion of running down several flights of stairs in new loafers.

The reporters raced to set up, and although most of the crowd had dissolved by now, the cheers of onlookers sent a thrill up Draco’s spine. He’d never received a warm welcome in his life. And despite winter’s cold blustering, with Hermione’s hand still soft in his, it was like stepping into the sun.

“I still can’t believe they’re so happy for us,” Draco couldn’t help his grin.

Hermione grinned back, and if he thought he was in the sunlight before, he looked directly into it now, and found it dazzling beyond compare. He lifted their joined hands, and placing his free hand under them, brought the back of her palm to his lips.

Before he knew what was happening, Hermione got up on her tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. “Well done, you.”

He wrapped her in his arms without a second thought. Between her praise, her curls tickling his nose, and her delicious scent — that same sweet honey, now spiced with vanilla — Draco felt he was going a bit mad. His plan, now their plan, was working. He’d convince Goyle to go to ground, and in a few days, he and Hermione would appear at the Solstice Ball, win the Aurors over, and he’d start getting some answers.

And Hermione would go back to Cyclamen, hopefully with her parents, and have their last Christmas as a family. The Grangers, even if they didn’t know themselves, were a real family. None of this was real. Everything would go back to the way it was before. He’d have his flat — and his bathtub — to himself. He’d grab a pint with Theo every Thursday night, lingering at the bar long after his friend went home, tracing the rings the frosty glasses left behind. He wouldn’t need to worry about wards tearing his bespoke clothes to shreds, or losing miserably at Muggle games, or deciphering the woman staring back at him right now.

But that’s what he wanted. Right? Right.

He’d decided. But then she pulled back, her eyes starry and searching, and kissed him right on the lips.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

She hadn’t been able to resist him.

The Muggle phrase that Harry seemed to live by was true. It really was far better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Because Draco Malfoy kissed her back.

At first, their mouths met closed and chaste, and then, as if searching for answers in the bottoms of teacups, they drank from each other again and again.

He surprised her with his gentleness. Instead of an urgent pressing of lips, or an onslaught of tongue, he nudged his nose against hers, never taking what he wanted, only gratefully accepting what she had to give. When she opened her mouth to him, Draco mirrored her movements, his hands tightening at her waist. He tasted like whisky, and his slow siege of her senses made her feel like she’d had a few shots herself. Their kisses had a molten quality about them that softened her all the way to her core, but she needed more. More of this, more of him.

Pretending to be a happily married woman with years of experience emboldened her. Hermione raked her fingers up into his hair, and she swore even amidst the uproar she heard him moan. An overzealous reporter bumped into them, and Draco broke the kiss, holding her closer against his chest, protecting her and burning her up from inside at the same time.

When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. What would she see written on his face? And what would he see on her own?

Delaying the inevitable reveal, Hermione took her husband’s hand once more, and he called out the Apparition point nearest to the offices of Padma Patil.

❖

“Healer Zabini is one of the best. I don’t see why you need to consult with me.”

Padma Patil flicked her kohl-lined eyes over the medical records, the pile slowly decreasing with each tap of her wand. She wore her long black hair in a simple plait, just as she and her sister Parvati had at Hogwarts over a decade ago. The fire crackled behind her, the orange flames throwing light onto the walls plastered with anatomical charts, a large tapestry depicting ancient herbal medicines, and too many diplomas and certificates to count.

“We’re simply looking for second opinions,” Hermione said. She sipped at a cup of Blaise’s soothing tea as her stomach rumbled. They’d waited outside Padma’s office in the cold for far longer than she’d expected, avoiding eye contact and making idle small talk about their hopes for the evening’s weather. The kiss hid in the silences between them, untouched. But whether it remained so because it was a cursed object or a holy artefact remained to be seen.

Padma finished reading and leaned back in her mustard-coloured velvet chair, ignoring her steaming oolong for the moment. She tapped the pads of her fingers against each other one by one, thumb to pinky and back again — another habit Hermione recognised from their schooldays.

“He’s run all the same tests as my team and I would,” she affirmed. “And a few we wouldn’t have thought of.”

“But?”

“But nothing. I’ve never seen anything like this before, and I’ve been working with the Auror department for years now. You’re lucky to have Healer Zabini invested in your parents’ case. I concur with his prognosis.”

Hermione sat there, frozen. Speechless. Padma’s words set off a chaotic cacophony in her brain, echoing again and again. I concur with his prognosis. I concur with his prognosis. I concur with his prognosis.

Her own thoughts scrambled above the fray, shaky and unconvincing. She could try again, maybe. Consult another specialised Healer, perhaps someone abroad with a different background. But there wasn’t enough time, was there?

There might have been a chance. She’d had time. And she’d wasted it.

The prognosis was death.

Draco’s voice cut through her inner noise. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. We’ll follow Blaise’s care plan and hope for the best. I promise you, if there’s anything I can do to make their last Christmas special, I’ll do it.”

Padma raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Her earlier hunger soured to nausea. Everything was a last now. There would be a last for every day of the week. A last meal, a last sharp glance from Judy and a last weary one from Monica. A last pat on the hand from Wendell. An even worse thought churned her stomach — maybe some of the lasts had already happened. One would even happen tonight: Hermione needed to brew their last potions after she and Draco returned that evening.

Even though she’d be relieved to be done with the endless list that encompassed all her parents’ care — which admittedly, had been mostly lifted off her shoulders when Blaise and Mrs. Tannenbaum entered the picture — she’d spent the last twelve years defined by the albatross around her neck. Who would she be, if not a dutiful daughter?

All of her efforts really had been for nothing. And the man she married to save their lives was not only going to be her only family in the world, but also the only thing tethering her to reality.

Said man, who Hermione supposed was something more than a friend, but not quite a husband, nodded to Padma. “Thank you, Healer Patil.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m sorry it’s not better news,” Padma stood and looked at Draco’s outstretched hand, pausing only a moment before shaking it. She looked thoughtfully at Hermione. “If you want my advice, try to make the most of the time you have left with them.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said numbly as they moved towards the door.

“Take care, Hermione. I’ll say hi to Ron for you.” Her last statement decrescendoed into a question.

“That’d be lovely,” Draco said, adjusting his scarf. “Tell him the Malfoys send their best.”

❖

“We can go home,” Draco offered. He’d meant to say the flat, surely, but the raw pain radiating from his wife had him tripping over his tongue. Hermione terrified him, all limp and quiet in his arms.

“No,” she said finally. “We should eat. I can keep up appearances.” She squirmed out of his grasp and righted herself on the snow-covered cobblestones.

He rubbed a hand over his face. The last thing he wanted right now was for her to worry about their agreement. He replayed the way her face fell in Patil’s office, even her hair collapsing as if it, too, had been holding onto a sliver of hope that slipped away.

“Don’t do this on my account. Please,” he added.

“Let’s just go. I’m famished and I don’t want to argue with you.”

Draco extended his arm to her, and she took it, walking alongside him in silence. Hermione cast a disillusionment charm over them both and he wished, not for the first time, that things were different between them. First he wished they weren’t so well known so they didn’t have to hide. But also he longed to talk openly without worrying about whether he’d let it slip that he was afraid to lose her like he lost Astoria, or that he wished Goyle would leave him the f*ck alone. The more Hermione opened up to him, the more he wanted to tell her everything from the very beginning.

The first time his father hit him. The first time the man left marks, laughing as he licked the blood from his knuckles, and masked Draco’s wounds instead of healing them. The first time the Dark Lord killed in the Manor, and the first time he threatened his mother. The only man who ever showed him a scrap of affection was Severus Snape, and he was magically bound to do so.

What was it like, to be a better man? A man who could love without throwing around words like poison barbs? A man who held out an open hand without the intent to create a fist?

Could he drag himself into the light?

He couldn’t, not alone.

They trudged through crosswalks banked by slush, eyes on their feet. To anyone they met on the street, Draco and Hermione Malfoy were just another wizard and his witch running last-minute yuletide errands. Festive red and green lights washed over them as they approached their destination.

Red. Stop. Don’t tell her.

Green. Go. Tell her.

Stop. Don’t ruin this.

Go. If you tell her now, she might even want to be friends.

More than friends, if her kiss is anything to go by.

They stopped in red. “This is it, right?” Hermione pointed up at the neon sign. Virtuoso , it read. Fine Dining in Diagon Alley since 2002. The posted menu edged with gold filigree boasted cuisine from around the world. His mouth watered in anticipation of the meal and at the idea of sharing it with his wife.

To hell with it. To Draco, this was a real date, and he decided he’d better pull it together and start acting like a gentleman. He pulled open the door for Hermione and followed her in, trading the bitter cold for the pleasant heat from the restaurant.

The sounds of jovial conversation and the gentle clinks of utensils meeting were accentuated by a live pianist. Delicious aromas wafted through the air as wait staff held silver trays filled with soups and entrees above their heads, en route to waiting diners. And, unlike in his nightmares, no one turned to him and stared, or yelled at him to get out. Hermione allowed him to take her coat, pulled her shoulders back and marched forward to the host’s podium. Her diamond earrings sparkled despite the dim lighting.

“Malfoy, table for two.”

Now something would go wrong. He was sure of it. Their reservation would be missing, or they’d be forced to dine near the loos.

Again, no proverbial axe fell. The host merely dragged his finger down a list in front of him, stopping with a smile. “Of course. Right this way.”

Draco told himself he didn’t need to be nervous. Pansy would never send them somewhere he would be unwelcome. But this was much more crowded than the pub he frequented with Theo on the outskirts of the city. Despite the packed dining room, they followed the host to a beautifully appointed booth with only a few glances thrown their way.

He sank into his seat and reached for his napkin. “Do we still have a Notice-Me-Not on us?”

She laughed. “No, everyone sees us. They’re just pretending not to.”

The pretending came to a screeching halt as soon as they received their wine and an overflowing bread basket. A line formed at their booth, wait staff and busboys alike weaving in and out as more and more magical people waited their turn for an autograph from the Golden Girl.

Some of them had questions. Draco and Hermione gave non-answers to the prying diners, smiling and demurring if pressed, exactly how Pansy had instructed. All things considered, for two former enemies reacquainted after many years, they gave actors in the West End a run for their money.

“My hand’s cramping a bit,” Hermione grimaced, shaking her arm for the second time in the last ten minutes. The next person in line, an older wizard with a large toad on his shoulder, did not take the hint. Draco fought the urge to send him his most withering glare.

“Please, it’s for my wife. She’s such a huge fan.”

“What’s her name?”

“Charice.”

Hermione scribbled out a note to Charice — although it looked more like Charlie. He noted the quality of her handwriting suffered after two dozen signatures. As she finished, Draco snatched it from the table and shoved it against the man’s chest.

“You’ve got your autograph. Leave us to enjoy our dinner in peace.”

The toad, disgruntled by the display of poor manners, continued to croak at them as its owner found his way back to his own table. The next hopeful was a young girl, and Hermione, bleeding heart that she was, gestured the tiny redhead forward as the soup in front of her cooled to an inedible temperature. Draco put his foot down after that, shooing the diners away and restoring the heat to her meal as best he could.

But there was nothing he could do about the cameras. Everyone owned one these days. Draco recalled reading that Dennis Creevey opened up a shop in honour of his late older brother and his passion for photography. With the help of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, he introduced a line of mini cameras that spit out miniature moving photos as soon as the eager photographer pressed the shutter. Now the flashes went off in their faces every few seconds.

Hermione ate quickly, but Draco, accustomed to eating at the much slower pace dictated by Pureblood matrons, soon sloshed gravy onto his shirt after a flash left him momentarily blinded. Just as he was about to make a scene, his wife brought out her wand, erased the offending spot of brown, and mouthed one word to him.

Smile.

He did her one better. He laughed, infusing as much warmth into the sound as he could, as if she’d said the funniest thing in the world. More flashes, more shutter clicks threatened to pierce their bubble, but Hermione barely batted an eye.

He kept his countenance flirty, remembering he’s supposed to be happy to be out with his wife after so many years of privacy. But his words didn’t match his face.

After poking around at a conversation like one would scuttle an offending pile of peas across one’s plate, Draco worried they’d taken another step back. Hermione was retreating into pretending, he could feel it. And as much as he didn’t want that, he wanted her to be uncomfortable even less. He cast a silencing charm so they could speak freely.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Do what?”

He sighed. “Sign the autographs. Be seen with me. All of it.”

“The more you remind me, the harder it is to keep my head on straight. This whole thing has been such a whirlwind.” Hermione picked up her spoon and stirred the soup idly. A few moments passed before she spoke again. “I’ve been thinking. Why haven’t you sold your estates, or surrendered them to the Ministry? Why do you pay them all off instead?”

“We talked about this.”

“Yes, but Harry says you can’t keep it up forever. Why keep paying them off?”

Potter. Of course.

“For starters, I agreed to give you whichever property you wanted. I couldn’t evict you from Cyclamen, especially knowing what I know now about your parents. Secondly, where do you think our friends are living? Pansy, Theo, their homes are gone. The Ministry razed them to the ground. The Zabini place would be too, but Blaise appealed to some ex-Wizengamot and I gather he hopes to buy it back one day. Some of the others have been taken by Death Eaters.”

“And Malfoy Manor?”

Draco lowered his voice, keeping it as light as possible. “It’s unoccupied, and ancient magic dictates only a Malfoy can open the gates. I preserved the crime scene, thinking Aurors would eventually come. When they didn’t, we had the funerals with closed coffins.”

He didn’t like to think of how he left them, blood coagulating in Astoria’s hair, spattered across his mother’s lips, slippery under his shoes.

“Funerals? You had more than one funeral for her? Is that a Pureblood thing?”

His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He should tell her. But not now. “No, she only had the one. I misspoke.”

Their plates were magically cleared away by a passing busboy.

His wife furrowed her brow and continued along her line of questioning. “So the Manor is still in your possession?”

“And yours, too. You were added to the wards as soon as we wed. Although I’m sure you never want to go back there.”

“Circe willing, I never will.” She looked down at her arm, but before he could apologise for bringing up yet another wound he’d caused her, the maitre d’ approached with the offer of dessert.

The restaurant cleared out, and the evening grew late. He hadn’t been out in public for this long in years, and he missed the comfort and safety of the flat. In an effort to be polite, Draco scanned the menu and declined, handing it back, along with payment for the meal. Hermione handed hers back as well, demurring with a shake of her head.

As soon as he turned his gaze back to his wife to suggest they leave, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. “I thought it’d be best to wait until the end of your meal to stop by,” drawled a familiar voice.

A glamoured man rapped on the table once, his signet ring glittering in the candlelight. Daphne Greengrass emerged from behind him, looking wan in a red satin dress. The man gripped her to him roughly without even a glance her way, the glamour fading to reveal Gregory Goyle. “Plus they wouldn’t have let me in. Damn world’s backwards these days.”

Draco Occluded, his genial mask slipping into place. “Ah, Greg, Daphne. So good to see you both. You’ve met my wife, Hermione.”

Neither of them reached out to shake her hand or acknowledge her in any way, so Hermione nodded. Draco wished he was a Legilimens in that moment, so he could press inside her mind and warn her that unlike his other close Slytherin schoolmates, Goyle was still a servant of the Dark Lord.

“I heard congratulations are in order,” Draco said, faking a smile at their unwelcome guests. “Daph told me you’re set to wed next summer.”

“Congratulations to you both,” Hermione echoed, fidgeting with her napkin.

Goyle’s eyebrows nearly touched his receding hairline in surprise. “This is impressive magic, even for you, Draco. Not many wizards can hold a wandless Imperio this long, let alone one requiring involved conversation.”

Draco kicked Hermione under the table before she could answer, unable to caution her any other way. “Aunt Bella taught me well,” he lied smoothly.

Hermione dropped the napkin.

f*ck.

Goyle barked a laugh and shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give to see her Crucio in action again. But the past is the past. It’s the future you and I are worried about. I never received a reply to my letter.”

Draco’s hand drifted down to his holster. “Letter?”

Playing dumb still worked all too well with Goyle. The portly man sighed. “Mate, I sent you a letter days ago. That batty old housekeeper of yours must’ve misplaced it. We need to talk.”

“As you can see, I’ve been rather busy,” he gestured with his free hand to Hermione, who thankfully remained calm, her face expressionless, as if she really was under his curse. “None of this works without giving the public something to distract them while you and I fulfil my father’s dream. Our dream,” he corrected at the last second.

“You need to trust me. Let me in on your plan. These secrets will kill you, Draco,” Goyle said, leaning onto the table. The ice in their water glasses clinked out a warning.

Don’t spill.

“Greg. Not here.” Daphne craned her neck to see into the kitchens. She leaned away from her fiance, but he tugged her back even closer to him, digging his dirty fingernails into her dress.

“Quit nagging me. If anyone sees or hears anything they shouldn’t, we’ll Obliviate them.”

Hermione shivered, and a bead of sweat trickled from Draco’s collar down his back. Anger simmered in her eyes, and he knew there’d be hell to pay even if they both got out of here undiscovered. He was f*cking done for either way. The day had gone so well, but the evening was one disaster after another.

“No, Daph’s right, too many eyes and ears around. Plus, I don’t talk shop in front of her,” Draco jerked his head towards his wife.

Relief shone in Daphne’s sunken eyes. She set a shaky hand on Goyle’s shoulder, which he shrugged off. “The Prophet says you’ll be at the Solstice Ball. We can talk strategy afterwards at Greengrass Manor. Hopefully you’ll be done with this charade by then.”

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

“See that you are,” Goyle said, fixing his eyes on Hermione. Draco held his breath and gripped his wand. “Are those your mother’s diamonds?”

“Replicas, of course. All for show.” He hoped the lie came out smoothly.

The man rapped the table once more. “You sell it well, don’t you? Enjoy your evening.”

“Goodbye, Draco, Hermione,” Daphne whispered as Goyle dragged her back the way they’d come.

❖

Hermione rounded on Draco as soon as he followed her into her room and shut the door behind him. She regretted her decision to add him to the wards. Circe, she regretted more than that. Her head ached remembering how eager she’d been to kiss him just a few hours ago.

She ripped the diamonds from her ears and threw them at him. “What the f*ck is going on? I should never have trusted you.”

“I can explain. Please, Hermione, let me explain,” he took a deep breath. She crossed her arms and glowered at him, waiting. “The first night you were here, Goyle got in touch. We fell out after our time in Azkaban but he was close with my father. At first, it seemed like he only wanted to offer condolences for my father’s death. He said he wanted to hold a vigil for him, and of course I was against it. But then I thought maybe I could learn something about what happened to my mother, so I reconsidered.”

“You’re kidding,” she said, venom lacing her words. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not. When I arrived at Greengrass Manor, it was an ambush. The place was crawling with Death Eaters, more than I ever dreamed might be active, and then I didn’t want to be killed, so I pretended I hadn’t changed my views,” his voice sped up as the confession poured forth. “Goyle has them all convinced I’ve got some sort of master plan, handed down to me by my father, and I’m going to use my connection to you to restore everyone’s land and money.”

“And that’s not your plan? Your views have changed?”

“Of course they’ve changed! And that’s not my plan, I swear. You had just gotten here and I thought—”

“You thought you would just play Auror? Bloody hell, Draco!” She slammed her palm against the bedpost. Pain radiated up through her arm, settling in the hollow of her bones.

“Before you showed up, that’s all I did. I’d sleep all day, and at night I’d wake up, work out or duel with Theo, and track down my father’s old friends and their connections. And then I’d come home, or crash in a hotel, write down whatever I learned, pass out and do it all again the next night. Why do you think I wear a wand holster?” He pulled at his hair, the very picture of frustration.

“But you’re not an Auror!” Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden.

“You’re not a Healer! Damn it, Hermione! Why is it only okay when you risk your life?”

“Let’s get the real Aurors involved,” she said, sidestepping his question. “I’ll go with you. We’ll tell them everything we know.”

Draco started pacing. “Now? You think they’ll believe me now?”

Her vision blurred as he strode across the room and back again. Soon there were two Dracos, two loud sets of footsteps. Her grip on the bedpost slackened. Her head pounded, and her throat grew dry.

Before she could warn her husband, Hermione’s legs gave out and she fell to the floor.

❖

Hermione groaned as she woke in the darkness. Her forehead throbbed, but her hand came away clean when she checked for blood. She remembered yelling, falling…

Where was Draco? Had he really been so angry that he’d left her on the bedroom floor?

She attempted to get up, but her arms and legs were heavy and useless, as if filled with sand. Hermione reasoned it was better to wait until her eyes adjusted before trying again. She patted around for her wand and bag. A Lumos died on her lips as she realised with horror that they were gone, and she wasn’t in her room. Not at all.

Freezing air bit her exposed skin. A murky rectangle framed her vision. She struggled to lift her hand, and crumbs of something fell on her face. Dirt?

No. No no no no.

She was in an open grave.

Hermione swallowed and assessed her situation.

All was quiet. The night sky was void of stars, a sliver of moonlight slicing through the black. She caught the smell of peat on the wind and forced herself to sit up, more dirt and a lone beetle falling from her shoulder.

This was another hallucination. It had to be.

How did she get out last time? Hermione pinched herself, and finding she was still in the grave, slapped herself across the face. It did nothing but increase her headache.

She steadied her breaths as best she could, grit her teeth and stood. Was she alone? The grave was too deep for her to know. She reached for the shadowy outline of snow-tipped grass and pressed her fingers into the blades, lifting herself briefly over the edge.

What she saw next had her scrabbling for purchase, and finding little, screaming out for Draco.

Above her, a field of open graves stretched on forever.

She realised her mistake immediately. Her heart raced, and the world narrowed to a pinpoint. Now that she’d screamed, anyone in the vicinity knew someone was here. Someone very much alive.

Her brain finally communicated with her legs because she jumped, grabbing hold of a root. She dug her toes into the earth and grit her teeth, preparing herself for the climb. Wherever she was, she had to get away, and fast.

She flattened herself as much as possible against the wall of the grave, ignoring the creatures she disturbed there. Her hands trembled with each movement. Dirt fell in her eyes, in her hair, in her mouth. Hermione didn’t care. She focused on upward movement, and despite a small slip near the top, she fell over the lip of the trench into freshly fallen snow.

The snow melted beneath her, and the wrap dress clung to her body. Now she was wet as well as cold, without a wand, and not a clue as to her whereabouts.

Had she touched something cursed? Activated a secret Portkey?

Hallucinations didn’t work like this, right?

Hermione pushed herself up and staggered forward. Now that she was above ground, she was able to see more. So much more.

The graves were occupied.

Death Eaters — some she knew, some she didn’t, but all presumed to be alive — lay perfectly still inside their resting places, untouched by snow or ice. Their eyes were closed, as if they merely slept. She was careful not to get too close. If they woke, she had no chance against them.

She walked for what seemed like hours until she reached the top of a hill. The wind picked up soundlessly. Her teeth chattered as she looked down into the valley.

It looked identical to the way she’d just come.

Panic gripped her windpipe and clamped down. She spun in a circle, searching for something, anything, that might help her find her way home.

A series of thumps sounded from behind her, and Hermione could only turn and stand there, horrified, as a banded snake heaved itself out of a nearby grave.

This isn’t real. It’s not real.

But then came the telltale slide of scales through snow. The snake navigated around the rectangular graves, headed straight for her. It opened its jaws, revealing glistening fangs.

The basilisk.

“Mistresssssss,” it hissed. “Summon us, when you have need. We await your call.”

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

“Hermione, Hermione, stay with me,” Draco begged. Hermione’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she shook violently. Her skin was ashen and cold to the touch. “Hermione!”

He shoved his panic behind his Occlumency walls. He had to think. The flat was empty except for the sleeping Grangers. He’d never been able to conjure a Patronus, and he certainly couldn’t Apparate her like this. And by the time he could Floo someone or write a letter and affix it to his owl’s leg, it might be too late.

Draco cast every warming charm he knew, although charms had never been his strong suit. Despite the shower of sparks raining down from his efforts, her skin remained glacial to the touch, so he did the only other thing he could think of. He whipped off his holster and shirt, buttons pinging across the hard floor. Sparing only a fleeting thought for her modesty — if she pulled through, surely she’d forgive him — he hauled his little wife into his arms, ripped open her green wrap dress, and held her against him.

Draco put his ear to her chest and listened to her heartbeat stutter erratically. If it were possible, she was even colder than she’d been moments ago. She’d stopped seizing, but her lips were tinged blue. He rose, carrying them to her bed, and climbed in, rubbing her arms and back.

“Please, don’t go,” he whispered. “Not now.”

Not ever.

Just then, she whimpered his name. It barely broke the air, yet it thundered in his ears.

Hope renewed, Draco wound himself around her and redoubled his efforts, fingers scraping over her lingerie in his haste to bring her back to him. He blew hot air across her delicate features and left red marks from the intensity of his touch. As he massaged her left arm, the bandage around her injury loosened. He slid it off, hoping it would have some answers for why this was happening.

He knew he’d have to face the scar — the scar Aunt Bella carved, the scar that if he’d been less cowardly wouldn’t mar his wife’s innocent flesh. But nothing could have prepared him to see the Dark Mark staining her skin.

The brand was vivid, fresh; as if the Dark Lord had bestowed it upon her himself. Black veins spiraled out from the skull, thrumming with dark magic. It shouldn’t be possible. When Voldemort died, the ability to take the Mark died with him. New Death Eaters simply swore on their wands. So how did the Order’s most faithful witch have the magical world’s most feared tattoo?

While he stared at her arm, she stirred. Draco cupped her jaw with a mix of terror and relief. He lowered his mouth to her ear and said a thousand things he’d never remember; his words tender and fraught with emotion. But it didn’t matter, he’d promise her anything, because she was waking up. Her teeth stopped chattering, and her lashes fluttered. Her slow return seemed to go on forever.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

“Draco,” Hermione said, finding her voice. She wet her lips as if to say something, perhaps about the fact that they were nearly fully unclothed in her bed together. It astonished him, too.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he soothed. Draco waved his wand over her, casting a simple diagnostic charm. Her vitals were strong, thank Merlin. “I’m here.”

His words were calm, but he couldn’t Occlude when his emotions ran this high. And not when she buried her face in his shoulder.

Hermione shivered. “I don’t know where I went. I fell and then…” She trailed off, stiffening in his arms as she followed his gaze to the Dark Mark on her arm.

Draco leaned away so he could tip her face to his. “Hermione, who did this to you?”

“It… it was an accident.”

Fat f*cking chance.

“I’ll kill them, I swear to all the gods,” His magic flared around him, his anger made corporeal. He lowered his voice to a growl. “Give me a name right now.”

“I can’t!” Hermione twisted in his arms, but he held her fast.

“You can. Don’t you know by now, I’d do anything for you?”

His adrenaline was wearing off, and he began to tremble. He’d almost lost her. Someone had Marked his wife, claimed her for the Dark Lord.

It would not stand.

Draco’s better angels, the few that remained, tried to convince him all that really mattered was that Hermione was alive. If she couldn’t provide an answer right now, it’d be okay. But his demons insisted he continue down the path of vengeance. He would find the Death Eater that did this and he would make them pay.

Aunt Bella’s Crucio may have been legendary, but she’d executed it almost blithely, without reason. Draco now had a very good reason to deploy the Black aptitude for dark magic.

“It was me.”

His thoughts screeched to a halt. “But why would you... when? Did the Order send you undercover during the war? This is a bridge too far, even for Moody or Snape….” He relaxed his hold on her in disbelief.

Hermione slipped from his arms and reached underneath the mattress, rummaging around for a moment until she withdrew a black book. She tried to hand it to him, but he recoiled, the pungent odour of dark magic assaulting him. “Two nights before I went to St. Mungo’s, I performed a spell from one of Tom Riddle’s books. One where he documented his and other wizards’ experiments on Muggles.”

“How the f*ck did you come to possess one of his books? And why would you cast anything his twisted mind came up with?”

Hermione tried to hold the remains of her dress closed and failed. “I stole it during seventh year, when Harry, Ron and I were Horcrux hunting. I checked the Riddle House, and it was just laying there on the table… I thought it might help me with my parents.” She pressed it into his hands, insisting.

“You used these spells on them?” He flipped through horrifying diagrams, sinister thoughts in slanted, cruel cursive.

“I told you, it was dark magic that helped them most.”

“Merlin and Morgana,” he breathed, settling his eyes on hers. “What have you done?”

“What do you want me to say? My mum told me she wanted to die, okay? I know it doesn’t excuse it. I just thought if I modified the spell —” She waved her hands about but the meaning was lost on him.

“We should get Blaise.” He checked her vitals again. Just as before, everything looked good.

“There’s nothing he can do. I’m fine now, Draco. Really, I’m fine.”

That wasn’t true. He’d almost lost her. But he knew the urge to deny, to hide. He knew it all too well. “You’re always changing the game, aren’t you? Never letting anyone get too close.”

“We’re close,” she protested. “I felt so close with you today I kissed you in front of hundreds of people! And we couldn’t get much closer than we are right now!” A healthy blush bloomed from her décolletage all the way up to her cheeks, and relief and awareness hit him in equal measure.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed. “We are close. That’s not what I mean. I’m saying I do the same thing.” Draco pulled her back into his arms where she belonged.

Hermione didn’t resist him, and as he predicted, her curiosity took hold. “What do you mean?”

sh*t. It was now or never. He tried to memorise her silken skin, the curl pattern in her hair, the scent of honey and vanilla and something uniquely Hermione underneath it all. Taking it all in, because it might be the last time she let him hold her close like this.

“I’ve kept something from you, too,” He took a deep breath. “After I got out of Azkaban, my mother asked me if I would fulfil my duties as the sole Malfoy heir and find a bride. She introduced me to Daphne Greengrass’s younger sister, Astoria, and we agreed to court with the intent to marry. The Greengrass family was all for it, especially Daphne, but my father was against the union. When I informed him of my plan to propose, he warned me off. Of course, I didn’t listen. I thought my father’s opinion had no bearing on my future anymore, that he would live and die in Azkaban where he belonged, so what did his feelings matter? I wish I could go back and tell my younger self not to fall into that false sense of security. Things could have been different…” He shook his head and swallowed hard.

“What happened?”

“The night I went to get a ring from the vault for Astoria was the same night I believe he sent someone to the Manor. She was there, with my mother.”

“No. Draco,” Hermione wound her arms around his neck, and he collapsed into her embrace. She was warm, he reminded himself. Alive.

“They were making dinner,” He forced the words out. “We were going to celebrate.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was sincere, but he could hear the wheels spinning in her head as it fell back against a pillow.

“I know it’s awful, what I did… marrying you less than twenty-four hours later. But Theo told me that my father would inherit if he wed again immediately, and I couldn’t stand the idea that he would take them from me and everything else, too. And I’m sorry I kept it from you. I just thought if I told you, you’d think…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the next part — that Hermione might think he didn’t care for her so much more than he’d ever thought possible. Not tonight, when every word cut a little deeper.

“I don’t understand. Why would your father not want you to align with the Greengrasses? They’re as Pureblood as they come.”

“I don’t know how he knew this — maybe Mr. Greengrass confessed over too many Firewhiskys — but Astoria wasn’t his daughter. She wasn’t a Pureblood.”

“What?”

“She was a Squib. We wrote to each other since we couldn’t spend time together without a chaperone, and she told me in a letter. We’d built up a friendship over the courtship. She was funny, you know. I’ve kept her letters, and I read them every now and then. At first for clues, but sometimes just because I miss her, and I think she could have changed the world.”

Hermione fell quiet. “Astoria was familiar with the Muggle world. The Muggle money, clothes, Shakespeare… she’s the one who changed your mind.”

He nodded. “And my mother’s, and Theo’s, and Pansy’s… and so many more of my friends. Most of them didn’t know until after her death.”

“But not Goyle?”

“Daphne didn’t believe it, and Goyle, he’d do anything for Daph. I chose the worst possible moment to tell everyone. Goyle and I nearly came to blows at the funeral — not that we’d been on good terms anyway, since he and my father grew close while we were in Azkaban. I’d changed my views on Pureblood supremacy — they were already changing before the war, but I was a coward.”

“Hey,” she said, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t use that word anymore, okay? You’re not a coward. Far from it.”

Oh, but he was.

The curious witch in his arms hadn’t pulled away, nor had she asked him the one question he’d been expecting. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I love her?”

Hermione smiled. “I don’t think you’d fight this hard, for this long, for anyone you didn’t love. Of course you love her. It’s normal to love dear friends.”

For a moment, words failed him. It was rare that anyone in his circle spoke openly of love in any form. Even Pansy, who was the happiest married person he knew, usually demurred. “Thank you.”

She held his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks. “Your heart is not a Horcrux, Draco. Love won’t splinter, it only strengthens you the more you share it with others. We’ll keep her memory, and your mother’s, too.”

He cleared his throat. “You were angry with me before.”

“Yes. Well, you’re an idiot for going along with Goyle. We’ll have to figure out his game and beat him at it. But you also had a good point. I’m not a Healer. Dark magic helped my mum regain the memory she has. The minute I cast it, it burned, but I knew it was going to work. But I think… I think it took something from me. And when I tried to do it on my dad, it didn’t work. I felt nothing. I tried for what must have been hours. I made him stand there while my mum screamed at me, asking me what I was doing. I changed my intonation, tried to hold my arm higher or lower, anything, anything to feel that magic swirl into him like it had my mum. But there was nothing. I would have given almost anything to feel it again.” Her entire posture spoke of defeat.

“Those spells destroy the caster and everything they touch, but the dark arts mask the damage with power,” Draco recounted. “My father was addicted to the way his magic intensified. Even when it drained him and he came angrier and more abusive towards me and my mother, he returned to the Dark Lord. My first impressions of love, loyalty, everything — it was all tied up in the pursuit of power. And my mother loved him, but it wasn’t enough, was it?”

“Draco —”

He couldn’t stop the words pouring out. He bared his soul to her now, word by painful word.

“I surrounded myself from a young age with people who understood the abuse, but we also perpetuated it. I’ll never forgive myself for how cruel I was to you, all because of your blood status. All because I needed to put you down to make myself feel better. It makes me sick to think how often I imagined driving you and others like you out of the world altogether.”

She dragged her fingers through his hair. “And yet I’m still here.”

“I have nightmares sometimes about Greyback thanking me as I opened the cabinet and let him into our school. I can still see him, covered in rotted leaves and smelling of death. It kills me that I’m the reason so many students died. Our friends. None of it is excusable, no matter the sorry excuse for a father I had. Everything that’s happened could have been different if I’d only been brave, if I didn’t value power more than life. I’m so, so sorry, Hermione. I’m sorry for everything.”

Teardrops gathered in his eyelashes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He moved to get up from the bed. He couldn’t look at her. Didn’t deserve her touch. No matter what she’d done, he’d done it ten times worse, and for indefensible reasons.

She sat up, clutching a wrinkled sheet to her chest. “I don’t think Hermione Granger could ever forgive you for what you did. You made my life hell, you know?”

A tear ran down the side of his nose, then another and another. Draco hated that he was crying in front of her, but he couldn’t stop. “I know, I know. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

He had been a fool to think she’d forgive him. His wife was there until the ball, fulfilling her end of an Unbreakable Vow, an irreversible marriage ritual, and a bargain struck after a chance run-in with the paparazzi. She didn’t owe him anything, much less forgiveness. Why had he gotten his hopes up?

“I said Hermione Granger couldn’t forgive you. I didn’t say anything about Hermione Malfoy.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. Did she just…

She blessed him with a teary smile and reached for his hand. “Malfoy women are very forgiving, I hear.”

Draco took it and sat back down, dipping the mattress. He had to be sure. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Of what? That you’ve got a hidden agenda? Nine, almost ten years is a long time to lie in wait, even for a snake like you.” The corner of her lips turned up. The fact that she could tease him even at a time like this endeared her to him even further.

She never mocked him. Here was her chance to let him have it; kick him while he was down. Laugh at his long-held desire for redemption. Favourite son of the Sacred Twenty-eight, Draco Malfoy, at the mercy of his former victim. The witch who had his heart. But Hermione Malfoy chose to tease him, and maybe, eventually, she’d forgive him, too.

Something delicate bloomed in his chest. Could she…? He couldn’t allow himself to even think the word. The hope began retreating as soon as he remembered how he got here in the first place — or rather, who had gotten him here.

Astoria. It was Astoria he’d found laying beside his mother, awash in crimson blood. Pureblood, half-blood, Muggleborn, Squib — all blood looked the same when it swirled together, spilled from the only women he’d ever loved.

But were they the only women he would ever love? More love, Hermione said, wouldn’t splinter. It would be stronger.

The petals began to unfurl again.

Draco turned to the side, only daring to look at her from out of the corner of one eye. “Deep down, I know my father beat me and killed my mother because it was all tied up together — his magic and his love. Believe me when I say I understand why you did everything you had to do to save your parents. I would have done anything to save Astoria and my mother.”

“I know you would have, Draco,” A familiar look washed across Hermione’s face, the one that meant she was thinking. “Have you considered that your mother might have been collateral damage?”

He suddenly found himself back laying beside her. “How so?”

“Your father didn’t want you to marry Astoria, right? Yet you were going to do it anyway, so he put out a hit on Astoria. But whoever went to Malfoy Manor to do the job found Narcissa there too, and they couldn’t leave a witness….” She trailed off, frowning.

Of course. How didn’t he think of this before? “My mother loved my father. She followed him into Voldemort’s service. She hated what he did, to her, to us, but she loved him. He wouldn’t have had her killed just because she signed off on the marriage. She didn’t know until Astoria told her, and she wasn’t perfect, my mother, but she was trying.”

“It’s hard when we stop seeing our parents as perfect and start seeing them as people.”

“I remember thinking my father would live forever, and I’d never be free of him. Even when I saw him in St. Mungo’s, dead and missing a finger, he somehow looked like he was only resting under the coroner’s sheet, waiting to give me another lecture, another beating.”

Hermione sent him a look of disgust. “A finger?”

“A finger.”

They sat together in silence. A clock chimed from the hallway. It was late, and he was spent.

“Hermione, promise me — don’t turn to dark magic again. Dark doesn’t cancel out dark, it compounds it. It will destroy you.” He let the other words he wanted to say die on his tongue.

It will destroy us .

“I promise. But I did this, and now I need to undo it.”

“If anyone can figure out how, it’s you. But don’t do it alone. Let me help you.” He turned to her, reached out and gripped her hand like a lifeline.

“I’ve told you I spent years and years trying to undo the damage I did to my parents, and yet you place your faith in me. Why?”

His eyes trained on hers. “I spent years and years believing that you were a lesser witch. I won’t make that mistake again,” She slowly took his other hand in hers, and he stroked the back of her wrist. “And you’ve placed a lot of faith in me, too.”

Was it so wrong, to want to reach out and touch the soft hand of desire, grasp its fingers and let it pull him up to a place the dark could never find?

“Thank you for apologising.”

Draco nodded and wiped his eyes, one hand still clinging to her. “Anytime. I’ll apologise for the rest of my life. I can’t change my past, but I want our future to be different.” Our future came out before he could stop it, but he meant it.

They both yawned at the same time, but Hermione didn’t look pointedly at the door or ask him to leave. Draco took a risk and rose to light the fireplace, then extinguished the lights in the room. Hermione held up the covers for him, and he slid back in bed.

In the dim glow of the fire, she pulled her hair back and away from her face, twisting it into a bun. “I wish I could change it for you, Draco. For both of us. You didn’t seem like a happy child. I just didn’t see it.”

“Well, that’s having a Dark Lord in the house for you. No one else knew about my father except Theo. You didn’t seem very happy either.”

“That’s having a Dark Lord hunt your best friend for you,” she quipped back. “I was happy, before Hogwarts. My parents were — are everything to me.”

“We were both only, unhappy magical children, then.”

Draco debated cosying up to her, but didn’t want to press his luck. Instead, he readjusted his pillow and laid with his back towards her, closing his eyes. He’d never shared a bed with a woman overnight before, but it was unquestionably nice.

“Do you want children?” She spoke so softly, sleepily, but he didn’t miss the question.

“Seems like something we should’ve discussed before we got married.”

“Very funny,” she said, poking him in the side.

Children, or at least one child, had been an expectation for his marriage with Astoria, as it was for every Pureblood marriage. And although Astoria waxed poetic about a brood of Malfoys, he hadn’t been keen, then. He told himself he was focused on never committing the atrocities and abuse his father had. But laying here with Hermione, the night settling in and smoothing everything out, he knew that he’d just needed to find the right witch.

“I do,” he admitted, rolling over to face her.

Her reply came quickly, relief playing across her features. “Me too.”

He thought back to their Unbreakable Vow. Unlike the other terms, it had taken her a while to come around to the idea of not having children. The thought that she’d want them, even if they were his, stirred something in his chest.

And maybe she’d forgive him, and she’d want them because they’d be his.

“Goodnight, Hermione. Wake me if you need me.”

She reached for him and found his hand, covering it with hers. “I will. Goodnight.”

Draco closed his eyes and replayed his childhood fantasy. He would never be a star Seeker coming home, sweaty and victorious, to the wife and child he imagined. But there was hope he could be a loving husband and father. The first one was up to him, and he resolved right then and there he would be the best husband he could, for as long as Hermione would have him.

The second, well, that decision lay with the woman beside him.

She never withdrew her hand, and when her breathing evened out, Draco hid from himself no more.

❖

A shaft of early morning light woke Hermione. She slipped from the bed and summoned her dressing gown, careful not to disturb Draco. He slept on his side, face buried in a pillow hugged to his bare chest. She smiled as she shed her ruined dress and wrapped herself in the familiar silky gown.

She’d just shared a bed for the first time with Draco, her husband, and they’d both been en déshabillé, to boot. Yet even after she’d come back from the brink, he’d focused solely on her well-being. Her entire body heated at the realisation.

Finding her wand, she cast a quick Accio . Narcissa Malfoy’s diamond earrings whizzed through the air and into her waiting palm. Hermione considered them for a moment before reaffixing them to her ears.

Draco saved her life last night. Of this, she had no doubt. She closed her eyes and her mind wandered back to the hallucination. The dread, the cold, the bitter earth and the starless sky. It felt like a place between worlds.

The basilisk, which she somehow understood, seemed to offer her help. But why would she want help from Death Eaters? She’d been too paralyzed with fear to ask questions, sure that the snake would lunge at her and sink its fangs into her heart.

Was it implying they had magic that could save her parents?

Near the end of the hallucination, she heard Draco. Her limbs tingled, as if waking up from a dream, and the graves around her began to warp as if they were being sucked into black holes. The basilisk shuddered, slithering away.

The next thing she knew, she was awake and in his arms.

Warm. Safe. Alive.

And judging by the emotion in his eyes, it had been a close thing. He’d fought for her, and won.

They’d never be even, and there was no use keeping score with how much they’d both hurt each other. But maybe she could do something for him. Something to show him that however he felt, she felt the same way. She grabbed her beaded bag from the top of the armoire and made her way noiselessly to the kitchen.

After he’d been so honest with her about Astoria, she’d have to tell him about the hallucinations — one hallucination could be explained away by the whirlwind of the past week or so, but two? She’d been too shocked earlier to say anything, especially after he’d discovered her Mark.

Hermione took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled slowly. This was good. They could get everything out in the open, finally. He’d looked so unburdened lying in her bed, and she suddenly regretted her swift departure. She might’ve drawn closer to him, kissed him again without an audience or somewhere they had to be.

But she’d left the warm bed with a purpose. She set to clearing and Scourgifying the kitchen worktop, her previous conversation with Draco replaying in her head.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Draco had almost married someone else. Purebloods typically married young, mainly to give them time to conceive and bear as many children as possible. But what really surprised her was the fact that he’d known about Astoria’s blood status, but loved her anyway. Hermione rubbed her upper arms, suppressing the little zing that zipped through her body. It gave all his earlier words and actions a shiny ring of truth. It had always been there, if she’d only been able to see it.

He hadn’t sobbed on their wedding night over the fact he slept with a Mudblood. He sobbed because only a day ago he’d been planning to share his life with a different woman, and he’d just lost his mother in the same horrendous instant. She recalled the way he’d held her at arm’s length, making her promise to stay away.

It wasn’t because he hated her. It was in case he courted danger.

The holster, snug against his muscled chest was a symbol of devotion. He’d seen what could happen to a woman who couldn’t claim her blood was pure.

Draco Malfoy was not who she expected him to be. And gods, she was glad for it. She just didn’t expect the revelation to hurt so badly. Hermione didn’t blame him for keeping his secrets to himself; it wasn’t that at all. And she wasn’t jealous of Astoria. There was Draco with Astoria, and Draco with Hermione. What they had was different. No, the knot behind her ribs tightened insistently because she knew they did have something. And now she couldn’t imagine letting it go in just a few short days.

Satisfied with her cleaning efforts, she settled on a stool and withdrew the necessary items to brew. First, her cauldrons. A large one for big batches of Dreamless Sleep, per Blaise’s request; next, the one she’d toted around Hogwarts, which still saw the most use; and lastly, sealed in plastic film, the cauldron she used for dark potions. She’d replaced it many times over the years of caring for her parents. After a while, a thick layer of black powder caked the outside, and the inside corroded, even the strongest metal curdling under the volatility of the magic.

Next Hermione assessed her ingredients. She needn’t Apparate back to Cyclamen as she expected — she’d been thorough even in her distress. Herbs, flowers, berries, feathers, even her phial of venom from her Venomous Tentacula were all accounted for, and the rest Blaise had left for her, along with some more tea. She smiled at his thoughtfulness.

Finally, she opened Potions Most Potente. She knew exactly what she wanted to make, but it was one of the rare potions she didn’t have memorised. It usually took months to brew, but Professor Slughorn passed along his secret to accelerate the process (in exchange for a few wildly embellished stories about Harry, of course) — the famed Slughorn Shortcut. Pages fluttered softly as she found the recipe.

Felix Felicis.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

Hermione entered her parents’ bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her. Blaise set down a phial rack full of potions on the vanity as she approached the end of the bed. Her parents slept, but fitfully, Judy’s stringy grey hair falling across her face.

“Good morning. I was just about to administer their next round of potions. They’re coming out of the last dose now. It can be… unpleasant,” he winced as he emphasised the last word.

Hermione skimmed her hands down her crimson sweater dress. “I brewed more Dreamless Sleep last night. There should be enough for another fortnight.” She pulled a miniature boiling flask from her beaded bag, and checking that the seal was tight, enlarged it to its regular size before handing it to Blaise.

He accepted it with a steady grasp. “Thank you. I hope it gives you peace of mind to oversee the process. You care for them so well, Hermione,” Blaise rested a cool palm on her shoulder for just a moment.

“Do you think I could have a minute with them?”

It had only been days since they’d decided to keep her parents under the effects of Dreamless Sleep in hopes of slowing their snowballing decline. She hadn’t spoken with them since, only to them — telling her father fairy tales while she rubbed lotion on his legs, reading to her mother from Draco’s copy of Beloved — and all the while they slept on. Hermione still had hopes of one last Christmas together, though they dwindled at the sight of them this morning, her father looking especially frail.

“I don’t know if it’s the best idea.”

“Please, Blaise.”

He sighed. “Alright. But I’ll stay in the room in case they get agitated and require sedation. It’s not good for them to get worked up.”

She wanted to shout that it didn’t matter if it was good for them, because they weren’t going to recover. Her rational side knew Blaise was only trying to help her. He’d been the one to formulate a plan to get them to Christmas, which was only a few days away. But Hermione worried she wasn’t maximising her time, and that she’d have them there physically but not at all mentally.

She crossed to her father’s side first, gently squeezing his shoulder, then running her fingertips all the way down his arm to hold his wrinkled hand.

“Dad,” she managed, her voice clogged with unsaid words.

“Hmm?” Wendell’s eyes opened, cloudy and bewildered. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Hermione. I’m your daughter.”

“Hermione,” he repeated.

Tears streamed freely down her face. “Yes. I just want you to know,” she paused, wiping her face with a sniffle. “I love you very much, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’re the best dad a girl could ever have, and I can’t wait for Christmas.”

It wasn’t all she wanted to say, but she’d never been the best with words. Harry had always been the one for a rousing speech. Hermione showed her love with acts of service, but for all the aphorisms about actions speaking louder than words, it seemed hers were but whispers in the wind, tossed about and never landing where they were intended.

“Christmas?”

“It’s a time when families come together. We’ll open presents, eat a delicious meal, and Mum will play piano. We’ll sing along off-key until she begs us to stop and then we’ll drink cocoa by the fire. It’s our favourite holiday.”

“Sounds lovely.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, but a crackly cough racked his thin frame.

Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach. She’d hoped he might call her pet one last time, give her something to hold onto. But he was very much Wendell Wilkins, lifelong Sydney resident, married to his long-time sweetheart Monica. They loved the beach, tennis and hosting the annual neighbourhood barbeque. They had no children.

“I’ll see you then,” Hermione reassured herself more than him. She choked back a sob, struggling to maintain composure.

He patted her hand, then pulled away to cough again. She motioned to Blaise for the phials, and he handed them to her one by one. He kept his eyes low, and she appreciated his attempt at giving her privacy.

Hermione helped her father sit up, gently pouring each potion past his purpling lips. When he’d finished, she laid him back on the pillow, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. No sooner had her mouth left his skin than he’d drifted back off, chest rising and falling with a tremulous rattle.

She fought to lift her feet off the floor, her steps heavy as she approached her mother’s side of the bed. Judy’s eyes, too, had clouded, but there was a sharpness to the remaining visible iris.

“Have you come to say goodbye?”

Hermione shook her head. It wasn’t goodbye. Not yet.

“I know a goodbye when I see one, Hermione Jean.”

Fresh tears fell from her eyes in a flood. “I love you, Mum. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush now. You’ve said all this before. Let me tell you something now.” She paused, hoisting herself up and reaching for her daughter’s hand. “I’ve told you before about the night you were born. When I made the wish on that star, I knew it’d come true, and you’d be so amazing I’d have to share you with the world. I just didn’t realise I’d have to share you with this magical world as well. But the whole point of having children, Hermione, is not to keep someone for yourself that you can love and train to love you back. The point is to send a little light into the future. And you were destined to light up two worlds.”

“Mum,” Hermione fell to her knees and lay her head on her mother’s lap.

“You’ll understand, someday,” Judy said softly, stroking Hermione’s hair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t always the best mum, but I loved you fiercely. And I always will.”

Blaise’s shadow fell over them as he handed Judy’s phials to her. She drank them one by one, the glint in her eyes dimming with each sip. After she finished the last one, she accepted Hermione’s help in returning to a comfortable lying down position.

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” Hermione promised.

“And I’ll see you in my dreams. What library was next on our list? Do you remember?”

Of course she remembered. “Guildhall.”

“Ah, yes, Guildhall,” Judy said, eyes fluttering closed. “I’ll meet you in the reading room.”

Hermione dropped to the floor with a wailing sob. Blaise appeared at her side, silently checking Judy’s weak vitals. She couldn’t speak, and he said nothing. There was nothing anyone could say. She wrung herself out, all her sadness, pain, exhaustion, frustration, fear. She knew Blaise had seen it all before, and it comforted her to know he’d guide them all through the end, like Charon ferrying souls across the Styx.

But Hermione, who accepted nothing, who always strived for more and never took defeat lying down, couldn’t swallow this. There was always a chance. Harry had died and come back, for Godric’s sake.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, irritating the delicate skin there. “What else can I do?”

Blaise’s voice was gentle. “I think it’d help if you brewed the modified Amortentia and the other dark potions again.”

“I don’t think I can.”

Draco was right. She couldn’t keep using dark magic. The extent of her exposure over the years and her window into the Dark Lord’s most depraved wishes clouded her judgement; made her malleable to his designs, one of which she now wore on her arm. She’d shut herself away, made herself believe she could wield any magic she wished and remain unscathed. Hermione was lucky she hadn’t descended any further, or succumbed to madness.

But she wasn’t alone now. Harry had seen all the signs she ignored in just one meeting, and while it hadn’t gone exactly as she hoped, it was a start. In time, she’d reconnect with her friends. And she’d already found new ones in Pansy and Theo.

And then there was Draco, no longer her enemy. Nor was he her friend, especially not after yesterday. He was something else altogether, something she wasn’t ready to examine quite yet.

Blaise interrupted her thoughts. “What do you mean? You don’t have access to the recipes anymore? You destroyed the book?” A flash of panic reverberated in his dark eyes. He was jumpy today, as if his proximity to the heightened emotion between herself and her parents had set him on edge. Fair enough — her tears had been a release valve. What did Blaise have to help him through his days, moving from one terminal patient to the next?

“No, it’s not that. But I think brewing will make the Dark Mark worse.”

“How so?”

“I’ve had… visions. Hallucinations. Draco thinks I had a seizure last night.”

“A seizure? Have you seen anyone? Even a Mediwitch?” Concern swept over his chiselled features.

“No, I’m fine,” Hermione said. Blaise massaged his face with his hands and blew out an irritated breath.

“You need to keep me apprised of these things. I could’ve ordered scans to pinpoint the seizure’s cause, but now it’ll be too late for them to be useful. Salazar.”

“Do you think they’re connected?”

“Brewing and the Mark? I doubt it, but this is new territory for me,” Blaise said, making a note with his quill. “Hermione, I hate to dig up old bones but may I remind you that you hired me to make decisions for your parents. I know I don’t make decisions for you, but it’s my professional opinion that you should take this advice, based on my years of training and experience, and continue to provide these potions for them.”

Blaise only wanted to help. She knew that. But this help would end up hurting her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, fists at her side. “I know you don’t like it, Blaise, but it’s my call.”

“So, just to confirm, you’re going against medical advice?”

“Yes.”

He turned to the rack with a stiff back and placed the newly emptied phials in their individual slots. “Have you been drinking the tea?”

“Of course.” She’d had heaps of the stuff.

“I thought that it might help, but a seizure… I think it’s time you showed me that book.”

She hesitated. Every cell in her body said to keep the book to herself. But maybe that was the dark magic burrowing into her marrow, hollowing her out from the inside. Draco said they had to start accepting help from others, and Blaise might see something she didn’t. This might be the first step to a breakthrough.

“I think you’re right. But it shouldn’t leave the flat.”

“I’ve no problem with that,” he said, tapping his temple. “Eidetic memory, remember?”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll bring it to you.”

❖

“Draco,” Hermione knocked gently at his door, the exhaustion from crying overtaking her.

Draco, fresh from the shower, opened it near instantly. Grey joggers hung just below his hips and the sleeves of his white t-shirt hugged his biceps.

She collapsed into him, and he cocooned her in his arms. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I think I just spoke with my parents for the last time,” she said, tears pouring forth anew. “Blaise isn’t sure if they’ll make it until Christmas now. I told him I wouldn’t brew the dark potions, and he tried to convince me otherwise, but Draco, if there’s any chance of getting this Mark off of me, I… I have to take it.”

Draco’s head dropped onto hers and his shoulders slumped. “Of course you do. I’m so sorry.”

“It just happened so fast. I finally got them proper care and….”

“I know, I know,” he soothed.

Something about his gentle nature made her cry harder. She clutched at his shirt as her vision blurred; the last of her reservations about being with this man, in this bedroom slipping away like a dirt road in the driving rain. They moved out of the doorway, but all she knew was soft cotton and lavender.

Moments later, Hermione found herself cradled in his lap. He’d sat them on the bench at the end of his bed, his hand moving rhythmically up and down her back, sending shivers up her spine. Draco had to be aware that they’d be far more comfortable nestled in the pillows behind him — this was an intentional choice, keeping them hunched over on a hard surface.

It was safer to avoid the bed and the conversation it represented, even though her heart told her she was the safest place she could possibly be, in the arms of her former enemy.

It wouldn’t do to fall into bed together. They had to be safe. Didn’t they?

They’d never discussed their wedding night. She knew now why he’d turned away afterwards. It wasn’t because he regretted bringing her pleasure or finding his own. And she was starting to think the ritual hadn’t fanned the flames as much as she’d thought it did, because Draco sparked that wildfire within her now just as he did then.

Her tears slowed, and so did the small circles he made on her back. Hermione tilted her chin up to look at him. Unspoken words hung between them, lost in the heat of quick breaths and bitten lips. His eyes contained the sky before a storm, his expression giving nothing away, as much as she wanted it to. Hermione ached to tell him she didn’t want to be alone anymore; not in this, not in anything.

He slid his hand up her back, the drag along her spine lighting up every synapse in her brain. He settled his palm at the base of her neck, his fingers curled in her hair. “I hate to see you cry. May I?”

Whatever he was asking, yes. Yes.

She nodded, and she inhaled sharply as he kissed a tear lingering on her jaw, sucking just enough to make her stomach swoop.

Oh.

Oh.

“Is this okay?”

She nodded again, reaching for the hill of his shoulder. He soldiered on, his other thumb coming up to press the hollow of her throat. He dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses on her decolletage, and she gasped as he licked his tongue up her neck in one fluid motion.

Draco’s lips found hers, and Hermione arched her back, squirming in his lap, seeking friction. He jerked his hips up sharply, and the ridge of his desire pressed into her. She opened her eyes and found a delicate pink flush scoring his cheeks. His eyes met hers questioningly as she forced herself to break the kiss.

She climbed up to stand, and he adjusted himself uselessly. If anything, the joggers accentuated the long outline of his co*ck, and she swallowed hard.

“Too much?” Concern, and a little hurt, thickened his gravelly voice.

Hermione shook her head and hiked up her dress, too nervous to do it slowly, teasingly. The moment could evaporate in an instant, and so she hastened to lower herself onto him, straddling his legs. “Not enough.”

His Seeker reflexes astonished her, his arms wrapping around her in an instant and pressing her down onto him. She rolled her hips, extracting a low sound full of longing from his kiss-bruised mouth. She covered it again with her own, running her tongue along the seam of his lips. He opened for her, and she drank his sighs, yielding to his relentless pursuit when he extracted keening sounds from her as well. His embrace, moments ago a safe harbour, suddenly engulfed her like a burning room — beams crashing from the ceiling, flames climbing the curtains, devouring everything in their path. His kiss was her only source of oxygen, and she sucked down air like her life hung in the balance.

“You chose to stop. You chose yourself,” he whispered in her ear between kisses, the awe in his voice shining through. “I’m so f*cking proud of you.”

She had, hadn’t she?

But she’d chosen him, too. Them.

Her fingers skirted the edge of his t-shirt. “You look good in Muggle clothes,” she said, nipping at his neck.

Draco hummed. “They’re usually pretty comfortable. Not so much right now.”

“Maybe you should —”

Before she could suggest he take off his shirt, Pansy’s voice floated through the door. “Draco, you in there?”

His attention never wavered. “Shh,” he spoke in a low tone only she could hear, placing his thumb over her lips. “We’re not here.”

He dragged the thumb down slowly, his eyes heavy with desire. Hermione shifted on top of him, suddenly aware of just how soaked her knickers were. She’d leave a wet spot on his joggers if he didn’t take them off soon.

Pansy spoke again, louder this time. “Homenum Revelio. Oh, uh —”

Hermione’s head thudded into his shoulder. “f*ck.”

“What?”

“It reveals the presence of humans in your direct vicinity. And their, uh, positions.”

Draco leaned all the way back with a groan, his upper body hitting the bed behind them. His t-shirt rode up, exposing the muscular grooves that started at his hips and journeyed somewhere further south. Hermione, reluctant to move even though whatever they’d kindled had just been thoroughly extinguished, traced one with her finger. His hips jumped as she stopped just shy of his waistband, and he grabbed her hand. She met his eyes, still dark, and wished he’d pull her down, wrap her in black silk and smother the fire in her core.

“Terribly sorry for interrupting, so sorry,” Pansy prattled on outside the door.

A familiar airy cadence, the likes of which Hermione, at one time, thought she might never hear again, took over. “Whenever you’re done shagging, come out to the kitchen. I brought cake!”

Hermione apologetically tore her hand from Draco’s, set her dress to rights, and bounded out the door. “Luna!”

❖

“Sorry about that,” Pansy said sheepishly. “For years I’ve been able to pop by unannounced. But seeing as things have changed… I need to cancel the intimacy coordinator.” She muttered the last part to herself.

Hermione hadn’t let go of Luna, not even while she sliced the towering blue cake. “It’s strawberry,” Luna said, as if the flavour was obvious just by looking at it. She had crow’s feet around her eyes that she’d coated in iridescent glitter, and a capelet embroidered with baby manticores draped over her snowy shoulders. Hermione leaned in, letting the other witch’s comforting scent of earl grey reassure her that her friend was indeed within her grasp.

Blaise exited her parents’ room, robes billowing behind him as he strode down the corridor towards the group.

“Hello, all. What are we celebrating?”

Luna finished licking a dollop of frosting from Pansy’s finger. “Life. Love. The inimitable decadence of sharing homemade baked goods with friends.”

“Is that all?” Draco drawled, easing past Blaise and into the kitchen. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat thinking of the reason he’d needed a few extra minutes before joining them. He shot her a salacious wink. Confidence looked good on him.

With her free hand, Pansy offered a slice of cake to Blaise. “Would you like some?”

He placed an apologetic hand over his heart. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve other patients I need to see this afternoon. Hermione, would you be so kind as to leave the book on the worktop? I’ll be back later tonight to read it.”

“Of course.” Hermione slid her eyes towards Draco, who gave her an approving look.

See? She wanted to tell him. I’m opening up. We’re going to figure this out.

“Luna, Pansy, Draco,” he said in lieu of goodbye, and bag in hand, exited the flat via Floo.

“We didn’t come round just for cake. I know it’s been difficult to be cooped up like this these past few weeks, and so Luna and I were thinking you might like to come skiing with us this weekend. We usually invite Harry and Ginny, too, but with the new baby…”

Luna gripped Hermione’s wrists. “Please say yes. We’ve got a ski-in, ski-out cabin in Savoie and we go whenever we can. It’ll be just the four of us. Well, and the Muggles when we go on the mountain. But it’ll be such a good time.”

“The Solstice Ball is on Monday,” Hermione teetered on the edge of saying yes, even though that meant she wouldn’t be alone with Draco again anytime soon. In such a short span of time she’d gone from dreading their isolation to seeking him out, craving his touch, yearning for —

“Exactly,” Luna beamed. “So what do you say?”

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

The picturesque ski cabin that would serve as their weekend escape rested on a hilltop surrounded by evergreens dusted with fresh snow. Birds chirped in observance of the group’s arrival, erupting from the treetops into the cloudy December sky. White smoke rose from a stone chimney, and a holly wreath hung on the bright red door, its burlap ribbon twisting into the different runes for welcome, home, and friends.

“This is amazing, Luna,” Hermione said, her breath turning to vapour in the frosty air. Draco walked ahead, wand drawn to test the warding.

“Thanks. This is one of my favourite places in the world.”

“I can see why.”

Pansy wrapped her arm around her wife. “It’s the perfect cosy hideaway. There’s even a sauna in the back. The steam does wonders after a day on the mountain.”

“It’s where I proposed to Pansy,” Luna paused, eyes shining. “What was your proposal like, Hermione?”

How could she describe it? Cold. In every sense of the word.

“Woefully inadequate,” Draco cut in, having finished his assessment of the wards. “I’ll get the luggage.” He led them up the two steps to the door, floating their luggage inside the cabin with a few lazy swishes of his wand.

“Your room is that way,” Pansy said, wiping her boots on the mat and gesturing past the kitchen.

When she said nothing more, turning her attention to inventorying the pantry, Draco tapped his fingers on the worktop.

“And where’s mine?”

“I’m sorry, I misspoke,” Pansy called back over her shoulder. “Hermione, the room you and Draco will be sharing is that way.”

Hermione caught his eyes just in time to see them go wide before he schooled himself. She followed him down a narrow hallway, an ancient runner with frayed tassels softening their footfalls.

Draco stopped short in the doorway. “There’s only one bed.”

“And a mini Christmas tree. Very Luna,” Hermione said, pushing past him into the room. She didn’t want to think about the bed right now.

Luna had fully leaned into the rustic theme. Reclaimed wood panelling lined all four walls, and a weathered flannel duvet and sheet set graced the low bed — the only bed. A tiny Christmas tree stood proudly next to the fireplace, which Hermione lit in a pretty bit of wandless magic. A small box of miniature decorations, including silvery tinsel and a star-shaped tree topper, sat next to the tree.

Draco moved in the background, presumably unpacking and placing their clothes in the pinewood dresser. Hermione tugged off her boots, wiggling her toes in her wool socks before sitting on the floor near the warmth of the burgeoning fire. She rummaged through the box of decorations, soon discovering a packet of ornament hooks.

He settled down next to her, removing his dragonhide boots. “Shall we decorate?”

“Yes, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to do it the Muggle way.”

They worked together in silence, Hermione fishing a hook from the packet, Draco threading the thin wire through each ornament. Hermione placed them, one by one, on the tree’s spindly branches, taking into account colour, size, and spacing. Draco wrapped the tinsel from the bottom up, but ran out of length halfway. Even though he groused that it would be simpler to extend it magically, Hermione wouldn’t allow it, and instead showed him how to wind it diagonally, from the top down.

Soon the only decoration that remained was the star. She cupped it in both hands as it spun endlessly, changing colour between silver and gold as it played Christmas carols. Hermione resisted the temptation to ask for one of the Muggle songs she grew up with. She’d become accustomed to the magical versions. While it irked her that neither genre awarded elves enough credit for their contributions, she couldn’t help but be swept up in the spirit of the holiday. Peace and goodwill were always in short supply, and those were sentiments she was happy to get behind.

She glanced at Draco, who gestured that she should do the honours. She affixed the coil beneath the star to the uppermost branch sprouting skyward, fussing with the placement until the star sat level. When she leaned back to examine their work together, the star slowed down, settling into an easy twirl, happy to be home.

“Our first tree. It looks good,” Draco smiled.

Hermione smiled back, but her heart wasn’t in it. It didn’t feel like a first tree so much as a last tree. Would her parents live to see another Christmas tree? Or would they hold on even longer, more body than mind, to ring in another new year?

What would be better, now that all hope of recovery was gone?

She slumped against Draco’s shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent. “One of my earliest memories is of my dad lifting me up to place the star on the top of the tree. He always felt so solid. Eventually I became too heavy to lift anymore, and I had to climb a ladder. And even though we both knew it was sturdy, he held it the whole time I was there, as if he never stopped holding me up.”

Draco remained silent for a moment. “If I pretended to fall asleep after one of our trips to the city, my mother would carry me to my room and tuck me in when we arrived back home. I think the last time was just before I went to Hogwarts. I wonder how it feels as a parent to know that one day you’ll lift your child up and set them down without knowing you’re doing it for the last time.”

“I think it must be very beautiful and very sad. You’re probably grateful you had those moments — the mundane ones like the bedtime routines, and the special ones, like Christmas. But you must miss them and wish for more of them for the rest of your life.”

She stood and poked the logs in the fire. Sparks jumped, ash floated up and resettled amongst the remains of former fires. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

His voice disturbed her reverie. “Do you ever think we live too much in the past?”

“How so?”

“It’s just there’s so much of it that sometimes I can’t breathe. We’ve done and seen more than anyone should. But I don’t want to live with my head in a Pensieve.”

“After everything that’s happened in my life, I cherish every fond memory I have. The past is instructive. It’s the source of knowledge, history, experience… it’s everything.”

A few strands of Draco’s hair fell in front of his face. “I can’t let the past be my everything, Hermione.”

“Of course not,” she said, hurrying her words. “I’m merely saying tradition is important. The future is….” Blank. Unknown. Terrifying. “Open.”

“That’s the best part, though. The future is what we make it. We’ll make our own traditions, new ones,” Draco wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back flush against him. It was more of a crush than a cuddle, a silent plea.

Stay with me.

Try as she might, she couldn’t imagine their traditions — because she wasn’t even sure where they could be together.

Hermione couldn't imagine living in the flat after everything they’d been through, and as much as she’d wanted to return to Cyclamen Cottage the past few days, she didn’t think that was the right place for her anymore, either. When she set off to London, she’d expected to get her parents settled, perhaps reconnect with her old friends, and then she could submerge herself in the quiet landscapes of the Cotswolds. Just an ordinary witch living an ordinary life. But her plans had been derailed in the most surprising ways, and the upheaval of the last week had her spiralling.

Where they would live was the least of her worries. She rubbed her arm, fingers arching over the bulk of the bandage underneath her sleeve. The Dark Mark itched and stung, like tight new skin grafted over a burn. It might be permanent. But what if the hallucinations and the intrusive thoughts were permanent, too? After years of research into the complicated ecosystem of the human brain, she knew the harsh truth about the impact of extended hallucinations. Sufferers could expect a change or loss of vision, vertigo, tinnitus, and eventually, a persistent state of psychosis.

She’d never put Draco through all that. He didn’t deserve to watch her fade away, slip into another world he could never follow her into. For twelve years she’d borne solemn witness to her parents’ gradual deterioration, and she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.

Maybe she should ask Blaise if he would assume her care. At the very least, she should get a will in order so she could leave her personal effects — her beaded bag, her book collection, her pearl hair pins — to her godsons. Would Harry visit, even after she ceased to recognise him? Would Draco?

And that brought her around to the original problem. Once she left the flat, with or without her parents, she didn’t know where to go.

She wanted to say all of this to Draco, but they hadn’t discussed anything beyond the Solstice Ball and a vague plan to topple the current regime. The line between them, once set in stone, now seemed to be drawn in sand. At some point, she felt sure they’d crossed it, some of the line disappearing as they dipped their toes on the other side. But now the tide threatened to erase it fully, and Hermione didn’t know how to operate in a world where all the boundaries she’d so carefully established were washed away. So instead of exposing yet another vulnerability, she fell back on old habits and withdrew like a hermit crab into a too-small shell.

“But this… it’s just for a little bit longer. The ball is right around the corner.”

“Right,” Draco said. “Of course.” He released her and pushed away to stand.

She instantly wished she could snatch the words out of the air and put them back in her mouth, swallow them whole so there was no evidence they’d ever been spoken.

“Draco.”

He was already halfway across the room. “I should see what Pansy’s got planned for the rest of the morning. Still plenty of time to hit the slopes.”

The fire sputtered, all previous warmth gone.

❖

Everyone suffered through an awkward lunch where Luna prattled on about the medicinal uses for dirigible plums. When the table was clear, they took turns transfiguring their city clothes into proper gear and finally set off for the mountain.

After a quick warm up to refresh her skills, Hermione triple-checked the buckles on her ski boots. The ski lift looped endlessly up into the horizon.

Luna flipped her fishtail braid over her shoulder. “Draco, might I borrow your wife?”

“Certainly, as long as I can borrow yours,” Draco held his arm out to Pansy, who took it and steered the group closer to the ski lift.

“Of course. We’ve discussed that sort of thing, and as long as Pansy consents, I have no problem with sharing her.”

Draco’s cheeks, already red from the cold, deepened into crimson. “Wait, Luna—”

Before he could finish, Pansy tugged him forward as a lift chair circled around. “Come on!”

As the lift rose into the air, he looked back at her, an enquiry in his eyes she didn’t know the answer to.

Hermione and Luna lined up with the next chair and sat down as it hit the back of their knees. “He’s rather protective of you.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione fumbled with her mittens. “I’ve been on my own for a while now. It’s nice that he cares so much.”

“Oh, I think it’s more than that. Don’t you?”

Hermione averted her eyes and changed the subject. “So how’re things at The Quibbler? Pansy told me you’re still the head editor. I don’t know how you find the time to do that and run a magical creature sanctuary.”

“I often bring my work home with me, or my home to work. The Quibbler’s selling well, better than ever, really. We’re the only non-Ministry-sanctioned periodical. All the staff have dedicated their careers to exposing the rot at every level of magical society. In fact, that’s the reason I hoped I might speak with you. I’d like to interview you and Draco.”

“What kind of interview?”

“It’s up to you,” she shrugged.

They reached the top of the mountain, clusters of skiers adjusting straps and hats. The two women eased off the lift, hitting the crunchy snow and gliding forward in search of fresh powder.

“Will you think about it?”

“Of course. You and Pansy have done so much for us.”

Luna flashed a brilliant smile. “It’ll be grand.”

The run wasn’t too crowded, so they pushed off, one at a time. Hermione crouched low, enjoying the wind in her ears, the blur of the terrain as she zoomed past. Most of all, she appreciated how it quieted her mind.

After a few runs, she worked her way up to a double black diamond. The steep slope of ungroomed snow twinkled in the fading light. She was debating whether she wanted the challenge for her last run of the day when Draco appeared at her side.

“You’re really good at this,” Draco said, lifting his goggles and setting them atop his white-blond hair.

“You sound surprised.”

“I didn’t think skiing was something most Muggles did.”

Hermione shrugged. “My family used to take me as a child. I wasn’t destitute, you know. We’re not all orphans living under the stairs.”

He shot her a quizzical look.

“Nevermind. Race you to the lodge?”

“What’s the bet?”

“Last one buys the Butterbeer,” she suggested, teetering on the edge of the run.

“We share a vault!” Draco shouted back, but she’d already launched herself down the slope.

❖

Later that night, Hermione gathered her things and slipped out the back door. It was pitch black, save for stars glittering around a full moon. Fresh snow flurried all around her, and as she stepped forward in what she hoped was the right direction, her boot scuffed up against a tiny unlit lantern. With a quick Lumos, she discovered the path before her was lined with at least a dozen of them, and she sent her signature bluebell flames into each one. Snowflakes shifted from white to cobalt as they fell to join their brethren, banking a cedar sauna situated in the corner of the field, just before the edge of the woods.

She picked up the lantern at her feet and trudged silently through the snow towards the sauna. Her muscles ached from the day on the mountain, and she could think of nothing better than stripping down and relaxing into the steamy heat.

As she settled one mittened hand on the handle, a feminine moan came from inside the sauna. She held the lantern up to the foggy window, only just able to make out two nude women splayed across a wooden bench. The raven-haired one held the voluptuous blonde’s generous arse as she licked into her c*nt, even as the blonde twisted in ecstasy.

Hermione quickly lowered the light in shock, hoping Luna hadn’t seen her. Pansy and Luna’s passion for one another had the first blush of arousal warming her skin better than any sauna could have managed. She scurried back to the cabin in silence — back to the bed she’d share with Draco. She didn’t know whether she hoped to find him sleeping or wide, wide awake.

❖

Draco lay on top of the still-made bed in his black silk pyjamas. He didn’t look up as she entered, engrossed in his reading. Hermione smiled to herself as she noted the D.M. on the chest pocket that matched the H.M. on her own. She’d first added it to her pyjamas as a reminder of the role she had to play. But at some point she’d stopped seeing it as a persona, and her heart said Draco was long past pretending. The question was, could she go back to the way things were before? Could she hurt him, knowing it was for his own good?

“Why aren’t you under the covers?”

If she startled him, he didn’t show it.

“Years of sleeping on the finest sheets money can buy have ruined me for other bedding,” he said, the book falling, open and forgotten, into his lap. “Also, I don’t think the duvet has been laundered anytime this century.”

She wrinkled her nose, but climbed on the bed next to him. He lifted the arm closest to her, and Hermione cosied up to him. Heat rolled off him, and between that, the crackling fire, and what she saw in the sauna, she began to understand his concerns about sharing a bed. The last time, it’d been unintentional, and they’d only shared a kiss. But now he’d seen her shameless, wanting, desperate.

Maybe it was wrong to press the side of her thigh against him now, knowing she’d have to pull away sooner rather than later. Not tonight, though. They still had time before this became just another memory.

“Luna wants to interview us. It could be the perfect opportunity to express our disapproval over what the Ministry has done — and what they continue to do.”

“So instead of attending the ball to kiss up to bloated windbags and assure the fickle opinion of the public remains firmly on our side, you’d like to march into the dragon’s den in a gossamer gown.” His eyes held a bit of mischief, and her stomach swooped.

“Are you saying you’ll do it?”

He considered her seriously, his jaw set. “Is that what you need from me?”

The low timbre of his voice sent a thrill down her spine, and wetness pooled between her legs.

For a moment, speech evaded her. “It’s not about what I need.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“Wanting something and needing it aren’t the same thing.”

His eyes, more pupil than grey, roved over her body. Hermione had a feeling they were having two very different conversations at the same time.

“But sometimes they are. Like right now.”

She intercepted his wrist before he could lay his hands on her and make her lose her mind under his touch. “Tell me.”

He lowered his lips to her ear, his hot words shooting straight to her core. “You know what I want. And if we want the same thing Granger, you should know — I intend to give it to you.”

Granger. His chosen endearment. Only he called her that, and the thousands of ways he said it took her breath away more than sweetheart or darling or lo—

Don’t even think that word, she scolded herself.

Draco withdrew his arm and moved to rest on his elbows above her. All at once she was thrown back to the day they ran into each other at St. Mungo’s when he cornered her in the alley, crowding her against the wall. The way he looked at her then was so different from the way he looked at her now. Maybe it hadn’t been full-on hate in the alley — she knew that now. But at this moment, after a span of only a few days, it looked like he felt the exact opposite.

Before she could talk herself out of whatever they were about to do, she yanked him by the collar and pressed her lips into his. Draco relaxed into her, closing the distance between them. Hermione sighed into his mouth, and he rocked his hips into her, once, twice, and finding no objection he continued to grind against her as their lips moved in tandem.

His hands quested underneath her pyjama top, plotting a route to her breasts. He sucked softly where her neck met her shoulder, just enough to bruise. She was burning up, desire turning into desperation for more of his touch, more of him.

A synapse fired in her brain, as if it had fallen asleep on watch and been jolted awake by a sound in the distance. They couldn’t do this. She couldn’t let him get attached to her only to lose her again. It wasn’t fair to him. And maybe she shouldn’t be deciding what he needed, as her record wasn’t the best. But as much as they both wanted this, she would take the hurt now in order to spare him future pain.

She pushed his shoulder half-heartedly, like a kneazle kitten pawing at a toy. He propped himself back up with one hand, the other busy memorising a map of the softness just above her hips.

"We're married, you know. We don't have to stop.”

He said it like a joke, but she heard the uncertainty in his voice. He combed a hand through her hair, but he didn’t settle his weight back onto her. She realised he was waiting for her to come back to him.

It pained her to admit the next part. "I don't want to stop. But I'm afraid of what happens when we don't."

"We were both afraid the first time," he whispered. “This time will be so much different, I promise you.”

Hermione wasn’t scared of giving her body to him again; that wasn’t at all what she meant. But her heart pounded at his implication. He wanted a second time with her now, but would that be it?

So many people had said they wanted her, but it was always on their terms. Ron wanted to copy her homework. Viktor wanted her on his arm at the Yule Ball.

This is different, her heart protested. He says it’s different. Give him a chance.

“That’s not it,” she said, sitting them both up. “I have to tell you something.”

Draco took her hand and stroked it. “You can tell me anything. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gods, she was going to cry again. “I’ve had intrusive thoughts for a while. They started in Australia and they get louder and more frequent when I’m practising dark magic. But I’ve stopped for over a week, and now I’m having hallucinations.”

“The other night, when you seized —”

“I think it’s my Dark Mark,” she said, tears falling. “Or withdrawals, maybe. And I can’t… What if I lose my mind? What if we jump into this and it’s not...”

“Hey, hey,” he held her against his firm chest. “I’ve never had hallucinations, and neither has anyone else I’ve ever known who took the Mark. Even when they dabbled in the Dark Arts, all the Death Eaters I knew descended into madness because they were in Azkaban surrounded by Dementors at all hours of the day.”

“Harry said it might be possible. The hallucinations seem like they’re related to things in Voldemort’s life.”

She told him about the long table of Death Eaters, the graves, and the ever-present snake. Draco listened intently, his eyes bright in the dying firelight.

“You think the basilisk wants you to return the Death Eaters to their former glory?”

“I don’t know. It seems to think I’ll need them for something.”

Draco rubbed his forehead. “It called you Mistress?”

Hermione nodded.

“Potter says the Dark Lord can’t come back, right? But what if that spell gave you a taste of his power? He could summon us whenever he pleased. Maybe you can, too.”

“I doubt it. I can’t even Apparate as well as I used to. It’s like I’m detoxing and my magic has to readjust. And unless the Death Eaters turn in their masks and become really cool with having a Muggleborn leader really quick, I don’t think I’ll be summoning them.”

“Maybe, with time, the hallucinations will go away. Although I can’t say I favour a wait-and-see approach,” Draco sighed. “I’m glad you told Potter. We can go back to Patil, too. Blaise is already on the case. We’ll get a team of experts on this, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Hermione.”

Hermione blew out a long breath, the day’s exertions catching up with her. Talking about the hallucinations sapped the little energy she had left, and now she worried they would bleed into her dreams. She squeezed her husband’s hand.

The realist in her said Draco couldn’t keep his promise. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not he’d “let” it happen, because life happened to everyone, and in one way or another, so would death. But she was tired, and even though she knew it was temporary, she didn’t want to be alone.

“Will you keep holding me?”

He muttered Nox and lowered himself to rest behind her, moulding his body to hers.

As her eyelids fluttered shut, an errant thought dug its claws into her traitorous brain.

Draco’s right. The only thing standing in the way of your happiness is you.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Hermione directed her suitcase to empty itself into a waiting laundry basket, in no mood to attend to anything else on the dreary Monday morning. The ball was tonight, and she hadn’t said she’d changed her mind about going, but she wasn’t certain there was any reason to anymore.

She looked both ways as she stepped out of her room, unsure if she wanted to run into Draco. After two awkward sleepless nights away (at least on their end), she knew her plan to pull away was failing. She’d expected to steel herself as she always had, but she was no Occlumens. She worried he saw right through her.

They’d sat down just yesterday with Luna, united in their desire to deliver the strongest condemnation of the Ministry possible. Draco spoke with passion, describing in detail the fallout from the misguided policies. Hermione mainly lent her support, emphasising the similarities of the new laws to the discrimination against her kind found in old laws. But she didn’t know what to make of Draco’s glances, the strange distance she felt even when she reached for his hand.

“What’s next for you two?” Luna’s expectant smile made Hermione’s chest ache.

Draco shrugged and looked at Hermione to answer for them.

She bit her lip. “We’ll continue to advocate for fair treatment of all magical beings, regardless of their blood or family of origin.”

“Of course,” murmured Luna. “Well, if that’s all….”

That wasn't all. Not even close. Draco squeezed her hand on the settee, reassuring her with his solid presence. But Hermione wanted more.

The worst part? It was all her doing. She pushed him away, only to find herself wrapped around him when they woke in the morning.

He’d apologised, like it was his fault. And after breakfast and hugs goodbye (Pansy was a surprisingly fierce hugger) the Portkey activated, bringing them back to the flat. Draco kissed her forehead and retreated to his bedroom.

They were in separate camps once more. And even though it was what she’d asked for, more in action than words, it was neither what she wanted, nor what she needed. She should have expected this outcome, because the Draco Malfoy she’d known most of her life was no fighter. He told her himself he was a coward, but she’d seen someone else, a different Draco. Fierce, protective, intelligent, patient.

The cowardice was just a front, a defence mechanism. Certain species of snake play dead, waiting for the threat to give up and leave. Draco would let her walk away under the guise of giving her space, and that was the last thing she wanted. She could admit that now.

Her cauldron glowed on the kitchen worktop, portending only good things. She peered over the rim, and to her delight, the liquid within was the perfect shade of molten gold. A golden girl stared back at her, older now, and more uncertain.

Her gift for Draco, the one she’d brewed as a symbol of how far they’d come, was ready.

But when to give it to him? Should she, still?

She opened her beaded bag and rummaged around for a phial, but her hand closed around a crumpled sheet of parchment.

Hermione pulled it out and smoothed it on the worktop. It was her parchment — the one where she recorded Draco’s answers to Pansy’s questions that night at the pub. He’d taken it from her to write his answer.

What is your favourite memory with your partner?

And underneath, he’d written: The one we’re making right now, and all the ones I hope to make tomorrow.

Underneath, he’d signed it with a dramatic flourish. That man, she thought to herself with a wet sort of laugh.

That man.

She folded the parchment, careful not to stain it with her tears, and returned it to her bag. After a moment, she found a phial and poured the Felix Felicis inside, not wasting a drop.

As Hermione popped the stopper on, Pansy breezed in through the Floo, a copy of The Quibbler tucked under her arm.

“I know, I know, you’re probably sick to death of me after this weekend, but Luna insisted I bring you a copy. It hit newsstands this morning and sold out in a flash. Luckily I have an in with the editor,” she winked.

“Thanks Pansy. You can leave it right there, if you like,” Hermione sniffled and Pansy’s face fell.

“What’s wrong? Is Draco being an idiot?”

“No. No more than usual, anyway,” she said, attempting a smile.

Pansy set her things down and leaned on the worktop across from Hermione. “Talk to me.”

Hermione explained at length her recent conversations with Draco, leaving out the bits about her Dark Mark and hallucinations. She outlined her duties to her family and to Draco, her worries about the future, and even mentioned their intense physical and emotional chemistry — she laid it all out there. They were friends, after all.

At the end of her rambling speech, Pansy laughed.

“Pansy!” Hermione groaned as the witch doubled over in hysterics.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just that I never expected the great Hermione Granger — Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age — to be so f*cking stupid.”

“You don’t need to be rude, Pansy.”

Pansy gave her a sympathetic look. “Darling, you love him.”

“I know!” Hermione put her face in her hands and leaned over the worktop. It was true: She loved Draco Malfoy. “But this is supposed to be a temporary thing. We agreed I’d be here until after the ball, and then I’d go back to Cyclamen and he’d stay here and, I don’t know, maybe he’d owl me if he needed something? Although he could just filter our communication through Theo…”

“Slow down, I think your hair is smoking.”

Hermione patted the top of her head, and finding nothing amiss, glared at her friend. “Very funny.”

“What I’m trying to say is — you’re making a Hungarian Horntail out of a Common Welsh Green. You love him. I’d bet my last Galleon he loves you.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s more complicated than that.”

Pansy steered the conversation toward safer waters — and steered Hermione to her room. “Why don’t you show me your gown for tonight?”

“I don’t know if I should go,” Hermione said, pulling the dress from the armoire. She lay it on the bed and Pansy gasped.

“If you don’t wear this, it’ll be a crime. I’ll testify against you,” Pansy paused, shooting Hermione a threatening look. “Come on, Hermione. Is whatever that’s going on between you two scarier than what you’ve already faced?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I love him, Pansy. It hurts.”

Pansy nodded. “You’ve both been hurting for a long time. But this is your chance now — to heal, to become something together. It’s hard, I won’t lie to you. But Luna is worth it all. I still feel the sweetest ache in my chest at the littlest thing she does. It hurts, but it hurts in the best way possible, because you’re growing. Growing means you’re alive.”

“Thank you Pansy,” Hermione wiped away a tear.

“It’s nothing,” Pansy said, opening her arms. “Now come and hug me. Oh! Watch the dress, you clumsy thing. What are you accessorising with?”

❖

Draco nodded to Dovie as he stepped out of the Floo. He passed several doors with black and gold stencilling, the gilded lettering announcing their occupants, until he found the right one. Theo’s office door was closed, but light shone through the frosted glass window encompassing the top half, a half-opaque invitation. He took a nervous breath and turned the doorknob.

Theo sat hunched in his wig and robes, clutching his quill. His hand moved from left to right, adding notes and striking out words so firmly he nearly pierced the parchment. His eyes had bags beneath them, deep purple bruising his light brown skin.

“Unless you’re here to apologise, you can get the f*ck out. We’re in recess, but I’ve got to get back to the courtroom in less than an hour.” Theo’s thick fingers searched for the edge of his wig and, upon finding it, flung it on his desk. “Merlin’s beard, that thing itches.”

Draco glanced down at his dragonhide boots and back up again. “As a matter of fact, I am here to apologise.”

“Good. It’s taken you long enough. Come in and close the door.” His friend sighed and got up from his work.

Draco shut the door, the sounds of scuttling secretaries sealed away. “You were right, Theo. I told Hermione about Astoria. She knows everything now.”

“And?”

“And I’m sorry.” He’d gotten rather good at saying that particular word.

“And?”

Draco racked his brain. What else?

“And I’m falling for her. Have fell. Fallen. f*ck.” He sank into one of the chairs across from Theo’s desk. Was it possible that less than two weeks ago his wife had sat next to him in this very room and hurled an inkpot at him, but now kissed him as if her life depended on it?

“Thank the gods. You’re an idiot, Draco, you know that?”

A smile broke out on Theo’s face as he returned to stand before his desk, his dimple signalling all was well again.

“Yes, but I’m your favourite idiot,” Draco grinned back.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I ran into Pucey the other day.” They both chuckled.

“He’s still stuck in the Ministry’s sorry excuse for an accounting department?”

“He’s the reason they’re a sorry excuse for an accounting department. Although he’s been terribly useful,” Theo leaned over the desk, his hands spread wide and pressing into the ancient wood, searching for something.

“Useful idiots. The best kind.”

“As I said, don’t get too comfortable,” Theo located whatever he was looking for and held it up to Draco. “But look at this, he owled it to me just this morning.”

Draco took the parchment, which unrolled all the way down to the floor, and reread it twice in disbelief. “This is the money trail.”

The document enumerated, in great detail, the various accounts and their contents of the lowest-ranking Ministry officials all the way up to Podmore himself. It also listed Pureblood families and their assets, categorising their appraised values. Draco noted his accounts and estates were near the top written in red ink, indicating they remained in his possession.

Theo and Pansy’s homes appeared in blue ink, the proceeds from their sale next to each seized property. The new owners had destroyed both estates. Even if Draco could have bought them back, they were gone. In even smaller print, Pucey’s discovery showed who received the money and who owned the homes now.

Draco furrowed his brow. “Why would Griselda Marchbanks need all these homes?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. I’ve argued in front of her for years, and she oversaw O.W.L.s at Hogwarts if memory serves. Lovely old woman, aside from her penchant for gaudy fascinators. Her husband died a few months ago and as far as I know, she has no other family to speak of, so I don’t think she needs the space. She recently stepped down from the Wizengamot. Rumour has it her health has been in decline for some time.”

Something in the back of his mind tried to draw his attention, but Draco dismissed it in favour of continuing down the list.

“She’s got the Zabini and Bulstrode properties as well. Is she Pureblood?” It wouldn’t be the first time a Pureblood family overtook an estate and forged documents to reflect it had been theirs all along. Usually the house-elves and ghosts put a stop to any serious undertakings. The portraits mostly complained.

“I had the same thought, but Dovie looked into it and she’s only Half-blood.”

“History buff?”

“Maybe. The fascinators were positively mediaeval.”

“Can I get a copy of this? For Hermione,” Draco clarified.

“Naturally,” Theo tapped the parchment. “Geminio.”

Draco rolled up the fresh copy and tucked it inside his greatcoat. “The ball is tonight. Will we see you there?”

“No, I’ve got to get caught up. The Wattle trial is next week.”

“What a positively Granger-like thing to say.”

“Yes, well, it’s true. And I don’t have a date. Not that I need one, because as I said, I’m not going,” Theo glared in warning. “And she’s not for me, anyway,” he muttered under his breath.

“Who’s not for you?”

Theo shot him a look so full of anguish that Draco took a step back. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The memories surfaced all at once.

Theo, shaken but determined, so quick to recommend Hermione to be the next Lady Malfoy.

Theo, frozen in the lobby of St. Mungo’s, transfixed.

Theo, the cooler head in their friendship, storming off after Draco insisted he wasn’t falling for his wife.

It was her.

Theo gave up any chance he had with Hermione Granger for him. Maybe he’d thought they’d be good together, despite their pasts. Maybe he thought Draco would take care of the woman he admired from a distance. And what had Draco done? He’d wasted years that he and Hermione could have been together wallowing in his pain, trying to do it all alone.

f*ck.

Theo forged ahead. “You don’t need to kiss up to the powers-that-be anymore. In fact, that’s damn near impossible after that interview you two gave. The public is already smitten. Just go to Head Auror Weasley with Hermione, and make sure you’re seen. Besides, do you really care what all those arseholes think anymore?”

“It’s not about that, Theo. It’s about justice. My mother and Astoria deserve this. Hell, I deserve it. I’ve chased this for the better part of my life now. Don’t you want to see whoever did this pay?”

“Draco, I know justice. I see it every day, dealt out to people just like you or me. It’s determined by a room of flawed people who drank cold tea that morning or fought with their wife or had a bully as a child that looked similar to the defendant. Trust me, petty revenge masquerades as justice more than half the time. And I have to tell you, friend to friend, even if they get it right, it’s never as satisfying as you think it is,” Theo paused. “Have you considered that you already have something infinitely better?”

Draco said nothing, unable to tear his eyes away from Theo’s. His friend rarely showed strong emotion; his legal education ground that out of him. But now his eyes were glossy, and a crimson butterfly spread its wings across his nose and cheeks.

“Love, Draco. Love.”

Dovie knocked twice and swung open the door. “Court will resume in ten.”

“Thank you, Dovie,” Theo redonned the wig and breezed past Draco, only pausing once he reached the threshold. “A word of advice? Don’t be an idiot forever.”

❖

Draco tucked the parchment from Theo in his bedside drawer with Astoria’s letters. He looked at the pile of stationery and for the first time in years felt no inclination to pick one up. Those letters still meant something to him, but they were written to a different man; a much more self-centred and much less broken man. A man who feared the future because of what it meant for him, and not what it might mean for others, or the next generation. But also a man who made progress, little by little, because of the love of two women.

He’d surprised even himself with how readily he’d accepted Astoria’s news. His opinion had already been evolving, even during his stint in Azkaban. But she’d expanded his worldview through their conversations, chaperoned excursions, and countless gifts to one another of art and literature. As Draco travelled the world after her death, he’d sometimes see her face in the reflection of a shop window, standing beside him in her navy peacoat, pointing excitedly at some statuette or oil painting. He’d buy it, take it home to the flat, and let it all sit in a room — Hermione’s room — gathering dust.

Funny how he never thought of that room as anything but hers now.

Without realising it, he’d made a space for her, first in his home and then in his heart.

Theo was right. He loved her.

He didn’t love Astoria any less. Their love had been different, a delicate friendship that both hoped might lead to a stable life together. That was all anyone could hope for after the war, really, especially in light of the restoration efforts and constant new legislation. They teased, and they talked, and since an arranged marriage had always been in the stars, he considered himself quite lucky.

Draco shut the drawer and rested his palm against it. Something inside him told him he’d never read those letters again. It was time to move on.

His thoughts shifted to his wife. The woman he loved.

With Hermione, Draco felt like he was flying. They might soar along peacefully for hours, and then dive into a thrilling Wronski Feint. He never knew which way was up, only that he was unconcerned with anything below them, or behind them. He wanted to race through the clouds with her, unfettered, high on thin air and adrenaline.

He’d never been at the top of his class, but he was smart enough to know that she likely felt the same. He didn’t blame her for being cautious; it had only been nearly two weeks since she left Cyclamen Cottage and moved into his London flat. Her parents were dying, and she didn’t know what she’d do without them. On top of that, she was experiencing health issues of her own. Hermione preferred to be in total control, and hadn’t been able to replicate that feeling in a while. It was a terrible time to fall in love, but in his limited experience, that’s exactly when it seemed to happen.

Draco could show her flying wasn’t so scary if you had the right partner. He wanted to be with her, in whatever capacity she would accept him. But deep down, he knew that no matter what relationship they settled on, he would be a good husband to Hermione. And he hoped she would want him to be a husband in every way.

Draco recalled the conversation in front of Luna’s cabin, Hermione’s face falling at the mention of his lacklustre proposal. He’d propose again, somewhere that meant something special to them, and with a ring this time.

But all that would come. First, he had to tell her how he felt and hope she felt the same way.

He wore a path into the floorboards, pacing back and forth, practising his confession of love. The ball was in a few hours, and the choice would be hers. He would fight for her, kneel at her feet. Whatever she wanted, it would be hers, if she would take him, too.

Ten years ago, Theo had said there was a ninety-nine percent chance Hermione would refuse Draco even on his best day. Today was certainly not his best day, but it couldn’t be helped. Draco sighed and started his speech from the top once more. He needed all the luck he could get.

❖

Hours later, Draco knocked on her bedroom door. Hermione, wearing Muggle hair curlers and her dressing gown that hugged her curves, opened it to him a moment later, and he stepped inside. A long garment bag lay across the bed, still closed.

Would she come to the ball tonight? And if she did, was she coming as his wife? He fought to resist his nervous habit of tucking his hands in and out of his pockets, opting instead to make a fist at his side.

“Draco, is everything—”

“Please, let me get this out before I lose my nerve. Two nights ago, I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I meant it, and I still do. But maybe that’s not what you needed me to say, because you’re too f*cking smart for your own good, and you know that as much as I want to protect you from everything, pain and grief and death, it’s all inevitable. What I should have told you is that even if this is all we get, and all our worst fears come true, I want this. I want us.

“I don’t know how I’ve made it this far alone. And I don’t want to be alone anymore, and more than that, I can’t stand the thought that you’ll go off somewhere and be alone. We tried that already. We both hate needing other people, but we do, and if you have to need someone, it may as well be someone you love.

“And I love you, Hermione. I love you. I know it’s fast — I mean we’ll be married ten years tomorrow, so maybe not that fast… f*ck… what I’m trying to say is,” he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Please come tonight. Not because you said you would, or because you think it’ll help me get the case solved, or because you want to say goodbye — I’m used to a lack of closure, anyway. I’ll be there because I want nothing more than to be there with you. This is real, Hermione, it’s real, and I don’t know when it happened exactly, but I’m sick of pretending it isn’t. This is the most real thing I’ve ever felt and I don’t know how to let it go, so I’ll be there.

“I know what I’m asking might be more than you have to give. You give and give and give and if it’s too much, I’ll try to understand. You don’t have to tell me your answer now — maybe it’s better if you don’t. But I’ll be there.”

Draco was out of breath, like he’d flown around the Quidditch pitch one too many times. He’d gone and done it now. He’d risked it all and made the first move. She’d taught him that more often than not, the first move wins, and gods, he needed to win her, heart and soul.

“Well, we’ve got about an hour before the festivities begin. I have to go pick up my tux. There’s a Portkey in the fruit basket. Little silver bell, you can’t miss it.”

He chanced a glance at her. His heart caught in his throat, seeing her brown eyes filled with tears. Her soft lips were parted, and she looked like she might speak.

Draco panicked.

His instincts told him he should Occlude now, start building a new well, and fill it with memories of Hermione. This version of himself would die of thirst, but he’d been through worse, hadn’t he?

No, he hadn’t. He didn’t know if he could bear it. But if he left now, there was still hope. He Apparated away before he lost that, too.

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

His reception to the ancient castle tucked into the Irish countryside was chilly at best.

For one thing, Draco arrived alone, fortified with Firewhisky. But he’d also had a hand in exposing the prejudice and bias of the most powerful wizards and witches in Britain. Although perhaps his greatest sin was wearing a Muggle tuxedo. He’d put his own spin on it — a slim cut trouser, a silk shawl collar, and a formal black holster for his wand. What seemed a brave choice back in the shop now had him feeling foolish amongst the more traditional magical finery.

He made a circuit of the room, marking where Aurors stood guard. No sign of Ron Weasley, who he thought he might’ve had the guts to speak with had Hermione been at his side. But he had no idea if she’d come tonight. His reaction to her hallucinations hadn’t been the best, maybe, but they’d been thrown obstacle after obstacle since he’d dragged her out of St. Mungo’s and they’d overcome them all. As long as they were together, he didn’t think there was anything they couldn’t accomplish. He’d been used to being alone before, but now he knew there was no going back.

He didn’t want to traverse the continent, skulking in a different alley every night. He didn’t want to reject every offer of help. Now that he knew what it was like to have Hermione Malfoy in his corner, he never wanted to do anything alone again.

He’d been an idiot. That much was irrefutable.

But he loved her.

Did she feel the same?

Draco plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray but kept his eyes on the wide gilded staircase. His heart hammered so loudly he thought it might drown out the string quartet. All at once they paused, preparing for the next piece, and as the first notes rang out, charmed snowflakes fell from above, dissolving into a fine glittery sugar halfway down. He himself had arrived fashionably late, and with each passing minute it seemed less and less likely that Hermione would appear at all.

“Waiting for someone?”

Pansy sidled up to him, Luna’s hand in hers. Both women were wrapped in powder blue chiffon; Pansy in a jumpsuit, Luna in a frothy mini dress. Luna’s silver bangles clinked merrily with every step she took.

Luna smiled knowingly. “It’s the Yule Ball all over again.”

“I wasn’t waiting for her at the Yule Ball.”

“Maybe you didn’t know it at the time, but you were.”

Over the years, many people sought Luna out for advice, claiming the Lovegood women had always had a touch of the Sight. Draco wondered, not for the first time, if the rumours were true.

“Don’t worry, Draco. She’ll be here,” Pansy reassured him.

He brought the champagne flute to his lips to hide their subtle trembling.

“I think I see her now,” Luna said, a starry quality to her voice. “Come dance with me, my love.”

Pansy and Luna must have fluttered away, but he didn’t hear their departure. Everything became muffled all at once — the tittering of the tipsy guests, the languorous strains of the quartet, the clink of glasses and the soft clicks of heels meeting polished marble floors.

She was here.

In bridal white.

Hermione skimmed her gloved palm along the bannister, descending the stairs carefully in a white silk ballgown. Her hair was swept away from her face in a braided updo, but he couldn’t read her expression from this far away. The white gloves travelled from her fingertips up past her elbow, but her shoulders were bare. The neckline was indecent in all the right ways, a fine netting revealing the inner curve of her breasts, and the silk skirt blossomed from her hips and kissed the floor on which she walked. Matching slippers peeked out from under the hem with her every step.

Just when he thought she couldn’t get more ethereal, the dress began to glow. In the span of a heartbeat, sheer, sparkling wings sprouted from the back. Hermione’s soft smile as she scanned the crowd for him shattered the last barrier he’d erected, and it took everything he had to let her come to him.

Gods, let her come to me.

Her eyes alighted upon his, and he stood stock still, transfixed. Even when she came to a stop less than a half a metre away, he found himself immobilised.

Draco wanted to feel the whisper of silk on his skin, peel the gloves away with his teeth. Capture her pillowy lips with his own. Commit everything about her to memory.

He’d give her everything, every piece of him, for however long they had.

“Hi,” she whispered. She gathered her skirts with a soft swish, waiting.

“Hi,” he managed. His head was thick, his lungs devoid of air. “You’re so f*cking beautiful.”

She smiled so widely he’d swear the candelabras burned brighter. Maybe the room was on fire. It didn’t matter.

Draco stepped towards her, and she reached up, stroking the collar of his tuxedo. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Finally they were close enough for him to take a deep breath of her decadent honey and vanilla scent — the vanilla he’d chosen with her in mind. He felt he owed an immense gratitude to her gloves, because if she wasn’t wearing them, he worried her touch would strike like a match against his skin and he’d be set ablaze.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said as he gulped the last of the champagne. The glass winked in the light and vanished.

“It reminds me of a wedding dress.”

“Maybe that’s the idea.”

Warmth lit up every nerve ending in his body. Before he could formulate a response, she licked her lips and ran her eyes over the crowd. “Do you think there’s somewhere we could talk? Alone?”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. We’re not exactly guests of honour, you and I. There are Aurors everywhere and this place is warded beyond belief, but I don’t trust most of these people as high as I could levitate them.”

She stood on her tiptoes as if to confirm his assessment. “I’m with you. But this wouldn’t be a proper Ministry-sponsored event without a backroom to make ill-advised deals.”

“As much as I’d love to be alone in said backroom with you, I think I saw a balcony earlier. Would that suit?” He held out a hand to her, and when she took it, everything else faded away.

They cut through clusters of conversation, turning heads everywhere they went. Draco gripped her hand firmly, squeezing it now and again as if to guarantee he wasn’t dreaming.

Before long, they arrived at a thick blue velvet curtain. Cold air drifted in underneath, and when they swept it aside, they walked across broad flagstones and into the starry night.

“Thank you for being here,” he said, taking both of her hands with no intention of ever letting go.

“I thought about what you said… Draco, I don’t know where this is going. All I know is that I don’t want to leave.”

“Hermione.” His heart soared at her words. She didn’t have to say she loved him if she wasn’t ready. She was staying, and that was enough.

She withdrew her hand and reached into a pocket hidden in her skirts. Her eyes shone bright in the torchlight.

“I know how you feel about taking potions, after how hard you’ve worked to put that part of your life behind you. So it’s really more of a symbolic gesture, if you will,” She shifted on her feet. “And I also wanted to tell you that I lo—” Hermione broke off as someone shouted something from the ballroom, but no one disturbed their privacy.

Draco was so amazed at her gift that he didn’t hear her last words. In her hand was a phial filled with shimmering golden liquid. It could only be one thing, one of the most precious potions in existence.

“Felix Felicis. Hermione,” he said, awe colouring his words as he accepted it from her. “This is… Incredible. How did you get this?”

“I made it for you. Used a secret Slughorn shortcut. Now you can be both lucky and good.”

The memories of that night came rushing back. Hermione’s smile in the glow of the Christmas lights, their gentle teasing, the first time in a long time that he’d allowed himself to feel hopeful.

“Do you know what I wrote on Pansy’s parchment under your favourite memory with your partner? I said it was that night. But this definitely tops it.”

He swept her into his arms, thankful that they didn’t have an audience, and kissed her thoroughly.

“Draco,” she halfheartedly smacked his shoulder.

“What? I can’t kiss my wife?” He threw her a devilish grin. “I have something for you, too. But I don’t want to give it to you here.”

She walked her gloved fingers up his sleeve. “Perhaps an early anniversary present?”

“You could say that.”

“That’s alright then. Can I have a dance for now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

They made their way back to the ballroom, where the strains of the last song were fading. The violinist turned the pages of his sheet music and shook out his shoulders in preparation for the next piece.

As Draco bent to kiss her hand, Theo strode up. Ever the traditionalist, the solicitor kept his hair loose around his shoulders, blending in with his black dress robes. He gave a short bow with a windmilling wave of his hand that had Hermione stifling a small giggle.

“Enchanté, my lady.”

“Good to see you, Theo.” she leaned into him and placed a kiss on his cheek. He lifted his hand, tracing the light sheen of lipstick she left behind.

“Draco,” he acknowledged with a bob of his head.

Draco, the brightness in his chest too much to contain, pulled his best friend into a tight hug, which Theo readily returned. “You made it.”

“Yes, well, work will always be there. It’s not every day I can attend the event of the season alongside two of my favourite clients — and people.”

Hermione laughed, a sparkling sound. “We’re everyone else’s least favourite.”

Indeed, situated as they were in the middle of the dance floor, thinly veiled looks of disgust and contempt surrounded them. The article had clearly hit its mark.

It dawned on him that their fates had been reversed. He’d grown up with every advantage and privilege, praised and pampered by his parents in preparation for a place in Pureblood society. As soon as he strayed from the path, everything had turned to ash, and he found himself withering without the attention he’d been accustomed to receiving as his birthright. Hermione, on the other hand, everyone dismissed and neglected despite her immense magical talent and prickly intelligence before being thrust into notoriety thanks to her proximity to Potter. And now it was almost as if it was easier for her, being on the outside looking in.

His eyes caught on a woman barreling towards them, and he nearly drew his wand before he recognised who she was. Potter’s wife stomped across the dance floor, nostrils flared, her sights set on Hermione.

“Oh, dear,” his wife said. A massive understatement, from the looks of it.

“You really put a target on your backs with that article,” Theo sighed. “And I don’t think your wings are helping matters.”

“I regret that I didn’t make them functional.” Hermione relieved Theo of his drink and gulped it down. Just like the other glasses, it winked out of existence.

“Hermione Granger!” Potter’s wife elbowed her way into their circle, shooting daggers at Hermione.

“Hermione Malfoy,” Draco corrected.

The redheaded witch narrowed her eyes at him before redirecting her ire back at Hermione. “We have so much to discuss that I’m not even sure where to start.”

She grabbed Hermione’s elbow, and his wife seemed to accept her fate.

“Don’t miss me too much,” Hermione chided as Ginevra Potter dragged her away.

“It’s a privilege even to miss you, Hermione,” Theo said, patting Draco’s shoulder and heading off to search for another drink.

Draco, bereft, searched for Pansy and Luna, but the ballroom was a total crush. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Goyle and Daphne engaged in a waltz. Daphne met his gaze, and instead of acknowledging him, steered further away.

❖

Hermione waved to Blaise as Ginny yanked her across the dance floor. He looked to be assisting an elderly woman wearing plum-coloured robes with a silver W embroidered on one side — a former member of the Wizengamot, maybe. Blaise’s dedication to his job was admirable. He had no date, nor did he have a drink in his hand. His sole focus seemed to be helping the woman, a spacey smile on her face, enjoy the ball. Blaise finally looked up and nodded to Hermione, but then she lost him in the sea of people.

Ginny stopped short in the far corner of the ballroom and hugged Hermione so hard she could barely breathe.

“I’m f*cking furious. I’m so mad at you I can’t even see straight,” Ginny said, squeezing her even harder. “Harry told me everything. I can’t believe you ran away and didn’t let us help you. And I really can’t believe you married Malfoy. What the f*ck? I know we weren’t perfect, we were kids and I really didn’t understand what it was like to be Muggleborn. But we love you and you disappeared without saying goodbye. Merlin, we’d been at war and Fred died and I never got to say goodbye. You were alive and you just left. How could you do that to us?”

Ginny had inherited her mother’s brand of anger. She raged on the outside to cover up the hurt in her heart. Hermione flung her arms around her friend.

“I’m sorry, Gin. I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be,” Ginny said in her most threatening tone. “I was right, wasn’t I? It was you the day I took the boys to the shops?” She loosened her grip but didn’t let go. Hermione nodded into her shoulder.

“I wasn’t ready. I swear I’ll tell you everything. Just not here.”

“Of course, I don’t want to make even more of a scene. Surely all these knobs know I’m on your side, though. Always will be.”

“I’m glad,” Hermione wiggled her shoulders, the wings showering her with glitter. “But um, I’m not going anywhere. You can let go now.”

“Not until you promise to come for Christmas dinner.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I do have one condition, though.”

Ginny rolled her eyes as she released Hermione. “If you have to bring the ferret, I suppose I can conjure up an extra chair. But it’ll be wobbly and next to Kreacher.”

“You’re not going to put up more of a fight than that?”

“I didn’t say I’m going to like him right away, or even at all. He may have proven himself to you, and Harry was suitably impressed, but if it gets you back at our table and back in our lives, bring on Malfoy, I suppose.”

Hermione grinned as Harry appeared with a plate from the buffet. “This is a sight for sore eyes.”

“Hi Harry,” Hermione said, hugging Harry while managing to avoid his food. “I’ve just agreed to Christmas dinner. Draco’s coming too.”

“Excellent. George has three days to whip up a few pranks. Ron will be happy to see you, too. And Neville, of course,” Harry said through a mouthful of prime rib. “Pansy and Luna always bring some complicated dessert. And the boys are going to adore you.”

“Where is Ron, by the way?”

Ginny swiped a dinner roll from Harry. “He’s on duty, probably around here somewhere. He’s Head Auror, you know. Mum’s in a constant state of worry.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Any hard feelings there?”

“His grudges are still legendary — that much hasn’t changed. But if you bring a couple tins of biscuits and agree to look at his vacation photos with Neville, he’ll probably forgive you before tea is served. Plus he’ll be happy to offload the near-dozen jumpers Mum’s made you in your absence.”

Touched by the thoughtfulness, Hermione regretted her self-imposed isolation even more. “Do you think she’d make one for Draco?”

Ginny grinned. “Oh, that’s wicked.”

Harry wiped his face with a napkin, but it couldn’t hide his smile. “I think mustard yellow would suit Malfoy’s features perfectly, right dear?”

The conversation came to a halt as Sturgis Podmore approached. He cut an imposing figure in his formal robes, and the Minister for Magic’s confident gait said both he knew it and used the fact to his advantage.

He spoke to Harry and Ginny first, his deep baritone smooth and even. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter, it’s nice to see you out and about. Congratulations on your new little boy. Albus would be honoured, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Minister,” Harry said. Neither of them extended a hand.

“We sure could use a man of your talents at the Ministry, Harry.”

Harry did that little thing where he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Hermione had always found it endearing, and seeing that he still did it all these years later warmed her heart. She wondered if his boys did it, too. “I’m flattered but I’m very happy where I am, Minister. It’s important to educate young and old alike about the war, Voldemort, and of course the ever-present dangers of corruption.”

The Minister’s laugh came off too bright. “I thought as much, but it doesn’t hurt to ask, does it? I’m afraid I’ve come with the intent of stealing your friend away for a moment. Mrs. Malfoy, might I have this dance?”

Hermione stalled just a moment before accepting his hand. It wasn’t like he could hex her in a room full of witnesses. Not everyone here tonight was on his payroll. And besides, the last time she’d fought alongside him, she’d been a more creative and decisive caster.

He centred them in the middle of the ballroom underneath an ostentatious chandelier dripping with diamonds. Witches and wizards wearing badges she didn’t recognise — Aurors in training, perhaps — danced around them, forming a circle so they could talk privately. Hermione extended her neck in an attempt to see over them, looking for Ron or Neville. She didn’t see anyone with Weasley red hair.

Podmore interrupted her search. “My aide showed me the most interesting article this morning.”

“I’m glad we got your attention.”

“I have to ask — Did you think you could just turn up, publish an article in some second-rate rag, and unseat me? After all I did for you and your parents, all we went through in the Order, this is how you repay me?”

“First of all, The Quibbler is not some second-rate rag and you know it. It’s the only large paper circulating that you haven’t been able to buy off. Secondly, it took you ages to write me back. I sent owl after owl.”

“The magical community was in shambles, so you’ll have to forgive me for not answering a teenager’s letter demanding an expensive Portkey and an exception to one of the oldest statutes on the books. You’d know if you hadn’t slunk off to Australia right after the war instead of aiding us in the rebuilding efforts. You only wanted to come back here after the going got tough. Did you miss the cachet of being a war heroine? Needed to see your likeness outside Hogwarts in person?”

“It’s not like that,” she fired back.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. What I do know is that I’ve spent years dealing with an ungrateful populace in decline. Death Eaters didn’t want to reintegrate themselves into society after Voldemort’s defeat. They’d become accustomed to the power and proximity to dark magic. Rehabilitation was near impossible, but the Wizengamot refused to jail most of them beyond a year or so.” He whipped Hermione into a dizzying spin.

“What does that have to do with—”

Podmore pulled her back in and continued. “Purebloods that didn’t take the Mark were unhappy with the cratering economy and my focus on integrating Half-bloods, Muggleborns and even Squibs into magical society. But then discrimination got even worse, and who was to blame for that? Me, of course.”

Hermione’s hand ached in his crushing grip. “Poor you, poor Minister Podmore, having to face unpopularity and a potential loss of your newfound power.”

“You can’t understand what it was like. Death Eater numbers exploded. Aurors quit in droves. The new rise in dark magic triggered their trauma from war and all its horrors. Wizarding Britain needed someone strong at the helm, someone who’d fought and knew the risks of another war.”

“How convenient for you,” she spat.

“I had no money to spend on the day-to-day costs of training new Aurors and educating the populace on the seductive dangers of the Death Eaters. Clearly you’ve fallen prey to one, so I suppose I’ve failed yet again,” he said, caustic accusation dripping from his words.

“Draco is not a Death Eater.”

“But he once was. Hermione, you were like a daughter to me in the Order. If I’d known sooner… I would never allow any daughter of mine to marry that scum. Although, I suppose your father doesn’t know, does he?”

Hermione wrenched her hand from his, tears stinging her eyes. But the Minister simply moved to her waist instead, lowering his voice further.

“You should know the truth. I couldn’t let Purebloods keep deciding the future. My cabinet and I decided to explore new funding streams, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s been very popular amongst the bigger demographics.”

“And somehow none of those funding streams have trickled down into St. Mungo’s, or our other public institutions.” Hermione swept her eyes across his gold rings and bracelets. Engraved in each bracelet were initials: HP, for his son Hector. UP, for his daughter Ursula. And AG. AG? “Seems like you’ve gotten plenty wealthy off of your new laws.”

As the song ended, he sent her into a final spin and reeled her back in. She felt one of her wings bend. “I know you’re new money, Mrs. Malfoy, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. These are family heirlooms. I haven’t taken so much as a Knut in wages as Minister. If anyone’s in it for the money here, it’s you.

“I feel sorry for you, really. You’ve always been quite the social climber, and you’ve played a good game. Latching onto the Chosen One early, leaving Hogwarts with top marks, marrying into one of the most prominent Pureblood families still around today. But strategy has never been your strong suit. And neither is acting, by the way.”

She lifted her chin and looked him dead in the eyes. “I love Draco Malfoy, and I’m not going anywhere. Your days as Minister are numbered.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to threaten me, Mrs. Malfoy. Take a look around. Even a blind-worm could see that as of this morning, you and your husband don’t have any friends in high places anymore. You’re quite on your own.”

Before Hermione could formulate a reply, he smirked and walked away, glad-handing supporters as he went. His entourage of badges followed him, disappearing into the crowd.

❖

Draco didn’t quite know what to do with himself. In previous years, he’d avoided public outings altogether, and when his mother was alive, he followed her lead. Narcissa Malfoy performed flawless curtsies, made thoughtful introductions, and had a memory like a Pensieve. Draco wished he’d paid more attention. Navigating the morass of friends-turned foes exhausted him, and he soon found himself paying another visit to the champagne fountain.

As he considered a platter of exotic fruit, he caught sight of Hermione’s wings. She danced stiffly with Podmore. That couldn’t be good. He abandoned the buffet and marched to rescue her.

Before he could elbow his way through, he was intercepted by Goyle and Daphne near one of the many dining tables. Goyle, fresh from the buffet, carried a plate stacked high with pasties and some sort of gelatinous meat. Upon discovering Draco in front of him, Goyle shoved his food and drink at Daphne, who wrinkled her nose but otherwise made no complaint.

“Happy Solstice, Draco.”

“Thank you, Goyle. Happy Solstice to you both. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to relieve Minister Podmore of my wife’s dazzling company.”

Goyle snorted. “No Imperio tonight? You’re taking this marriage a bit too seriously, don’t you think? I know Malfoy men let their wives walk all over them, but no need to degrade yourself further, eh?”

“Greg,” Daphne cautioned, setting Greg’s meal down on the table. “This isn’t the time. Everyone can hear you.”

He snarled at her. “You wanted to be here, and we’re here. You wanted a summer wedding, you’re getting a summer wedding. Let me have my own bloody conversations, witch.”

“Daphne’s right.” Draco admonished.

“It’s always later with you. Isn’t that what you said to your dad? He and I talked quite a bit these last few years, you know. He loved you dearly.”

Something inside Draco snapped. “You don’t know anything about the so-called love my father had for my mother and me. Lucius Malfoy was never who you thought he was. He was a demon in a wizard suit, and he dragged me to hell with him. It took me years to escape, and I’ll never forget what a long, arduous crawl it was to get to where I am today. I’m glad he’s dead. And if we’d ever been real friends, you’d be glad too.”

Goyle looked at Daphne and gestured toward Draco. “This is so sad, don’t you think? Draco Malfoy, brainwashed by a taste of Mudblood c*nt.”

Cold fury lanced through his entire body. Draco removed his jacket, folded it, and hung it over the chair behind him. Then he unfastened his platinum dragon cufflinks, dropped them into his pocket, and began rolling up both of his sleeves. “What did you just say about my wife?”

Goyle patted his robes in search of his wand. “You heard me. You know, the night your father died, I sensed the change in the Mark. My first thought was to find Lucius and tell him, but the guards turned me away. I didn’t know it yet, but he was already dead. I flew by your flat, thinking now you’d come to your senses.”

So it was Goyle who’d scared him half to death that night. The two men circled each other, shield charms up, drawing an audience. Draco held his wand in an iron grip, waiting for an opening.

“But no, I saw you weeping into your drink like a weakling, still mourning your traitorous mother. There’s no use crying over spilled blood, Draco. The future is here. The Dark Lord’s magic will choose a vessel, and I, for one, want to be counted among the victorious this time around.”

“Haven’t you learned by now, Greg? Hate never wins. Darkness never wins.”

“Haven’t I learned?” Goyle scoffed, extending his wand arm. “I learned from the best. I learned from the man whose love you spurned. Now I can only be sorry for you, Draco, because it will be your downfall.”

Draco fired off a jinx, but Goyle was not the slouch he used to spar with at Hogwarts. It bounced off Goyle’s shields easily. Goyle cast a few hexes in quick succession, but all they did was draw his opponent closer so Draco could employ other methods.

Muggle methods.

Draco’s fist collided with Goyle’s nose, breaking it on impact. Daphne screamed and covered her face. The music came to a screeching halt as the ballroom’s attention shifted to the two wizards.

Goyle fell to the ground and tried to get another spell off, but Draco’s years of duelling with Theo meant he left the man no quarter. He drove his fists into Goyle again and again and again, but it would never be enough. Rage clouded his vision, and he didn’t even try to Occlude. He let it all out on Goyle’s infinitely punchable face.

“Draco! Draco!” Theo’s firm voice brought him back to the present moment. His friend grabbed him by the shoulders and Draco staggered away. Goyle lay on the ground, groaning, swatting away Daphne’s attempts to help him. Draco gazed around to see Aurors pushing through the throng, then held up his hands. They were covered in bright red blood. A witch in a towering pink hat dropped her champagne flute and fainted at the sight.

Goyle rolled to his side and spat out a gore-covered tooth. “This isn’t the end of this, Draco. Not even close.”

Theo held off the Aurors with phrases like “my client” and a bunch of legalese. Draco’s ears rang, but he thought he heard him promise he’d be in for questioning tomorrow.

Fat chance of that.

“Draco!” Hermione, one wing drooping like a fallen angel, swooped in to clean him up. “What happened?”

He tilted his chin towards Goyle. “I’ve set him straight. He won’t bother us anymore.”

She escorted him to a nearby damask-backed chair and checked him over one more time. The quartet resumed their playing, and eager wizards and witches swept their dates back onto the dance floor. Draco longed to spin Hermione across the room, too, but more than anything he wanted to be alone with her.

With no interruptions.

He flexed his hands over his knees. Aside from some split skin on his knuckles, he felt fine. Without thinking too much about where they were or what she’d almost said earlier, he brushed them over her cheek. She was so tantalisingly soft.

“Hey,” she whispered, shaking him from further meditations on which other parts of her would be that soft. “What are you thinking about?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I’m thinking about how badly I want to take you to bed right now.”

Her skin flushed a deep scarlet. “Oh,” she said, reaching for his discarded jacket.

His heart sunk a little. “Oh?”

If it were possible, she turned even more red. “I mean, yes please,” his wife said, fishing something from one of his jacket pockets. She opened the handkerchief to reveal a shiny gold bell. “I wanted to leave ages ago. But you have the only Portkey home.”

Draco made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan and pulled her to him as the activated bell enveloped them in brilliant light.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

As soon as they landed in the flat, Draco’s lips were on hers. Hermione snatched off her wings and kicked off her shoes; he somehow unlaced his and left them in the hall in the mad dash to get to his bedroom.

Once inside, he brought strong arms around her waist, holding her as if she might disappear at any second. His skittish dance, unsure of whether to clutch her tightly or send her spinning out, quickened her pulse.

“Before we do this…” Draco searched Hermione’s eyes. He would back off at the smallest sign of hesitancy.

“Draco, I want this. I want to be with you,” she stretched up on her toes to place her palm on his shoulder. It shook, just a little, before meeting its mark.

“Just for tonight?”

“Not just for tonight. Not for just a week or a year,” she gasped as he set his head on her shoulder and nuzzled his face in her neck. “For always.”

He planted tender kisses on her skin, trailing up her neck to suck gently on her earlobe. Hermione’s knees buckled, but he held onto her. If his mouth felt this good on her ear, how would it feel everywhere else on her body? Every bit of her ached for him; the sweetest pain only Draco could soothe.

“I want you so badly,” he groaned. “I don’t know how to do what you like.”

She pulled away and cupped his face with her hands. His jaw ticked. “Yes, you do. Last time…” She saw the nervousness in his eyes and decided to confess. “I didn’t fake it. That wasn’t the problem.” It was clear now what transpired between them was the result of sorrow and fear. The heightened emotions drove them both over the edge, but the endless depths they fell to afterwards — those she never wanted to revisit.

His hands were warm when he brought them to rest over hers. “But it’s different this time.”

Gods, she wanted to kiss him again. Comfort him. Lose herself in him. But even as she closed the distance between their faces, she forced herself to maintain the tiniest of buffers. Everything had changed for her, but she had to know, before she let him in... “How is it different?”

Draco practically trembled as he whispered, “This time I’m in love with you.”

She wanted to drown in him, never coming up for air, but she forced herself to tell him words she never thought she’d say, but fell from her lips like a prayer. “Draco, I’m in love with you, too.”

She pressed her lips to his, pouring all her loneliness and longing into him. His mouth was hot and wet and moaned into hers, devouring her without finesse. They moved in tandem, tongues imploring each other to taste more, take more, give more. She welcomed him in, drawing his body closer with every sweep of his tongue. He tasted exactly like she remembered — spring air and spearmint. They melted into each other, surrendering to the magical bond between them and something much more potent.

Hermione reached for her wand, still nestled between her breasts. The heavy silk of the gown brushing against her nipples combined with the ache in Draco’s kisses sent heat licking down every inch of her skin. If she could just get the dress off… but her usually nimble fingers failed her.

“Allow me,” He seemed to read her mind, stripping off his jacket. It slithered to the floor, but his eyes never left hers as he dipped his hands, warm enough to melt chocolate, into the swell of her breasts. She felt all breath leave her lungs as he slowly withdrew the wand.

Instead of placing it in her waiting palm, he turned it on her. “Evanesco.”

And just like that, she was bared to him. He dragged his gaze up and down her body, raw desire personified. His ragged breath was the only sound besides the crackling of the fire. Hermione moved to cover herself. No one else had ever seen this much of her body, and certainly not when she was dizzied with arousal.

“No, please...let me see. You’re everything.”

Hermione’s arms prickled with gooseflesh, nervousness giving way to sheer want. “Touch me, Draco.”

Draco approached her with the reverence of a pious man worshipping in a goddess’s temple. He raked his palm over one breast, thumb brushing her nipple. Hermione shivered with the delicious sensation. She gasped at the scrape of teeth as he fastened his mouth over her pebbled nipple, her back arching.

Taking it as permission, his lips met her jaw and slid into her hair. He pulled her into him, pressing his thigh between her legs. Hermione threw her head back and whimpered at the pressure, her cries transforming into his name as he turned his attention to the other breast.

Lost to his firm hands and his exploring tongue, she found herself spreading her legs for him, eager to receive his touch there, too. He trailed one hand down, dipping between her legs to find the gathering wetness there. “Granger,” he rasped. Something about hearing that name fall from his lips again made her heart sing.

She peppered kisses against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, holding onto him for dear life. Like a cat, she rubbed herself against him, wordlessly asking for the friction she desperately needed. Draco gripped her hips as if to slow her down, but she rolled against him even harder.

Draco backed them up to his bed, his legs folding over the edge. He dragged Hermione down with him, locking his eyes with hers. Her breaths became shallow as he settled her over his thigh, her toes barely touching the soft carpet.

“Take what you need.” It was not a command. He was begging her.

He licked the delicate undersides of her breasts, kneading them in his warm hands as she began to rock. Hermione gripped his broad shoulders, still sheathed in his dress shirt, nearly toppling as she ground into him. Draco set one hand around her generous hip and squeezed, encouraging her.

Steadied by his firm grasp, Hermione dared to pursue her own pleasure. She reached for one of his arms and brought it between them, setting his fingers to work on the bundle of nerves that ached for more. He teased her lower lips open, gliding through the wetness and dipping into her c*nt. The sound of her slick coating first one finger, then another, had her tipping her head back, her mind blissfully empty.

“I remember exactly how you feel,” he confessed between kisses, his fingers curling against her front walls in a delicious come hither motion. “I’ve thought about it for ten f*cking years.”

As if he couldn’t bear to draw his hands away for even a second, but needed her skin on his, Draco loosened his bow tie and wrenched it off. The sound of silk whispering through silk sent fire ripping through her veins.

“Salazar, I don’t want to just remember anymore.”

Hermione leaned forward and unbuttoned his shirt while he massaged her hips and thighs. As she reached the last button, she boldly skimmed her hand over his erection. In response, he popped her up so she was on her knees, and covered her soft, round belly with kisses, nipping and sucking on her skin. He blazed a trail down to her c*nt, dragging the flat of his tongue across her cl*t. This was new, personal.

“Please,” she whimpered, and he rewarded her with another finger.

Draco lifted her off his lap and laid her on the bed in one swift movement. He shucked all his remaining clothing, saving his briefs for last. Hermione sucked in a breath as his co*ck sprang free. She hadn’t had a good look at it last time, but now she admired it in all its glory — long, thick, uncut. She wet her lips, imagining it in her c*nt — and her mouth. He met her heated gaze and stroked himself gently, swiping the bead of moisture gathered at the tip of his slit down his shaft.

He settled between her legs, and the mere suggestion of his breath on her entrance had her arching, throwing her arms behind her and grabbing the silky sheets, holding on for dear life. The bedding smelled like him, and she pulled it closer to her face as the pleasure she’d been chasing mounted. Draco swirled his tongue against her centre and her hips jumped at the pressure. He slid one hand under her arse and held her there, laving at her and reintroducing two fingers. She clenched around him, crying out as the org*sm sent her legs shaking. He rose slowly, pressing a deep kiss to her inner thigh, eyes so dark with desire she trembled all over again.

Gods, why had they waited so long to do this? Her head, hazy with bliss, swam with possibilities of where this night would take them. She barely had enough of her wits about her to ask for the contraceptive charm.

He muttered the spell over them both, and instead of pushing into her right away, he laid down beside her, propped up on his elbow and searching her eyes. Hermione shifted her body towards him, basking in his attention and the warmth of his nearness. She wanted him closer, inside her, coming undone. But as his mouth slanted over hers again, she realised he was waiting for something.

“I want this,” she gasped between kisses. “I want you inside me.”

“Thank the gods,” he groaned.

He wasted no time rolling on top of her, and they gasped in tandem as he pushed into her slowly. She curled a hand around the back of his head and pulled him down for another kiss. Draco looped an arm around her, lining her up to ready her for the continuous smooth glide of his length into her core.

Despite his preparation, they were both unpractised, and so he entered her barely a few centimetres before she cried out. He dropped his forehead to hers in supplication, whispering encouragement, thanking her, and her legs widened at his earnest words. The stretch stung as he made progress, but quickly faded to an exquisite level of fullness as he seated himself fully into the hot clutch of her body. Hermione scraped her fingernails down his back, clawing at him to f*ck her harder, deeper. She needed something more, and Draco seemed to sense it. He moved one hand between them, seeking her cl*t again, rubbing it with the rough pad of his thumb. Her legs jerked, and he backed off, ghosting over it in little strokes that had her arching against him.

Draco pulled her up to sit in his lap. One arm encircling her hips, he lifted her up and back onto him until he bottomed out in her in one satisfying slide. He experimented with each thrust, bringing her all the way up to the tip of his co*ck and slamming her back down; angling himself towards the sensitive spot at her front walls and finally finding a rhythm.

Hermione moaned her encouragement, her spine tingling and something insistent building inside her as she ran her hands down his scarred chest. Draco distracted her from the old memory by creating a new one she’d play over and over in her mind. It was so simple it became seductive — he delved a finger into her mouth, extracted it with a pop of her lips, and brought it back to circle over her cl*t again with a concentration that made her walls flutter and tugged at her heart.

“Like that?” He asked, his brow coated with exertion.

“Yes, yes. Right there, don’t stop.” She dragged out the last syllable as his thrusts severed the tight string fraying inside her core. He drove into her again just as indescribable pleasure surged within her, and with a strangled cry, she came again.

Draco f*cked her through the org*sm, lazier and longer than the first, his hands gripping her hips as he snapped his up into her. She draped her arms loosely around his neck, still riding the wave of ecstasy. Coming around him was so much different than coming on her own. Her body seemed to draw him in deeper, ceding to the primal urge to take everything he had and create something new.

“I won’t last much longer,” he panted. “You feel so f*cking incredible.”

Hermione bounced up and down on him, eager to bring him over the edge. “Come for me. Draco, please? Come inside me.”

At her command, Draco bucked, coming forcefully inside her with a groan imbued with ten years of frustration. Ten years of separation. Ten years of longing for something they didn’t know they could have.

When the pulsing of his co*ck faded, he kissed her with delicate reverence and gently withdrew. He reached for his wand to clean them up, and Hermione was too boneless to tell him she liked the way his spend leaked out of her; liked to feel the evidence of his ardour.

Ever the gentleman, he didn’t collapse on her, but beside her, tucking a pillow under both their heads. Salt and something stronger replaced his lavender scent, and she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder as he grasped her with a tenderness she never thought possible.

Draco kissed the top of her head and she sighed and wriggled closer. “Are you okay? Are you cold?”

“I feel amazing,” she assured him. “You’re nice and warm. I could stay here forever.”

For the first time, she realised she really could. Draco, her husband, loved her, and she loved him. It was that simple, yet at the same time revelatory. They could share endless nights of passion, change the world for the better, and build a life together.

Everything was different now, and she wouldn’t go back, not for anything.

He tucked a finger under her chin and found her eyes with his. “I’ll never let you go again.”

She brought her hands to the sides of his face and kissed him. Before long, their languid touches turned hot and urgent once more. Their magic intermingled, a soft pink glow surrounding their bodies, drawing soft sighs of pleasure from Hermione. Draco captured each one with his lips, and the bedroom glittered as sparks rained down around them.

They pulled apart in wonder.

“Is it always like this?”

“I don’t think so,” Draco said quietly. “But luckily, we’ll never know otherwise.”

Hermione heard the promise in his words. They would be together now, in every sense of the word. Draco and Hermione, Lord and Lady Malfoy, now and forever.

After a few moments, she smiled and kissed his nose playfully. “Good.”

He trailed his fingers down her arm, gently continuing down the curve of her waist, reaching her hip. She arched into his touch, answering the question in his eyes.

Yes, I want you.

I’ll always want you.

Draco disappeared from sight as he pulled the covers over his head, his insistent mouth sending her headlong into bliss once more.

❖

Draco finished lacing up his boots and stood to leave. Hermione slept peacefully in his bed — their bed. He paused for a moment, enraptured by the gentle movements of his beloved wife as she slumbered. He’d never woken up with her before, only what she left behind; the smell of her on the sheets, a stray hair or two. He wished he was still tucked up against her now, reaching around to cup her generous breasts, whispering everything he wanted to do to her in her ear…

But if he didn’t leave now, he might not have a wife to come back to, because they were both in danger. In the morning light, Goyle’s words at the Solstice Ball took on a new shape.

“There’s no use crying over spilled blood, Draco.”

Spilled blood.

The press had printed sparse obituaries for both Astoria and Narcissa, neglecting to mention their cause of death. Most magical people would assume the deaths were unrelated — maybe one was in an accident, the other a victim of a once-in-a-generation curse or some unknown malady. He couldn’t remember what they’d told Daphne.

No one would know the women bled out on the dining room floor of Malfoy Manor.

No one except the killer.

Goyle. His old friend. Goyle killed Astoria and his mother.

Narcissa had practically been a second mother to Goyle. Draco recalled hosting Crabbe and Goyle on many sunny summer afternoons at Malfoy Manor during his younger years. His mother would watch them sail along on their brooms, ready with snacks and ice cold lemonade in the garden when the boys had finally exhausted themselves. She healed their scrapes and bruises while they stuffed their faces with pastry after pastry. Sometimes she’d convince Goyle’s father to let him stay the night, and pretend not to hear them tell the inappropriate jokes and tall tales boys seem to adore.

How could Goyle kill Narcissa?

And Astoria… Goyle had always doted on Daphne’s little sister. He never complained when she tagged along on outings to Diagon Alley. Draco had seen it in Daphne’s eyes on multiple occasions: She loved Goyle, not only because he was kind to her but also because she wanted to marry a man who loved Astoria just as much as she did.

When he courted Astoria, Daphne seemed pleased. It wasn’t public knowledge, but Goyle sent his regards from his cell in Azkaban, having heard the joyful news from Daphne. Draco, still determining who he wanted to be in the post-war world, especially as a former resident of Azkaban himself, didn’t respond to Goyle, who he considered too entrenched in the Death Eater community.

Oh, gods. Why didn’t he see it earlier? The Ministry had released Goyle only a few days before the murders. He was at the funerals… They’d almost come to blows, and would’ve, were it not for Blaise’s cool head. Goyle was way more worked up and wild-eyed than an ordinary mourner should have been, but Draco had only just married Hermione, and was too high on potions and out of his mind with grief to see it then.

But how did Goyle get into Malfoy Manor? And why?

Hermione turned in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering as she found a more comfortable position. Draco couldn’t think, and time was of the essence if he was going to catch Goyle off guard. He’d piece together the how and the why later. Right now, Goyle needed to pay.

Draco tucked the liquid luck in his coat pocket and looked at Hermione one last time before he left, reassuring himself she was safe within their wards. No one but Potter, the strongest wizard of their generation, had been able to get through the ones around the building since Hermione reinforced them, and even he had difficulty. The Floo was closed except to himself, Mrs. Tannenbaum, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy.

And Draco didn’t plan to be gone long.

He walked out the door, down the stairs, and Apparated with a crack. Draco landed in front of Greengrass Manor and marched up the flagstone path. Their wrought-iron gate, encrusted with ice, twisted and crumpled under his wand, and he shook with rage as he approached the front door. The lantern blazed above him, the green flames testing the edges of their glass cage.

His head swam with visions of Goyle crumpled on the ground, thrashing under his Crucio in agony. Jet after jet of magic flashed from his wand as he fantasised about questioning the dark wizard, pulling each answer from Goyle like a Healer cauterising a wound. No, he wouldn’t go that far, but by gods he wanted to.

Draco pounded the door with his fist until a diminutive house elf greeted him. She insisted the Master and Lady of the house were not at home, but despite her squeaky protests, he sidestepped the elf and stormed into the main foyer, wand at the ready.

He was unsurprised to find it empty, inhabited only by a long leather sofa on a threadbare rug. Like other Pureblood families, they’d probably been forced to sell most of the furnishings. Draco trailed a finger over the back of the sofa. It came away coated in dust.

He stilled, listening for any signs of life. The ancient stone manor lay silent, but perhaps Goyle had prepared for his arrival. It could be a trap. Keeping that thought at the forefront of his mind, he crept the perimeter of the room, casting detecting spells as he went. The spells found nothing at all; no wards, no curses, no alarms. Goyle and Daphne were practically defenceless.

Was Goyle so confident? Was Daphne so foolish?

When he was satisfied the foyer was truly devoid of both people and magic, he eyed the two corridors flanking the foyer. Draco debated only for a moment before choosing the one to the right. If there was a trap, surely he could avoid falling into it.

He moved stealthily along the edge of the corridor, flinging open doors and sending purple-hued hexes into every room. When that proved fruitless, he returned to the foyer and stalked down the corridor to the left, repeating the process.

He opened the last door, which swung open on creaky hinges. It looked to be Goyle and Daphne’s bedchamber. Not only was the room clean, it was also the only one that showed signs of use. The bed, unmade, was cold, but Daphne’s dress from the night before lay at the foot. A shaft of sunlight entered through a window draped with dark green curtains, highlighting a small desk littered with parchment.

Draco strode over and picked up one letter after another. They were mostly from debt collectors, but one caught his eye. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and the print was so neat and crisp it seemed sterile, without personality.

Meet me at the manor. I’ll have company.

Well, here he was at the manor, and there was no one at all. Did Goyle dictate this to Daphne, but not send the letter in time? Had he sobered up and known he’d given himself away last night with his careless words? And who would he ask to come to his defence?

Draco seethed at the idea that his former sidekick was outsmarting him, either by hiding in plain sight or having realised his mistake and fled. He gave up trying to sneak around and bounded out of the bedroom.

“Goyle!” His voice boomed through the corridor. “Goyle! Come out and face me like a bloody f*cking man!”

The only reply to his rage was an echo. The manor was truly empty.

Having exhausted all options, he returned once more to the foyer, where the house elf trembled in her dingy pillowcase dress. “Mister Draco…. Mori promises, they aren’t here!”

“f*ck!” Draco screamed, his frustration reverberating off the high ceilings.

Where the hell were they?

Remembering the frightened creature in front of him, he threaded his fingers through his hair and took a shaky breath, returning his wand to his holster. “I’m sorry, Mori. I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t have come alone. He could’ve been injured, or worse. Hadn’t he just said to Hermione that they needed to work together and not take things into their own hands again, because it never ended well?

It was a good thing he hadn’t given into his earlier instinct and drank the Felix Felicis. The valuable gift would have been wasted. He patted the pocket of his greatcoat, assuring himself the phial remained on his person.

If he left before Goyle returned — if the Death Eater even planned to return — he could explain everything to Hermione. What Goyle said, how Draco had only put it all together this morning after the champagne had worn off. He and Hermione could call the Aurors, just like she’d been begging him to do. Weasley and his team could have Goyle behind Azkaban’s iron bars before nightfall.

Gods, Theo was right. He was a bloody idiot.

For lack of a better goodbye, he gave Mori a shallow bow, breezing past her and back out into the December air.

The frigid temperature cooled his anger. Yes, this was a far better plan. He’d Apparate home, find his wife and let the professionals handle it.

Besides, it was their ten-year anniversary, and a fine day to propose they celebrate the occasion — and every anniversary after — together.

❖

Hermione woke, sated from the previous night’s activities and the resulting deep sleep afterward, stretching catlike under the silk sheets. She patted the other side of the bed, but found no Draco beside her. A quick glance around the room told her she was alone.

She frowned. Wouldn’t Draco wait for her to wake, considering everything they’d said — and done — last night?

Then again, he’d probably worked up quite an appetite after last night as well. She heard Mrs. Tannenbaum’s bold alto voice coming from the kitchen, and her own stomach grumbled. She’d bet a Galleon he was tucking into a hearty breakfast.

Hermione sat up, but her head spun and she flopped back down into the cosy bed. She closed her eyes and the events of the ball replayed in her mind. Her reunion with Ginny, her dance with Minister Podmore, the fight with Goyle. The incredible, heartfelt sex with her husband.

Gods, she needed to eat and drag him right back into bed with her. It was their wedding anniversary, after all. To think they could’ve been doing this for a decade if things had been different… But then again, they’d never have been together without the tragedies that threw them into each other’s unwilling arms.

Arms. Her thoughts snagged on the bracelets Minister Podmore wore. AG.

Astoria Greengrass? Was Minister Podmore her father? It was too much of a coincidence. Maybe that would explain why the younger Greengrass was a Squib… It would certainly explain his crusade against those who would look down on people like his daughter.

She should tell Draco. She didn’t think Podmore would put his career at risk and commit murder, but what if he’d somehow been involved with what happened to Narcissa and Astoria? What if he didn’t want Astoria to join the Malfoy family?

You’re like a daughter to me… That’s what Podmore said last night. Had he known Astoria was his daughter before she died? Hermione ran her tongue over her teeth in contemplation. Something didn’t add up, but she wasn’t sure why.

A knock disturbed her revelation. “Hermione? Are you in there?”

Blaise. Her heart thundered in her chest. Was it her parents? It wasn’t Christmas yet. Surely it wasn’t time…

Please, she thought. Not yet.

“Just a moment!”

She transfigured herself some pyjamas out of the top sheet, adding the H.M. embroidery she’d perfected. Today was her wedding anniversary. She and Draco had been married for ten years. And now, she hoped for eleven and beyond.

“All good,” she called, and Blaise opened the door. “Good morning.”

“Good afternoon, you mean,” he said, arching one eyebrow.

Hermione hoped she didn’t blush. “Is everything okay?”

“With your parents? They’re stable,” he paused and approached her with slow steps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to scare you.”

“I think every time we talk from now on, I’ll be wondering,” she said with a sad smile. “I can’t help it.”

He nodded. “That’s understandable. I’m used to being the bearer of bad news. Though I wonder if I’ve found something that might avert that outcome.”

A spark of hope lit in her heart. “What do you mean? I thought you’d concluded that this was it for them. We’d passed the point of no return.”

“After I read your book, I spent some time at the Ministry archives. As you know, they maintain records of all the rare books known to wizardkind, some of which have only a few copies in existence. There’s one in particular that caught my interest, and the records indicate it’s within Apparating distance.”

Hermione pushed past him into the bathroom. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

❖

Draco Apparated into the flat and immediately called her name. No response.

He’d become accustomed to having her there, the whole flat suffused with her scent. The little reminders of her that once annoyed him to no end — the winding orange peels, the ridiculous amount of hair she left behind after a shower, the stacks of books on every available surface — had become talismans of good fortune. He’d even smiled to himself the other day when he discovered yet another of her half-empty teacups.

“Hermione,” he said, knocking on the door to their shared bathroom. He twisted the knob and ducked his head inside. “Granger?”

Where was she?

Mrs. Tannenbaum emerged from Hermione’s room, her face peeking out from behind the stack of linens in her arms. “Lady Malfoy’s out.”

“Out?”

“Healer Zabini needed her help with some research. There may be a breakthrough to help her parents. He said they wouldn’t be gone long.”

His shoulders relaxed, and his heartbeat returned to normal. “Ah, thank you. Hopefully they return with good news.”

Draco retired to his room, removing his greatcoat and setting his wand atop it. He warmed his hands by the fire, anxious for his wife to come home.

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Blaise must have Apparated them a great distance. Apparition had always been difficult for her — it reminded her too much of flying on a broom — but the lengthier trips wreaked havoc on her equilibrium. Hermione spit one of her curls out of her mouth, which watered from nausea, and tested the ground with her snow boots. Fresh snow crunched beneath her as she got her bearings.

Behind a massive black gate, barren trees lined a long lane which climbed a hill and disappeared into dense white fog. Snow and ice coated the gate, and more flurries poured from the sky. The air had a heavy quality, a stillness made possible only by an approaching storm. She shivered in her down coat.

Blaise looked at her expectantly. “It’s freezing out here. We should get inside. I’ll need your assistance.”

Still a bit woozy, Hermione drew her wand and prepared to dismantle the wards. But before she could begin, Blaise lowered her arm.

He approached the gate and brushed away the coating of snow and ice. Two interconnected Ms stared back at her, delicate filigree snakes slithering within the gilded letters.

Malfoy Manor.

She stepped back in horror, nearly losing her hard-fought footing. “Blaise, we can’t be here.”

“Hermione, I know this place holds terrible memories for both you and Draco. I would never suggest coming here unless I’d exhausted all other options. The Malfoy library is legendary, and may have some answers for us. But with no house-elves to bring us the texts, we’ll have to venture inside ourselves.”

Terrible memories. Of course, Blaise was talking about her torture on the drawing room floor. The birthplace of her scar, Bellatrix Lestrange’s handiwork. After she testified on Draco’s behalf, the details of her violation were plastered on the front of every major newspaper.

Blaise would have no way of knowing that inside these gates lay the final resting place of Narcissa Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass. Draco had been clear that only Theo and Pansy, his two closest friends, knew the exact details. Blaise had been pursuing his advanced degree at that point in time and wouldn’t have even been in the same country. But her skin erupted in goosebumps all the same.

“Draco told me the gate unlocks for Malfoy magic and Malfoy magic alone.”

“You’re a Malfoy, aren’t you? We can at least try. Call it the favour you owe me. Of course, if it’s too much for you to go inside, you can open it and I can go in alone,” he looked at her, the question plain on his face.

How far will you go, Hermione Malfoy?

She didn’t know the layout of the Manor. What if the path to the library took them by the dining room? Would they see two skeletons, metacarpals and phalanges intertwined, jaws open from when they gasped their last breaths? How would Hermione even begin to explain?

What if Blaise didn’t believe her — she hadn’t been there after all, hadn’t seen what happened with her own eyes — and he turned Draco in? They were friends, but Hermione sincerely doubted they were the type of friends who’d cover for the other in dire circ*mstances. If anything, they had a casual relationship rooted in shared proximity during their formative years. Besides, Draco was Marked, and Blaise had never been a Death Eater. Would he suspect Draco committed the sins of his father?

“I don’t know,” she said, reading the irritation in his face.

“You said you’d never give up. I’m here. I’m willing to set aside my better judgement, which may I remind you, is evidence-based and backed by other Healers.”

“Why would you do that? Why now?”

“Because I feel sorry for you,” he said, his face twisting into a look of disgust as he spit a snowflake from his mouth. It was really coming down now.

Anger bubbled up within her. She was so sick of people feeling sorry for her, underestimating her magic. Why couldn’t Blaise believe? He should believe her parents can get better. There was so much power in belief. She believed in Harry. She believed in Draco.

Maybe it was Muggleborn, to believe. Muggles had no proof that wizards, witches, fairies, daemons, spirits — anything magical — existed. Their world was a hard place, any softness stamped out by those with money and power. But Muggles were stubborn. They insisted on singing, dancing, writing, praying — creating. Some stumbled upon the truth. But most had nothing but old stories and an unexplainable faith.

In the magical world, what was there to believe in? They didn’t require belief, only skill and ingenuity. Magical people could create nearly anything through Alchemy. They invented new spells. Even the future held less mystery than it did for Muggles, because at the bottom of a drained teacup, the leaves told a story.

It was the one story Hermione refused to read. She chose to write her own.

If she had Divined this moment a thousand times, she would have never predicted that she’d reenter Malfoy Manor. But she’d delayed help for so long. She couldn’t do it again.

And she kept her promise to Draco — she wasn’t alone.

“Alright, I’ll go. Besides, even with warming charms, I’ll freeze to death out here.”

Blaise moved back, giving her a wide berth.

Hermione had no idea how to open the gates. Was there a password? A spell?

All at once, she recalled what Draco had said about the day he identified his father’s body. Even when I saw him in St. Mungo’s, dead and missing a finger… The years in Azkaban had been kind to Lucius Malfoy, as he looked mostly the same the last time Draco had seen him, save an unaccounted-for missing finger.

Suddenly it clicked into place. The murderer gained access to the Manor with Lucius’s missing digit. Had Lucius given it willingly, or had the murderer removed it from his person by force?

She withdrew a hand from one of her mittens and slowly, shakily pressed the tip of her finger to the lock. Something sharp pricked her skin, drawing blood, and she jerked back, bringing the finger between her lips.

The gate wriggled as if waking from a long slumber. Two miniature cameos, which had escaped Hermione’s notice during her last visit to the Manor — if one could call kidnap and torture a visit — were thrown into sharp relief. The men depicted in the ivory silhouettes were mirror images of each other, their bone structures classical and pointy. Their upturned noses spoke of the Purebloods of old, calling to mind the portraits at Hogwarts lining the descent into the dungeons.

“A Malfoy commands us to open, brother,” the cameo on the right said in a booming, jovial voice.

“A Malfoy, yes, but only by marriage. And a Mudblood.” The voice of the cameo on the left curled like smoke from the tip of a fine cigar.

“Now, now, you shouldn’t use such crude language in front of the Lady of the Manor. Times have changed,” the first one scolded. “Come in, Lady.” The right side opened to her.

“You’d have made a much better doormat,” the other one lamented, swinging the left side in on its hinges.

Blaise and Hermione walked through the gates, when suddenly Hermione realised she could ask them who they last let into the Manor. Draco would never have thought of asking them before since only Malfoys can enter. Her heart raced as she turned around, an exasperated sigh escaping Blaise’s lips.

Hermione paused. “Do you by chance remember the last time you opened for someone?”

The right side of the gate hesitated. “That was almost ten years ago now, my Lady.”

“And do you recall who was the last person who you granted entry to?”

“Of course, Lady. It was Master Draco’s friend. Gregory Goyle. Rather interesting means of gaining entry, I must say.”

“Brought a bit of the old Lord Malfoy with him,” the left cameo said with a shudder.

Gregory Goyle.

It was so obvious. Lucius must have sent him, and knowing the gates would only open with the press of a finger with Malfoy blood, provided his own. She could see it now, the old lunatic slicing off his wrinkly flesh to seal the fate of his son’s intended bride. Not only did he eliminate the possibility of a Squib sullying his bloodline, but he also got revenge on Minister Podmore and his anti-Pureblood policies by killing his daughter, knowing he couldn’t tell the world about her relation to him.

Hermione thought she might be sick.

They’d had their suspicions, but now she knew for sure. If Goyle still kept the finger and the Aurors found it, they’d have their proof.

Hermione faced Blaise. “I’m so sorry. We have to go. I have to tell Draco.”

“What? Hermione, we just got here.”

“Can you Apparate us back? I don’t want to faint. This is too important,” she grabbed her curls at the top of her head, walking back towards the gate. “Or I could send a Patronus, yes, that’s perfect,” she raised her wand. “Expecto-”

“Imperio,” Blaise’s voice cut through her own.

The spell hit her in the back. Hermione was wholly unprepared for it, and the Unforgivable’s fog slithered over her brain, numbing her tongue and muddling her thoughts. A great sense of ease washed over her, as if she would be content to drift along this way forever.

“I would say it gives me no pleasure to do this, but you’ve been a particularly difficult case. Give me your wand.”

Her hand floated into her field of vision and placed her wand in Blaise’s outstretched palm. He closed his fist around it for a moment. Then he took his other hand and snapped it with a sickening crack.

Something inside her screamed out, but the fog’s nimble fingers smoothed away all emotion, all pain. She relaxed into their touch, eager to submerge herself and drown everything out.

Blaise tossed the remains of her wand into the snow.

His magic poked and prodded at her mind, giving her instructions as they made their way towards Malfoy Manor. Hermione suddenly had the inclination that she should fight, that she shouldn’t follow. She paused, long enough for Blaise to notice, and searing pain shot through her legs. When she took a tentative step forward, the relief was instantaneous, and so she continued behind him.

Soon they were joined by two hooded figures wearing masks. One was tall and slim, the other short and corpulent. Hermione again felt her body revolt. Death Eaters. Something was very wrong. Why were she and Blaise accompanied by Death Eaters?

As soon as she tried to pull more information from the shelves of her mind, the fog rolled in again. But this time she was not as receptive, and its tendrils didn’t root themselves as deeply as they did before.

“It took you long enough,” One of the Death Eaters grumbled to Blaise. “We came as soon as we got your letter.”

Goyle. Her heart raced. Something about Goyle, something she had to tell someone….

“She’s resisted me every step of the way. I’d need to run more advanced diagnostics to say for certain, but something in her magic evades the effects of the tea.”

The other Death Eater piped up. “What do you mean?”

Daphne Greengrass.

Blaise folded his arms and tapped his wand against his shoulder. “It’s designed to dull the drinker’s senses and make them compliant; almost as if they’re hypnotised. It’s performed to expectations on all my other patients and their families, including the many you’ve sourced for me, but of course the Golden Girl had to be a unique case. No matter, because as you can see, the Imperius Curse works just fine.”

Daphne’s next question came out as little more than a squeak. “The tea you get for me, Greg?”

Goyle coughed. “Of course not, love. I nick yours from Madam Puddifoot’s.”

Images flashed in Hermione’s mind. Drained teacups by her parents’ bedside. Sachets of leaves in the circular tin at the bottom of her bag. Humming as she lit the hob and waited for the water to boil.

She put her hands over her ears as the piercing whistle of Draco’s antique kettle sliced through her skull.

Her magic surged to battle back against Blaise’s, but he didn’t seem to notice, as they’d reached the front door to the Manor. Blaise pushed it inside and guided her to the right. They walked down a stone corridor past slashed portraits and cobwebbed sconces.

Hermione curled a fist at her side, fighting the urge to unleash her rage. It was an unequivocally terrible idea to waste her energy now — she was physically weaker, practically defenceless without her wand. Still, fury rose within her again.

Blaise Zabini, who she’d trusted with her parents’ lives, had lied to her, and to all his patients and their families. It all made sense — no one would be the wiser when his patients died, and he could take over their vaults and estates. To what end, she didn’t know.

Oh gods, her parents. Were they even dying? Or had Blaise made it so they would?

The worst part of it all was that she’d served her own parents the tea, in the belief that it would soothe their pain, when all it did was make them pliable, suggestible. For all she knew, Blaise could’ve been accelerating their decline. Once again, in her attempts to help her parents and heal the harm she’d caused, she only hurt them more. The taste of bile filled her mouth.

And now she was all but certain the tea was responsible for her hallucinations. She’d been so focused on the dark magic she’d been practising, and the appearance of the Mark on her skin, that her brain had filled her head with images related to Voldemort. On a subconscious level, her mind had tried to warn her of the danger she was in.

It was a relief to know she wasn’t losing her mind, and Blaise had been unable to control her. But the knowledge that she’d put herself and Draco through so much unnecessary pain made her heart ache.

“What are we looking for?” Daphne removed her mask as they rounded the corner. The hallway diverged in three places. Hermione didn’t know where they led, and she didn’t want to find out.

“You’re welcome to take anything of value. I’m headed to the library to search for a book on the origins of the Dark Mark. I need to figure out how to make use of this,” Blaise tugged up her sleeve and ripped off the bandage underneath.

Goyle scoffed. “A Mudblood with a Dark Mark? That’s impossible.”

“She claims she gave it to herself.”

“No. There’s no way a Mudblood could… Well, unless...” Goyle’s expression teetered between confused and thoughtful.

“Unless what?” Blaise bit out.

“Unless she found a way to manipulate the Dark Lord’s magic. Maybe she reactivated everyone’s Marks when she gave herself one. She branded the new recruits, too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Blaise dismissed Goyle with a wave.

Goyle set his beady eyes on hers, and Hermione suppressed a shiver. He raised his wand to her. “You were always too smart for her own good. Now, tell me why you did it. Crucio.”

She collapsed on the floor, her limbs contorting as she shook, but the haze of the Imperius Curse receded. Goyle clearly hadn’t been paying attention in their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. Only one Unforgivable can be used at a time, and Goyle’s Cruciatus Curse had nothing on Bellatrix Lestrange’s, which had been fueled by deranged malintent. Goyle was merely inconvenienced, and that made all the difference.

Hermione writhed as if the agony were unbearable, trying to give herself more time to think. Blaise hadn’t yet noticed that Goyle’s attempt to command her had fractured his hold over her. But she still hadn’t answered him, and so he ramped up the torture. It hurt to breathe, to think.

A memory of Remus Lupin broke through the pain. The mind is a powerful thing, Hermione. Before the hand tightens around the wand, the mind knows the spell. The hand moves only because the mind commands it.

The mind. Her wand was gone. She would have to trust her own mind.

What had the basilisk told her?

Summon us if you have need.

She struggled against the curse, her hand clawed and trembling as she moved for her forearm. Fortunately, Blaise had exposed the Mark. All she had to do was make contact…

Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her shaking hand into the snake writhing in the inky skull. The darkness behind her eyelids immediately changed to the familiar snow-covered graveyard, and through the dark connection she saw every Death Eater standing at attention in their assigned grave. She found herself running to the top of the hill towards a platinum blonde head.

Precious seconds elapsed before she reached him. She climbed into the grave with her husband. He was cold, stock-still like a toy soldier.

Draco Malfoy was dressed to kill. His all-black ensemble consisted of a knit turtleneck, trousers, and his dragonhide boots. His wand, snug in its holster, poked out from underneath his wool greatcoat. Is this what he was wearing when he left the flat this morning?

“Draco,” she gasped as she threw her arms around him. He didn’t move.

Maybe she wasn’t doing it right.

“Draco Malfoy,” she tried again. “I, Hermione Malfoy, summon thee to Malfoy Manor.”

“As my mistress commands,” Draco said, as if hypnotised. Suddenly his eyes came to life, snapping to hers. “Hermione?”

“Draco! Help!” The graveyard swirled into the blackened sky, collapsing in on itself as the place between worlds faded away. She couldn’t hold on to him, try as she might. Her husband slipped through her fingers and into the ether.

Her sudden return to Malfoy Manor delivered a shock to her system. How long had Goyle been torturing her? Did they know what she’d done? Hermione gasped for breath as Blaise yanked her off the floor, her magic crackling weakly across her skin.

“You’re going to regret this,” she spat.

Blaise clapped his hand over her mouth, threatening to cut off her air. “Imperio,” he said, countermanding her surge of magic. The fog settled its weight on her again, and she sagged against the wall.

Hermione whimpered as he held her chin with his fingers, stroking the skin there. It was completely different from Draco’s touch. This was an inquisition. No, an examination.

“Summoning Draco Malfoy,” Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “It shouldn’t be possible.”

No. They’d heard her. And she had no way to warn Draco. She hadn’t had enough time to tell him what he was walking into.

“Mate, you said she gave herself the Dark Mark. That’s plenty powerful. And none of us have been able to summon each other since the Dark Lord died.”

“So what was that, then?”

“I’m telling you, this is all part of Lucius’s plan,” Goyle crowed. Daphne slunk towards the wall behind her, eyes trained on Blaise.

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting his recruitment of Goyle. “Greg. Why would Lucius, the Dark Lord’s favourite Death Eater, anoint his son’s Mudblood wife as the Dark Lord’s successor?”

“I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“And did he illustrate this plan of his in great detail? I’ve heard so much from you, and yet so little of any value.”

“Well, uh,” Greg began, but did not continue. Daphne covered her mouth and coughed.

Blaise sighed. “Make yourself useful and go intercept our uninvited guest.”

“With pleasure,” Goyle said, his grin half-hidden by shadow. “Let’s go, Daph.”

The witch followed him as if tethered to him by an invisible string. They disappeared around a corner, and Hermione vomited onto the stone floor.

Blaise turned his attention back to her, cracking his wand in his palm like a whip. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”

❖

Draco Apparated in a blind panic.

He’d long suspected Hermione might be able to summon him. But she would never use the dark magic unless it was an emergency. His Mark tingled, demanding he answer her call.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Why would she be at Malfoy Manor?

What if Goyle, in a moment of uncharacteristic clarity, realised what he’d let slip at the ball last night? Would he go after Hermione? Had he set some sort of tracking spell on her? He must have cornered her and forced her to let him through the gates.

Gods, he’d let everyone know how much he loved her without saying a word. He’d let his guard down, and now she was in danger.

Draco landed in front of the Manor gates, his wand drawn. They were propped open with some sort of charmed rock. The cold cut him to the bone even through his greatcoat, the darkening clouds indicating night would soon fall upon the Wiltshire countryside. He knew he didn’t have a moment to lose. He ran towards the opening, only to be thrown back into the snow by an invisible force.

“So sorry, Master Draco,” the gate on the right said sorrowfully. “We can’t let you in.”

Draco lay flat on his back, trying to catch his breath. Damnable chattering gates.

“Worst Unbreakable Vow I’ve heard of, although that time Abraxas vowed he’d parade naked through Knockturn Alley is a close second,” the left side admitted.

f*ck. Why hadn’t he pushed for them to end their Vow?

A loathsomely familiar voice interrupted Draco’s thoughts. “Oh, good. You’re already here. I’d hate to wait out in this weather. Stupefy.”

Draco rolled to his feet and dodged the spell. It was difficult to see much in the swirling snow, but he soon identified the toad-like form of Goyle striding through the gates, Daphne trailing behind him. They both wore Death Eater robes, their hems crusted in ice.

“Expelliarmus,” he cried, but he missed, adrenaline making him sloppier than usual. “Where’s Hermione?”

Goyle didn’t answer, instead instructing Daphne. “Come on, just like we practised. You have to mean it.” He fired another hex at Draco, and Draco returned fire with a few of his own. One hit Goyle in the leg, leaving the Death Eater limping.

The men shot increasingly darker spells back and forth while Daphne fiddled with her wand. Draco willed his Sectumsempra to hit, but Gregory Goyle was a wily opponent.

“Don’t do it, Daph,” Draco warned, squinting at Goyle, trying to predict his next move. “I’m not the enemy here.”

The driving snow made it impossible to tell, but the slight woman seemed to tremble as they circled each other. Her eyes darted away from him for only a second. “Crucio.”

The light from her wand sputtered and died out, but Draco leapt out of its path anyway.

A costly mistake.

Goyle waited behind him, the sharp end of his wand pressed against Draco’s back. “Petrificus Totalus.”

His body seized, and Draco noiselessly fell to the snow.

“Take his wand, Daph.”

Draco tried to plead with his eyes, but Daphne obeyed, stripping the wand from his stony grip.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Goyle’s spindly grin, healed from the previous night’s encounter, hovered over him. “Do you always come when a Mudblood calls? I suppose you’re used to denigrating yourself with women of inferior blood. Isn’t that right?”

Draco couldn’t move. Couldn’t say a word. Daphne cowered behind Goyle, her eyes shut, as if she could plausibly deny her involvement.

Goyle laughed. “I gave myself away last night, didn’t I? Shame you aren’t as quick as you used to be. Your blood’s tainted now that some of the Mudblood’s runs through it. Your father and I, we tried to save you. All that time we spent in Azkaban, we tried to keep you on the path to glory and power. But you thought you knew better than us.”

He shook his head and continued. “He commanded me in the name of the Dark Lord to take the life of that Squib you had your heart set on. It was for your own good, you know. She wasn’t a true Greengrass. Barely related to my Pureblood bride. If your mother hadn’t gotten in my way, she’d be alive instead of rotting with Astoria on your dining room floor.”

Daphne’s jaw dropped. Draco saw it in her face — she hadn’t known Goyle killed her sister.

“I could kill you outright. But the Killing Curse means instant death, and that’s much too fast for a blood traitor. Besides, there’s a lady present,” he gestured to Daphne, frozen with fear. “This is harder for me than it is for you, Draco. Your father meant everything to me on the inside. I wanted to be you more than anything in the world. He opened every door for you, won the Dark Lord’s favour for you, and when we lost the war, even then Lucius prepared a path for you to take everything back. But you wouldn’t listen. You strayed. I was more son to him than you, in the end. And now I’ll heed his call while you die out here, alone.”

A dark spell he didn’t recognise rang through the air. Draco couldn’t pinpoint where it hit him. He only felt the instant burn of the spell, his Occlumency unable to shield him from the smell of hot iron permeating his nostrils.

“Sanctimonia Vincet Semper,” Goyle said, spitting in Draco’s face for good measure. Draco heard the crunch of boots as the man walked away. Daphne remained still, her eyes locked with Draco’s. She shed no tears, but neither did she seem able to tear herself away.

As Goyle called Daphne to follow him back to the Manor, she paused, flicked her wand, and kicked something towards him. It was cold against his hand, probably ice. One last cruel act for good measure.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, only that he wanted to sleep, and it became more difficult to resist closing his eyes. The world around him darkened at the edges.

The spell had worn off, but with horror, he realised he still felt numb. He looked over his shoulder to see crimson blood advancing quickly through the snow.

Too quickly.

Draco knew at once the wound was not survivable. He was out of moves.

It was Zugzwang.

His finger twitched and touched something that felt like glass. He moved his hand again, tapping the side of the object with his fingernail. Clink clink clink.

Something in his fuzzy brain shook loose.Daphne hadn’t kicked ice at him. She must’ve seen the phial laying in the snow and assumed it was his, and that it might save him.

This wasn’t a solved game.

With any luck, he’d see the love of his life again, even if it was for the last time.

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

Hermione anticipated the Imperio this time.

Her initial resistance meant the fog didn’t blanket every part of her brain as it had before. Still, she couldn’t gather enough magic to overpower the Healer. She allowed her face to slacken as Blaise loomed over her. Draco could easily defeat Goyle and Daphne. He would be here any minute, if she could just hold on.

“I could kill you. I’m rather tempted. There’s no better feeling, taking a life. And if I harvested your heart quickly enough, your magic could nourish me for days.” He licked his lips. Hermione’s heart beat wildly, as if it could run out of her chest and escape, leaving the rest of her body behind.

“It’s been a while since I had such a young heart, such tender flesh…”

Of course. Hospice care. A reliable source of unwanted organs, full of fat and nutrients, but also magical energy. Blaise wasn’t hungry for one type of power alone.

“But your power is too great to remain unleveraged. All my patients serve me, and you will achieve greatness I could only dream of. It’s all well and good to collect riches and estates, but perhaps I could install you as Minister for Magic and stop playing Sturgis Podmore’s shortsighted games altogether. I could put all of Wizarding Britain under my thumb, and who would stop me? You haven’t made it easy for me, what with that stunt you pulled in The Quibbler . But I do love a challenge. Yes, it’s going to be such a pleasure to break you.”

A smile crawled across his countenance, sending a shiver up her spine.

Footsteps echoed across the stone floors, and Hermione’s ears perked up. But her hope shattered as she realised there were two sets of steps. Moments later, Goyle and Daphne reappeared, not a scratch on them, and she nearly cried out.

No. Draco was a masterful duellist. This wasn’t happening. It was all another hallucination; a fever dream.

“He’s dead,” Goyle said, as if Draco were just another man; just another death on Goyle’s bloody hands. “Left him outside the gates.”

Outside the gates. Their Unbreakable Vow — he couldn’t set foot on a Malfoy property ever again. Why had she never thought to undo it? She’d led him to his death. She should have tried a wandless Patronus and called Ron. Or Harry. Anyone else.

Hermione stopped resisting the creep of Blaise’s curse, and it slowly drew the curtains of her mind again. The despair was too great.

She never should’ve gone anywhere with Blaise alone. Blinded by the hope of a cure, she’d forgotten her promise to Draco. Whatever happened next, she supposed she deserved it.

“Did you at least hide the body?”

“No, I came back here for further instruction,” Goyle said, as if it were obvious.

Blaise brought a hand up to his forehead. “Anyone could come by and find him! What do I pay you for? Why must I do everything myself?”

Goyle waggled his wand at the Healer, widening his stance. “You never do any of the dirty work yourself, Blaise. You make nice with the doddering old fools and their desperate families, slip ‘em the tea and wait around, then collect the Galleons and start all over again. Who kills anyone who gets suspicious about what you’re up to? Me. Who helps you identify the right sort of patients? Me. Who’s been recruiting Death Eaters? Me.” He stuck his thumb in his chest with each mention of himself for emphasis.

Daphne flattened herself against a moth-eaten tapestry, making herself as small as possible while the two men yelled at each other. Her fist was white around her wand. She made eye contact with Hermione, and something about the look made the little hairs on Hermione’s arm stand at attention.

It was as if Daphne was begging her to fight.

Blaise clenched his hands into fists and punched them at his side. “I’m not a Death Eater! I never told you to recruit Death Eaters! I don’t give one flying f*ck about blood purity. It’s watered-down bigotry for pathetic idiots with no talent for anything besides inbreeding. And I don’t know how to get it through your primitive, incest-ridden lizard brain, but Voldemort is never coming back!”

Daphne mouthed something to her. Hermione focused on her lips, watching her repeat herself again. If she wasn’t mistaken, the woman said only one word: Catch.

Catch what?

Goyle was silent, his jaw clenching, his face turning purple. “This isn’t what Lucius promised. This isn’t what was supposed to happen!”

“Didn’t you hear him, Greg,” Daphne asked in a mocking tone, her hands on her hips. “Lucius was probably insane. You’ve been following the ravings of a madman.”

“Don’t talk about him that way!” Goyle slapped Daphne across the face, and as she fell, another wand, this one familiar, fell out of her robes in such a way that it clattered across the floor, landing in front of Hermione’s feet.

Catch.

In an instant, Hermione summoned all her power and obliterated Blaise’s hold on her mind. She dove for the wand — Draco’s wand. As soon as it met her palm, the core sang to the magic thrumming inside her veins. Malfoy magic. Their magic.

Daphne locked eyes with Hermione and both women pushed themselves up off the floor as fast as they could. Hermione’s limbs were like jelly, and she fought for balance as Daphne fired a hex at Blaise before sprinting down the corridor. He hissed as it glanced off his shoulder and tore after her. Hermione hoped she could outfox the wizard and find help, although it was unlikely considering they were in the middle of Wiltshire. Goyle watched Daphne, then Blaise, speed away as if he couldn’t believe they’d abandon him.

Hermione had seconds to adjust to the new wand and force her sore arms to cooperate. Every cell in her body ached from the Unforgivables . She could do the same to him now, if she wanted. Or she could command him to do anything she asked. She was his Mistress, after all. And he killed her husband.

“Expelliarmus,” she said, disarming him with ease. He was still slack-jawed.

Goyle licked his lips and held his hands up in surrender. “I never meant to… I have been nothing but a humble servant, I swear.”

“Do shut up.” Hermione pointed the tip of Draco’s wand right between Goyle’s eyes. “Stupefy!” He toppled to the ground, motionless.

She had to act fast, but she didn’t have to act alone. She stumbled around the corner and pulled her beaded bag from beneath her coat. Hermione fished out two squares of chocolate, chewing and swallowing as fast as she could.

“Expecto Patronum,” she said shakily. It didn’t take. Her happy memories of Draco had weakened now that she knew he was gone. She couldn’t grieve yet, though. Daphne risked everything to help her, and she wouldn’t let her down. Goyle and Blaise had to be thrown in Azkaban forever, and she knew just the man to do it.

Hermione forced herself to focus. The spell had never come as easily for her as it had for Harry and Ron, but now her life depended on it. The image from last night — Draco looking at her with eyes like molten metal, confessing his love to her again before they made love — fluttered to the forefront of her mind. Her beloved husband, the love of her life, would always live here.

“This time I’m in love with you.”

“Expecto Patronum!” She roared the spell and her otter appeared, filling the room with silvery light. “Find Ron Weasley, and tell him to bring as many Aurors as he can to Malfoy Manor. Please hurry.”

As the otter bounded away, she took off as fast as she could. Her legs shook from her brief encounter with Goyle’s Cruciatus Curse, but she pressed on. Daphne, just as much a victim as Hermione, was now chased by a cannibalistic sociopath. Hermione wouldn’t leave her behind.

As she pumped her legs, Hermione lamented the fact that she’d been under the Imperius Curse when they’d first entered the Manor. She had no idea which direction Daphne and Blaise had gone. She cast a Hominem Revelio and revealed their glowing outlines, and although it looked like Blaise hadn’t caught up to Daphne, it was impossible to tell how many layers of stone lay between them and Hermione.

She checked one room and then another, finding only dust-covered antique furniture that bore no signs of being recently disturbed. Hermione closed a bedroom door only to hear light footsteps headed her way. They could belong to Daphne, but they could just as easily belong to Blaise.

She ducked into the room across from the hall, used as a study, from the looks of it. She assessed potential hiding places and ultimately crouched behind an oversized leather chair in the far corner. As soon as she got into position, the very same footsteps creaked across the study’s floorboards. She held her breath.

“Hermione, I know you’re in here,” Blaise crooned. “Come on out. Let’s make a deal, you and I.”

Hermione heard the rip of a curtain as he tore it away, searching for her. He was otherwise quiet; methodical, and she wasn’t sure where he was in the study. She kept the wand brandished with one hand and rummaged around in her bag with the other, careful not to make any noise. She prayed that what she needed was still inside. Parchment, foil packets, coins... Hermione silently rejoiced as her fingertips finally brushed reinforced glass.

“You have to know that I never wanted to hurt you, Hermione. You’re so much smarter, so much more powerful than anyone gives you credit for. You were wasted on Potter and Weasley, and then on Draco. He could never really love you, you know. And he certainly doesn’t deserve you. People like Draco, Greg, Daphne — they became Death Eaters because they get off at their perceived superiority. They need to be seen as special, and they drag people like us down. They’re dead weight. We can forget about them.”

A lamp crashed, glass shards skittering across the stone floor, some landing on the rug near her hiding place. Hermione flinched. Her legs still trembled, but adrenaline surged through her veins. They couldn’t give way yet. She just needed to pick her moment.

Blaise’s tone rose, giving his speech a frenzied quality. “Don’t they repulse you, too? Regular people. They’re weak, infirm. People like us, well, we could hold their lives in our hands. Poison them or cure them, kill them or let them live another day.”

Another crash, and something heavy fell with a thud. He was drawing closer. “I know you’re curious. You’re dying to know how to feast on their bodies and strengthen your own. I’ll show you how. Between your Dark Mark, that book of yours, and my aptitude for the Dark Arts, we’ll be unstoppable.”

Now.

She leapt from behind the chair, unstoppered the phial of venom, and threw it in Blaise’s face. He screamed and collapsed on the floor as the Venomous Tantacula’s revenge burned through his skin. Already his nose was gone, and the stench of necrotising flesh filled the ruined study.

Hermione left nothing to chance. She tossed the phial aside and channelled her magic through her husband’s wand once again.

“Incarcerous!”

Ropes cut into Blaise’s robes, holding him fast. Still he writhed and moaned, lips disappearing, eye sockets hollow, void. Hermione pulled her jumper up over her nose and mouth and stepped over him, her shoes crunching as she walked over broken glass. She didn’t turn back when she reached the door.

She had nothing more to fear from Blaise Zabini.

Now she had to find Daphne before Goyle did. The stunner had likely worn off, and Goyle would be out for blood.

Hermione’s wobbly legs carried her down the corridor. She braced herself against the wall with one arm, Draco’s wand lighting her way. Her progress was slower than she wanted, but she soon heard what sounded like soft weeping. Fear clutched at her heart. Had Goyle discovered Daphne first? She used all the energy she had remaining to push herself towards the sound.

Hermione burst through a set of double doors and fell to her knees with a gasp. She hit the sticky floor, something curved but blunt poking her underneath her right shin. Her hand scrabbled for it and she dragged the cool metal out from under her and into the light.

A spoon.

She’d never been in this room before, but she knew exactly where she was now.

She was in the dining room.

Daphne kneeled amongst shards of glass and china beside two human skeletons, murmuring something too low for Hermione to hear. But that wasn’t what shocked her most.

Two glowing spectres hung in the air above Daphne’s near-prone form. One Hermione immediately recognised as Narcissa Malfoy. Even as a ghost, she presided over the room as a queen might hold court from atop a throne. The other ghost reminded her of Daphne — the slope of her nose, the large eyes. Though Hermione had never met the woman, she could only be one person.

Astoria Greengrass.

Hermione crawled to Daphne, bits of debris digging into her hands and knees. Her head throbbed and floaters danced in her vision, warning of an impending migraine. There was still danger, but her grief bubbled up at the sight of the women Draco had loved so much, and tears pricked at her gritty eyes.

Daphne’s hand closed over Hermione’s, jolting everything back into sharp focus. “Hermione, listen to me. If you hurry, you might be able to save Draco. He’s right outside the gate. Don’t worry about me. I can handle Blaise and Greg if they come this way.”

Draco. He might be alive.

Daphne rose, tugging Hermione’s elbow, and Hermione wordlessly staggered to her feet. Her bones and muscles ached as she made for the exit.

“He hasn’t joined me yet,” Narcissa confirmed as Hermione reached the doors. “He lives.”

Astoria flew over to her and lowered her transparent face to Hermione’s. “Make a right and run. He needs you, Hermione.”

Hermione pushed her pain aside and ran like her life depended on it. In a way, it did.

She depended on Draco, and if there was a chance he could live, she would take it. She would care for him, do whatever he needed until the day he died. And that day could not be today.

Memories flashed through her mind. Memories she’d cherish for the rest of her life.

Draco, shirt and trousers shredded, head held high as he returned to the kitchen after he lost his battle with her wards.

Draco, comforting her as she sunk into his embrace. The smell of lavender, the warmth of his chest, the way his arms tightened around her like a promise.

Draco, looking back at her with his grey eyes as the ski lift rose up, up, up — never tearing them away.

Draco, confessing his love for her in an impassioned speech that left her lost for words and weak in the knees.

Draco, waiting for her with bated breath at the bottom of the staircase with forever in his smile.

She didn’t want to live in the past anymore, and Merlin willing, they’d have years and years to make more memories. Years as a family.

Draco Malfoy, her husband, was her future. And she would do anything for him.

Hermione shoved open the heavy main door, only to be met with fresh, deep snow to slow her pace. She trudged through the depths, legs screaming with pain as she struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Her trousers were soaked through, chilling her to the bone. Wind bit at her face, wrenched her curls into knots, stung her eyes.

The gate wasn’t far now, and she could see him, a bright red stain underneath his body. She redoubled her efforts, every agonising step bringing her closer to her love.

“Draco!” She cried out to him, hoping the wind would carry her voice to his ears. “Draco!”

Finally Hermione reached the gate, and she shut it behind her as she ran. She skidded to a stop and fell to his side.

He was alive.

Goyle had cut him deep. Draco’s coat and shirt were saturated with blood. The cold must have slowed some of the flow, but he was in bad shape.

“You’re here.” Draco offered her a lopsided grin, blood staining his teeth and dribbling from his mouth. The phial of Felix Felicis lay empty at his side.

Hermione hoped she looked confident, despite her shaking body. “Of course I’m here. I’m here Draco. I’ll get you patched up, okay? Good as new.”

Hermione sifted through her bag, but she was out of tricks. No blood replenishing potion, no Dittany, no more luck. She tried to press her magic into the gash across his abdomen, but she was tapped. Using his wand was only a stopgap, and whatever spell Goyle had used was dark, and unknown to her. Her Patronus had sapped most of her magical reserves.

A wave of terror washed over her. Where were Ron and the Aurors? It felt like she’d sent for them forever ago.

“I think our luck’s run out, Granger,” Draco wheezed.

She sobbed at the name only he called her, stroking his hair, smearing red amongst the platinum strands.

“No, no, it hasn’t. Just hang on, Draco. Hang on for me, okay?”

“I just wanted… To see you… One last time.” He coughed, launching a spurt of blood into her hair.

His breaths grew shallower, and Hermione screamed through her tears. “Help! Somebody help!”

Draco closed his eyes and drew another ragged breath. “It’s okay… As long as you’re safe….”

She cradled his head in her hands, smoothing his hair, now smeared with his blood. “No, no, no. I need you. Don’t go, Draco, please. Don’t go.”

“I… choose… to be good. Love you… Forever.” He gasped the last word, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Hermione shook him, but though his breath rattled in his chest, he didn’t wake.

Their night at the pub flashed before her eyes, when she’d asked him if he’d rather be lucky or good.

“Why not both?”

“Say you had to choose.”

“If I have you by my side, I'd choose good.”

“Why?”

“Because if that's the case, I'd have already used all my luck.”

Draco was dying, here in her arms. She was too late. She was always too late.

She hung her head over his chest, tears spilling in earnest now, her grief all-encompassing.

Cracks of Apparition rang out, one after another after another. She shielded Draco with her body instinctively, but after a split second of quiet, Hermione looked up. Ron Weasley, a decade older and broader, was surrounded by at least ten Aurors, their robes flapping in the icy wind.

His next words were the second best thing she’d heard in the last twenty-four hours.

“Padma, I think we need your assistance over here.”

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Padma descended on Draco immediately, peppering Hermione with questions like what happened, has he taken anything, what have you already tried? They moved him off the ground and onto a gurney. Hermione’s stomach turned at the expanse of red snow.

Hermione focused on Draco’s pale lips as she answered, her voice having a far away quality even to her own ears. Padma opened his mouth, pouring potion after potion into it, waving her wand back and forth. Another Healer, maybe Padma’s assistant, tried to dislodge Hermione’s hold on Draco, but she refused to budge. She was numb to the cold, ignoring the buzzing in her brain and the deadness of her legs tucked underneath her.

Seconds felt like hours, but Draco’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first. He didn’t speak, but Padma looked satisfied. She hopped up off the ground, and her assistant unfolded the gurney’s legs, making Hermione rise unsteadily with them.

“He’s going to be just fine,” Padma proclaimed as she checked his vital signs. “He was hit with a newer dark curse, probably why you didn’t recognise it. A stronger Diffindo with a complicated counter-curse. Seen it a few too many times.”

“Thank Merlin,” Hermione sniffled. Someone threw a blanket over her and began charming her waterlogged clothes dry. She turned to thank them when a freezing hand clasped hers.

“Hey Granger.”

Hermione couldn’t hold back the torrent of tears as she looked at her husband.

His eyes widened, unfocused. “Am I the one hallucinating now?”

“No, no,” she assured him. “Ron, Padma and the Aurors are here. It’s a long story. I promise I’ll tell you everything later.”

Draco tried to sit up, but Padma gently forced him back down. “You’re still healing, Mr. Malfoy.”

“You saved my life,” Draco croaked to Padma, colour flooding back into his face. “Thank you.”

Padma smiled as she cast a few cleaning charms and repaired Draco’s clothing. “I wouldn’t have had a chance without that Felix Felicis you had on you.”

“Her idea,” he said, leaning into Hermione’s touch as she gently brushed his hair out of his face.

Three Aurors passed them, each dragging a detainee.

The first was Gregory Goyle, ranting and raving about Lucius Malfoy, his connections, and the hundreds more Death Eaters still at large.

The second was unrecognisable as he stumbled blindly through the snow in singed Healer’s robes, a charred hole where his face should have been. An Auror yanked the handcuffs to hurry Blaise Zabini along, wrenching an inhuman sound from the hole.

“Blaise,” she whispered to Draco and Padma. Padma arched one flawless eyebrow. “Venomous Tantacula venom.”

Third came Daphne Greengrass, with tear-stained cheeks and her head held high. Hermione would never be able to repay the woman for her actions today. She tried to get Daphne’s attention but she seemed like she was somewhere else. Hermione resolved to petition for her release as soon as all this was over.

The three Aurors formed a circle with the prisoners in the middle of the road. Goyle finally spotted Hermione.

“This isn’t over! I won’t stop until we’re reunited, Mistress! The plan, it’ll still work—”

An Auror cast a silencing charm and Goyle continued to thrash against the restraints. The wild look in his eyes made Hermione shiver, and she had no doubt that Goyle would always be a true believer. He would bend the situation to fit inside whatever Lucius’s framework demanded, though she still didn’t know what exactly those plans entailed. Before she could consider it further, the Aurors and their prisoners Apparated away, leaving nothing but footprints in the snow.

Ron approached, his Head Auror badge glinting in the light and his mouth set in a grim line. “Malfoy. Glad to see you’re alright. I’d like to get your statement after Padma’s cleared you.”

Draco looked up and weakly extended a hand. “Weasley. Never been so happy to see you. Thanks for bringing the calvary.”

Ron, to his credit, barely hesitated before bending slightly to accept the handshake. “Just doing my job. I got your wife’s Patronus and came straight away.”

Draco glanced at Hermione. “He knows about us?”

“I’ll save the lecture for Christmas dinner. Gin says you’re getting one of Mum’s famous jumpers and everything. Last I heard, it’s going to be puce. Lovely colour, puce. Great for your complexion.”

“Not very sporting of you, Weasley. I’ve suffered a great deal of blood loss, you know.”

Ron grinned. “Never change, Malfoy.”

Hermione squeezed Draco’s hand before letting go, rounding the gurney, and wrapping her arms around Ron. “Thank you.”

He returned the hug, lifting her off her feet. Surrounded by Ron’s familiar cinnamon scent, Hermione’s heart rate finally drifted back to baseline. Everyone was safe. Everything was going to be okay.

Padma’s assistant, a diminutive woman wearing hexagonal spectacles, plodded over and let them know the field tent was set up. Ron led the way while Padma wheeled Draco in and propped him up, then examined Hermione. She ran her thumb over Hermione’s Dark Mark. “I’m betting there’s quite a story behind this.”

Hermione quickly explained the basics — the book, the ritual, Goyle’s obsession with the resurgence of the Marks.

“I plan to destroy the book. I don’t think the answer to its reversal is inside.”

“See that you do. I’ve never succeeded in removing a Dark Mark, but the less dark magic you use, the more it will fade away.”

She decided not to mention the summoning. “I haven’t brewed anything dark, much less cast any dark spells, in almost two weeks now, but the only reason I stopped is because Blaise took over my parents’ care. And Merlin knows what he’s done to them.”

“It’ll take much more than a two-week holiday, Hermione. You’ve got years of built up dark magic,” Padma looked at her with pity in her deep brown eyes. “Take it one day at a time. And although I imagine the last thing you want in your home is another Healer, if you’re up for it, I’ll come by and help you get things sorted for your parents. I know an excellent facility in Dublin.”

“Thank you,” Hermione flung her arms around Padma’s neck. The Healer took it well, patting Hermione’s back twice before withdrawing and straightening her robes.

After healing Hermione’s minor cuts and administering salve for the after-effects of the Cruciatus, and monitoring Draco as he took cautious steps, Padma gave both Draco and Hermione a stern lecture about rest and fluids before exiting the tent. Aurors still filtered in and out, speaking with Ron in hushed tones.

When everyone had settled into pop-up chairs with blankets and hot cocoa, Ron cleared his throat. “We’ve missed you, Hermione. Hasn’t been the same since you’ve been gone. Probably would’ve figured out Zabini’s game a lot sooner if we’d still had you at the Ministry. Adrian Pucey found some accounting irregularities, mainly unpaid land taxes, and traced them back to several notable Pureblood families.”

Draco’s eyes lit in recognition. “Yes, he showed them to our solicitor, Theo Nott. He’s got some information regarding Griselda Marchbanks. Theo planned to look into it further, as it may invalidate some of the recent judgements against many of his clients.”

“She’s still on the Wizengamot? She’s over a hundred years old! That must be the woman he was with at the ball last night.” Hermione wondered to herself how many patients Blaise had taken on over the years, and how many were still alive. Despite the warming charms, she shivered. “Blaise manipulated his patients and their families with a blend of tea he gave them. It made them more suggestible, their minds more malleable. They signed over their land, money, anything valuable, to Griselda and other patients who were high-ranking in the Ministry. Nothing in his name to arouse suspicion.”

Ron scratched out notes on a sheet of official-looking parchment. “Do you still have the tea?”

“I do, back at the flat. I’d been drinking it myself, but instead of dampening my magic, it gave me hallucinations. My magic resisted, likely because of the dark magic I’d been using on my parents. I think it recognised the sedative and bypassed it. I suppose my efforts to save them, however unorthodox, may have saved all our lives.”

Draco’s face twisted with emotion as he reached for her hand. “What’s the endgame? He couldn’t possibly live in all those homes, or spend all that money.”

“I don’t think it’s about the endgame for him,” Hermione murmured. “It’s about power.”

Ron nodded. “You’d have made a fine Auror. As far as we can tell, as soon as he’s drained his patients’ vaults and they’ve ceased being useful to him, they conveniently die. No one bats an eye because they were in hospice, and the patients’ eventual death is the natural conclusion.”

“You may not find much evidence. Blaise has an eidetic memory, so he rarely kept notes. And his patients, well, he…” Hermione swallowed the taste of sick. “He ate them.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Sweet Salazar,” Draco said, leaning over his chair and gagging.

“He planned to do the same to my parents, I think, and keep me alive to infiltrate the Ministry. But the tea didn’t work, and he had to recalculate his next steps.”

“And even if the tea had eventually worked, you made a career in the Ministry impossible when you and Malfoy came out strongly against Podmore and his goons in The Quibbler. ”

“He said it didn’t matter, even though he did wonder whether or not he should kill me instead. But when I touched my Dark Mark—”

Ron nearly fell out of his seat. “What?”

“—to summon Draco he made up his mind to keep me alive.”

So much for not saying anything about the summoning.

“And Goyle?”

“He helped him find patients. And Draco, I…. I’m so sorry, Goyle killed your mother and Astoria.” She had to tell him about Astoria and Narcissa’s help. But it seemed too delicate a subject to broach in front of an audience.

Draco was motionless for a moment before he took a sip of cocoa and spoke. “I figured it out, actually. This morning I went to Greengrass Manor to confront him, but thought better of it and came back to the flat.” He turned to her with regret and pain in his eyes. “I’m so sorry I left; especially after everything we did last night. I only wanted to keep you safe.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I summoned you. I was scared, and I didn’t remember…”

“No, please don’t apologise. I always want to be the one you turn to when you’re in trouble. I’m only sorry I didn’t take the bastards down with you,” he said, stroking the back of her hand. “At least you ended up with my wand.”

“It was a better substitute than I thought, but if I’d had my wand, I’d have sent a Patronus to Ron from the start. Turns out there’s a reason I needed him and Harry when we saved the world.”

The corner of Ron’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Never work alone, I always say.”

“Yes, well, I daresay we’ve finally learned our lesson there. If I’d known the threat Blaise posed, I’d have involved you lot before he set foot in our home. I can’t believe he’s been caring for Hermione’s parents this whole time. He’s always been aloof, but I never expected he’d be a cold-blooded killer,” Draco said with a shiver. “It must have been him stalking us outside the pub that night. Probably trying to see if his tea worked.”

“He’ll never be able to hurt anyone again,” Ron said, bringing one of his legs up into his lap. “I’d know the effects of Venomous Tentacula venom anywhere. Illegal to grow, harvest or possess. I can’t believe he survived it. It’s a fate worse than death.”

Hermione closed her eyes and held her wrists out to Ron. After a beat, when nothing happened, she opened them again. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”

Ron chuckled, his expression one of incredulousness. “Arrest you? First off, you’re one of my best friends, and arrests are the Head Auror’s decision. Secondly, it seems to me like it’s just recompense. He used his charisma and quicksilver tongue to con vulnerable witches and wizards out of their money and into an early grave. You’ve made sure that he’ll never be able to do it again.”

“I think he was dosing Daphne with the tea, too. She gave me Draco’s wand and saved my life. You didn’t need to arrest her.” Hermione tucked the aforementioned wand into her husband’s holster and patted his chest. She sagged in her chair, mourning the loss of her own wand, broken and buried somewhere in the snowdrifts.

“We’ve got our eye on her for a few other crimes. I doubt Daphne Greengrass’s hands are clean.”

“But she was under Goyle’s influence!”

“Hermione, we don’t know that for sure. She’s a Death Eater,” he said, finality in his tone. “We’ll need proof. Now, Malfoy, are you ready to give your statement?”

Hermione’s heart broke all over again as Draco recounted how he suffered at the hands of Goyle. Ron seemed moved by Draco’s insistence that Daphne didn’t know her sister’s killer was her husband-to-be until a few hours ago. It comforted Hermione to think that the immense risk Daphne took in getting the phial of liquid luck over to Draco would surely play well at her trial.

Ron rose and shook his head. “This is something else. I haven’t been Head Auror long, and I hope to hold the office for a while yet, but I’m beginning to suspect this will go down as my most interesting case.”

He muttered something about paperwork and crossed the tent to huddle with a few members of the team. The tent flap opened as another Auror entered, and Hermione caught a glimpse of the low-hanging moon.

Her next words came out nervous and shaky. “Draco, I have to tell you something that I didn’t tell Ron.”

“I knew you were holding something back,” he said conspiratorially. “What is it?”

“While I was trying to help Daphne… When I thought you were gone,” she choked up, and Draco set his cocoa down, gesturing for her to sit in his lap. She climbed on and burrowed into his embrace. “I saw them. Your mother and Astoria.”

His grip on her tightened. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. Gods, how awful.”

“Yes,” she said. “But there’s more. She and Astoria… They’re ghosts. They spoke to me, they told me you were still alive. And I think, if you’re up for it, you should go and see them.”

He understood her intentions instantly. “Closure.”

“Closure,” she echoed. “I think they’ve both been waiting for you.”

“We’d have to end our Vow.” Draco dragged his hand down her back, resting it at the base of her spine.

Hermione tilted her head back and met his gaze. “I don’t think we need it anymore, do you?”

He drew her face to his and kissed her tenderly. “No. Let’s leave it in the past.”

They stood and clasped each other’s forearms, and with a shimmer of magic, their Vow dissolved. She collapsed into him when it was done, setting her palms on his chest. He was warm and alive and Vow or no Vow, Hermione would never let him go.

Draco tucked a curl behind her ear, leaning in close. “I’ll always keep our other vows.”

He looked like he might say more, and her heart soared, but Ron returned and shattered the moment.

“Sorry to tell you this, but we couldn’t find your wand, Hermione. Malfoy, we’ve got a few questions for you regarding some human remains we found in your dining room. Apparently the ghosts are being a bit difficult. Would you mind going with Auror Bones?”

Auror Bones waved meekly with her free arm, the other balancing myriad items including a massive clipboard. Aurors probably couldn’t use illegal extension charms. Hermione patted her bag at her side, more grateful for it than ever.

“I’ve no problem answering those, and I think they’d probably like to have a word as well.” Draco kissed Hermione again, and while she tried to keep it brief, it was nearly impossible to disengage when he kissed her so thoroughly. Auror Bones made a small sound behind them and they finally broke apart.

Ron, who’d taken a sudden interest in looking anywhere but at the loved-up Malfoys, spoke next. “If it’s alright with you both, I’ll take you home, Hermione. I don’t know how long this’ll take. You shouldn’t Apparate alone after everything you’ve gone through here tonight. Plus, I should look over your place, make sure it’s safe.”

“Thank you,” Draco said to Ron, shaking his hand once more.

Hermione followed Draco out of the tent and walked him through the gates with Auror Bones, just to be certain that the magic didn’t reject him again. “Tell your mother and Astoria thank you for me.”

“I will. Make sure your parents are alright and get something to eat, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He kissed her forehead, and she thought she heard Auror Bones groan.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He only looked back once, but even the driving snow couldn’t obscure his expression. Draco’s love for her was unmistakable.

Ron waited for her back at the tent. Hermione tucked her arm in his, and while the world spun around her, she finally felt like she could stop.

❖

Ron whistled and skimmed one hand over the kitchen worktop. “Nice digs.”

Hermione set down her bag and took off her boots. The salve was beginning to wear off, and her feet ached horribly. She missed her wand terribly, but at least it could be replaced. “Do you mind waiting? Just for a minute.”

“It’s been years, Hermione. I think I can handle a minute,” he said with his trademark crinkly smile. “I’ll heat up some soup or something.”

Hermione smiled back. Ron had always known his way around a kitchen, and she was starving. But for now she needed to see that her parents were okay.

She opened the door to find her parents sound asleep, and a bleary-eyed Mrs. Tannenbaum keeping vigil. Hermione thanked her with a firm hug, and assured her several times that Draco was fine and would be back later this evening. The housekeeper refused to leave without Hermione promising to explain everything later. She also suggested a nice hot shower.

After Mrs. Tannenbaum left, Hermione looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. Black tracks of mascara ran down her face, and parts of her hair were matted. She’d shivered and sweat and bled and cried. It had been the longest day of her life. A shower was definitely in order.

She pressed a kiss to her father’s forehead, and then her mother’s. Although neither opened their eyes, Hermione could swear that when she squeezed her mother’s hand, she felt a squeeze back.

Blaise likely lied about the need to keep them on Dreamless Sleep, and without the tea, maybe the outlook would improve. With Padma’s help, maybe they would have more Christmases together after all.

When she returned to the kitchen, Hermione found Ron ladling a hearty vegetable soup into a bowl.

“Just one?” She asked.

“There’s enough left for Malfoy when he gets back.”

“I meant for you,” she said, sliding into a chair, but he shook his head no, his shaggy hair falling in his face. The first spoonful warmed her, and in less than two minutes she found herself tipping the remains of the bowl to her lips. Ron sat with her in a companionable silence so familiar it made her chest ache.

After a while, he rose, wringing his calloused hands. “I don’t want to leave you, but I’ve got to go back and wrap things up at the crime scene. The sooner I’m finished there, the sooner I can get home to Nev and start the paperwork.”

Hermione nodded, wiping her mouth. “Thank you, Ron. For everything.”

“I’m never good in these sorts of situations. Never know what to say. But we missed you. It hasn’t been the same since you’ve been gone. Like missing a tooth. You can still eat, but every time your tongue runs over the space, you remember what it’s like to be whole.”

Before she could remark on his poignant speech, he continued.

“I know there’s more to this story, and you don’t have to tell me everything that’s happened while you were away. But I hope you and Malfoy will trust me to help you in your fight to change the Ministry. Most of the old guard is still in the Minister’s pocket, but I’m not one of them.”

“Harry said as much. But how are you managing it? You’re Head Auror.”

“It polled well,” he said with a shrug. “I’m bloody good at the job, too, don’t get me wrong. But he’d sack me if people didn’t associate me with the victory over Voldemort. I don’t approve of any of Podmore’s special task forces, and he knows it. He’s always trying to poach my people or get me to say something stupid or vile. He can interfere all he wants, but I’m wise to his game. I’ll see this case through, and find out what exactly happened with the murders of Narcissa Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass.”

“And after that?”

Ron cracked his knuckles before answering. “You’ve made it loads easier to identify Death Eaters, now that they’re all Marked. I assume you have a plan? A lot’s changed, but surely you’re still three steps ahead of the rest of us.”

“You’re right, not everything’s changed,” she said with a small smile. “I have some ideas. But I think we’ll all need to be in lockstep if any of them come to fruition.”

His face relaxed. “Thank Merlin. Get some rest for now, but let’s talk at Christmas.”

After one final hug, Ron bid Hermione farewell. She waited a minute or two for Draco, but the urge to wash off the day became too great, and so she put the soup under a stasis charm and made for the bathroom.

❖

The hot water was exactly what she needed. Hermione tilted her head under the steady stream and let the evidence of the day swirl down the drain. She stood there, eyes closed and arms limp at her sides, exhaustion hitting her full force.

Lost in the rhythm of the water, she barely noticed the soft swing of the glass door until a blast of cool air had her eyes fluttering open. Draco tossed two towels over the edge of the glass and stepped into the steamy shower.

Without saying a word, he wrapped her in his strong arms. They stayed that way for a while, and the water beating down on them gradually shifted from hot to passably warm. Only then did Hermione reach for a washcloth.

Still silent, Draco let Hermione take care of him, and she lovingly washed his hair, then his body, taking care with his fresh scar. Then Draco massaged her aching limbs with vanilla-scented soap, and washed and conditioned her hair in turn.

There was nothing left to do, but both of them were hesitant to leave the water behind. Even as their fingers pruned, they clung to each other, never looking away.

“They’re at peace now,” Draco finally said. “I got closure.”

“I’m glad,” she told him, finding her voice.

“There’s one other matter I don’t have closure on, though.”

Her heart picked up speed. “No?”

“No, and I can’t wait another minute, or another decade. I wanted to do this somewhere else with a ring we picked out together; do it right this time. But I can’t wait, because you never know when your luck’s run out.”

Draco held her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks as the water pelted them. “Hermione Jean Granger Malfoy. We both have a past. I was a little prejudiced sh*t, and you — well, you were perfect then and you’re perfect now,” He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t argue with me, I’m proposing. We have regrets and baggage and I don’t know where we’re going to live or what we’re going to do now. But every time I see your face, it feels like I’m looking at my future. I want everything with you. Forever.”

“Draco,” Hermione gasped, her eyes welling with tears.

“And so I want to ask you,” he let go and started to go down on one knee, but Hermione went down on hers with him, unable to be parted from her husband. “Will you be my wife, in truth?”

“Yes,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. “Yes.”

He kissed her lips, her nose, her cheeks, and they rose together, uncaring that the water had run cold and they were unspeakably tired.

Hermione felt him harden against her leg, and she swatted his chest playfully. “Padma said we need rest!”

“Maybe we need this more,” he grinned.

And she found herself powerless to persuade him otherwise.

Draco gripped the back of her hair and pulled slightly, tipping her face to his, devouring her with confident kisses that had her swooning. He massaged her shoulders before slipping one hand to her breasts and the other around her waist. She arched into his palm when he explored further south, panting as he prepared her with his fingers.

“Granger,” he groaned as he finally entered her. “ Granger. You’re so wet. You love it when I call you that, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” she gasped, her back sliding up and down the slick shower tiles as he pumped into her. “It’s Malfoy.”

“Damn right it is. But you’ll always be my Granger.”

Hermione was many things. A dutiful daughter; a loyal friend; a valiant fighter. These things she’d known for most of her life. But as her husband made love to her, Hermione was never happier to learn what it meant to truly be a wife.

Chapter 32: Epilogue

Chapter Text

Christmas 2010

One year later

Their second annual Christmas dinner at the Potters wasn’t bad at all. Ginevra, Draco hated to admit, was a more than serviceable cook. He forked another helping of roast beef onto his plate before reaching for the gravy boat.

Hermione sat to his left, but Luna was on her other side and the two women chatted in low tones the whole meal through. Their conversation mostly revolved around the good the proceeds from the sale of Malfoy Manor did for St. Mungo’s, but soon turned to Hermione’s new foundation dedicated to cleaning up the city and promoting philanthropy. Although it was still in its infancy, with Pansy’s firm and Luna’s paper behind the foundation, they’d already completed several projects and continued to gain positive sentiment across the country. Meanwhile, Draco was forced to listen to Longbottom blather about his husband’s third Order of Merlin. Apparently the Weasel refused to quit playing hero.

Potter spouted some sentimental drivel disguised as a toast. Something about how happy he was that there were more faces around the table every year. He’d been even more insufferably friendly in the lead up to the election. His smile was plastered on every bench in Wizarding London. Even Draco’s new home with Hermione, a palatial chateau outside the city, sported a giant Potter for Minister! sign in crimson and gold.

Salazar. The Chosen One had better win.

Draco tugged his wife closer to him as she fiddled with the gigantic diamond ring on her left ring finger. His mother — or rather, his mother’s ghost, now at rest — had insisted Hermione needed a ring from the vaults. And since Hermione recently indicated she was keen to start a family, and Malfoy men were infertile until they wore family rings, he gave into his mother’s wishes and selected the most ostentatious rings for them both. Hermione rolled her eyes and made some pithy comment about men marking their territory, but even she had to admit the sparkler suited her.

He loved her more with each breath he drew.

As for what he was wearing, well, that was another story.

“It’s an abomination,” he sniffed, nose high in the air as they extracted themselves from the dinner table.

“She made it with love!”

“There’s a thin line between love and hate. She’s crossed the line and you know it.”

“It’s the same deal as last year, Draco. You only have to wear it until we take the photo,” Hermione said, patting his chest. “Just don’t stand too close to any open flames.”

Draco tugged at the sleeves of the hideous jumper with a grimace. Mrs. Weasley gifted it to him that morning, beaming as he donned the neon orange monstrosity. He was tempted to bump (accidentally, of course) into one of Ginevra’s pine-scented candles.

The things one does when one loves a Gryffindor.

Slytherins, and by extension, most Purebloods, didn’t exchange Christmas presents outside their immediate families. It was considered gauche to assume your friends were in need of anything at all. A bottle of wine with an esteemed vintage was acceptable if passed off as a gift for the host.

He could use a drink, preferably a crisp Riesling in the unlikely event the Potters owned stemmed glasses. Otherwise brandy would serve; its primary virtue being that it was consumable out of any clean receptacle.

After a great deal of screeching from one of the Potter boys, they all lined up in front of the fireplace. The Potters and their children, Weasley and Longbottom, Pansy and Luna, and he and Hermione, all clad in ugly, highly flammable jumpers.

I suppose we’re family . He smiled to himself. The camera shutter clicked.

“Got one of Draco grinning like a fool,” Pansy crowed as she looked through the images. Draco yanked the jumper off, balled it up and threw it at her. She yelped and Hermione laughed, whisking the offending article into her bag. He’d repaired the bag himself as his gift to her, adding scores of translucent beads charmed to change colour to match her outfits. She’d given him a new wand holster, complete with phials of dittany and other useful potions, just in case.

He’d never stop worrying about her, and she about him. They’d almost lost each other.

More guests arrived after dinner — Theo, Auror Bones, Adrian Pucey, Alicia Spinnet and her husband Lee Jordan, among others. Padma Patil stopped by and the group persuaded her to stay. Luna and Weasley crouched on the floor and built a tower out of multicolour blocks with the Potter boys. Longbottom insisted his sister-in-law take a break and commandeered the kitchen, spice jars whizzing off shelves and emptying various amounts of themselves into a large copper pot.

Hermione and Theo stood in the foyer. The solicitor had been devastated last year after the truth about Blaise Zabini came to light; not because he was close friends with the Healer, but because he’d been the one to refer him to Hermione. Everyone, including Weasley, assured Theo he couldn’t have known. Blaise’s famed eidetic memory meant there were precious few records of his evildoing. Still, it had taken a while for Theo to rejoin their close-knit circle.

Draco swirled his drink, keeping a respectful distance so they could chat privately. Theo donned his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he spoke, a bitter smile on his face. Hermione, eyes glistening, reached for his hands and stroked the backs of them.

She didn’t need to worry. Theo had already told Draco his plan. Draco didn’t love it, but Theo had supported him through much worse (and far more illegal) endeavours. And it wasn’t like Theo was going anywhere. The best thing they could do for him was keep acting like everything was business as usual.

They could keep this secret, just the three of them.

❖

Hermione followed Theo and her husband out to the Potters’ backyard. Harry and Ron, having received new brooms that morning, were eagerly racing around the homemade Quidditch pitch with Ginny and Alicia Spinnet. Padma watched from the sidelines.

Ron spotted their approach and called out to Draco. “Hey mate, sub in for me? Need a word with Hermione about tomorrow.”

He flew down, dismounted, and handed him the broom. Draco grinned as he swung a leg over the handle. “Let’s see what this baby can do.” He shot into the sky with a whoop, and Hermione shook her head with a smile.

Padma laughed as she joined Theo, Ron, and Hermione. “Some things never change.”

“Once a speed demon, always a speed demon,” Hermione agreed.

Ron wiped his brow, his face sombre. “So, tomorrow.”

Theo pretended to cover his ears. “Legally speaking, I don’t know anything about this.”

They went over their plan, over a year in the making now. Padma checked Hermione’s vitals with a few swishes of her wand and looked at the remnants of Hermione’s Dark Mark. The brand had faded after a year in which Hermione had practised no dark magic whatsoever. With her parents safe and alive with Healer Seamus Finnegan in the green hills of Ireland, she’d no need to dabble in anything beyond simple, everyday magic.

The memory loss couldn’t be reversed, but Healer Finnegan remedied the dark magic buildup and cell damage from Blaise’s experimental treatments. The tea masked the potential cure, and if not for that, Padma would’ve caught it during her consultation with Draco and Hermione. When Hermione heard her parents would be around for far longer than just one more Christmas, she launched herself into Padma’s arms and wept.

Best of all, a recent advancement led to the restoration of Judy and Hugh’s original personalities. They had dementia, but most days they recognised Hermione and Draco, and they had no recollection of the difficult years they’d spent between their Obliviation and their recovery. Assisted living suited them just fine, Hugh taking up golf (and usually talking Draco into a round on the weekends) and kicking his drinking habit for good. Judy enjoyed being read to, and Hermione created a reusable Portkey so she could read to her mother at least two times a week.

Draco treated them as if they were his parents, calling them Mum and Dad just like Hermione. And days before Christmas, he took them all on a day trip to London to see Guildhall Library all decked out for the holiday season. Judy poured through early architectural designs on microfilm, and Hugh became entranced with the collection of antique clocks. They ended the excursion with an early dinner at an Italian restaurant. Draco reserved the entire dining room for the evening, knowing Hugh and Judy didn’t do well with noisy environments filled with strangers. It was perhaps the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for Hermione, and she’d treasure the memories of that day for the rest of her life.

Tomorrow, Hermione would call on her dark magic for the last time. Their plan, the result of a year of lobbying Aurors sympathetic to their cause and timed to deliver a blow to Minister Podmore’s reelection campaign right before the election, was not without significant risk. But all the friends agreed: If they pulled this off, it would be the biggest win for Wizarding Britain since the war.

“I know it’s morbid, and we don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to, Ron, but have there been any updates since Blaise died?”

Blaise Zabini received the finest medical care possible, unlike his many patients. Ron had hoped Padma and her team would keep him alive for an inevitable trial. But after months of delays, he succumbed to his injuries just six weeks ago.

Ron sighed. “He never said a word to us, and he didn’t leave much behind. But Adrian combed through Ministry records and identified some possible patients that way. We spoke to their families and got their permission to exhume the bodies for examination.”

Padma cut in. “Autopsies confirmed toxic levels of dark magic, poisoning, premortem tissue death, and multiple missing and unaccounted for organs. Hearts and livers, mostly.”

“Good gods,” Hermione whispered.

“The good news is Griselda Marchbanks is recovering and fully cooperating with the investigation. We’re still seeking the Kiss for Gregory Goyle, and although I’m sympathetic to Daphne Greengrass’s plight, I’m not dropping all her charges. But most importantly, Blaise Zabini will never hurt anyone again. You did that, Hermione.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see through him earlier.”

“You had a lot on your mind. It’s not like any of us suspected what he was up to, either, and Healers all run in the same circles,” Padma said, squeezing Hermione’s shoulder gently. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Hermione released a long breath. “After tomorrow, can our next big project be getting this Mark off my arm? And Draco’s, too?”

This isn’t me. This isn’t him. Not now, and not then.

“Of course. We owe you, and after tomorrow, so will the world.”

“Again,” Ron added.

Theo offered each of them tight hugs. “Sorry, I’m a hugger,” he said when Ron finally clapped him on the back. “This has been lovely, but I’ve got to go. Meeting with a client.”

Ron pulled a face. “On Christmas?”

“I know, I know. Hermione, are we still on for New Year’s?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, knowing full well who Theo was off to see. “You’re all invited, of course.”

As Theo Apparated away, Draco, slightly sweaty, came up from behind and draped his arms around his wife’s neck. “I’m knackered. The Potters kicked my arse. Ready to go home, Granger?”

She nodded. “Let’s say goodbye to our godsons first.”

He placed a kiss on her temple and offered her his arm. She accepted, and they began walking back towards the house. Draco smirked as he heard Padma ask Ron, “Why does he still call her Granger?”

Ron’s voice carried through the cold air. “Who knows? Nothing with those two makes any bloody sense. You want another drink? Nev’s making his mulled cider.”

❖

Fine mist settled on Theo’s head and shoulders as he entered the frigid halls of Azkaban. An elderly wizard with a long white beard, his mouth set in a grim line, checked Theo’s wand and opened the north cellblock for him. Theo tried not to look at any of the prisoners he passed on his way to see his client.

Not for the first time, he questioned just what he was playing at by coming here. Theo typically met with his clients in his office. On rare occasions, such as when one party was out of the country, he corresponded with his clients by owl, and he charged double for weekend meetings.

But no one had come forward to represent this particular prisoner. She was destitute, without a Knut to her name, and had no living family. They all laid in a graveyard outside her former home, now claimed as evidence by the Ministry.

Even her former intended husband had nothing to say on her behalf. In fact, no one had heard from Gregory Goyle at all, because he’d somehow escaped the confines of the famous magical prison, likely with the help of a sympathetic guard.

Theo approached the last cell on the left and whispered so as not to startle her. “Happy Christmas, Miss Greengrass.”

"Happy Christmas, Theo." The thin blonde woman, now even thinner, rose from a too-short cot and looked at him with wide eyes. “I’m glad to see you, of course, but what are you doing here?”

“Something’s happening tomorrow,” he said, keeping his voice nearly inaudible. “I’m here to prepare you.”

She came closer, standing half in shadow, half in light. “What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow morning, Hermione’s going to use her power and summon all the Death Eaters to an undisclosed location. Aurors will be waiting to arrest all of them with warrants, and the ones that aren’t under arrest will be identified and questioned. We’ll warn them that they’re under suspicion.”

Daphne touched her arm where he knew the Dark Mark lay underneath the scratchy prison jumpsuit. “Will I be able to answer her call?”

“Normally you wouldn’t. Azkaban is home to the most advanced anti-Apparition wards in existence. But Hermione, she’s really good with wards. She told me how to disable the one keeping you in your cell.”

“I’m glad. It hurts when you don’t answer a summons,” Daphne said with a shiver.

“So I’ve heard. It won’t be pleasant when your neighbours here can’t Apparate to her. But listen,” Theo licked his lips. “When you land, it’ll be in a field, okay? Look for me in the northeast corner. I’ll help you get out. You’re not coming back here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“I’m not worth it. I’m a Death Eater, Marked for life. No one cares that I don’t agree with any of it.” She’d told Theo her whole story. Her father’s ambitions, her mother’s inattentiveness, her sister’s inexplicable lack of magical ability (of course she now knew Astoria was born a Squib). Gregory Goyle had been kind to her at Hogwarts, had lured her in with sweet words and promises of a better future under Voldemort.

When the war ended, she clung to Greg like a barnacle to a ship, unaware of the dangerous waters he steered them into in the name of clawing back a little power and influence. Then Astoria died, and Daphne could barely get out of bed in the morning. Her parents fled the country as the Ministry closed in on Pureblood money and property, and although she didn’t know it at the time, the only reason she still had a roof over her head was thanks to Greg’s working relationship with Blaise.

At some point the bloody bastard started dosing her with the tea. He put a ring on her finger and gave her hope for some kind of future. Daphne wanted to start over somewhere new and have a family, but then Lucius died and Greg’s behaviour turned manic and violent. She’d known something was wrong, but she couldn’t leave.

“I care,” Theo said softly. He caught himself before he revealed more. “As your solicitor, I care. The Wizengamot is wrong to delay your trial just because they’re worried about the upcoming elections.”

“Do you think Harry has a chance?”

“More than a chance. I think Podmore knows his days are numbered. That’s why you’re here instead of on house arrest somewhere. He thinks if he makes an example of his love child's sister, everyone will think he’s unbiased. But everyone will be on your side when they hear about your bravery in open court. The way you saved Draco’s life by kicking him the Felix Felicis, not to mention the fact that you gave his wand to Hermione… The Minister can’t risk that coming out before we go to the polls.”

“Where will I go after you get me out?”

“Draco gave me a place. Unplottable, in the Cotswolds. You’ll be safe there.”

Daphne grasped his fingers through the bars. “I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness, Theo. Will you visit me, like you do now?”

Theo knew he shouldn’t, but he considered her request anyway. If he went back and forth to Cyclamen Cottage and was somehow caught, it would put his entire career at risk; everything he built, everything he wanted to change with Draco and Hermione.

He pulled his hands away. “I can’t.”

“I understand,” she said, voice shaking. “But you’ll write?”

Gods, he wanted to give her something, but it was impossible. His owls could be compromised or, worse, recognised. A Patronus wasn’t private, and he didn’t know if Daphne could cast one, even if he somehow got her wand back. Two-way parchment wouldn’t work if she was in danger and caught without a quill.

“How’s this: We’ll have a secret code. I’ll put a taboo on it, and if you have need of me, only say it, and I will come to you.”

Daphne bit her chapped lips. Her slender fingers curled around the rusty iron bars. “It has to be something people rarely say. Maybe a whole phrase?”

“Good thinking.” He racked his brain for something odd, but before he could answer, Daphne leaned closer and whispered to him.

“And it has to be simple, so we don’t forget it. What about ‘I need you, Theodore Nott.'”

Theo looked down at his feet to hide his smile. He chided himself for struggling to remain professional. But every time he visited, it became harder to ignore the way his heart beat double-time to the sound of her voice.

Why was he risking it all? Why now, when the tide might finally turn in his favour?

He’d left Daphne hanging. He held his breath and met her gaze. Her deep blue eyes regarded him warily; hopefully.

It was impossible to back out now.

f*cking hell.

“That works for me, Daphne Greengrass.”

❖

In a large clearing in the snowy woods many kilometres from London, Operation Zugzwang was about to commence. The icy wind whipped a curl loose from Hermione’s bun as she turned to face Draco. “Is everyone ready?”

She pushed up the sleeves of Draco’s bright orange jumper. Draco insisted she wear something highly visible, just in case something happened. She understood his worries after everything they’d been through, and so even though they’d rehearsed the plan a thousand times and prepared contingencies for every potential mishap or unexpected threat, Hermione wore the blasted jumper.

But after this, she planned on burning it; Molly Weasley’s efforts be damned.

Draco tucked the wayward curl behind her ear and cast a sticking charm. Heat rose in her cheeks at how intimately he knew every part of her now. “Want me to give the signal?”

“Please.”

Draco looked around the clearing and sent three spurts of green sparks into the air. Ron and a score of Aurors poked their heads out of the treeline and responded in kind. Padma, on standby in case of injury, returned the sparks as well. Theo stood with her, having insisted on helping his friends with the unauthorised mission.

“Good to go,” Draco confirmed.

“Thank the gods this is the last time.” Hermione unwittingly smoothed a hand over her stomach as Draco nodded. His brows knit together briefly, and she stiffened as he registered what the subtle movement meant.

Oh no. She wanted to tell him later when they were alone. Not now, right before she was about to do something dangerous, however necessary.

“Hermione, wait,”

Hermione cut him off as she raised her wand arm to the sky. “Morsmordre,” she shouted with gritted teeth. She pressed her palm into the centre of her Mark, hesitating for only a moment as she prepared to visit the place between worlds for the last time.

She woke not covered in dirt like last time, but at the top of the hill looking down on the sea of graves. Snow fell in a fine frenzy, and revulsion crawled across Hermione’s skin one last time as she took in the sight below. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the snake, her faux-familiar, slithering to each occupied grave. The Death Eaters rose one by one in their hoods and masks, their necks snapping towards her in obedient silence. When all were facing her, she shouted her command, compelling every Marked Death Eater — the ones Voldemort Marked along with the ones Marked by her over a year ago — to gather in the clearing.

The first Apparated directly in front of Ron, and he apprehended the man with a quickness. Suddenly Death Eaters winked into existence at every corner, and Aurors rushed forward, hexes and jinxes flying through the air. The element of surprise gave them far more of an advantage than they’d hoped, and Death Eaters fell to the ground left and right.

Draco fired off an Incarcerous and whirled on her. “Our job here is done.”

“Not yet,” Hermione protested. “We’re supposed to look for Goyle!”

“f*ck that,” he growled, pulling her into his chest and sheltering her in his greatcoat. “You’re carrying our baby. Nothing in this world will ever matter more.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Theo help a woman in a striped Azkaban jumpsuit through the anti-Apparition wards. He had Daphne. She had no doubt Ron would apprehend Goyle, but she’d hoped to confirm his capture, too. But she also had the sense to know Draco was right.

Hermione tilted her head up to her husband and kissed him as a curse missed his shoulder. “Take me home, Draco.”

He touched the dragon charm hanging from a silver chain around his neck and the reusable Portkey matched to their home activated immediately. They spun into the sky, trusting their capable friends to finish the operation.

❖

Draco and Hermione landed gently on the high-pile rug in their cosy living room. Unlike the old flat, it combined their personal tastes. The only things that they took with them to the new place were the photo of Narcissa Malfoy and their personal effects. Mrs. Tannenbaum, ready for retirement, relocated to sunny Spain.

Hermione took off the orange jumper and her denims, trading them for her silky H.M. pyjamas, and flopped down on their sofa with a sigh. Draco hung up his greatcoat and paced in front of her, his hands grabbing at his hair.

“How long have you known?”

The hurt in his voice made her choke up. “I suspected last night at Christmas dinner, and Luna confirmed it for me. She has The Sight, you know. But Draco, she told me everything would be okay today and our mission would be successful. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I would never put us in danger. Any of us.”

He released a deep breath and her heart swelled at the tears in his eyes. “I know you’d never endanger us. But I wish you’d told me yesterday. This news would have been the best Christmas present ever.”

Hermione leapt to her feet, hugged him, and tucked her face into the crook of his neck. “Consider it the best late Christmas present ever? I wanted to tell you. You know we don’t keep anything from each other anymore. But Luna said I could wait. Although, perhaps this is payback for when I almost walked in on her and Pansy sharing an intimate moment in the sauna.”

“What?”

“Never mind that. The point is, everything is fine. I feel fine, and the dark magic won’t hurt the baby.” Hermione didn’t mention the fact that she’d cornered Padma in the loo at the party and asked numerous questions regarding magical pregnancies, including if dark magic was transferable in utero. Padma assured her it was not, and thankfully did not ask Hermione any questions in return.

Draco dipped under her top and put his palm against her belly, gently stroking it with his thumb. “Did she tell you the sex?”

“No, I want to find out together.”

His hand stilled. “Can we find out now?”

“Now?”

“Please. I don’t want to wait another second. And seeing as it’s Boxing Day, and you didn’t get me anything...” He shot her a boyish grin that launched a thousand butterflies in her stomach.

Hermione took hold of his collar and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I didn’t think you observed.”

“Now, Granger,” he said in a dangerously low tone. “You know I love to celebrate with you. Some might say I’m religious about it. I get on my knees and everything.”

She kissed him, filing away the image of him worshipping her for later. “Hoping for a boy or a girl?”

He rested his forehead on hers. “Just healthy and here with us already.”

She smiled and kissed him again, more slowly this time, safe and sound in their country home, where in eight months’ time they’d welcome a new Malfoy. It seemed too good to be true, but she knew she wasn’t imagining things. Those dark days were long gone now.

Draco ended the kiss and left one final peck on the top of her head. He navigated them back over to the sofa and they sat facing each other.

“Ready?” Hermione’s hand trembled as she waved her new wand — cypress wood, ten inches, with a dragon heartstring core — over her stomach and recited the incantation.

The instant the words left her mouth, two tiny flickering pink orbs danced over her abdomen.

She looked up at Draco, whose eyes were wide in awe.

“Twins,” he whispered. “Two girls, Granger. Our girls.”

“Our girls,” she repeated, lacing both his hands in hers. He squeezed gently, and she squeezed back, her own tears falling soft like spring rain.

As the twilight crept in through the curtains, they watched their future daughters orbit each other. The parents-to-be, like anyone who experiences that singular shock of pure love and wonder, could not bear to look away.

❖ The End ❖