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Chapter Text

The heavy weight of the shackles around his ankles had worn deep into him, digging into his skin in gaping gashes and creating permanent red scars. His restraints had been rubbing against the bone, where the skin had eroded away over time, creating lines and dull patterns in the alabaster that was never supposed to be exposed.

The first time he had ever felt the shackles around his ankles break his skin, he had only just turned eighteen. He had been locked in Azkaban for no more than a few weeks, and the permanent chain to keep him locked and attached to the prison had started to rub away at the fine skin of his feet. The shackles had been an extra safety measure, magically forcing their prisoners to remain on the Azkaban grounds until released, put to reality sometime after the mass Death Eater breakout of 1996, and before Draco Malfoy was incarcerated in June of 1998.

But, at the time of his twenty-sixth birthday, he had unfortunately grown accustomed to the extra weight around his ankles. Eight years in Azkaban had passed. Eight years in an isolated purgatory, where all he had to experience was the echoing screams of other prisoners, the raspy passings of dementors, and a slight glimpse of the human guards and their patronuses as well as an occasional visit of his mother.

Though, the visits were getting more and more seldom.

He had almost expected her to visit for his birthday. But alas, the morning came and went without a single visitor to the youngest Malfoy. As though he had been entirely forgotten.

Lunchtime came, delivered by one of the few human guards that worked in the prison. Guard Ferrington. He was accompanied by his patronus, a grand Maine Coon cat, whom he had called Bertram.

“Happy Birthday, Malfoy!” The guard said as Bertram passed through the bars of the cell and swept his bushy tail against Dracos bony leg, spreading the kindness and warmth that could only be beat by a loving embrace. “Special treat for your big day. Porridge with sugar and butter.” The guard said before lowering the shallow bowl to the floor outside Dracos cell, then stepped away to continue his rounds. Bertram unfortunately followed suit, vanishing from Draco’s cell and leaving him with the hollow ache of solitude and the ever present cold from the dementors and the North Sea once more.

Long, bony fingers wrapped around the lip of the soup plate, placed by the floor at the foot of his door. He clung to it, bringing it through the gap and up it to his face. He took his time, smelling the sweet, mushy oats that had boiled in water for far too long, and then had been topped with no more than the lightest sprinkle of sugar and a small dollop of butter, which had since melted to the rim of his simple meal.

It smelled divine.

His frail arms trembled as he lifted the bowl to his lips and tipped his head back slightly, allowing the porridge to slide slowly into his mouth, savouring every last drop until there was no more to eat. He licked the bowl clean as he thought of the possibilities the day could bring. He had already gotten a warm and sweet lunch. Perhaps he would also be allowed a lukewarm shower? A fresh uniform?

The warmth of Bertram returned as guard Ferrington collected the empty bowl from the same spot it had been delivered to the inmate. “Excuse me…” Dracos voice was coarse and gravely, not used to speaking much. Not as of late. It had been six months since he had last seen his mother, and the guards seldom spoke to him. The tall man turned to face the young Malfoy, crouched on the floor in the corner, just next to the patronus, where he was reaching for Bertrams warmth.

“Ye?” Ferrington barked. He wasn't a particularly unkind man, but he did not enjoy lingering around Draco. It had always been obvious he had a rather hard time being friendly toward the Malfoy man. Possibly due to the Dark Mark, ever present on Draco's forearm, the most obvious sign of his Death Eater past.

“Could you tell me what’s going on? Out there, I mean?” He nodded his head to his cell window, which was just an open slit in the wall, where the elements could be seen and experienced with both harshness and fondness alike. His eyes glanced towards the world beyond, which lay somewhere past the horizon of the cruel North Sea.

Ferrington's brows furrowed, his mouth tightening as he took a moment to think of his next words. “You know, Malfoy, sometimes I think it’s better for you in here than out there. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

And with that, both the gruff guard and the warm Bertram vanished from sight once more.

From his bed, he could see out of the single, slim window of his cell. He saw the stormy grey clouds, the temperamental waves of the ocean and sometimes, at the right angle, he gaught sight of a muggle ship passing in the distance. He was looking out across the stormy seas, hoping for a glimpse of light on the horizon, when another human guard stopped outside his cell. It had been hours since Ferrington and Bertram had come by, so seeing the new guard with the iguana patronus perched on his shoulder was a pleasant surprise. 

“Malfoy. Visitor.” The guard said. Draco dragged his weighted feet down from his bed and crossed the floor, chains rattling between his feet against the cold flagstone. He felt one of the wounds of his left ankle reopen for the eleventh time that week, a single trail of warmth streaking down the side of his foot, where the blood could join the other dried, burgundy droplets on the floor. 

Once by the door, Draco turned with his back to the opening, placing his trembling hands on the back of his head, straining his weak shoulders and biceps with the simple move. The guard unlocked the door and grabbed Dracos left hand, putting a cuff on the slender wrist and pulled it down, before stepping around the inmates front and cuffing his right wrist, collecting both hands in front of him with the heavy chains.

The shackles on his wrists were the worst part of having a visitor come to see him. They tore every last drop of magic from his body, sucking it out and weakening him to the point he was nearly unable to stand. Becuse being weakened both from the lack of nutrition and sleep simply wasn’t enough.

“Who’s he?” Draco's voice was weak as he eyed the guard, a somewhat familiar face from a life long left behind. Then, his gaze fell to the the iguana on his left shoulder.

“I call her Ida.” The man said, his fingers wrapping lightly around Draco's bony elbow and started walking him from his cell and down the icy cold corridor.

“Ida the iguana." Draco said with weakened approval, dipping his chin but once to the guard.

“Exactly.” The other man said with a smile. His cheeks were adorned with dimples and freckles. He looked far too young and much too kind to be a guard in such a place. 

Silence fell between the two, allowing the rattling of the chains to be the only sound around them. The men stepped through several corridors and slowly climbed stairs, only to get to the visitation floor on the eighth level, which was two levels above Dracos cell. The trek was excruciatingly long for his much too weakened body.

“You probably don’t remember me from school.” The guard suddenly spoke, just between levels six and seven. “But I remember you. Clear as day, actually.”

“Don’t take it personally. I hate who I was back then, so I have chosen to forget many things.” There was no lie in his words. There were several things he had wanted to forget about his time at Hogwarts. From spitting slurs at muggleborn students. Wishing death upon people he didn’t level with. Helping Death Eaters enter the school and threatening his headmasters life. Those were only some examples. He had spent the last eight years reflecting upon his actions and desperately wishing to right himself from who he had once been. But one cannot simply forget. Thus, he had occluded. He locked away all of his anger, all the pain he had caused and all the disgusting things he had once said. He knew it was there, easily accessible but still hidden behind towering walls of heavy stones and concrete.

“My sister is Hanna Abbott, you know. My name is Henry.” Said the guard with a surprising amount of vigour. “I am two years younger than you.”

“Abbott…” Draco felt his brows furrow as he connected who he was speaking of. His depleted magic made his mind weaker, allowing the memories of a life he had wished to leave behind much more difficult to access. “Hufflepuff, isn’t she?”

“She was. As was I.” Henry Abbot spoke kindly, his voice filling the echoing corridor with a sort of light Draco wasn’t accustomed to. “You helped me with my Potions homework a few times, in the library. I was struggling and you helped. Not much, but just enough to get me by without losing house points.”

“You probably caught me on some of my rare good days.” He lifted his gaze from the dirty flagstone below his bare feet, and met Henry’s eyes for a brief moment.

The guard was smiling. His face softly illuminated by Ida the iguana patronus on his shoulder. “I always heard tales of Draco Malfoy. Always heard he was a proper ponce. Clever as hell, but a right git, people said. I never met that version of you, though. You usually ignored my friends and I, or you helped us. Probably saved us from a few point reductions and a scolding from Snape on more than one occasion.” 

Although it didn't quite sound slike something he would do, Draco knew there might have been on occasions where his goons had not accompanied him to the library. When he had been alone. He gave the man a small nod with his head, still wearing a tired smile and continued to walk alongside him in somewhat companionable silence.

Henry stopped him in front of Visitation Room 7, swinging the door open. A simple room with two chairs and a small table, lit by two torches on the opposing longer walls, which radiated much welcome heat into the relatively small space. Draco stepped inside, with Henry Abbott shutting the door behind him with a loud bang and the metallic sound of a latch being fixed behind him. Draco kept his eyes on the visitor, a much surprising one as that, as he sat down across from the familiar face.

Tall and well built, lithe with broad shoulders. Freckles. Blue eyes. Red hair. Overall much more well-groomed than he had been as a student at Hogwarts. Draco almost couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Weasley?”

“Malfoy.” Ronald Weasley greeted with a stiff nod.

The confusion spread over the Malfoy man’s face must have been easy enough to decipher, as Weasley rested his forearms atop the table and leaned slightly forwards to fill Draco in on why he was visiting the prisoner on his birthday. “I have been sent here on official business from the Ministry of Magic. I come from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to talk to you today.”

“I thought I was meeting my mother.” He had truly believed he had trekked to the eighth floor for her. Not Weasley. Had he known, he probably would have refused to go, and left Weasley to return to London without having shared words. Though, instead of fleeing, Draco rounded the chair on his side of the table and sat down, eyes focused intently on the speckled man before him.

Weasley eyed Draco for a moment, observing him with closed off caution and squinted eyes before allowing his face to soften ever so slightly. “What do you know about the outside world, Malfoy?”

“Nothing. I heard that my father died a few years back. And that a few people have been moving abroad due to how the country is run.” His statements were met with nods from the redhead. “But last I heard anything of actual note, was probably years ago. News doesn't exactly travel fast in here.”

“That’s all quite true. Your father died about three and a half years ago. Some people our age has been moving abroad.” Weasleys gaze shifted, moving from Dracos grey eyes and down to his own hands, which were bearing the same amount of freckles as his face. “The magical community is at a bit of a standstill at the moment. People aren’t… Well, uh,  Shacklebolt is our Minister for Magic and he has called for people between the ages of 25 and 35 to marry.” This was when his brows furrowed before returning his eyes to Dracos “Marrying is mandatory. And each married couple has at the very most, three years to conceive before they are either remarried to someone fruitful or until the minitry intervenes with magical medical help.”

“Conceive…”

“A baby." He confirmed with a heaviness to his voice. "There have hardly been any children since the war. At this rate, Hogwarts might have to close down. The Ministry could easily collapse in a few years. And the effects of that will probably rattle wizarding Britain as we know it. Everyone must marry and procreate. People are approached by the Department of Matrimonial Affairs and have a month to find a partner and marry them, or one will be appointed to those who can’t find one on their own.”

“And what does that have to do with me?” Draco felt his throat was dry. He had spoken much more than he was used to, much more than he had since long before Christmas. That simply had to be the case. He needed water. Something to drink, to wash down the news of the goings on in the outside world.

A grimace tore across the freckled face before him. Pained and quite clearly uncomfortable. “I believe you might know where I’m going with this”  

“In case you don’t know, it is rather difficult to meet people in one’s prison cell, Weasley.” If Draco had any excess energy, he would have had a bite to his voice. However, his proclamation only came out sounding defeated.

Weasley pursed his lips as he took in the pale mess of a man before him, sizing him up and down before turning off to the side of the table and started to fidget in what Draco could only assume was a briefcase on the floor. The redhead pulled out a beige folder and chucked it onto the surface of the table, allowing it to land in the middle between them.

Draco L. Malfoy

He watched as long, freckled fingers opened the folder, revealing Dracos sentencing, as well as a picture of him from when he was first incarcerated at eighteen years and four days old. “You have seven years left here, if you so choose. You will not have to marry until you finish your sentence, though you will not be allowed to choose your own wife, and your appointed one will probably be less than ideal for you. Both in age and… Otherwise.”

“If this is about mu-”

“Watch your tongue, Malfoy.” The ginger spat with clear venom in voice, blue eyes shifting from the parchment between them to stare down the prisoner with nothing but loathing.

Draco rolled his tongue over his teeth, sucking at them as he stared back, testing the other man. “I was going to say muggleborn, you absolute twit.”

“Whatever you say, Death Eater.” The ginger said, bringing forth the grimacing teenager Draco remembered from Hogwarts. The one who was quick to anger and spoke his mind, no matter how inconsiderate and rude his mind might be.

“Former Death Eater, Weasley. If you’re looking to insult someone, at least try to make it accurate.”

“As I was saying…” Weasley closed the folder between the two of them, the soft sound of parchment hitting parchment sounding through the room, along with the soft crackle of the torches on the walls. “That is one option. Your other option here is to leave with me today. Be on probation for two more years and generally live as a free man from today on. You'll have a month to choose a wife, or you’ll have one appointed to you by the Department of Matrimonial Affairs. After that, you can try to get a job or raise children together with your wife; you can live normally, Malfoy."

The world around him seemed to come to a halt for a moment. A bride was no issue. He had been raised to marry someone of his parents choosing, so not having a choice in that regard was of no concern to him. However, freedom was everything he had ever wanted. Everything he had dreamed of for as long as he could remember. Since long before his incarceration. “I can… I can leave today?” The question escaped him in a whisper.

Weasley nodded his head. “You can. But there is a catch. You see, your mother is in St. Mungos. She has been since February. So I have been appointed to babysit you until you wed. Just to make sure you eat, shower, go about and get acclimated to life on the outside.” He cast a quick glance towards the folder atop the table. "Make sure you don't kill anyone." 

The men simply looked at one another. Draco had questions. Possibly millions of them. He opened his mouth to speak, his lips forming around the beginning of his thoughts before falling short. His lips closed, then opened once more. He needed to say something. Ask something. Anything.

“She’s fine, your mum. She has been struggling a bit since your father died. That and the loneliness got to her. She’s in Janus Thickey, but she’s fine. Her healers all say she will be fine to move home soon.” Weasley started speaking, his voice unmistakably kind and gentle, a stark contrast to the bite some moments prior. Draco considered the words carefully, weighing each syllable in his mind. “If you wish to leave today, you and I will stay at your manor in Wiltshire for about a month, until you get married.”

“You’ll be staying with me? Not in my bed, right?”

“Probably in a room close to yours. Your house elves have been notified of this proposition and have probably prepared for your return already.” Weasley explained, putting the file back in his briefcase on the floor, before turning back to face the Azkaban prisoner, eyeing him briefly with a raised brow. “So?”

“S- so?” Such a simple question caught him entirely off guard. 

“What will it be, Malfoy?”

Draco stared dumbly at the redheaded man before him, then heard a small, solitary and breathy chuckle escape himself. “I want to go home.”

Draco felt almost weightless as he walked through the wrought iron gates of the Malfoy estate. The grounds were as beautifully manicured as he could recall, though the lack of albino peacocks was a stark contrast to what he could recall. Moreover, the manor itself was entirely different from what he recalled.

The building itself had been raised about a millennium prior, set with pale flagstone, each window framed in black. It had grand ceilings, adorned with reptilian details of Slytherin men loyal to their Hogwarts house, dark coloured interior walls and floors, heavy drapes and ornaments in the hallways oozing with the heavy essence of the occult. The dark magic from the second Wizarding War had lingered, with the air around the manor being scented like cadavers and blood, reeking of darkness brought in by the Dark Lord and his heinous acts when he had moved into the Malfoy family home.

Though, as he stood before his ancestral home, he could easily see it was not like that at all. The black borders around the windows had been altered to a soft, sandy brown. There was climbing hydrangea across the westernmost front of the house, climbing the wall up to the roof of the manor and framing the windows of the ancient building with white and pink blossoms. The stone staircase leading to the entrance of the house had once been cool and dark, hidden in shadows of the north facing wall. The alterations had made it beautifully lit by the reflections of water from a newly installed fountain in the gravel drive. Three kelpies, the size of horses, dancing around each other, with water spurting from their open mouths, as well as a solitary fountain in the middle between them. Water caught the sunlight, bouncing the gleam back up at the manor in a mesmerising manner that reminded Draco of shimmering stars in the sunlight.  

The property smelled of freshly mown grass. Of flowers. Of soil. The air around the grounds filled within Dracos lungs and soul with the feeling of love and care. He hadn’t even known how badly he had missed the scent of the upkeep of the vast grounds. It was wonderful to come back to a home he could barely recognise.

With a quiet Weasley in tow, Draco stepped with shaking knees around the fountain, watching as the three Kelpies seemed to dance around with each other, the water splashing gently over the scales of the beings, a few droplets landing on the thick edge, creating small, dark spots.  

“Master Draco,” a house elf squeaked from the front door. She wore a simple, yellow dress, tailored to her small frame perfectly, her ears hung low, ending below her small shoulders, her nose was short and wide. She had wide, hazel eyes and a hopeful smile spread across her face. As if he could ever forget her.

“Effie!” Draco greeted happily, falling to his knees on the step in front of her to greet her on her level, his quaking hands resting on his thighs as he observed the house elf his father had gotten after Dobby had been freed by the Chosen One.

The small elf stepped towards him, and she greeted him by brushing her fingers gently across his hollowed cheek. “Effie is so glad to see you, Master Draco, sir. Effie has been so sad without you at home, sir.”

“I’m so glad to see you too, Effie.” He said, placing his own hand atop hers. The first touch of affection he had felt in eight years. Eight extremely long and horrible years. His eyes fell shut, soaking up the feeling of her kind touch. He made a silent promise to himself to not cry in front of her, no matter how the back of his nose stung with the promise of tears to come.

After a moments silence, Weasley greeted Effie with a small hello, which she in turn welcomed him back to the manor.

“Master Draco, does you wish Effie to draw you a bath?”

He felt her fingers brushing strands of his hair. Long and grey with dirt and grime through months of build up. “Yes please. You go ahead, I’ll be up in my quarters soon.”

As soon as she vanished with a crack, Draco tried getting to his feet. He staggered and groaned; his muscles weakened after too much movement for one day. Weasley came up behind him, wrapping an arm around his body and a hand around his bicep, helping him to his feet and up the last few stone steps.

They exchanged no words, both stepping in through the grand front doors. Draco untangled himself from Weasley, his bony fingers clutching at the wide bannister as they walked up the carpeted marble staircase. Once it split, they took the continuing left arching staircase. Draco noticed in his peripheral, that Ron Weasley was lagging slightly behind him, his eyes wary and locked on his frail former classmate as they walked in heavy silence.

The sound of their shoes slapping against the polished floors echoed through the grand corridors. Draco noted that the eerie portraits of generations of Malfoy men and families had vanished from the deep brown walls with snake accents that once were. Instead, the walls bore pastel yellow wallpaper with slightly darker yellow oval accents. The arching, vaulted ceilings bore no serpents and reptilian details, but was decorated tastefully with golden painted floral design. The paintings, once of family he wished to forget, had been replaced by paintings of colourful landscapes, one with vast lavender fields, another with a unicorn running across a shallow stream of water and yet another with autumn leaves blowing in the wind. Much more tasteful than the sour face of Abraxas Malfoy, his grandfather, glaring down at him with nothing but disapproval and contempt.

“You’re probably starving.” Weasleys voice came from Draco’s right hand side, bringing him out of his lazy daze. “What would you like to have as your first meal back?”

It was, in one way, an easy enough question. Draco had spent a lot of time thinking about his first meal back at the manor. Sitting with his mother, eating a beautifully cooked reindeer steak with Pikes’ lumpy mashed potatoes, an assortment of vegetables, served with a small pond of velvety cream-based sauce and a generous heap of foxberry jam.

However, he didn’t quite feel like he was yet out of Azkaban. The wounds and grooves around his ankles, formidable scars from his heavy shackles still felt present. His long, skeletal fingers and hands visible with most of his moves, the way his once fitted clothes hung loosely from his body, his long hair swaying in and out of his line of sight, and the way his muscles ached with even the thought of walking, made him feel like he was still locked in his cell in the 6th level of Azkaban.

His mind was lost, somewhere in the deep vastness of the ocean he had overlooked just earlier that morning, still searching for for the lights of ships on the horizon. His mother in St. Mungos. Weasley, using his own words, babysitting him. Nothing was the way he imagined his first day out to be like.

“I don’t have any wishes, actually.” He said, glancing over at Weasley. He noticed they were of similar height as adults. Weasley had always been tall, but hunched forwards with his lack of confidence. “How about you choose? Anything you’d like. As many courses as you’d please.” Draco said, meeting the redheaded man’s gaze and twitched his lips upwards to a weak smile.

“What? But Malfoy-”

“Just call for Effie and she will have it sorted.” His hand landed on the golden doorhandle, leading into his room. “I’ll be having a bath whilst you get settled.” He assured the other man before stepping through the door, into his old bedroom. The darkness of the room enveloped him. It was like plunging into a vast chamber of the hopeless and desperate depression of his teenage years.

The bath had taken ages to get through. His hair was long and had clung to the grease and dirt that had taken months to build up. He had steeped in his bath for a long time, getting the invasive dirt out from the tracks of his fingerprints and the grooves between his ribs. He had ducked below the surface, letting the warm, soapy water sink into his pores and clean him thoroughly, using the coarse skin of his weathered fingers to scrub what he could. After a while, he had called Effie to collect sponges, scrubs, bushes and loofas for him. All of which came out grey and brown when he had finished cleaning himself.

It had been the first bath of the millennium. And it had been wonderful.

After his lengthy soak, he stood before the mirror and sized himself up. Judging what he had become. He had changed a lot since the last time he stood in the very same spot, looking at his own body in the long mirror.

The platinum white hair that once was short and neatly combed, had grown below his collar bones. The guards cut his hair occasionally, last time cutting it to his skull with dull scissors and creating sloppy patches. It had obviously been a while since they had done it. It was a helpless mop of white, hanging in thin, lifeless and dull waves from atop his head.

The broad shoulders were still evident on his body, though they were not accentuated with muscles as they once used to be. His shoulders were wide and bony, showing off the width of his chest with protruding collar bones and the hollowed skin between each of his ribs.

The stomach that had once been toned, with elegant lines that showed off his health and muscles from years of playing quidditch and running after Unicorns in hopes of riding them. It had sunk in below his ribs, and lay flat, a simple stretch of pale skin to keep his organs in place, shadowed by his ribcage.

Thighs, once filled with volume of a quidditch players muscles, had faded to nothing. Mere skin and bone, leaving a rather large gap of air between them before flaring out slightly towards his knees.

Once muscular arms, toned and chiseled to his wrist, with prominent veins and tendons, had become unnaturally thin and skeletal. The skin clung to his bones in ways he hadn’t noticed before placing himself in front of the mirror.

And his skin… He had always been a pale boy, but it had somehow used to glow. Showing off health and vitality. It had become grey with his time in Azkaban. Purple bruising below his eyes, screaming of little sleep accumulated over the last eight years. The several scars Potter had given him, were protruding slightly from his skin in silvery white slashes, glossing from his left shoulder, heading down towards his right hip. One of the scars, nearest his navel, had a slight purple twinge around around the edge of it. A broad scar on the outside of his right arm, where a hippogriff had once slashed him. His prisoner tattoo, showing off black runes and numbers on the side of his neck. An obvious branding for an ex-inmate of Azkaban. And his dark mark. Once a vivid black, having faded to a muted grey. Like a drawing that had been worn out or placed in the sun to fade.

He swallowed thickly, allowing his grey eyes to consider himself in his entirety. A shell of the boy he once was. Damaged. Ruined. Pathetic. Disgusting.

Given a second chance at life.

A chance he most certainly did not deserve.

He turned his back to the mirror, choosing to not turn his head and observe. He knew what was hiding there. Fortunately for him, it was not somewhere he could easily see.

He dressed himself with a white oxford and black trousers, simple attire from his closet, before heading out of his room and slowly made his way to the dining room.

He almost expected to be met by the same black table, where Draco had watched one of the professors at Hogwarts get eaten alive by the Dark Lord’s snake. However, he should have known his mother better. What met him, however, was an entirely new room. The high ceilings were decorated with cherubs and floral design painted in gold, seemingly dancing and flowing across the vaulted ceiling in a light summers breeze. The stormy dark painted walls were replaced by a tasteful sage green, and every painting of beautiful landscape and scenery was framed with ornate, golden frames. Gold accents decorated the room, and the three crystal chandeliers bounced the light from the setting sun into breathtaking rainbows across the walls.

Not only did the room look incredible. It smelled positively divine.

The large table, a rich cherry wood, had been set for two, on opposite sides of each other, in the middle of the length of the surface, just below the grandest of the chandeliers. The food being served, seemed to be a steak of sorts. A thick cut, seared beautifully golden brown and crisp. Assortments of side dishes littered the table around the place settings for the men. Broccoli. Carrots. Potatoes. Edamame. Bacon wrapped asparagus. Roasted tomatoes. Cream potatoes au gratin. Garlic roasted mushrooms. Creamed spinach. Garlic Bread. Butter Rolls. A pepper sauce and a red wine sauce had been placed between the wide assortment of side dishes. Ramekins of herbal butter were placed by each setting. Both men had been given a glass for water, one for red wine, one for white wine and one for whiskey.

“I swear I just asked for steak and some decent side dishes…” Weasley muttered, standing behind his own upholstered cherry wood chair, across from Draco. “I think Effie might have read a bit too much into it.”

“Effie doesn’t cook. She only delivers the message. Pikes is the chef. At least it looks like he still is. Unless he is given specific instructions, he often gets carried away.” Draco explained the other man, feeling a small smile cross his lips as he spoke, his eyes dancing across the mouthwatering food that had been ever so tastefully presented. “Pikes loves his job. And having had only the other elves to cook for lately, I assume he might have let loose. It sure seems like it.”

The men both pulled out their chairs and sat down. Draco thought the chair was heavier than it looked, but remembered how much muscle mass his body had lost over the years, and thus sat down with defeat, not making a comment.

“I have to say, that bath did wonders for you.” Weasley grimaced, picking up a salad fork whilst avoiding Dracos eyes. “Didn’t they let you bathe or shower in there?”

Draco worried his bottom lip between his teeth. It was chapped and dry. “Once in a blue moon. Last I had a warm shower was for Christmas. The last cold one was…” he let his eyes wander across the table as he thought when his last cold spray could have taken place. He watched as Weasley loaded his plate with mushrooms, spinach, potatoes au gratin and red wine sauce. Topping it off with garlic bread that he positioned dangerously on the lip of his plate. “Sometime before Easter, I believe. Two months ago or so.”

"You can't be serious?" Weasley gaped, and Draco noticed the piercing blue eyes that had locked on him. 

He took a deep breath, collecting his hands like a prayer to a muggle deity between his chest and his plate. "Azkaban is described as hell on earth for a reason, Weasley." He said calmly, his voice not carrying spite or resentment to the man across from him. "I have spent eight years, my entire adult life, behind bars. The first five years, my cell was guarded by two dementors. I wasnt alone for a single moment. Constantly reliving my worst choices and mistakes. Or made to experience new scenarios that were much worse than what I ever did." he reached a hand forward, taking the silver handle of the scoop for the cream potatoes au gratin, lifting a generous scoop onto his plate with a trembling hand. "You are promised three meals per day. Breakfast is a dry piece of bread. You're lucky if you don't get a moldy one. Lunch was left overs from breakfast. Perhaps a cold, hard-boiled egg. Dinner is a scoop of cold mashed potatoes. Mushy and flavourless. Every day is the same." 

He lifted his gaze from his plate, meeting Weasleys own. He looked as if he had been struck by an invisible hand.

"I had a room with a view. I got to see muggle ships on the horizon at times; that was my only entertainment. There was no glass on my window. Just bars. I couldn't even jump to take my own life, I just had to sit there, feeling the freezing wind of the North Sea. Winters are particularly bad, you know. Two years ago, I lost two toes to frostbite." His eyes glossed over, and he lost focus of where he was looking. "Mother used to visit me. Every week at first. Then it became every other. And once a month. Once father died, I saw her even less. During her visits, we were not allowed to touch. I haven't hugged my own mother in eight years. I hadn't felt a loving touch until Effie held my cheek when we came back today." The world fell away as he closed his eyes tightly. He kept to his promise of withholding his tears. He would not cry in front of Weasley. Tears was meant to be shed in the privacy of his bedroom. Malfoy men did not weep.

The silence stretched between them, until Weasley eventually spoke up. Just loud enough to not be a whisper. "I... I didn't know it was that bad in there. Would, uh... Would you like a hug?"

Trying to suppress his amusement had never been more difficult, as the frown upon his face turned into a smile, and a laugh escaped his throat without any hesitation. His eyes opened once more, and he shook his head, forcing back more hums of amusement. "Thanks for the offer, Weasley. But I don't want a pity hug. I'll rather wait until someone who has actually missed me hugs me." 

"Fair enough, mate," the redhead smiled back to him. Weasley stabbed at his steak with a salad fork and used a steak knife to cut through it. Draco, however, used the proper utensils, and they both started eating in companionable silence. Weasley helped himself to three servings, moaning comments such as "Compliments to the chef." and "Blimey, I'll be fat by the time I move back home." 

Draco, on the other hand, tasted his steak. Cooked to absolute perfection. The potates and the red wine sauce was, as phrased by his companion, to fucking die for. But he was unable to eat much. Four pieces of his steak and few forkfuls of the potatoes, and he felt his stomach stretch and groan with the agony of unfamiliar and heavy food. Feelig full for the first time in years was a painful experience. He rubbed his stomach, leaning back in his chair as he observed the ginger before him, devouring his second steak whilst eyeing a sizable broccoli that awaited him on his plate. 

Weasley had changed in several ways over the years. His jaw had squared out, defined by a light dusting of a beard over his face. His hair was neatly arranged, cut to suit the shape of his face and the width of his shoulders. The red was still prominent but seemed closer to strawberry blonde than the vivid orange of their youth. His clothes fit him better. The jacket that hung across the back of his dining chair seemed to be tailored. Weasleys sleeves were rolled up, showing off a simple wristwatch on his left-hand side. A white watch face with golden roman numerals. gold details and a cognac-coloured leather strap. The watch seemed to be highlighted by a simple gold wedding band on his ring finger. 

"Could you tell me about this new law? Having to marry, and all?" 

"Yeah, 'course," Ronald said, then quickly swallowed his mouthful, straining to get the pieces down his throat. "Shacklebolt originally brought the rule to a vote, what, four years ago. Said the birth rates of magical children were plummeting. Five years ago, sixteen pureblood or halfblood babies were born. Four years ago, it was fifteen. Then it was twelve. Then ten. And last year there was six."

"What? Only six?" 

"Yeah. Only one and a half kid per Hogwarts house. Of course, no one knows the statistics on muggleborn children for those years yet, but birth rates are too low. Way too low. So, Shacklebolt and the Wizengamot decided to install a marriage law, regulated by the newly created Department of Matrimonial Affairs. They launched a trial at the beginning of last year, actually. Wanted Harry, Hermione and I at the forefront of it all, marrying us off to people who might have been at the wrong side of the war. Harry begged to marry Gin, my sister, but she refused him. 'Mione evaded the whole thing by moving to Australia. The DMA assigned me to marry Daphne Greengrass, and Harry was assigned to marry Pansy Parkinson." With this last statement, Weasley paused, observing Draco, who sat calmly. Listening to how the world was changing with keen interest. He even found it fitting, his ex girlfriend marrying the Chosen One. "Angelina Johnson married Marcus Flint and Gregory Goyle got released to marry Susan Bones. Daph and I have a daughter. Harry and Pansy are expecting their firstborn this winter. With this year’s coming births, the rates are increasing. Already up from six magically born children, to eleven." 

 “I must admit, that is…” He nodded his head slowly, his brows furrowing slightly. “A lot of information. But it seems that wizarding world will be better for it. Are all marriages going well?”

“Apparently. The DMA checks in, interviews both parties by using Veritaserum. They also assign spouses on compatibility. Using Hogwarts records and personality traits to find the best match available, especially if people can’t find their own.” Weasley laid down his knife and fork, moving his hand to his glass of red wine and downed a rather large mouthful.

Draco folded his fingers over his stomach, thinking of questions to ask. The new marriage law seemed to be, in ways, too good to be true. “You said Granger avoided it by fleeing the country. What will happen to her, and other British citizens living abroad, now?”

Ronalds’s eyebrows raised slightly at the question, the corner of his lips tugging upwards slightly. “Excellent question, Malfoy.” He said as he lowered the glass, placing it precisely where it had previously stood, marked into the beige velvet tablecloth by a barely visible ring. “If they are still British citizens, the new rule applies to them as well. They will be asked to return or change their citizenship to wherever they live. If they return, they will have to marry, just like the rest of us.”

“And everyone has one month to get married? Won’t the courtrooms and wedding halls get crowded?”

“Everyone has thirty days from their summons. Some can get longer, but that is for very special circumstances.” He lifted his hand to the side of his neck, rubbing it mindlessly. “This is the third wave. First wave was a select few, just to test it out. Second wave was four months ago, with twelve couples getting married. Now, there’s the third wave. Twenty couples are to marry this time. And every time someone conceives, the family will be rewarded. Same for every birth. The sooner the conception and birth, the bigger the reward.”

Draco continued to nod along to Weasleys words, his tongue feeling the backside of his teeth as he pondered how to phrase his next question. He was feeling worn and tired from the vast amounts happening throughout the day. “Get married to a good match, have a baby, get rewarded.” It sounded easy enough. Anything sounded easier than residing in Azkaban. “Now… I need you to tell me why my mother is in Janus Thickey.”

A woman like Narcissa Black Malfoy was not someone who simply slipped into long-term care at a hospital without reason. Everything the woman had ever done had been purposeful. Her entire life was planned to the last minor detail. Everything from getting her robes pressed, to doing her makeup and how she spoke to shopkeepers.

She would never have missed her only son finally returning home after eight years. She would never have missed an opportunity to hug him. To kiss him. To run her hand affectionately through his fringe. She did not belong in a hospital. Especially not without reason.

Weasley stiffened, his broad shoulders tensing beneath his oxford. His eyes evaded Draco's. “I believe we should talk about that tomorrow.”

“And I believe you should tell me now.” He was calm. Keeping himself contained and breathing evenly. “Go on, Weasley. Tell me. Now.”

Long fingers raked through red hair as Ronald inhaled deeply through the nose. “A lot has happened since you got locked up, Malfoy.”

“Why is my mother in Janus Thickey?” 

“Someone found her in muggle Manchester. She was speaking nonsense, and she showed signs of having been tortured by the cruciatus curse” Weasley finally lifted his gaze to meet Draco's. He felt his heart sink within his chest, dropping to the deepest pit of his stomach.

“No… That can’t be right.”

“She had stopped by the DMLE several times since your father’s… Since Lucius…”

“Died?” He urged.

“Was murdered,” Weasley corrected regretfully. “She came by a lot after he was murdered. Begging the auror on his case to look further into certain people. Said she was being followed. That she might be next. Terrified, she was. Of course, the guy couldn’t bother. Said she was a nutter for suggesting there was someone after her. Then she shows up in Machested, just out of nowhere, she’d obviously been tortured and couldn't even form a coherent sentence. She’s getting better, she is, but her mind is still very fragile. It will be a while before she can go home.”

So, he had lied. Weasley had no reason to lie to him but had done so anyhow. Trust was something one earned over time, slowly built by actions and honesty. The kindness that Weasley had shown throughout the day, the help he had offered was quickly overshadowed by the untruth that his mother was fine.

He rolled his shoulder, feeling stiff and uneasy across from the liar. “And father? How-”

“She really didn’t tell you?” The redhead grimaced with discomfort.

“Just said that he died.”

A nod. Weasley was sizing up his words, looking equally uncomfortable as Draco. “He was broken out of Azkaban. No one knows who did it or how it was done, because it happened back when Dementors were still guarding the place. About a week later, a nine-year-old muggle girl found him. She was on her way to school, just outside of Pontypridd in Wales.” A deep breath. “He’d been skinned alive. There were signs of healing, so whoever had done it to him, had taken their time… The techs think he'd been tortured for two or three days before he... Well, before he died.”

His head fell into his hands. His body was vibrating, anger and bile seeming to boil within his body. A trembling hand supported the weight of his head as he glared down at his plate. The red juices from the steak appeared like watered blood before his eyes. He tried opening his mouth, but was terrified he might vomit onto the table between them if his so much as parted.

Weasley must have seen the struggle, for he spoke up without hesitation. “The auror assigned to the case was absolute shit. He’s been sacked now, after your mum was taken. He didn’t think to look into a murder like that. Nor the two that came after.”

Dracos head lifted, his eyes piercing Weasley like daggers beneath furrowed brows. Weasley did not have to have been a legilimens to understand the question swimming through his mind.

“Yeah. At least two other murders that are similar to your fathers. The guy, er, the Auror, didn’t bother looking too much into it. Said it was a good deed because they killed Death Eaters. Harry and I were assigned the case after he got sacked. Which is why I’m here with you. Maybe something at the manor can help us somehow.”

Draco nodded his head. His tongue felt immensely thick and heavy in his mouth.

Mother tortured to incoherence, forced to spend her days as a wandering mess in the Janus Thickey-ward of St. Mungos hospital. She’d been there for months already. His father brutally murdered. Much deserved, of course, but whoever had done it was still free. If Death Eaters were the only ones being targeted, Draco was certain he would be on the list of future murder victims. Skinned alive like his father before him.

He pushed his chair back with his legs, ending his meal before dessert arrived. He quickly turned on his heel and rushed out of the dining room as quickly as his unsteady legs could carry him.

The oversized oxford felt unnaturally tight on his body. Clinging to his skin in damp patches on his back and chest. He barely made it to the window, stained glass, depicting a woman tending to red roses. He pushed the pane of glass open with haste and bent over the bushes outside to release his dinner into the flower bed beneath him. He coughed, groaning as bile rose from his stomach and exited his body time and time again, until he was entirely empty.

Sliding to the cold floors, he rested his body against the wall beneath the window. He was a mere mess of long, slender limbs and oversized clothes. Hugging his own legs tightly, seeking the comforting embrace of his mother, he finally allowed the first tears of the day to fall freely.

Chapter Text

Ron pacing back and forth was quite the unusual sight, Hermione thought. She had known the man for years; most of her life, in fact. However, he had never been one to pace to process his thoughts or emotions. He usually chose to sit in sullen silence, thinking and skulking quietly until he resolved his problems, or he chose to moan about them to anyone who would hear. It all depended on the issue at hand.

The stone deck in the back garden of number twelve Grimmauld Place had quickly become a gathering spot every summer since the war. She, of course, had not been around for the last couple of summers, having resided in Australia until the week that had just passed them by. The sun was high in the sky, beaming down at them in the early afternoon. The five adults on the deck had just finished sharing a lunch, prepared for them by their gracious hosts, Harry and Pansy Potter.

“I swear, Malfoy has completely lost the plot!” Ron said as he turned on his heel, using his long legs to stride the six paces towards Harry and Pansy. “Yesterday morning, I found him in some closed off tearoom, just sitting on the floor and looking at a painting. He’d sat there all night, hadn’t slept or anything.” He turned quickly, nearly on the exact same spot as the time before. “This morning, I found him outside. Sitting in the dirt, wearing his pyjamas, no shoes on, and looking at the grass. He hadn’t even noticed it was morning, when I came and asked if he wanted to join me for breakfast.” He turned on his heel once more, stalking back towards the bench where their hosts sat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Turn. He strode quickly towards settee Daphne and Hermione shared, both witches staring up at him.

“It doesn’t sound like Draco at all,” Pansy said with a shake of her head, her eyes depicting worry as they followed Ron left and right. Her hands were enveloping Harrys, who had rested his own hand atop her knee. Her shoulder-length, black bob was half pulled away from her face, half hanging down, just glossing her shoulders. She whipped her head around, facing her husband. “Why can’t I go over there? He’s my friend… I miss him, you know this.” A discussion that had halted throughout their lunch seemed to be resuming.

Harry and Ron, both of them aurors, had requested both Pansy and Daphne to stay away from both the Malfoy man and the Malfoy grounds until they knew where his mind was at. Having left Azkaban no more than three days prior, Ron had made it more than clear that Draco Malfoy was not at all alike the one from their teenage years. From the war. Called him a nutter. Having lost the plot. Completely bonkers.

“You haven’t seen him for eight years, Pans. For all we know, he could be dangerous.” Green eyes glanced down at her lightly rounded stomach; the bump barely visible through her blue silk blouse. “You’re pregnant, love. We can’t risk something happening to either one of you.”

“He hasn’t really spoken since I told him about his parents either. Just walking around, staring at nothing. I swear, what little he had left in him, he’s losing it. He’ll probably end up with his mum by the end of next week.” Ron was speaking more to himself than anyone else at that point.

“Ron, stop it. You’re very unkind like this.” Daphne chastised her husband in a low, yet sharp hiss, doing her best to not wake their daughter who was sleeping in her pram a few feet away, in the cooling shadows of a tree in the back garden. “If Pansy can’t visit him, I’ll go instead. Us ladies are much easier to open up with if he’s struggling with anything. I’m not pregnant and I’ll be more than safe.” The same points she had made an hour prior.

That stopped the pacing immediately, his eyes locking sternly on his wife. “Not this again, Daph… No. Absolutely not.”

The elegant blonde crossed her arms across her chest, a brow quirking in Ron’s direction. “Are you going to stop me? Really, Ron?”

“Do I really need to remind you, you’re a nursing mother? What if something happens to you, and Winnie lives her whole life without ever knowing her mum?” he gestured wildly with his arms, waving them in the direction of the shadowed pram with their sleeping daughter.

“Imagine growing up without one’s parents…” Harry muttered, causing a snicker to escape Pansy. Ron promptly chose to ignore them.

Daphne continued to push. “Are you seriously suggesting that Draco Malfoy, the same Draco Malfoy that cried when a blast-ended-screwt singed his eyebrow, will kill me? A cold-blooded murderer? If you believe he is truly capable of being that, how come you’re still alive then?”

“I’m an auror. He won’t kill me.”

“And I’m what, exactly? A bloody wood nymph?”

“You’re not going. Not until I know for certain he won’t hurt you.” End of discussion, it would appear.

Hermione rolled her lips in between her teeth for a moment. “If you’d like a woman to see him, I could go. Loosen him up. Get him to talk.” She looked across the deck, meeting Pansy’s eyes. “I know I’m not an old friend of his, obviously, but I don’t think it could cause any harm.” She then shifted, so she could look to her left, meeting the bright blue eyes of a hopeful Daphne, who was already smiling towards her.

Ron looked from Harry, to Pansy, across the deck to Daphne and then let his eyes finally land on Hermione. “You’d want to go?”

“Hermione, that can’t be a good idea.” Harry started, but was smacked in the shoulder by the woman at his side.

“If you won’t allow any of his actual old friends to see him, Hermione is an excellent second choice.” Pansy bit at her husband.

“I’ll go, yeah. If it does turn out he’s dangerous, which I seriously doubt, I can defend myself. In fact, I’ve already smacked him once already, so he knows I’m more than capable” She reminded the two aurors. It was easy enough to see Hermione as nothing but a wood nymph as well, with her small stature, the delicate features she had finally grown into, and her bushy, brown curls. Ron and Harry exchanged what could only be described as worried glances. Their training and experience as aurors having taught them to communicate through such simple means as mere looks. The slightest quirk of an eyebrow and the most minuscule twitch of a lip said more than she could ever fathom.

Harry gave a nod, then turned to Hermione. “Ron should be going back now… So, perhaps you should join him? See where his head is at?”

“If all goes well, you can join us for dinner too.” Of course, having just finished his second lunch of the day twenty minutes prior, he was already focusing in on dinner. “Pikes makes the best food.”

“Pikes is still there?” Pansy gasped excitedly “are you saying I made lunch when I could have just asked you to bring food from Pikes himself? Could you ask him to deliver me his beef wellington for dinner tonight, please? And- and his citrus cheesecake for dessert? Please, oh pretty please, Ronald?”

Ron and Hermione entered the Malfoy Manor’s floo parlour. “Effie?” Ron called the moment his feet landed on the marble floor. Hermione stepped out of the hearth after him, and was surprised to find her clothes or hair without any soot or remnants of silvery floo powder. A hourse-elf, most likely the Effie he had called for, apparated into existence a few paces ahead of Ron, looking up at the two arrivals, hazel eyes wide with expectation.

“Good afternoon, Mister Weasley, sir.” Effie inclined her head towards them, her vivid orange dress bounced slightly after her apparition, showing off the white lace frills beneath the skirt that reminded Hermione of a vibrant sunset. “Good afternoon, madam,” She added, bowing her head once more in recognition towards Hermione.

“Good afternoon, Effie. Do you know where Malf- Er, Draco is?” Ron asked the small elf. He didn’t even take the time to compliment her on her beautiful attire. “I have brought a friend, you see. She’s here to talk with him. Just to be his friend and talk about… Grass and paintings and such.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to him, shooting him a glare that said ‘Grass and paintings? Really, Ronald? ’

To which he replied with a crooked grimace and slight shrug that spoke the words ‘sorry, I didn’t know what else to say,’ into existence.

“Of course, Mister Weasley, sir” Effie nodded her head excitedly and turned to look at Hermione, sizing up the new and unfamiliar woman indignantly. She hesitated for a moment before making her final decision on the matter. “Master Draco is outside, by the pond in the hedge maze, madam. Would miss like Effie to guide her?”

Hermione smiled kindly down at the elf and nodded her head. “I would like that very much, Effie. Thank you”

Compared to the extravagant and beautifully tailored dress that Effie had dressed herself with, Hermione felt she was out of sorts. Walking through the grand corridors, eyeing the vaulted ceilings and mesmerising famed art on the walls, she felt like she did not quite belong in a manor quite as grand and awe striking as the Malfoy estate. Wearing tight fitting muggle jeans, red converse, where the left shoe squeaked against the pristinely polished marble floor, and a T-shirt depicting a popstar clad in yellow, from an animated 90’s film she quite enjoyed, Hermione knew she was not the most well-dressed being on the Malfoy grounds.

Hermione kept glancing down at the elf. Not only was she dressed in expensive clothing, but she also carried herself with confidence, and the straight back and poise of someone who belonged in high society.

“Mister Weasley said you are a friend of Master Dracos, is this so, miss?” The elf asked as they stepped along the stone garden path, leading to the large hedge maze. “Effie only asks, because Effie hasn’t seen miss before.”

“Ronald… Wasn’t entirely truthful with you about that…” Hermione admitted to her. Effie continued to walk, but her face showed she was much more wary of her company. “Mal- Draco and I attended Hogwarts together. We were never quite friends, unfortunately. However, I owe him a great deal, and I don’t think his sentencing was fair, in the slightest.” She looked down, meeting Effies hardened but also somewhat curious gaze. “From what Ron told me, he sounds like he needs someone to talk to. It’s the least I could do for him after what he did for me.”

“Master Draco is a good man, miss. Misunderstood but a very good man, indeed.” Effie looked ahead, leading Hermione into the maze. The hedges were tall, towering over her by at least a foot and a half. However, the path was wide, and the hedges speckled with flowers. She recognised them as Virent Irides. A flower that bloomed with long, arching petals of all opalescent colours. The tall hedges with the blossoms, needed magical soil to grow. It was incredibly rare, not even found on the magical land of the Hogwarts valley and all its hamlets. The vibrant blossoms brought a warmth to the maze, which might otherwise have been a darker and much more ominous path without them.

“Effie believes master Draco might need a friend. Master is seeming very lost since his return, miss.” Effie squeaked, rounding a corner. She could hear water. Light sounds of ripples against stone and sand. “Master is through the arch and to the left, miss. Effie asks miss to please be kind with master.”

Walking through the remaining path of the labyrinth, through an arch built of iridescent pebbles, seemingly rounded by an eternity in water, then took the first opening to the left, Hermione spotted it. The so-called pond was rather large. If she didn’t know she had stepped into the centre of a hedge maze, she might have called it a small lake. Tall willow trees, previously unnoticed from within the hedges, hung, weeping over the calm waters. Three swans, elegant and mysterious, glided across the surface, just above the gentle ripples of fish that lived below the surface. Along the edge of the water, several meters away, sat a long, lanky man with a head of hair as white as the clouds above. He sat on the ground, with the bottoms of his trousers rolled up to his knees, and his bare feet dipping in the shallows. He wore a white oxford, seemingly four sizes too large, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was leaned back, supporting himself on his arms, with his palms against the rocks. Gaze glossing over the water, following a gliding swan.  

She took note of the red, damaged skin around both of his ankles. The scabs of healing wounds atop the shiny, glossed looking skin of years’ worth of continued scarring. Something heavy had been attached around both of his legs, weighing him down. Repeatedly tearing at his skin and causing the wounds, and subsequent scars, that appeared to be so deep into his skin, they had reached bone. He’d never be able to heal them.

She stepped closer, careful to not disturb the comfortable ease and quiet that surrounded the pond and the almost unrecognisable man. He made no effort to show her he had noticed her, sitting still and gazing longingly after the birds.

Toeing off her shoes and socks, Hermione sat down next to him, allowing a healthy distance between their two bodies. She moved her feet along the sand and stone, before finally dipping them into the water in the same manner he had. It was cool against her skin on the warm summer day; an easy and comfortable way to cool down beneath the searing sun.   

The silence between them was easy. Light. Comfortable. Neither had to speak, because the unspoken said so much more than words ever could.

Once a cloud crossed paths with the sun, blocking the blinding light from view for a moment, Draco lifted one of his hands from the ground, picking out a stone that had been embedded into his palm under the constant pressure of his relaxed hand. It had been roughly a quarter hour since she had sat down. “Last I heard, you had left the country. Please tell me, was the Great Barrier Reef all they say it is?” His body was calm, his voice even and relaxed, his deep, stormy grey eyes at ease as they gazed over at her.

“I was recently asked to come back. Through I do miss the Reef. It was breathtaking.” She said, keeping her voice at a low volume, careful not to startle the beautiful birds just a few meters away from them. “It’s where I sent my parents, you know. Australia.”

Draco looked away, letting his curtain of long, platinum hair hide him from her view.

“I obliviated them. Gave them new identities and sent them off that summer.” She turned back to looking at the drifting swans. She hadn’t planned to bring it up as the first thing she said to him. Perhaps it had been weighing on her a bit too long.  “I never would have thought of it, hadn’t it been for your note. I owe you so much for that, Draco. Thank you helping me save them.”

“I don’t know what note you’re talking about,”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You should take the credit you deserve. You saved at least two people by telling me.”

“Two people saved, is nothing compared to the people I killed, Granger.” And suddenly, the stretch of silence between them sat heavy. Weighing down between them with a harsh reminder of the war and those lost in it.

“I know we have our history, but I sincerely doubt you killed anyone in that war.”

“They found several killing curses when weighing my wand. You’d have to be a fool not to believe I killed anyone.”

She pulled one of her feet back from the water, tucking it below the other as she turned her full body towards him, and extended her arm, offering her hand to shake. He looked at her with confusion, raising a brow at her hand. “Hello. My name is Hermione Jean Granger. Some people call me ‘The golden girl’ and others call me ‘The brightest witch of our age’. But I will, henceforth, also be known as a fool. Possibly the biggest of them all, for openly not believing that you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, has ever killed another person.”

The roll of silver eyes only made her grin broaden, and she noticed a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. “Have you ever been called stubborn, Hermione Jean Granger?”

“Most days, actually. And nosy. And a know-it-all as well, just in case you are planning on using all of Professor Snapes insults.” And there it was, an actual smile It was small, and he quickly hid it by turning away from her, lowering his head, but she had seen it present on his face.

“A stubborn and nosy little know-it-all. I still don’t understand how an actual professor got away with bullying a child.” He shook his head. “No wonder us Slytherin children were such prats, when we had him as our head of house.”

“Wow, someone sure has spent some time reflecting on his youth.”

“There wasn’t much else to do.” A shrugging shoulder.

His hands were trembling, she noticed. Forearms resting on his knees, his fingers hooked loosely between each other, and trembling. Not much, but it was easy enough to spot if one wanted to notice the details. She found herself looking for every detail she could. Draco Malfoy had changed. He looked peaky. Sickly. There wasn’t much more to be expected after such an extended stay in Azkaban. Hermione’s thoughts briefly wandered back to Sirius Black, and how he had looked bony and sallow nearly a year after his escape. Something within her chest hurt at the thought.

“And what are you spending your time doing now?”

“Enjoying the world I didn’t get to be a part of.” His voice was softer than the finest silk. Barely audible. He turned his hands, palms facing the sun as he let his long fingers gesture to the beautiful swan pond, hidden within the hedge maze. “The beauty I never got to see. Never got to appreciate. Everything in there was just… Grey and black and dirty and cold… And then I come home, and I get to see paintings, with the most amazing colours. I get to see swans, and grass, flowers, insects. Sunsets, birds, rainbows…” He took a deep, shaky breath, steadying himself. “I get to see actual colours again. Colours I almost thought I had made up in my deepest fantasies. Everything here is so… Vivid. Like a dream, somehow. I never knew nature was this beautiful.”

Letting her eyes wander across the pond and its surrounding trees and hedges, she tried her very best to see the world from his perspective. Not having experienced the wizarding prison, she had nothing in her to truly imagine the constant grey and dark that he had to endure. Years with a colourless monotone. Alone.

What it would be like for him, to come back from such a nightmare? To finally see the true beauty of nature, in all her glorious colours and details.

Turning her head away from Malfoy, she saw tall, thick blades of grass, growing from the shallows of the water. The green was bright against the gentle grey and brown of what hid beneath the surface. Threads of lime-coloured fibres stretched from the base of the blade, reaching like fingers to the gentle curve as the grass sharpened. The fibres were evenly paced the entire way. The hue of the grass altered near the top, fading from the vivid green, to an ochre, yellow, where the blade curled and wilted. Damaged by the sun.

The effortless sway of the swans’ neck, leaning slightly back as it held its head high. Black eyes, bright orange bill. The water collecting in iridescent, sparkling droplets atop the birds’ wings. It turned its head, lengthy neck guiding the orange bill towards its back, where it nipped and nibbled, feathers rustling as it cleaned itself. Ripples in the surface of the water beneath it, catching the gleaming sunlight in sparkling magnificence.

A weeping willow tree, stood at the bank of the water. The leaves hung low, barely reaching inches above the surface. Trunk, hidden deep in the shadow, appeared to be nearly black, though the reflecting ripples of the water revealed the rich browns of the swirling bark within the shadows. A gentle breeze caressed across the surface of the pond, swaying the greenery of the willow ever so slightly. The reflection of the tree in the water caught her eye, as the hues of green seemed to differ just a touch. Above the surface, the tree was brilliantly green in the same manner of lengthy, grassy fields in the summer. In the water’s reflection, however, the grand tree was green in the same muted way of dampened eucalyptus.

A dragonfly skimmed the surface of the water, hovering merely an inch above. Large wings glimmering like iridescent rainbows in the sunlight. A constant, low hum emanating from it as it taunted the fishes below, who seemed to seek a quick meal and rippling the surface with their fins. It swerved, turning away from the course it once had, heading away from the water, towards the tall hedge maze instead. Its wings glittered before it vanished into the vast grounds.

A gazebo in the distance, seemingly built in a design inspired by Ancient Greece. Or perhaps modern-day Santorini. The ocean blue domed roof was held up by eight sturdy columns. Four tall, arched entrances. Four benches, carved from the same alabaster stone as the rest of the structure. Empty flowerpots of blue and gold, cracked around the edges without much care over several years, seemed to have been placed neatly around the base and at the food of the archways. The gazebo had been lost to time, much like the rest of the swan pond within the maze. It had been swallowed by trees and shrubbery.

Her eyes continued on, spotting details she never before had. Thinking of the many little things, focusing on them and truly noticing them was a magic she never knew she had been missing in her life.

“So, this is your world?” She breathed the words into existence. “I never… I never took the time to notice it all.”

Hermione held a leaf in her hands as she walked alongside Draco Malfoy through the hedge maze. The tip of her thumb traced the veins on the underside, observing how the stem tapered off in nearly white lighting bolts, fading into the flat green bottom that surrounded it. Malfoy guided her with ease through the maze.

The path was different from the one Effie had guided her through previously. Longer. More peaceful and scenic. Serene. The opal flowers shone in the afternoons glow.

“Did you ever look at the Barrier Reef the same way you look at that leaf?” Malfoys amused voice broke their comfortable silence, bringing her out of her daze of admiration and back to reality.

“No,” she admitted to him. “I don’t think I did… You know, in fact, I know I didn’t. I looked at the beauty of its entirety. I didn’t take time to notice each individual thing.” Regret laced her voice and her chest, shoulders sagging slightly with the realisation.

“Perhaps you should go again, sometime? See the reef with new eyes?”  

“Perhaps so,” She looked up and locked eyes with him.

Stormy grey. Surrounded by long, black eyelashes. Dark bruises beneath his eyes, fading into lifeless, nearly grey alabaster skin. His cheekbones bore signs of red from the heat of the sun, dampened with the slightest misting of sweat. She had always thought his hair would be pin straight; however she enjoyed seeing the soft waves of the long hair that hung loosely, framing his sallowed face. He had tucked some of the length behind his ear.

He seemed to observe her as well. Taking note of her wild hair, which had been tamed back into a bun at the crown of her head, secured into place with two hair ties.  Her T-shirt was old and worn, and the animated charter on the front was most certainly one he did not recognise. The shirt might also have some slight stains spattered about, from years of use. She felt the heat from the sun, and the misting of dampness across the bridge of her nose.

“Your parents, do they still live in Australia then?” it was an innocent enough question. The doctors Granger could have easily fallen in love with the country and decided to stay after the second wizarding war. However, that was not the case.

“They do.” She looked away from him, eyes fixed ahead, at the hedges he was guiding her through. The sun was high in the sky, casting shadows from behind them. “After the war and the trials, I went back to them. Tried to reverse the obliviation but was unsuccessful. I tried everything I could think of. Researched and asked experts. Though eventually, healers said it was because their minds had taken the given time, nearly two years, to fully reconstruct. If I wanted to successfully restore them, I had to have done it within months of the original obliviation.”

He slowed slightly, his long legs carrying him with slower, smaller paces. “I’m sorry.” She could hear it in his voce; the fact that he blamed himself for it. For tipping her off that the Death Eaters were coming for them. For sending her that note at the end of sixth year.

“Don’t be. Don’t ever apologise.” She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs to the very brim with the fresh Wiltshire air. “Even if they don’t know they’re my parents, I have gotten to see them and meet them. I lived in a flat on their street, saw them in the neighbourhood. They invited me over for dinner occasionally, seeing as I was so far from home. I have gotten to hug my mother; I’ve seen my father laugh at the silliest of jokes. I’ve been recommended books and gone on hikes with them. If it wasn’t for you, they’d just be memories and two names on a headstone.”

“You’re really not upset? You’ve still lost them.”

“I was. Very upset, actually. I cried a lot; mourned the loss. But even if I’ve lost them, they aren’t gone. I still miss them, the people they used to be. I miss the little things about them, things that can’t be replicated with them now.” A breeze swayed passed them as they exited the hedge maze. It must have been larger than she had ever anticipated, as they had ended up at a difference entrance to the maze than the one she had followed Effie through, hours prior. “I’m sure you understand. There must be things you miss about your father as well?”

Draco Malfoy stilled entirely at the question. He was still walking alongside her, taking slow, small steps forwards. His brows were furrowed over his brow, and all semblance of the somewhat light-hearted conversation seemed to have vanished from him entirely.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t wish to, Draco.” She told him, not pushing him to speak, but reminding him she was safe. “If you want to share, I won’t tell a soul. If you choose to keep it to yourself, I’ll understand.”

His shoulders lifted with the breath he took, and she observed as the man on her right-hand side chewed at his bottom lip. “It’s not that. I just… I don’t know what to say.”

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear “Take your time then,”

A long stretch of silence ended as he lifted his head in her peripheral vision. Her head turned, and as the two locked eyes once more, she noticed a surprisingly mirthful look on his face. “You see, I don’t particularly miss things about my father for myself. I do, however, miss how he made mother smile. How he danced with her in the parlour, when they thought I was in my room. I even miss how he always looked at her, like this lovestruck teenager. And that is about all that I miss about him.” Their slow pace crept them gradually towards the manor, quite some distance away. “He was always rather mean. Not just to me, but to everyone. I have only ever seen him show any form of affection towards mother.” She chose not to speak, letting him process and work through what he might have on his mind, a trick she had picked up from her own mind healer after the war. “He sometimes said he loved me. But I do believe it was more out of obligation than truth.”

After several long moments, he took another breath and spoke again. “When I was a boy, a few years before we started Hogwarts, we had unicorns living on our lands. Much further from the house, of course, but they were still our lands, and I loved going to see them. I would steal my learners broom out of my father’s cabinet and fly out to see them. Unicorns don’t usually like men, but they liked me. Perhaps it was because I was still a child, and had some form of innocence about me, but they liked me, nonetheless. Father yelled at me for going, saying they were extremely dangerous creatures, and I would end up getting myself killed; gutted by their horn or trampled to death. Then one day, he took it upon himself to follow me. I was sitting with them, feeding them the largest apples that Dobby and I could sneak from the kitchens. Then he came barging through the trees, disturbing everyone. The foals got scared, and the mothers got angry and defensive. I ran to my father, hiding behind him because I got scared too. And instead of fleeing, letting them be in their own habitat, as we should have done, Lucius Malfoy raised his wand.” The pain was ever evident in his voice. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest, fearing for what a young Draco saw that day. Hoping she was wrong. “That was the first time I saw my father use the killing curse.” She had not been wrong.

“One of the mothers fell, and we left. He held me by my collar until we got inside, and he screamed at me before locking me in my room without any meals for the entire day. I went back several times after that, looking for them. I wanted to apologize. I didn’t have a wand yet, so I couldn’t move the corpse of the mother, but I plucked flowers from mothers’ gardens and laid them on her and in her mane and tail… And one day when I came back, her foal was with her. It was so, so skinny and fragile and it lay tucked against its mother’s belly. As if she could give it warmth or food or anything… But the foal had died too. Starved to death by its mother’s corpse. It had been too young to care for itself. When I told my father, letting him know he had essentially killed two unicorns, he yelled at me for caring about so-called ‘useless beasts’ and beat me, so I would learn my lesson and stay away from them.”

His grey eyes had glossed over slightly. Not with tears, but with the memories of the pain his father had brought him, staring blindly ahead of them, following the winding stone path that guided them back to the manor. “I had to follow him every day since then. Learning how to be a proper Malfoy man, he said. Learning how to manipulate, to scheme, to be a crass and rude and heartless ponce that would do anything for money and power. And look where it got us. At the wrong side of the war. Both my father and I locked up in Azkaban, before he was murdered. Mother tortured and in long-term care. But hey, at least our vaults are full…” A mirthless chuckle left him, and he shook his head in utter disbelief at his fathers’ actions.

She swallowed thickly, then took a deep, noticeably shaky breath. “I can’t imagine… I’m really, truly sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah… Thanks.” His eyes seemed to have focused back to reality. “Uhm… Sorry but… Could you please not tell anyone? Not even Weasley?”

“I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”

They shared small smiles, nothing that quite reached either sets of eyes, but a smile, nonetheless. The Manor was beautiful, the pale flagstone bathing in the gleaming sunlight of late afternoon. The cold, darkened Manor within her memories was quite unlike the one before her. With dark colours, crowed with Death Eaters, echoed with screams and shadowed by the will of Voldemort. Eight years later, she almost saw the Malfoy family grounds as a palace. A bright and peaceful place from a fairy tale. A place of joy, of peace.

Draco was, again, the first one to break the silence as they neared the open glass doors of the solarium “Would you like to stay for dinner?” A kind invitation, offered to her with an easy expression.

She recalled Pansy requesting an order of Beef Wellington from Ron earlier that day, hopefully passed onto the adored chef after their arrival at the manor. Leaving Harry and Pansy to have a date night, some alone time between themselves, whilst Hermione stayed at number twelve Grimmauld Place, might be a nice surprise for the married couple. “I would like that very much, thank you.”

Ron awaited them inside, sitting in a lavender wingback chair between several overgrown potted plants, his ankle resting atop his other knee. To Hermiones utter surprise, he was reading. It seemed to be a casefile, surely something to do with some of his active cases at work, but he was still reading.

“Finally, you’re back.” He grumbled, in the signature way that only Ronald Weasley could. “Effie set the table for us over an hour ago. I assume you’re staying, ‘Mione? She set a plate for you too.”

Hermione hadn’t spent a lot of her time over the previous decade to attend high society functions. Her usual dinners did not consist of three courses of fine dining, nor of anything one might think of as a ‘culinary experience’. The meal that was served, was quite the exception to her usual dinners, indeed. The large table was seemingly overflowing with food. Enough to feed the three of them at least seven times over.

Pan-seared salmon, served with lemon and pesto. Steamed crab legs, the lengths of which, were longer than Hermiones arm. Butter steamed lobster tails. Scallops sitting atop potato slices, topped with caviar and lemongrass. The side dishes, placed neatly and within reach of all three occupants at the table, were plentiful. Roasted aubergine. Handmade pasta screws, soaked in a cheesy cream sauce. Baked halves of potatoes dolloped with butter and herbs. Risotto with an assortment of vegetables. Ratatouille, displayed in a tasteful spiral. And in case it wasn’t enough, there was a large basket of perfectly prepared focaccia, with sea salt glistening in the light from the chandelier.

“How specific do I have to be when asking for food, exactly?” Ron asked their generous host, staring wide-eyed at the wide assortment of food at the table.

Draco shook his head. “What did you ask for this time? All the seafood in England?”

“I asked if Pikes might have some fish or something in the kitchen.” Run muttered back, stepping around the table, to where there were two place settings.

“That was your mistake, then.” Malfoy said, pulling out his chair across from Ron. He was facing the window, whilst the two guests would be facing the paintings on the wall. “I’ve told you already, to be specific. Tell her you’d like Salmon. Or cod. Or mackerel, lobster, crab. Whatever you may want, just be specific. Adding ‘or something’ will give them creative freedom. Which leads to this.”

“Perhaps the house elves already know of Ron’s never-ending appetite,” Hermione muttered, mostly to herself. The man mentioned whipped his head towards her, staring at her with an incredulous grimace. The noise of a choked chuckle came from across the table. She quirked an eyebrow, mouth pinching slightly, wordlessly telling her oldest friend ‘Told you so’.  

As per her assumption, Ronald inhaled his food, acting like the human equivalent of a muggle hoover. Hermione tried a bit of everything, tasting, only to find out it was the lobster that pleased her tongue the most,

And Draco Malfoy hardly touched his plate of food. He allowed his fork to move vegetables and seared salmon about on his plate, making it appear as though he had eaten more than the few mouthfuls he actually had. She paid extra attention to him, just as she had the entire afternoon. But seeing him from the front, being able to observe his expressions and the way his eyes seemed to drift off to gaze aimlessly a nothing, whilst his fork played absentmindedly with the coral-coloured fish on his plate.

Earlier that day, when Ronald had stepped through the floo at number twelve Grimmauld Place, and he had shared what Malfoy had been like, she had found herself pitying her childhood bully. She pitied how his life had turned out, how he was alone. She had wanted to coo a little and tell Ronald he would be fine, but to dote on him a bit, and show him obvious pity, as his friends had done back in school.

The man before her, the man who was entirely made up of long, trembling limbs and stormy grey eyes, didn’t need her pity. He needed help. The absence of life from his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped, the manner of which he carried himself with less confidence than a Bowtruckle. Everything, from the length of his hair, the scarring around his ankles, even to the way he walked, all screamed of mental illness. A man needing a friend.

Truthfully, she had several other things to worry about. Things that were incredibly important to her. Finding a spouse was of her highest priority. She only had three weeks to complete the task, before a husband would be appointed to her.  After that, came a job. She had applied to five ministry positions already, but Shacklebolt himself had turned her away at every application. He’d stated she needed to marry first, to know where she was of best use to the ministry. Whatever that meant. Her third task was finding somewhere to live. Staying at number twelve with Harry and Pansy was comfortable enough for the month leading up to her marriage, but she simply couldn’t assume her future husband might have a flat on his own. Then, she needed a plan, in case life didn’t pan out the way she wished it to, and she had to marry someone of a less than favourable sort.

Some people in her position, in the third wave of ministry forced marriages, wondered why she rushed about finding herself a match. She could just wait her time, and a seemingly perfect match would be appointed to her. She did not believe that in the slightest. Not for her.

She knew Shacklebolt. He was greedy and hunted for most compelling headlines at the front page of The Daily Prophet. He had taken Harry and Ronald, turning them into little show horses of his. The girl who had called for her professors and peers to turn Harry in, wanting to hand him off to The Dark Lord, was now his wife. Arranged to be so, by Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. High society Daphne Greengrass, with not a hair out of place, nor a toe out of line in all her life, had married Ronald Weasley. The two were as opposite as night and day; the headlines of The Prophet made sure to notify every reader of their unlikely union. Particularly after the Greengrass’ patriarch had been sent to a late stint in Azkaban for his work behind the scenes of Voldemort’s regime.

She was next. The golden girl, presumably to be married off to any Death Eater still in Azkaban, offering the inmate an easy way out of his cell and a famous little witch to force into bed.

She knew the birth rates of the wizarding world had been plummeting since the war. She was quite well aware of the repopulation act Shacklebolt had put into place, was for a good reason. She was supportive of it, to rebuild the British wizarding community back to a good number of wizards and witches. She did not, however, wish to be used as an example, to reform a heartless murderer that had hunted her or effectively tried to kill her, to a so-called normal member of sociey.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” She asked the pale man across from her, causing his eyes to resurge from the depths of nothing he had stared off into. He caught her eyes, only for a moment, then looked down at his plate. The prongs of his fork plucked at a small scoop of pasta, lifting one of the noodles to his mouth and sinking his front teeth into it. His brows knit together; his eyes focused on his plate as he chewed with a grimace of disgust.

“I wouldn’t force him,” Ron muttered to her left, finally at the point of the meal where he wasn’t shovelling food into his mouth like his life depended on it. “I think he’s struggling a bit with food.”

“I can hear you, Weasley.” The familiar bite of the Malfoy man had returned. Though it wasn’t the playful obnoxious manner of their youth. The drawl of his voice was clouded with annoyance. “Sitting right across from you, in case you forgot.”

“No one is trying to exclude you,” Ron bit back, much to Hermione’s chagrin. “You truly have been struggling with food, don’t even try to pretend you’re eating well. At this rate, you’ll end up skinnier than you were when I picked you up.”

Malfoy put his fork down. “Just not too fond of fish.”

“Then you should have said so. You might be a legilimens, Malfoy, but I’m not. I didn’t know you didn’t like fish. Say something, so I can ask for food we can both eat.” This  earned the redhead a sneer.

After this, dinner finished in tense silence. Hermione kept her eyes on her own plate, mostly, though she often found herself glancing up at Ron or Malfoy. She wondered if this was how their meals always ended up. Wondering how the two were faring whilst living together. She knew Ron wasn’t an easy man to live with. Hot tempered and often ill-mannered. Not every crass comment was made to be rude. Not everything he did was meant as an attack. But it could be observed that way by any outsider.

“Effie?” Draco’s deep voice caressed the silence gently. She apparated into the dining room, just at his side. “Could you please box up the remaining lobster and some sides for Miss Granger to bring home?”

“Yes, master” she squeaked, before disapparating. The food on the table all vanished into a ripple of magic alongside her.

“You really didn’t have to” she started, surprised he’d send her food to talk home. Not that she minded, the lobster was phenomenal. Having it for lunch the next day would be the best treat.

“A thanks would suffice.” Her host cut in. His shoulders were tense. He was looking a tad more gaunt, somehow. He pushed his body back into the high-backed cherry chair and stood. She did not miss the shake of his elbow and slight tremble to his body as he stood, supporting himself ever so lightly on the upholstered arm rests of the chair. “Want me to walk you out?”

Standing, she said a brief goodbye to Ron, telling him she hoped he’d stop by Grimmauld Place again someday. She followed Draco out into the corridor and let him guide her to the floo parlour.

Walking alongside Draco was surprisingly comfortable. His steps matched hers, so she wouldn’t have to rush to keep up with hm, nor did they have an uneasiness to their silences.

“I have to ask,” the taller of the two said, catching her attention. “Why did Weasley bring you and not Daphne? Or Pansy? I know he could ask them to come. Do you think they might not want to see me?” The hurt in his voice was obvious. He didn’t look at her.

“They both wanted to come. Practically begged both Ron and Harry to see you.” They arrived at the floo parlour. Four grand hearths. White stone, embossed with golden swirls, a pattern seemingly popular centuries ago.  Two on opposing walls. The other walls housed large, double doors, standing open and inviting whoever may enter the parlour, to peruse the open and inviting home. “I know it might not make sense; I don’t see the issue at all, but you must understand that Harry and Ron are aurors. They see danger and threats where there is none. They’re suspicious and cautious, especially for those they love. Ron said Daphne couldn’t come, in case something happened, and Winnie was left without a mother. Harry reasoned that Pansy is pregnant and should stay away. At least until they both know you’re safe.”

“But they allowed you to come? To be alone with a dangerous, murderous Azkaban prisoner?”

“No. I insisted I should come. The dangerous, murderous Azkaban prisoner is but a figment of an aurors imagination. Who I saw today, was a man who wants a friend. Someone to sit with him. Perhaps someone who can help care for him a bit.” She rounded in front of him, making sure he looked at her; met her eyes. Her hands reached forwards, gently, carefully, wrapping her fingers around his elbows, giving him a light squeeze. “I’ll talk to Ron and Harry about this. But it might take some time before they allow Daph or Pansy to visit, okay? I’ll do my best, but those men are much more stubborn than I could ever dream to be.”

“And you?”

“And me?” she asked.

“Would you… Come? Visit me sometimes? Until they can, I mean?”

No job. Living at her married friends’ house in a narrow townhouse in London. Sometimes visiting a beautiful Manor on the countryside, where she’d have good company by someone who liked comfortable silences as much as she did? “On one condition.”

“And what would your condition be, milady?” He asked. A playful glint in his stormy eyes.

She felt something in her stomach twist as she pulled back, releasing both of his arms. “You need to show me your library.” He shouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t seem to be.

He took a step back, lifting a braided basket from an end table in the corner, with packaged food and a box that said PUDDIGN with a heart dotting the i. They both smiled at the little note for her dessert. “I’ll show you the library, if you promise not to move into it.”

She took the basket from his hand, scrunching her nose. “I don’t think I can make that promise. Perhaps I can live there, getting lost in fantasy worlds rather than living in the real world?”

“The real world isn’t so bad. It can’t be.” His eyes seemed to lighten somewhat, even in the dim lighting of the unlit parlour.

The intensity of his stare, the pull of his lips, it caused her stomach to twist slightly. She looked down at the basket, finding herself needing a small break from his gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out, then.”

Stepping up to the closest hearth, she called out for the Black family’s ancestral home, and watched as the smiling Draco Malfoy vanished behind a thick wall of green flames.

Chapter Text

“- Hasn’t come out since Thursday.” Weasleys voice caused Draco to slip back into reality. A dreamless sleep had held him so tight, his body felt sore atop his mattress. He truly hadn’t slept quite so well in much over a decade.

“Can you get in?” Another voice asked. Male.

“He’s warded it. Even locked the direct floo to his room.”

“And the elves?”

“Says he’s alive, so there’s that. Sleeping, Effie said.”

Draco used all the might in his power, pulling his oversized down duvet further up, hiding his head beneath it. Hoping to drown out the voices that seemed to be speaking directly into his ear, whilst simultaneously being muffled and far away.

One of the men outside his door decided to knock on his bedroom door. Rapidly and hard. “Malfoy? Are you in there?” Potter called through the double doors.

“Malfoy, come on mate, just open the door.” An irritable man, Weasley was.

“It’s Potter. Let me in. Please.” More insistent knocking.

Draco groaned, mostly to himself, as he pushed himself up to lean on an elbow. His chest was bare. Shoulders and arms felt stiff, more so than usually. His entire body was sore and significantly weakened. His head felt numb, causing the room around him to spin with the little effort of sitting up partially. “Will you two, please, just fuck off?!” He yelled at his door, his voice hoarse and gravelly from just having been awakened. Then, he rolled backwards and into bed, figuring the fully reclined position was the best option to keep the sudden nausea at bay.

“-least he’s alive.” Potter muttered to Weasley.

Oh yes. Draco was alive. Although, he somehow wished he wasn’t. Something had happened that day Granger had been to visit. She had radiated. Glowed and sparkled all over his life. She had thanked him for saving her parents. She had listened to him talk and open up about a memory with his father. Why he had felt compelled to tell her about it, he did not know. No one, except his mother, knew of it. He had promised himself to never tell a soul. Not even his oldest of friends. Granger had asked to see the manor library, to which he had agreed. He had explored several places within the manor since his return, save the library. The grand double doors, leading to his most favourite room of the house, had remained untouched.

Draco had gone to his bedroom and raised his hawthorn wand for the first time in eight years. The magic within his fingertips pulsing anxiously. Igniting sparks of excitement at the prospect of being used. Finally, not being contained within his body and repressed with heavy shackles on his ankles and wrists. He warded his room. Three simple incantations he had once used every night, whilst The Dark Lord had lived in his home. Nothing too powerful; a few spells that ensured he could sleep undisturbed, and safe in his room. Only his elves could reach him.

Then, he had lost all of his energy in a simple, swift pull. It was as though the entirety of his body had exhaled, and with the breath, every source of vitality had depleted. Emptied entirely. He’d barely been able to tumble out of his clothes before collapsing onto his bed. Effie came and helped him under the duvet the next morning, possibly there to check on him after orders from Weasley.

His body was uncharacteristically heavy. He felt like he had been hit by a horrid transfiguration spell, where the weight of his body had become that of a Mountain Troll, yet his body and physical strength had remained that of a starved human.

He had, simply put, never been so tired, nor felt such fatigue, in his entire life.

“Pansy wants to see you.” Potters voice cut through. He’d finished murmuring with Weasley, and thus raised his voice to get the attention of the Malfoy man. Draco remained quiet and still on his bed. “She’s afraid you’re hurting yourself.”

“Just sleepy. Go away.” Draco spoke towards his black velvet canopy.

Glancing around, he observed his bedroom. How he had even been able to stay there for a night, baffled him. He hated his old bedroom. Wished to change it. But for that, he would need the strength of ten Abraxans, and perhaps an idea of what to change it into. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep. However, he did know that his mouth was unnaturally dry and that Potters and Weasley’s voices seemed to drift away as they walked off.

His head lolled to the side, spotting a glass of water at his bedside table. His wand was laid neatly next to the three vials, which had been placed close by the drink.

Magical Replenishment

Pepperup

Cure For Boils

He squinted his eyes at the last one, brows furrowing deeply. He would have to ask Weasley about it later. Reaching for the water his slender fingers wrapped around the glass, before bringing it to his lips. The water was drunk with a desperate series of gulps, the glass emptying in seconds. He set it back on the table before rolling back into bed, closing his eyes.

Dreamless sleep evaded him.

He dreamt of Granger.

Not the captivating Granger from the swan pond. Nor the tortured and screaming Granger from his drawing room floor. No, the one before him, was the Granger he remembered from fourth year.

Her elegant periwinkle dress was glittering under the light of the torches on the wall, as she walked down towards him. The layered fabric of her dress bounced slightly with each step. Her big, almond eyes, locked on his, glimmering with honey and gold. Her hair was done up, her curls sleeked back from her face, with a few bouncing strands hanging loosely, framing her soft featured. She looked like a princess from a story book.  

He reached out his arm, long fingers wrapping around her hand and she took his. Bringing her closer, his lips touched her knuckles. Skin soft against his lips. Her eyes never left his. The music from an orchestra rang from the Great Hall, entering the corridor where they stood, captivating them and luring them in. Her arm wrapped around his, as he guided her through the two sets of doors. Every eye was seemingly on them. What a pair they made, The Golden Girl and the Death Eater.

He walked her to the middle of the floor, rounding before her. He bowed to the brunette princess, extending his hand yet again. He had never been on the receiving end of such a smile. Shy and tight, her head tilted as she seemingly tried not to laugh at him. Taking his hand, he stood straight and spun her around, bringing her into him with twirl. Hand on her waist, they started to waltz. It was slow and easy, a safe dance to start off the evening. She appeared to enjoy herself, wearing a warm smile which enriched her features and the laughter that rolled lightly from her throat at something he’d said.

The people around them faded.

The great hall darkened. Torches and chandeliers fading into wisps of smoke as the world faded to black around them. They were waltzing in complete darkness. A vastness of nothing. Floating through time and space. All alone. Together.

He spun her once more, the music compelling her to see the tulle and silk of her dress flow freely around her. Granger’s fingers slipped from his. He reached for her on instinct, though she too, had vanished into thin air. The world shifted. Lights reappeared. Shelves. Tall, arched windows. Books, quills and inkwells, littered on desks.

He was in the Hogwarts library. It was the end of sixth year, and he was clutching a slightly crumpled note between his fingers. His hands were sweaty, and he was nervous she would know it was him. If anyone found out he’d passed it to her, he would surely be tortured. Perhaps killed.

Hide your parents.
Death eaters are coming.

He timed it just right. Walking past her as she nearly dove into her satchel, nose buried deep within, looking for something. He swiftly, hurriedly, stepped past her desk, dropping the simple note atop her roll of parchment, then continued on with his brisk pace until he was out of her sight, hidden behind the towering bookshelves of the upper level.

It had been a memory. A familiar happening he had often replayed.

The narrow spiral staircase at the back of the library led him to the bottom level. He wove through students, careful not to look up or seem out of place, in case she was searching for him from above. Discretely, he made his way past Madam Pince, narrowly avoiding her scrutinising glare. The library door swung open before him, but instead of guiding him out into the Central Hall beyond, he re-entered the Great Hall, with Granger spinning back into his arms in the middle of the dance floor. Her dress twirled with her body, rippling through the air with flawless beauty.

Her hair came undone, her curls released from their updo, cascading down to between her shoulder blades as she was draped in his arms. Their waltz continued, eyes locked on one another’s as they moved around each other, dancing to the music from an orchestra that did not exist. She was older. No more, was she the granger from fourth year. This was the grown woman in her late twenties. The same woman, the same Granger, with whom he had recently dined. Radiant. Beaming. Effortlessly brilliant Granger.

“You saved them, Draco.” She rested her hand lightly atop his shoulder, swaying with him across the floor of the Great Hall. They were alone still. The Yule Ball and Great Hall empty, save for them.

“I handed you a note. You saved them.” The music around them changed. Slower paced and softer. Reminding him of a slow morning in the countryside, with sunlight slipping through cracks between curtains, and the birds chirping on the windowsill. She stepped into him, her arms slipping around his neck as she swayed calmly with him, changing her weight from one foot to the other. His hands shifted, moving from their hold on her waist, fingers sliding along the satin of her gown as both of his arms wrapped around her.

She was noticeably small in his arms. Her subtle hourglass figure accentuated by the dress she wore. He swayed with her, allowing the light tune to flow through his body like the blood within his veins, guiding his movements to stay close to her. To hold her.

“We saved them together.” She spoke softly. His gaze met hers. Soft honey brown staring up at him. Intense. Warm. She smiled, a proper smile that showed off her teeth.

“I can concede to that.” He reluctantly agreed and felt a smile matching hers spreading across his face. Had there been anyone around, they might have thought that Draco and Granger were lovesick fools, smiling at one another whilst dancing close. Their bodies touching.

“But you can’t save everyone” she rested her head on his chest, her face turned so he couldn’t see her. A feeling of melancholy slipped over him. He wondered if something had changed within her. The light around them dimmed, the song music slowing further. The tune was different. The low vibrations of the invisible instruments causing gooseflesh to rise along his arms.

The sounds from the Hogwarts battle, a familiar sound from a scarring day in early May, shook the Great Hall. Screams in the distance. “You’re the reason they’re dead.” Hermione clung to him. Her voice was light, though it was laced with something he hadn’t heard in several years. Hatred. Her fingernails, sharp as talons, digging into the nape of his neck. Tugging at his short cut hair. “Malfoy, letting the Death Eaters in.” She taunted. “Malfoy, pathetic little boy starting the war.” Her grip on his skin tightened as he tried to pull away from her. “Malfoy, the ponce acting with sin.” Her voice morphed, sharpening. The voice was no linger Granger’s. “Malfoy, should have died on the floor.” There was no semblance to the woman he had been dancing with. The young woman in his arms, had become a vicious hag. Hissing and spitting foul words his way. He staggered backwards, slipping out of her deadly grasp. Drops of blood slipped from his hairline, dripping below his pressed dress robes.

Loud banging in the distance. Bodies appeared around them. The Weasley twin, the corners of his lips still upturned. Smiling; even in death. The Wereworlf professor and his wife, reaching out for one another. ‘Till death did they part. Various students littered about. Children. Cut. Slashed. Staring sightlessly off into the void of death. A young boy was missing most of his face. Ripped from his skull by deadly claws.

“Your fault.” The hag growled. A Gryffindor girl, nursing the bite from a werewolf. Sobbing. A first year getting covered by a white sheet, her corpse hidden from view. A brown pigtail peeking out from the side. The smell of burnt flesh. Familiar from when the three muggle born teenagers were burnt by Fiendfyre in the Malfoy dungeons. House Elves staggering about, helping those that could be saved. Covering the bodies of those that couldn’t.

“Your fault.”

The hag stepped toward him. Golden brown eyes.

“Your fault.”

Swaying brown curls. Softer voice.

“Your fault.”

The flagstone wall against his back. The vivid blue dress.

“Your fault.”

An accusing finger pressed into his chest. Hermione Granger glaring at him.

“Your fault.”

She lifted her hand, preparing to smack him across his face, like she had done in third year.

“Your fault!”

He shot out of bed at a mighty speed, untangling himself from the charcoal grey silk sheets. His knees landed hard against the wooden floors of his room, yet the pain didn’t bother him. He pushed his body away from his bed, afraid the angry, hateful Granger from his dreams would follow him into the realm of his awakened form. He clutched at the draping curtains, fingers wrinkling the fabric. Breathing heavily, he heard no one else in his room. No hateful Granger. No sputtering house elves. No crying children. Quiet. Like the grave. Quiet like the corpses. Like the girl with the pigtails. Like the Weasley brother who had always made others smile. Heart beating, ever rapidly in his chest, he clutched harder at the fabric. He did not dare to turn, in case the corpses that haunted him, lay on the floor of his bedroom. Strewn about. Reminding him. He pressed his forehead to the material in his hand. The weight of his hands desperate clawing had pulled it taught. His long, bony fingers shifted, feeling the thick, black velvet that matched the canopy of his oversized four poster bed.

The fibres of the fabric pressing against the pads of his fingers. Soft and flowing when his fingers smoothed downward. Coarse and resisting when rubbing the fabric upwards. Velvet. Hung for the first time in his room, over a decade prior. Still doing their job of keeping the sunlight out. And the nightmares in.

He tugged at the curtains, pulling them to the sides to part them. What he had expected to be a sunny, radiant morning, bathing the manor grounds with light and promises of a wonderful day to come, was not to be seen. Instead, what appeared outside, was a dimming sky. Hues of red and orange, the colours changing gradually into pinks and indigo, deepening from the brights of the western sky. To the east, behind feathery clouds of mauve, the stars came to life. Familiar constellations and distant galaxies shining in the night sky. Twinkling like embers.

He felt the fabric of his curtains once more, assuring himself of what reality he belonged to. The sky before him was real. The grand bed behind him, real. The sweat on his chest, real. Granger telling him it was all his fault, was not. The bodies in the great hall, nothing but a painful memory of what happened over eight years prior. Though her words might not have been real, they were true. The weight of the war rested on his shoulders, weighing him down. He deserved her harsh words. He deserved the blame. He had deserved Azkaban. He didn’t understand why he had been offered another chance.

It was his fault.

A gentle tapping on his door. Much lighter than Potters had been. “Draco?” a woman’s voice pulled him back from his thoughts. Surprised to hear his given name, he couldn’t quite place the voice that had said it. Not many people called him by his first name, only his mother and Effie. No one else cared enough to use the name given to him. Named after a constellation, which adorned the night sky. “Draco, could you open the door, please?” It was Granger. He recognised the way she had said his given name. He hadn’t been called ‘Malfoy’, in the same manner she had said it in school; full of spite. No, she had called him Draco.

As the swans swam by, the scenic quiet within the hedge maze, she’d said Draco. Fingers reaching out, she’d picked a blade from a Willow tree, she’d called him Draco. When he’d told her about the unicorns, she had called him Draco. Even in his dream, his given name had slipped her lips.

“Just a moment,” he called back towards the door, turning his head to look towards it. His bedroom was empty. No corpses littered the floor. No demons lurking in the shadows. Just Draco and his bed. He looked down at himself, taking note of exactly how little he was prepared for guests. Bare chest. Bare legs. If Granger wished to see him, she’d simply have to tolerate him taking his time to dress himself.

Long legs carried him toward his closet. Not a closet, but a full room, dedicated to entirely to black clothes, hanging amidst, and folded on top of deep mahogany wood. The only clothes that didn’t blend in with their dark surroundings, were a small rack of white oxfords, hanging neatly in their own little corner. From a hanger, he plucked a set of slate grey silk pyjamas and quickly dressed himself. He finished buttoning the top buttons of the shirt as he approached his bedroom door.

He stared down at the handles. Golden, shaped as two Hippogriff heads, facing away from one another. Ironic. He realised, looking at them, if he opened both doors to his bedroom, Granger would be able to see the most vulnerable part of him. A part that had wilted and died in his mid-teenage years; dead and gone, yet still very present in his current life.

His excessively large four poster bed, built of ebony, draped with a black velvet canopy. There were notches in his bedpost, made when he was a desperate teenager, doing anything he could for recognition from his peers.  

Ebony tree nightstands. A matching wooden desk in the corner, complete with a long-backed, black tufted leather chair on a frame made of the same black wood. A silver Hognose snake, coiled in on itself, with its head peeking out was the paper weight, sitting atop the personalised Draco Malfoy stationary on his desk. It was the only form of décor there was in his bedroom.

The wallpaper covering every wall, was black, with details of dark grey. Barely visible in the late evening light. He had no plants. Hardly any lights. The large room was open. Quiet. A void of hopelessness and despair.

The room he was standing in, had once belonged to a teenager who had done everything in his power to make his father proud, living up to the high expectations of the man he had adored so desperately. The very same teenager who had owned the room, had been feeling more anger and shame than any boy his age should. He had been raised to believe he deserved to have the world handed to him on a silver platter. Raised to believe he was better than those by his side. Thrust into the adult world at the age of sixteen. Father imprisoned. Son made to carry out the heavy deed of murder. He had wished it was him, who had plummeted from the Astronomy tower. If it had been, the sea of lights raised by faculty and students alike, would have been non-existent, for Draco was not loved. Not then. Certainly not now.

He reached for one door handle, pushing only one of the doors open, hiding his bedchambers from view. The wards put into place some time prior, rippled away into thin air.

“Granger. What a pleasant surprise.”

Granger stood before him, with her arms folded over her chest, and her lips pursed to the side with both concern and a hint of annoyance. “Ronald told me you haven’t been out of your rooms since Thursday evening. Is that true?”

“Was it Thursday you came to visit?” He asked, needing her confirmation. She nodded her head curtly. “Then yes, that would be correct.”

A look of exasperation crossed her features, and her arms loosened slightly at the front of her chest. “And why, exactly, have you been locked in your bedroom for the last three days?”

Blinking, caught by evident surprise, Draco looked down at the brunette witch. “Three days, you say?” She nodded once more. “In all honesty, I’ve been sound asleep since the last time I saw you. I woke for a bit when Effie helped me get into bed, then there was a moment when Potter and Weasley were banging on my door.”

“Asleep?” Her arms dropped entirely, leaving her open to him. She wore different clothes that day. No more muggle jeans and T-shirt with a faded print of a drawn character, but a dress. Thin straps over her shoulders, holding in place a sage green dress. It was tight around her bust, seemingly with a stretchy material, and it flowed from her waist. “How could you have slept for three whole days?”

“I tried doing magic.” He informed her. “In Azkaban, they repress prisoners magic. I set wards on my bedroom las- on Thursday evening, and it… I believe it drained me.”

Grangers face softened, gazing up at him. “I got worried, you know. I just arrived home this evening, and Harry nearly threw me back into the Floo. Said something was going on with you but didn’t let on what it was.”

Draco had to bite back a small smile that threatened to bloom on his cheeks. “I’m fine. No one needs to worry for me.”

“That’s a shame. Because we were all worried.” He was about to open his mouth, ask her who all of the worried people might be, but she spoke up first. “Now, are you going to stand around in your pyjamas all night, or are you coming down to eat with me?”

“Eat with you?” He truly hadn’t meant to ask the question with a laugh, nor a scoff, but the sound the left him whilst repeating her words sounded like a mixture between the two.

Brown eyes blinked at him, her brows pulling slightly towards one another. “Yes. It might be unfamiliar to you after so many days in bed, but it’s where you and I would sit together and dine. Food will be presented and there will be consumption of said food. By both of us.” There was a pleasant bite to her tone. “You have three options. First option, we have Pikes’ cooking here. Second option, I’ll cook for you. Either here or at Grimmauld Place. Third option, we floo into London and eat there.”

“Hate to tell you this, Granger, but I’m not hungry.”

“Not eating was not one of your three options.” She crossed her arms stubbornly, her eyebrow quirking and mouth pursing lightly as she looked up at him. Daring him to refuse her. “You haven’t eaten since Thursday evening, and even then, you barely ate anything. You’re eating with me, whether you want to or not.”

“You’re quite bossy this evening.” He didn’t agree to her command, though he knew she was correct. He had barely eaten in the soon-to-be week that he had been out of Azkaban.

“I’m also quite hungry this evening. So, what will it be?”

“Before I decide, I need to know what time it is.” All he knew, was that the sky was lit with flames of the vibrant sunset, and that stars were lighting somewhere overhead.

“About half eleven.” Much later than he had anticipated.

“That excludes Pikes, then.” He said simply. Her face shifted, with eyebrows raising just a fraction in silent question. “Him and Effie have time off from nine every evening. And, as much as I hate to say it, I’m not going into London. Not yet.” He found his chest tightening at the prospect of London. Muggle or magic. He tired from the simple presence of Weasley, so the bustling streets of London was absolutely not an option. “That leaves you.”

A shoulder shrugged. Her collar bone accentuated in the low light of the lit sconces on the walls outside of his bedroom. “That’s fine, I’ll gladly cook for you. I’ll just wait here while you get dressed.”

This time, it was hist turn to cross his arms over his chest, looking at her with obvious indignation “What, exactly, is the matter with my pyjamas?”

“You’re quite underdressed,” Granger gestured to her own flowy, summer dress and nearly bare shoulders. “Don’t you think?”

“I believe I’m the one that’s most appropriately dressed for this time of night. Wouldn’t you agree, Granger?” He leaned his body against the door that remained unopened. His eyes glossing over her dress once, simply, then returned to her eyes with a quizzically raised brow. “Perhaps you’d like to borrow a set of pyjamas? I promise you, they’re quite comfortable.”

The kitchens within Malfoy Manor were large. Exceptionally large, one might say. Beige marble countertops rested atop sage green cupboard with gleaming handles of golden metal and marble that matched the surfaces. The kitchen itself was wrapped around three walls, with a row of stained-glass windows allowing the moonlight in from the north garden, highlighting the warm glowing hues of the diamonds of glass. Between the eastern and western wall, was a kitchen island. Grand and long. On one side, we’re more cupboards and in the other, there were an overlay of marble, creating a bar space with twelve high backed, brown leather stools. There was one sink placed into the counter at each wall, and two wood fire stoves stood on the easternmost wall.

Although the kitchen was grand and beautifully decorated, it was also, much to Grangers’ dismay, quite disorganised. An even bigger bother was that Draco did not know how Pikes had arranged the kitchens to his liking. Not in the slightest.

He sat at a high backed, brown leather bar stool, at the back of the lengthy kitchen island. He was leaning over the countertop whilst propped on his elbows, supporting his head in one hand as he watched as a pyjama clad Hermione Granger tried, and subsequently failed, to navigate through the drawers and cupboards at her disposal.

“Ha!”  She shouted when she located a healthy assortment of potatoes, stored in a bucket beneath one of the three sinks within the kitchen. Thus far, she had found a jar of nine olives, stored upside down in a windowsill. A half empty bag of tea leaves, sitting alone in the middle shelf of a cupboard. A tray of eggs of varying sizes, clearly by varied species of birds, in a basket on a stool by the kitchen island, and finally, an old, wooden bucket of potatoes beneath the leftmost sink.

“Potatoes, eggs, tea and nine olives. Sounds like a five-wand meal.” He kept his eyes on her. Locked on how she frenzied through the drawers on the right-hand side once more.

She stood, meeting his gaze with a mirthful set to her eyes, the slightest curl to her lips. “Oh, stop pretending you’re funny.” She smiled whilst saying it. Hermione pushed up the sleeve of her silk pyjamas, as it had, once more, slid down past her wrist for the seventh time in four minutes. Draco had been counting.

Standing from his stool, the wooden feet scraping against the tiled floor, he walked towards her. “What are you wanting to make anyways?” He asked, rounding he short end of the island.

“Anything simple enough, honestly.” She admitted. “Also, why do you have four drawers of different kinds of forks?”

He snorted, surprised by her query about the utensils, “You’ll have to ask Pikes.” He told her, stepping up before her and wrapped his fingers around her silk clad forearm, guiding it to hover in the air between them. With both hands, he took the silk sleeve of her shirt and started rolling it upwards in neatly crafted sections. One fold over the last. Eventually satisfied, he did the same to her other sleeve, taking his time to do it perfetly. Ending the neat folds just beneath her elbows, secured, where they would not slip away. “Is that better?”

“Much. Er, thank you.” Their eyes did not meet.

“As for food, I’m certain you can use your wand and a crafty little summoning charm to find what you’re looking for?” He chose not to remind her of the fact, that she could also use her wand to make his overly large pyjamas, fit her much smaller form significantly better. He quite enjoyed the way the lengthy bottoms pooled around the fluffy, much too large, slippers she had borrowed from him.

“Excellent idea,” The wand in question, had been neatly placed on the counter, several paces from where they stood. She was quick to step back from him, turning away from him to fetch it. Not looking into the quick dismissal, he turned as well, making his way back to the stool he’d been perched on, and watched as she made cheeses soar through the air.

He had never been particularly good at cooking. He had never really tried to get better at it. His mother had sometimes taken him into the kitchens to bake Christmas cookies with his as a child, but had promptly stopped when Draco had complainer how it had been boring and tedious.

Potions, however, was the closest he came to the craft, and he found himself rather talented when it came to potioneering. Measuring and following instructions were easy. Paying attention to the colouration and hues of the liquids he’d been concocting was a rather enjoyable affair. Cooking, however, required a different set of skills. A finesse he had yet to develop.

“What is it you’re doing now?” He asked, watching her intently, his head having fallen to a tilt, leaning harder on his right arm as he tried observing what he could from behind her.

“Slicing potatoes into strips,” he heard the blade of the knife rolling against the wooden cutting board but couldn’t see it.

“What does that make?” he watched the way her hair hung down her back, moving along with the easy movement of her shoulder.

“Potato strips.” Aptly named, indeed.

“Ingenious, Granger.” He felt a smirk pull at his lips when she turned around to glare at him. The urge to defend himself arose quickly; “I’ve never really cooked before, so I’m simply curious as to what you’re doing.”

The glare eased and without a without a word, she collected the cutting board and knife from across the kitchen, moving her workstation to the kitchen island. Facing him. She promptly resumed her work, cutting the potatoes into strips “Is cooking something you want to learn, then?”

“I’ve never had any intentions to learn. I’ve always had house elves, and then there’s magic, that people often use when cooking.” This earned him a pointed look, from the witch with the large knife. “I also assume restaurants still do take-away?”

“They do.” She turned her gaze from his and lowered the knife “Cooking the muggle way is a nice skill to know.”

The words slipped his lips before he could think much of them. “Perhaps you could teach me?”

Confused, Granger watched him. “Using manual labour?” He knew there was no other manner to do things the muggle way. Manual labour was simply it.

“Yes.” A blatant lie.

“You’re certain you want to try?” Her brows nearly disappeared into the hairline of her thick curls.

“Absolutely.” Another lie. She waved the knife, inviting Draco to join her across the island. He slipped from his seat once more, rounding the short end of the island to join her where she stood. Long fingers grazed along the surface of the beige marble as he came closer to her.

Brown eyes observed him cautiously. “Can I see your hands?” She asked gently.

Lifting both of his hands to her, his palms to the ceiling above them, Draco showed her what she had truly wanted to see. His tremors. His hands hovering in the air between them, shaking. Fingers trembling, with his muscles and tendons giving involuntary spasms. He saved her the trouble of wording herself kindly “I believe you should do the cutting, Granger.”

Her shoulders lowered somewhat; eyes heavily focused on his quivering hands. “What happened to you?” her voice was but a whisper.

It seemed to Draco; she was anxious for him. Curious and concerned about his ailment. He clutched his fingers repeatedly into fists. Releasing and clenching over and over, stretching out his fingers amidst the movements. Lowering his hands to the work surface, he rested them atop it, the cool marble working to help his hands relax and the spasms ease. “I don’t know.” He didn’t like lying to her. “One day a few years back, I simply noticed I trembled. It got worse for a while, then it eased. It is what it is.” He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. He did not know if she believed him or not. It was simply not the story he wished to share with her so early in their friendship.

“Did you get healers to look at it?”

“There are no healers in Azkaban. You either live or you die. No one cares.” He hoped she understood. Not every topic of Azkaban was easy. One thing was mentioning the food or the loneliness. It was another, entirely, letting her in on something that would stick with him for the rest of his life.

She didn’t pry further. “You’ll cook the bacon then,” she eventually said, gesturing for him to follow her to one of the wood stoves along the eastern wall.

That is how Draco Malfoy, the heir to the lengthy and noble Malfoy line, found himself cooking. The muggle way.

Granger had cut several large potatoes into strips, which were baking by woodfire in the oven. Draco stood at the stovetop, moving diced bacon around a cast iron skillet with a wooden spoon, utilising the same fire as the potatoes. She had left him alone by the heat, standing the entirety of four paces away from him, her back turned, as she was ‘shredding cheese’. He did not know what it meant, nor did he want to learn it. It sounded like quite the heinous act towards the sacred dairy product.

She whirled around and stepped closer to him. She needed six paces to get to his side, being quite a bit smaller than him, and peeked around his arm to see how the bacon was coming along. “It smells delicious, doesn’t it?” She hummed with joy.

“It smells like grease.” He replied, telling the truth. “A lot of grease. And salt.”

Hermione stepped in beside him, ushering him to move to the side “And grease and salt is delicious.”

“I’ll remember that for your birthday.” Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, both biting back grins before she looked down. Her hand reached for the wooden handle of the stove door, pulling it open to check on the potatoes.

Golden brown. Shimmering in the firelight.

“Perfect!” She left the door open by Draco’s knees, rushing back to her cheese shredding station, before returning with a rather large bowl of mutilated dairy.

“You’ve murdered it.” A laugh, a genuine and much needed laugh escaped him as he observed. The cheeses were strips of varying sizes and colours. Apparently different kinds of cheese, shredded by hand or cut by a knife and sliced with a small handheld apparatus that remained at her station. Draco had never seen cheese in such a state.

She looked up at him, their eyes locking. Brown eyes sparkling with mirth as a smile widened over cheeks.

Hermione Granger, the fool, as she had dubbed herself some days prior, was quite the vision when she smiled. Captivating one might say. Allowing him to appreciate her radiance for a fleeting moment, but she turned away, sprinkling the slaughtered cheese atop the potatoes and shut the door once more, to let them bake together.

She instructed him to take the skillet off the flame. The bacon cubes popped. Granger had found them bread and butter plates from a shallow drawer, as well as two salad forks, and shooed him from the stove with the silverware. He stepped back, leaning against Hermione’s cheese shredding station and watched as she loaded each plate with cheese covered potatoes, then as she ladled bacon atop the cheesy and starchy food.

“I present you, loaded chips,” Hermione granger seemed rather proud of herself. Her fingers spread wide with the presentation of the two plates of greasy, rather delicious smelling food. If it could even be called food. Her smile was illuminating.

Draco carried the plates to the corner of the island, where he sat on the short end, and Hermione in the long end. She got the better stool. They sat down together and picked up their salad forks to eat their little midnight meal.

He pierced a potato strip and cube of bacon, tearing the cheese that covered the starchy base as he moved the fork to his lips. “Before I taste this and decide I don’t like it, I wish to thank you, Granger. I don’t think anyone has ever shown up at my bedroom door around midnight just to force me to eat their cooking.”

Bemused, she pressed her lips together with the help of her teeth. She loaded her fork with a similar bite to his and extended her fork towards him. “To midnight meals,”

He moved his fork towards her, using their potatoes to cheers. “And brutally slaughtered cheese.” Her laugh rang through the kitchen, echoing off the marble. It was magnificent. Rolling and fluid, like a tricking stream of momentary happiness.

He tasted his potato, his teeth pulling at the stringy, melted cheese that seemed to stretch on for eternity. He took a moment to chew, eyeing the woman before him suspiciously. She eyed him back, observing his reaction. The entire remaining strip of potato, the coverings of cheese and the cube of bacon was soon put into his mouth, chewing with surprising vigour.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Granger grinned at him, already loading her fork with more.

“It is,” Draco agreed, following suit with another cheesy potato strip and bacon. Loaded chips, she’d called them. He’d have to remember it.  “How did you know I’d like it?”

“I didn’t. But most people like potatoes, and you’re a posh ponce, so you must like cheese. And bacon is… Bacon. Salty, greasy, crispy and delicious.” She reasoned it all with facts. Cheese, potatoes and bacon; a holy concoction. Her fork was loaded with three cheesy potato strips, which she devoured with a small wiggle to her silk clad shoulders.

“It’s good. Though I can’t promise I’ll eat too much,” as a young teenager, Draco had always maintained a large appetite. It didn’t really matter what he was served, he would eat it all. Then, The Dark Lord had returned, his father imprisoned and Dracos appetite had dwindled significantly. The years of starvation in his prison cell, was certainly not of any help regarding the matter.

“I understand. As long as you eat something.” She pointed at him with a flap of lonely cheese. “You’re nothing but skin and bones, you need to eat.”

“I feel nothing really tastes good. This is surprisingly fine, but otherwise I haven’t really tasted anything…” he looked down at his plate, his eyes falling to a piece of potato, which was just slightly paler than the rest on his plate. “Good.”

She hesitated, inhaling deeply through her nose before opening her mouth. “Ron told me they fed you stale bread and otherwise very bland and tasteless food. Perhaps an egg once in a while.”

“One isn’t exactly entitled to five-wand cuisine, after being imprisoned for murder.”

“I know you never killed anyone-”

He scoffed, strands of his long hair slipping from behind his ear, partially parting him from Granger. “Keep telling yourself that.”

His comment earned him a sharp look from the witch. “And even if you had, you still deserve better meals. Muggle murderers get much better treatment than you did in Azkaban.”

“Okay. How nice the muggles must have it, then.” He dismissed her, returning his attention to the food before him. Several bites in, and he was still enjoying it.

She seemed to not much approve of their shared silence, as sighs and short huffs of air kept exiting her. Brown eyes lifted their gaze from her plate and locked on him several times.

“You said you’d just arrived home when Potter told you to see me?” She nodded absently, skewering several pieces of bacon to her fork. “Could you tell me about it; what you did today?”  

“Technically, it would be yesterday.” She reminded him, still not looking up from her plate. Prongs of her fork loaded with diced bacon, whilst the utensil buns between her thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t do much, really. Just went to meet a few people.” He had no right to push at her. No right to ask further questions.

“Anyone I’d know?”

“Well, at first, I went to visit Charlie, Ron’s brother. He recently moved to Wales to work at Ferris and Fergus’ Fiery Forgery and Conservatory, helping with dragons.” Surprise raised his brows. How she had managed to say the full name of the Weasley brothers’ workplace without a stutter was rather impressive. “And after a day there, I went to Hogsmeade to meet with Neville Longbottom. Then I went to Southampton to speak with Dean Thomas, and then earlier today I was in Liverpool, where Oliver Wood lives.”

“Do you visit them often?” He remembered most of them from school. Though he was not too familiar with the one working with dragons.

“No… You see, I’m scared who the ministry will pair me with. I think they might choose the worst match for me, someone who’s actually murdered someone. I honestly worry, I’ll be paired off to marry Dolohov.” She rested her fork on her plate. “So, I’m trying to find someone who will marry me before the ministry has to intervene.”

“Wait,” he laid his fork down, his gaze now locked in her beneath furrowed brows “Why would the ministry marry you off to Dolohov?”

A heaving breath filled her lungs, before slowly exiting. “You remember at the end of fifth year, when your father and several other death eaters were sent to the Department of Mysteries?”

“Where my father was arrested? Vividly.”

“Dolohov hit me with a curse, that night. I spent the rest of the school year and most of the summer under a living death potion in St. Mungos.”

“He… Dolohov was deadly.” He had been. Antonin Dolohov had been an inner circle Death Eater, sent out on missions where The Dark Lord had needed his best martial duellists. Dolohov possibly had a higher murder count than anyone else during the war. If Dolohov had wanted her dead, it was a miracle to have her sitting at the kitchen bar alongside him. “How on earth did you survive?”

“Pure luck, I imagine. I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly present after the curse hit me.” She shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. “Apparently, Neville lugged me about while they were fighting. I just remember coming to in the Hospital”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He could only imagine. A handful of teenagers, fighting against the deadliest of The Dark Lords’ minions. And worst of all, lacking the mind and skillset of the most brilliant witch of their generation.

“Granger… I…”

“So,” Her tone lightened. “Your hair has gotten quite long. What are you thinking of doing with it?”

Long fingers tucked the fallen strands back behind his ear. “I haven’t thought much about it. It is a bit of a bother, always falling in front of my face. But I don’t think I’d like to cut it short.”

She propped her elbow on the marble countertop, looking at him with a glint of mischief in her eyes, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips “I have hairbands, if you’d like to try,” she lifter her hand next to her face, revealing three elastics hanging loosely from her delicate wrist.

He couldn’t help the smirk spreading across his face. “Granger, if you want me to look like my father, you could just say so. I know ladies sometimes prefer a man like him.”

A snort. An actual snort was inhaled before she released her laughter. His chest lightened at the sound of her melody. “Except for your hair, you don’t look much like him. Thank Merlin for that.” With her left hand, she pulled an elastic from her wrist. “May I?”

His tongue slid along the edges of his teeth, observing her with scrutiny. He eventually relaxed his shoulders, his brows unfurrowing. “You may.”

Silk pyjamas slipped easily against the leather of the stool as she slipped from the seat. Overlarge slippers scraped against the tile of the floor as she stepped around him. He felt, more than heard, as she stopped behind him. “Do let me know if you think I’m pulling your hair too hard.”

“Don’t worry, Granger. I’m certain I’m in good hands.”

Her fingers were warm, her nails just long enough and rounded to make the scrape along his scalp a pleasant experience. His eyes fell shut, allowing the feeling of her hands in his hair to be his sole focus. No one had touched his hair for years. The last time had been the day he was incarcerated. His mothers gentle touch and slightly chilled fingers pushing his fringe away, so she could have a last, proper look at her son’s face.

Fingers combed through the lengths of his hair, untangling a few knots that must have appeared whilst he was in his three-day slumber. She toyed with his lengths, gathering it all at the base of his skull, holding it between her fingers before releasing it. She did the same again, though this time, she collected the strands in the middle of his head. She let it fall back to his shoulders.

Her nails came in from his nape, raking up along his skull from the bottom. His shoulders slumped at the attention. A wave of calm washing over him. He paid no mind to her specific movements. Enjoying her attention, no matter how brief it might be.

She spun his hair around her fingers. He heard the snap of elastic from around her hand and felt her tug at his hair as she set it in place. “I could take you into muggle London, one day. Get a hairdresser to trim it a bit, if you’d like.” She offered. She was closer to him than he’d expected, her warm breath fanning across his newly exposed neck. Hands resting atop his shoulders.

“That might be a good idea,” He agreed absently, eyes fluttering open. There were still strands hanging loosely around his face, though nothing quite like the wavy curtains that had once been. “Thank you, Granger.”

Hermione’s hands left his shoulders, the heat of her palms lingering within the fabric of his pyjamas. She returned to her stool, hand pushing away the plate of cool potatoes and hardened cheese. “Nothing to thank me for. You know, I don’t really have much going for me these days.”

“Except husband hunting, of course.” Draco reminded her, using the backs of his trembling knuckles to push his plate and fork to join hers.

“You just had to remind me, didn’t you?” Her narrowed eyes were overshadowed by the spirited smirk she was trying to supress.

Leaning onto the counter, on his elbows, his hands clutching at each other’s to steady them. “I doubt you’ll have much issue finding a man to marry, Granger. A with as clever, as kind and as beautiful as you, should have wizards swooning at your feet.”

Her eyes stayed on his as she allowed herself to relax onto the counter, much like he did. “You’d be wrong, Draco. I spoke to all of four friends, and none of them would marry me. My next few options would be Cormac and Seamus… Perhaps I’ll look into locating some others as well…”

“McLaggen and Finnegan, you mean?” He found himself at the verge of a laugh, not believing she could be serious at all.

“Yes?”

“You can’t be serious, Granger.” He watched as she bit her lip. Her hair bounced as she nodded “If my memory serves me right, McLaggen is a bit of a…” He decided to not say the word lingering on his tongue, allowing her to finish it for herself.

“Git?” She suggested. McLaggen was so much more than that.

A shake of his head “The word I was looking for, was ‘cunt’. But sure, git works too. As for Finnegan, I think that would end up… Well, a lavender marriage.”

“What? Lavender marriage?” She bolted upright, staring at the blonde man before her with evident surprise. “He’s not gay.”

“Yes he is.” Draco nodded.

She hunched forwards again, her eyebrows easing over her softening eyes. “You’re joking!”

“Granger, I thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch of our age…” Her reaction to her news, was enough to cause a grin on his lips. “You know, when Thomas started sizing up the Weasley girl, Finnegan started sizing up Thomas.”

“Well, then…” She stared absently over Draco’s shoulder. “Perhaps a Lavender marriage wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.”

“They might not be the best marriages for procreation, now, would they?” He tilted his head, snapping her out of her distant gaze and met his eyes with her once more. Beautiful, they were. He wouldn’t mind seeing them more often.

A desperate groan escaped her as she hunched forwards. “Merlin’s left, saggy tit… I’m doomed.”

“The mouth on you!” His shocked expression and bark of a laugh must have been enough to make her rise from her defeat. “Don’t you have anyone else? How about Krum?” An image flashed through his mind, from mere hours earlier; Granger walking down the staircase, her shimmering eyes focused on Draco. She was wearing the periwinkle dress from the Yule Ball.

“Viktor? No, last I heard from him, he was still in Bulgaria.” She reasoned with a huff of air. “He’d never move to England just for me. For the Repopulation act.”  

“And what of my old friends? Nott and Zabini?”

“Nott? As in Theo?” Her eyes nearly lit up, increasing the gentle sparkle of her freckles. “Goodness, no. He dated Luna Lovegood for a bit, but she ended things with him because he was too eccentric for her.” Hundreds of questions arose in Dracos head, though before he was able to open his mouth and ask, the brunette continued. “Pansy mentioned Zabini has been living in Italy the last few years. Something about meeting a muggle there and running a winery, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Huh…” Theodore had always been unique, in his own manner. Draco truly shouldn’t have been surprised at the prospect that he was too eccentric to entertain the likes of Luna Lovegood. Zabini meeting a muggle, however, was a staggering surprise, indeed.

Her gaze met his, brows pulled together, sadly above expressive eyes. “Do you have… Any other suggestions?”

He felt a slight tension in the air between them. Something blooming. Similar to the opalescent flowers in the hedge maze. The very same flowers she seemed to adore. “I don’t really know anyone. I’m sorry… Do let me know if I can be of any help, though. I’ll do what I can to keep you from Dolohov.”

“Well…” Her voice was slightly breathy. Anxious. She looked down at her hands, where her slender fingers were tugging at each other. “There’s one more. You?”

“Me?” He must have misheard. A witch like Hermione Granger couldn’t possibly, truly wish to spend her time with him.

“Unless you have plans to marry someone else?” Her voice, usually light and calming. Eyes, a beam of vivid brightness piercing the otherwise grey and dull. Both hesitant, with an overlay of worry and fear.

“Me?” He repeated. His eyes started searching the kitchens, his head turning to allow him to search every corner of the room they were occupying. They were alone.

“Yes. You, Draco.”

“Are you proposing to me?” His voice was an octave higher than usual. The pace of his voice quickened along with his pulse.

“No. I am merely… Asking if you might have plans to marry someone else.” She rolled her bottom jaw, looking away from him; saddened by his reaction.

After a moment of keen observation, he sat upright, his food long since forgotten, cold on the marble topped island. He sized her up. Sitting in his kitchens, where she had cooked, and even taken time to teach him. She had shown up at his bedroom door just before midnight, and demanded he’d eat. Suggested taking him out. She took care of him. Touched him. Listened to him. Laughed with him. Suggested to marry him.

The brightest witch of their age. Wearing his pyjamas and his old slippers, both of which were much too large for her. She had tied his hair back. She was his friend, in a life and existence, where he had no one. He’d been alone. He’d been crowded in darkness; then came Granger.

“Our deadline to marry is in three weeks. So, how about…” he wished he’d not began to speak. He would never get to marry a witch like Granger. “If you still don’t have anyone else, someone you’d prefer to marry over me, in two weeks, you and I will marry each other?”

“Really?” She finally looked up, and once more her expression was bright. “You’ll marry me?”

“On Sunday in two weeks, if you’re still single, I’ll have a ring ready for you.”

Chapter Text

There were some things that could not be avoided forever. Draco knew he hadn’t been back for long; he knew he had not been present in his new way of living for more than a few days. A full week, if one was to count the three days in which he had spent in deep slumber. Wasting time. Precious time. Time, where he could have healed. Perhaps convince his guardian and Potter to finally see his friends. His mother.

“Weasley,” he greeted the redheaded man on Tuesday morning. Nothing seemed normal. Weasley was paler than Draco was accustomed to, his usually neatly combed hair, was dishevelled. Patterns of his fingers running through his red locks in desperation, were evident. Light bruising under his eyes, evidence he had been missing sleep. Something was clearly wrong. “What happened?” He found himself asking his new housemate with worry, brows pulled taught above his eyes.

“Malfoy…” Weasley mumbled, his voice was gravelly. He sat at his usual seat at the dining room table, with his back to the grand windows which faced the gardens. He tossed a brown Manila envelope onto the dining room table between them. “I need to talk to you about something. Please, sit.” He seemed quite unsettled in his seat. Unnaturally calm, though there was a slight edge to him, that showed his unease at the situation he had been put in. Weasley’s complexion had paled significantly. Freckles ashen atop his cheek bones ad he kept his gaze on the back of the envelope

Draco didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer to the table, sitting down across from the man, his back towards the open double doors. Once seated, Draco gave the man a singular nod, urging him to continue.

“You remember what I said killed your father?” Weasley asked, his voice soft. Gentle. Despite the hardness of his eyes and the thin line of his lips.

A flashing memory of Draco rushing out of the very same dining room. Opening a window. Emptying his stomach contents into his mothers’ flowerbeds. “Vividly.”

“He was the first. There have been… Well, it used to be four victims in total. As of yesterday afternoon, it increased to five.” Weasley kept his gaze glued to the envelope that lay between them, hardly daring to look away from it to face him properly. “The four first victims were, as follows; Lucius Malfoy. Corban Yaxley. Darius Crabbe. Amycus Carrow… And now…” he reached for the envelope, pale, freckled fingers taking the canvas lightly. Draco found himself sincerely wishing Weasley wouldn’t show him any photographs. “Your uncle.” He said whilst turning the heavily glared upon envelope, revealing the front of the file between them.

Case

886519 – Ø G L E

Lestrange, Rodolphus

A hurried breath left through Dracos nose. Amused, Draco looked up from the much too familiar name on the front of the envelope, finally meeting the eyes of the youngest Weasley brother. “Rodolphus finally got himself killed.” The words might sound insensitive to those who hadn’t known the man. The man had finally gotten a taste of what he had done to others before him. Draco believed Muggles had a word for that. “You think this pains me, Weasley?”

Weasley didn’t seem quite as uncomfortable as their conversation had progressed past the grand reveal of the victim’s name. He seemed more uncertain. Not sure how to speak about what had happened. “He was your uncle.” Draco pondered if Weasley might had expected Draco to cry. To run out to feed the flower bed with his vomit once more.

“He was a madman. Married to a madwoman.” Draco justified plainly.

“And now, he’s dead.” Weasley insisted. His eyes were filled with an odd expression of regret and surprise. “A groundskeeper at a castle in Ballymena found him. Northern Ireland, that is. Just like the others, he’d been skinned alive.”

With the slightest of tilts to his head, Draco nodded slowly. “Something about this is worrying you. I can tell.”

“It’s just… When they took your father, they kept him for about a week. Yaxley was missing for two weeks, he’d been extensively tortured along with the skinning. Of course, because of that reason alone, we don’t know if it’s the same murderer. Crabbe was the same as the first, kept for about a week before being disposed of. Carrow, just under two weeks. Similar to Yaxley, that is.” The redheaded man began to describe. He was grimacing a bit, trying to keep his face neutral, though he seemed to fail when thinking back on them. The victims.

“Speaking from… Insider knowledge, I suppose, it does sound like they are all victims of the same murderer. No one wishes to copy a killer after only one victim. It sounds, to me, as if the killer… Decided to take down one of the most famed Death Eaters first. Using him to build up to one of their most important kills next. Then they took out Crabbe, perhaps because they simply wanted him gone. Then, Carrow was another important one. They must have had a personal vendetta against those two; Yaxley and Carrow I mean.” Draco suggested to the auror. He was almost certain Weasley had already thought of it. The only reason he suggested it, was because he had lived with murderers. He had heard how they had planned the more important kills in great detail. How they had hungered for their own twisted sense of justice. By taking their time. Torturing. Enjoying the screams. The grisly and horrendous satisfaction they had gotten from the feel of blood on their fingers. Hearing the rattle of the last breath. Draco swallowed his disgust, forcing his mind back to critical thinking. “Is there any other pattern?”

Weasley had nodded along to Dracos words, allowing the blonde to know he too had thought the same. “There is. So far, they’ve killed around the same time. Your father in January of 2003. Yaxley, January of 2004. Crabbe, January in 2005. Carrow, January of this year. It’s been going at an even pace, every January for four consecutive years.”

Draco felt his back meet the upholstery of his dining chair as he unknowingly leaned back. His head fell to a slight tilt backwards as he held Weasley’s gaze with his eyebrows pulled together across his forehead. “And now, June… Only six months after. It’s only been one murder, but you think they’ve picked up their pace, don’t you?”

“It does seem like it, doesn’t it? The fact they also only kept Lestrange for a weekend as well. Picked him up on Friday, after breakfast, and left him out in the sun on Monday” Weasley leaned forwards, his forearms pressing onto the cherry wood tabletop as he leaned forward. The man was eager to discuss. Draco was not opposed to it. “Or d’you reckon it’s someone copying?”

Draco shook his head lightly at the finishing question. “I’m no auror, obviously, so I wouldn’t know for certain. However, isn’t copying more common amongst muggles?” he offered. “As for the speed of Rodolphus’ murder, it does seem a bit hasty. Just spending a weekend on him and halving the killers rest time as well. Rushed, indeed.” He rested his hands on the table, hoping the continued tremors would relax on the cold surface. “What does he public say? My guess is they’re all happy Death Eaters are dying, aren’t they. Might they possibly even thank the killer for their good deeds?”

“Over the years, the thoughts on the killer seem to be mixed. People are happy that they’re no harm to anyone, The Death Eaters. But they were in Azkaban to begin with. The trajectory to death or insanity had already started, so why remove them from it, only to kill them. That seems to be what people are saying.” Blue eyes sized him up. Rounding up the change that had happened in him. “You know, it worries me a bit. Because it happened the same week you, a known Death Eater, was released from Azkaban, Malfoy. It worries me, because you’re not the only one not stowed away with the Dementors anymore. Goyle is out. Nott is out.”

“Nott? Theodore Nott was not a Death Eater. I believe The Dark Lord wanted him to be but failed to mark him before his defeat.” Draco said quickly. He had known Theodore since they were children. Since his father and Atticus Nott had introduced them as younglings. Draco was certain Theodore had never wished to become a Death Eater. He hoped that the name if his friend was not on the list of a hunter for Death Eaters. Theodore should not have to pay for his fathers’ crimes.

“His father was. He was on the wrong side of the war. Both Notts were. Just like you were.” He took a deep breath. “Just like Pansy and Daphne as well.”

Draco felt a distinct chill run up along the length of his spine. “There are several known Death Eaters to take down first. Whoever if doing these vigilante killings, are obviously picking at the inner circle or those important to The Dark Lord’s regime. Also, seemingly, important to themselves. If they start picking at lower-level ones or surviving snatchers, that’s when you should start to worry about those who were not marked but still in the wrong side.”

“You were important. Inner circle. Weren’t you?” Ronald Weasley kept his eyes focused on Draco. An intense stare, if anything. Though the blue eyes did not seem to be intense with judgement or hatred. If he hadn’t known better, Draco might have mistaken it for worry. Concern.

Draco felt his fingers’ restlessness, the trembling picking up once more. He clenched his fists tightly, then released them. Pressing his lips to a thin line, he allowed his eyes to retreat from Weasley’s, observing the table between them. The envelope, depicting his uncle’s name, stared back up at him. Begging him to open it. To look inside. To read the report. To learn everything this murderer was doing. “Somewhat. I had two jobs in sixth year. The first, was letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts by repairing the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Requirement. The real Death Eaters, that is. Devoted to The Dark Lord for several years. Most of their lives, probably.” He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs until there was no more space within his chest to expand. “Then, I was to murder Dumbledore. Which I could not do. He was already so old, well on his way into a grave anyways… I knew, if I didn’t kill him, The Dark Lord would kill me in his stead. Yet I couldn’t do it…” He mumbled, mostly to himself. He knew he didn’t have to explain himself to Weasley. Everything of note had already been shared at his exceptionally short trial. “He didn’t deserve to die more than I did, just because he was old. Just because The Dark Lord wanted him dead.”

“The general public don’t know that, Malfoy. They know you were a Death Eater. Given fifteen years to serve in Azkaban, and you only served eight. They know you’ve used all of the unforgivable curses, as was proven when they weighed your wand. You didn’t defend yourself at your trial, so no one knows what you truly did or did not do.” Weasley pressed his weight into the table, leaning over it once more. “Whoever is targeting Death Eaters might come and pick you off next, now you’re out. Do you know of anyone, anyone at all, who might have been able to do this? Who might want all these people dead? Who might want you dead?”

“Most of wizarding Britain, I suppose.” There was no lie in Dracos words. The Malfoy name had once belonged to a prestigious family. A sacred family. One could count the British generations back until before Hogwarts had been founded. And then centuries before that, reigning strong and true in France. A noble and most ancient family. With members both knighted by the muggle Queen. An honourable family. Until Lucius had become head of the family. Until Dracos father had risked it all to follow a madman into the darkness. Burning bridges, creating enemies. The Malfoy name had been sullied. Ruined.

Weasley shook his head at his statement. “Think, Malfoy. Specifics. Have you heard anything inside? Any names being mentioned? Perhaps something about a weird visitor?”

Draco’s eyes snapped up to meet Ronalds once more. “What?”

“Yeah, did you hear anything while you were in Azkaban?” The other man urged.

“Weasley, do you know absolutely nothing?” Draco’s tremoring fingers gripped tightly at the armrests of his dining chair. Knuckles whitening against the deep wood. Agitation welled within him. Not for Weasley’s incompetence. No, what angered him was the fact that a man, whom had been an auror for several years, had never truly seen what Azkaban was like. “Have you never been there? Did your boss not take you? Did you not visit when you were training to become aurors? No one talks to you in Azkaban. The human guards barely open their mouths to speak to you like you’re absolute filth. You’re left alone, at all times. The only thing I ever heard from other prisoners, were their screams and their shackles on the floor.”

Weasley stared at him for a long moment. His brows furrowed across his forehead. Blue eyes searching his face for any sign of lies. Draco noticed the slightest signs of lines around the corners of his eyes and between his brows.

“I’ll tell you if I remember anything else. I promise.” Draco vowed.

“Alright…” Weasley reached for the envelope, pulling it towards himself. “We’re stuck you see. There’s nothing to indicate who it might be. We have checked out all of the human guards in Azkaban. We know Dementors can’t be persuaded. We have checked anyone who are related to all the victims, but we don’t know anything. And with the change of timing, the fact the last murder happened over the span of a weekend. The killer was rushed.”

Thoughtfully, Draco nodded. “Rodolphus wasn’t that important to the killer, then, as Yaxley and Carrow were. Who do they have in common? Any victims? Family? Anyone who wishes to avenge a loved one?”

“We’ve looked into everyone we can think of. There are quite a few, but not much overlap, surprisingly enough… It would just be good with, y’know, a fresh set of eyes.”

Draco noticed the sky behind Weasley was a light blue. Filled with sunlight and feathery clouds. Morning hours of a simple and serene summer. Hiding just beyond the doors. Peeking in through the windows. Telling Draco what he could be enjoying outside. He did not rush to finish the conversation with Weasley. It was, surprisingly, quite stimulating.

“You think your boss would like that much?” he asked, his eyes flitting back to those of the man sitting across from him. “You sharing confidential information with someone like me?”

“Robards is retiring soon. Said so himself not long ago. Harry will become head of the department after him. So, Robards has already given him a lot of freedom to make important decisions without him.” He began, then paused for a moment. “This case just changed with this murder. If whoever the killer is, is changing it up now, there must be a reason for it. And it happening just after you got released… I don’t know. It feels weird, doesn’t it? Robards is desperate to get the case closed. Both he and Harry said to use any means necessary. To me, you are those means… And Harry encouraged it too.” He rolled a shoulder before leaning back into his upholstered chair. “I can tell you one thing, Malfoy. The old auror on the case, the one that’s been sacked, we think he might have hidden information. Destroyed evidence. Done what he could to help the killer.”

Trembling fingers on wood. Draco swallowed. “So what do you want me to help you with exactly? I can’t do much, as you know.”

“Well, you’ve always been clever. I believe you can help us with that. Thinking. Reading. Help us get new perspective. Perhaps see a pattern we’ve overlooked.” A younger Draco would have eaten at Weasley’s words like dessert. Sweet, they were. He had always been clever. Always been smart. Though he had also been excessively stupid.

“Why not ask The Brightest Witch of Our Age to help you?” Granger must surely have been a better option than him. Clever; incredibly so. Talented. Able-minded and with a body and psyche that didn’t hinder her.

“No, mate. I won’t have Hermione mixed into this if I can help it.” Weasley immediately said. It was a simple fact to him. He could not want her involved. Put at risk. Draco found he did not want her at risk either. “She’s not personally involved in this. You, in a way, you are. You have family. Old acquaintances. You, yourself, are also potentially on the chopping block.”

As Weasley finished speaking, the two men stared at one another. Both considering the other. Draco heard his thoughts whirring in his head. Flying, racing, at a speed he’d never before experienced. “I’ll help you… But you have to get me caught up. Documents. Files. Notes. Anything you can share.”

“I will get it for you this week.” The redhead nodded enthusiastically.

“I have… A couple of requests, so to speak” Draco said. His negotiation skills were far from perfect. He released his breath slowly, allowing it out through his nose to calm himself. “Firstly, I wish to see Pansy. And Daphne. If… If they’d like to see me, that is. If you find me harmless enough to help you, something inside you must know, I would never hurt them. I just miss those I saw as my friends back in the day.”

“Of course. They’ve been begging to come and see you.” Weasley nodded. He was earnest. Open. No lies hidden in his words.

“And secondly, I want you to ask Granger to come over tomorrow morning. Preferably around ten or eleven. If she can. If... If she’s not too busy. If she wants to.” Draco pressed his hands onto the tops of his knees. His palms had moistened with sweat at the prospect of asking Granger over.

“You… You’re asking for Hermione?” The playful smirk on Weasley’s face was dreadful. Mortifying. “Speaking of which; what was she doing asleep on the sofa yesterday morning?”

“She fell asleep there, obviously.” He retorted sharply. There was a thunderous throbbing in his ears. “Really, Weasley. She came over last night, took me to the kitchens to feed me cheesy potatoes with bacon. After a bit, we went up to the solarium to watch the sunrise. She fell asleep.” Making the story short, proved to be easy. It was the fine details that would be difficult to explain away.

Cleaning the dishes together. She insisted on washing up the muggle way. She put her hands in the soapy, warm water, scrubbing the cheese and grease from their plates and the used utensils. Draco stood to her right and dried every item she handed to him. Their hands touched more than once. They had exchanged glances. Smiles. Draco was unsure whether any of it had been intentional or not.

Draco had opened the sliding glass wall of the solarium. The violet sofa was positioned perfectly, to watch the grounds as the colour of the tapestry of the early morning sky faded from indigo. Waves of magenta. The fire of marigold. Thick clouds, backlit by the brilliant morning sun. Sparkling like gold. Graduating into soft pastels. They sat on opposing ends of the sofa, each of them nursing a cup of hot tea as they spoke softly to each other. Nothing of substance was shared. She got cold, and he had spread w tweed blanket atop her. She had lifted the end by her feet, tossing half of the blanket toward him. Urged him to share it with her. He did as he was told.

She fell asleep in the early morning hours. Her tea was half finished on the coffee table before them, her head rolled over the backrest of the tufted velvet sofa. Her curls lay haphazardly across her shoulders, gathering gently in the divots of the furniture. She looked serene. Her skin glowed in the sunlight. Her legs relaxed beneath the blanket, spreading her out. Her feet touched his. He allowed her to sleep like that for an hour before removing himself from the blanket. He had gone to the hedge maze to pick a flower for her. He knew she liked them; he liked them too. He walked inside to lay the flower next to her half full cup of tea, then left her alone. Allowing her to sleep. The fresh air and song of small birds giving her a comfortable slumber. He needed to explore somewhere he had dreaded, his most hated parts of the manor. The dungeons.

“I am now asking for her to accompany me to St. Mungo’s tomorrow morning.” Draco explained to Weasley. “I believe it is time I go to see my mother.”

“You’re a right git, you know that?” Ronald Weasleys voice thundered through the peaceful air. The voice broke Draco out from his daydream; pondering how peaceful life would be as a swan. He finished the thought off, by agreeing with himself that any life would be more peaceful without the redhead that was barging towards him.

Draco had been sitting by the pond. His feet dipped into the water. The cooling effects on the scars around his ankles felt particularly comfortable. Pleasant. As if the shackles hadn’t caused irreparable damage to his tendons. To his flesh. To his bones. “What did I do?”

“I told you to get inside before dinner!” Weasley said as he stepped closer to the Malfoy man.

Eyebrows elevating, he looked up at Weasley, who had stopped at his side. “I didn’t know it was time for dinner”

“Come on. Now.” The ginger flicked his fingers at him; annoyed. “Up.”

“I’m not hungry. Leave me alone.” He hadn’t eaten properly since his meal of potatoes with Granger. The breakfast from Tuesday morning had been forgotten with his and Weasley’s chat about Rodolphus Lestrange and the ongoing investigation of the Death Eater murders. For lunch, Draco had been hand force fed grapes by Effie. As well as the same nine olives Granger had found in a jar in the windowsill in the kitchens.

If Draco had learned anything from his time back at the manor, it was that Effie did exactly as Effie pleased. And if the little elf so wanted Draco to eat lunch at exactly twenty-tree minutes past one in the afternoon, she would make sure he did. By forcing any food between his lips.

“I don’t care if you’re hungry. The dinner isn’t important for the food.” He said impatiently. “It’s for the company. Your company. And they’re waiting for you. Get in before I need to get Effie to apparate you in.”

“No need to threaten me…” Draco heaved a sigh and collected his feet from the water, using his arms and manoeuvring his legs to try to stand. He heard the rattle of grass, the small scuffle of pebbles as Weasley stepped closer to him.

Long, freckled fingers wrapped around his arm, helping him stand on his own. “Y’alright mate?”

“Yeah… Yeah, thank you, Weasley.” He straightened himself, taking a moment to steady himself on his feet. He took a step forward, feeling Weasleys eyes on him as he did so. “I’m fine. I can walk.” He noticed the other man raising his brows questioningly. He appreciated that there were no words spoken as he accepted it.

Stepping through the hedge maze, Draco absentmindedly plucked a flower from one of the towering heights of green. He remembered how Granger had looked at them. How the one next to her teacup had been taken with her the morning prior. They were similar to that of a white dahlia. Round, plentiful with petals, though they were ever so slightly longer. Softer. With iridescent details reminding of opals, shimmering in the sunlight. The pistil stretched outward, a beautiful pink that matched the soft, metallic pastel splotches on the petals.

“who’s here? Who is the dinner for?” He dared ask. They were closer to the exit of the maze. He could see the towering rooftops of the manor over the edge of the hedges.

“The dinner is only for you and your friends.” Weasley said lightly. There was a smile in his voice as he shared the information. “I’ll go to Grimmauld Place with Winnie, Harry and Hermione.”

Draco turned his head to observe the man next to him. He seemed content. Smiling. Happy with his life. “Winnie… You’ve mentioned that name before.”

Weasley nodded. He inhaled deeply through the nose. “My daughter. Winnifred.” He spoke the words into the glow of late afternoon. “She’s seven months old now. The absolute light of life, she is. Looks almost exactly like Daphne, too, but she has my hair. And she’s long and thin, like me. Even this young.”

“Winnifred… She sounds lovely. I hope I get to meet her someday.” He smiled over at the auror. “You named her after you brother.” It wasn’t a question. He knew it, the moment he had said Winnie’s full name. “I’m sorry you lost him during the war. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

“Thanks, mate. I guess… In a way, losing him brought our family closer. Of course we miss him, I doubt any of us will ever feel completely whole again. But now, we never go a single weekend without seeing each other. We always go to dinner at the burrow, we always make sure to gather and to appreciate each other.” His voice was filled with gratitude. Wistfulness. He would never be happy about his brother’s death, though he chose to see the good side of a horrible situation. “You know, I’ve even considered joining George at the joke shop in Diagon.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Being an auror must be a bit more dangerous than Daphne probably likes.” He replied, turning his head once more to look ahead.

“Daph is the one encouraging me the most, y’know.” Draco thought of the girl he had attended school with. She was cautious. A girl who cared deeply about those around her. Draco had once been blessed to be one of the few people under Daphnes care. Somehow, he got to share it with Ronald Weasley. “And every time I look at Winnie, I only want to make her smile. Make her laugh. See her happy.”

Draco thought to the rolling laughter of a certain freckled woman. Waves of giggles that ebbed and flowed effortlessly. The smile that reached him when their hands touched. The brown eyes sparkling with gold. “I understand you, Weasley. She’s lucky to have a father like that; one that wants only happiness for her.” He said sincerely, his eyes locked on the flower in his hand. He spun the stem between his fingers, watching as the flower twirled. The light reflecting off of the pearlescent shimmer of the petals.

“It’s a pretty flower, that.” In his periphery, he saw Weasley eyeing the flower with a small nod.

“It is. My mother worked hard to make them bloom my entire childhood. It is said they can only grow on magical soil.” Draco recalled absently. “Mother knew better than that. She said they also need protection. Safety. Peace. Serenity. I believe once our grounds were at peace, once The Dark Lords was dead and gone, they could finally blossom.”

Weasley remained quiet for several heartbeats.“It must be nice; finally seeing them. Knowing You-Know-Who is gone for good and your family and your home is at peace.”

Draco nodded absently. The shadow of the manor caused him to lift his gaze, spotting the lit chandeliers of the dining room. The same room he had once dreaded. He heard Pansys ringing laughter rolling through an opened window, following the breeze across the garden in the late afternoon. “It is nice… Very nice. I never knew the grounds could be this serene.”

“Plenty has changed since the war, hasn’t it?”

“More than you know, Weasley. More than I think anyone could comprehend.”

They stepped into the manor, using the opened sliding glass walls of the Solarium. “I assume you’re going to the floo parlour?” Weasley nodded. “Well, you guys have a good evening. And… Er…” he felt a wash of nervousness slip over him. The tremor of his hands and fingers only seemed to increase as his palms dampened. “If you don’t mind, could you… Could you give this to Granger?” He looked over at the redhead. Trembling fingers holding the flower as he gestured it toward him. “She likes them, you know. The flowers.”

Weasleys eyebrows raised. A smirk tugging across the corners of his lips. The same smirk he held when asking about the Golden Girl earlier that very day. “Oh, does she?” He plucked the flower from Dracos fingers.

“Stop looking at me like that, Weasley.” Draco sighed, looking away from the freckled buffoon.

“Looking at you like what, Malfoy? Like you’re a man who’s giving my best friend flowers?” Draco felt an elbow nudge against his arm.  

“Oh, Merlin’s beard, just go already. I’m certain potter needs you to bring down the median intellect of the group. Couldn’t possibly risk having a stimulating conversation.” There was no bite to his voice. The two men even shared mirthful grins.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be off then.” He mused, a slight shake to his head. “Send Daphne back in one piece, will you?”

“As long as you get going.” Draco insisted. “Now.”

Weasley nodded his head. Draco felt a heavy pat on his shoulder as the other man walked past him. The sounds of his shoes against the runner clad floors the only sound as Weasley made his way down the corridor, towards the floo parlour.

The torches of the corridor were not yet lit. The fading sunlight at the horizon, casting a harmonious melding of colours across the walls. Tall, arched windows; grand and majestic, appeared like doorways into a dreamland Draco had never before visited. A vision like no other. Silhouetted trees, backlit by the deep orange and warm lilac of the setting sun.

He forced himself to not stop. To not linger to gape upon the idyllic vision. He clenched his fingers into fists. He stretched them to their full length. Balled them into fists. The continued quivering of his limbs, often hurt his tendons. The muscles of his forearm struggling to relax. He was feeling the tremors strongly as he neared the dining room. He wondered if the prospect of seeing his old friends made him more nervous than need be. He forced his hands into his pockets, pressing his hands against the thin fabric lining against his thighs, hoping it would steady them. Calm them.

The grand doors to the dining room were open. Voices flowed from the easy, comfortable conversation between old friends. A conversation he would stop by coming into view. He paused behind the door, sharpening his ears to listen in on them.

“During the muggle world war in the forties, the place was completely demolished. Exploded by something they called the Abominable Bomb. Some things still stood there, but it’s been almost completely rebuilt.” The voice of a man. Draco envisioned the tall, slender frame of Theodore Nott. A mop of brown curls. Sunken, hazel eyes beneath thick eyebrows, which witches insisted made him mysteriously attractive. An easy smirk and witty commentary galore. “I even took what the muggles call a Tram. Then I sat at the riverside to eat. Beautiful city. Definitely worth a visit.”

“And let me guess, after the meal by the beautiful, historical river… You went to a sex club?” A black bob appeared in Draco’s mind. Sharp, fox-like eyes. Long legs. Strong fists. A wicked grin that could scare off anyone.

“Well, not in Hiroshima, Pans. I went to wizarding Tokyo for that. I was hung from a ceiling and whipped by five burly men in leather ‘til I turned purple.”

“Nott! No! Please keep some things to yourself. We’re about to eat!” A small, blonde teenager. A smile as dazzling as diamonds. Raised to have perfect etiquette and good manners. “For fucks sake. You’re disgusting.” Apparently, she had picked up on how to swear from Weasley.

Pansy laughed. A slap. Preferably hitting Theodore Nott rather hard. Somewhere it hurt.

“Hit me again, baby. I promise to hold back my moans.” Draco found himself grinning, knowing he needed to intervene soon. An incredulous snort from one of the women. “My safe word is Pinecone.”

“How come? Haven’t you had a pinecone shoved up your arse, Theo?” Pansy’s words rolled with laughter. Daphne giggled. The sound of three friends, having been with each other for years. Growing their relationship whilst he had been locked away. Unable to converse with them. Unable to owl them. Unable to know how they fared. Unable to partake in their lives in any way.

Theodore said something. Pansy snorted. Daphne groaned. Draco stared at the door handle before him. It had once been silver coloured serpent. Matched fully with one on the other door. Coiled into an infinity symbol. Mouth open, baring its dangerous fangs to whomever dare enter. The room beyond, having held meetings with The Dark Lord at the head of the table. The same spot his father had once held, as head of the Malfoy family. Where most heads of the family had sat, for most of the previous generations of Malfoys.

The same room where Professor Charity Burbage was eaten alive. Hacked at by a ruthless snake, before the vicious reptile had unhinged her jaw and taken the body of the much too familiar woman. Slithering up the length of the table to slowly swallow more of her. Just before Dracos very eyes.

The same room where the young muggle boy from had been tortured within an inch of his life. Picked up from Chippenham after aiding an elderly muggleborn wizard. Rabastan Lestrange had laughed, the tones echoing loudly within the walls of the dining room, then said the boy took poorly to the cruciatus curse. Narcissa and Draco had apparated and deposited the boy in a field not far from his town. He had been delirious. Draco hoped he was alive. Hoped he was well.

The same room where he, himself, had been writhing on the floor, screaming under the cruciatus curse. Praying for death, rather than the fourteenth round his aunt was preparing to cast. Wand held aloft as she smirked wickedly down at her nephew and uttered the unforgivable spell once more. The Dark Lord sat behind and watched with amusement.

The same room he had tried the killing curse for the first time. He had failed to cast it successfully. A wand across the room was raised to his mothers’ throat; he had been threated to take the life before him, or his mother would succumb to his failure. She was only a girl. A year or so older than he had been. Her hair was wavy and light brown, with highlights of soft gold. A muggle, whom had been in a relationship with a witch. A witch who Draco remembered from school, two years his senior.

The green light of the curse failed him. He didn’t want to kill her. She sobbed. The look she gave him, her vivid blue eye staring into his soul as she released the heart-rattling, ground-breaking sobs as she knew what would happen. Her girlfriend, the witch named Alicia Coleson, lay dead on the floor, just at her feet. Killed by Yaxley with a swift killing curse. The muggle would not be so lucky.

They locked eyes, and he hoped his eyes told her, he did not wish her dead. He was sorry. He was so, so very sorry. With a quickly uttered spell, her throat slit open. Blood spilled down her blouse as she fell to her knees.

The sounds of her desperate gags. The blood spurting. The heaving for air that would never come. Wet coughs, blood spilling from her lips. Wild blue eyes staring at him in horror. She collapsed next to Alicia, staring at her dead partner, hoping to meet again in the next life. Draco watched as the spark faded from her eyes.

It had haunted him for years. It would continue to haunt him for even more. Sandra Thorne-Sanders had been her name.

The door handle before him, had been changed. Golden mermaids. To open them, one would have to wrap their fingers around their broadened hips and the sway of their tails, which were curled up below them. The room beyond, was vastly different from the one in his youth. Different shades. Vibrant and decadent. With care and love poured into every detail. The company within, so desperately yearned for, for several years.

However, nothing changed the carnage that had happened within the four walls. No amount of paint or decor could alter the memories. The trauma. The screams that still echoed. The blood soaked into the wood below their feet. Hidden by carpets, but never forgotten.

Theodore’s laugh boomed, bringing Draco back to his present. He closed his eyes briefly, picturing what made him happy.

A swan swimming in a pond. The water rippling around it as it bent its elegant neck to scratch its wing. Droplets of water reflecting from its white feathers in the sunlight. The forgotten, blue-roofed gazebo peeking out between the green of bushes and trees.

His mother, smiling up at him. Her blue eyes glittering with adoration. Manicured, slim fingers combing through his fringe as she told him how much she loved him. Her Dragon.

A bowl of horribly shredded cheese. A culinary massacre. A laughter that flowed effortlessly. Opalescent flowers shimmering in the sunlight with the echoes of easy conversation.

He opened his eyes once more. Before once more getting lost in the worry, before worrying about his tremors, before once more bringing himself into horrid memories, he rounded the already opened door and appeared before his three friends.

For barely a moment, the dining room of his past flashed before his eyes. Dark walls. Old, worn wood floors. Porous. Longing to absorb anything spilled onto it. The grand table; black. Long. Seating a pack of inner-circle Death Eaters. All eyes on Draco as he arrived late.

He blinked.

The darkness vanished. As did the Death Eaters. Replaced by warmth. By smiles. By his friends. The bright eyes of his old mates lit up. A cheer of three voices saying his name with glee. “Draco!”

Quickly standing from her chair, Pansy stepped towards him first. There was no hint of hesitation in her eyes as she opened her arms and stepped into him. His first hug in eight years. The first warm embrace, given to him by a loved one. Pansy Parkinson. Pansy Potter. His hands pulled from his pockets, draping around her and pulling her closely against his body. His knees felt weak. The back of his nose burned with the promise of tears. His closest friend for so many years, and he was finally hugging her again. Finally able to do so.

The woman in his arms, had visibly changed. She was still a woman made of long, elegant limbs and sharp features, but she had also softened. Her hair was longer, the usually blunt bob that ended at her jaw, replaced by a longer one, flowing to the top of her shoulders. The blunt fringe had been made softer; wispier. Her cheeks had rounded. The tip of her nose had softened. Her hips were broader. Her stomach swelled against him with the promise of a new life. An innocent, pure being that would know a loving family and a wizarding world without war.

“Freedom looks good on you, Draco.” Pansy muttered into his chest. He recognised the lie in her voice. She slightest hint if insincerity.

“Not nearly as good as pregnancy and adulthood looks on you, Pansy.” He mumbled, for her ears only. She smelled of vanilla and peonies.

“What a weak compliment.” Her voice sounded thick against his loosefit Oxford.

Dracos fingers firmed their hold on the witch, his usually trembling fingers stilling against her body, secure in their grasp. “You ought to take it. It’s the only compliment I’m giving you.”

Swatting his arm lightly, she pulled back, her arms untangling from his frame. Her eyes glossed over his face, taking in the details of his sallow appearance. The sunken cheeks. The pale skin. The smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The long hair, still pulled into a bun similar to that Granger had helped place in the early hours of the morning prior. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Care to let me through, or do I have to queue for an eternity?” Theodore Nott was still tall and slim, though his body had filled out slightly. Broader shoulders. Wider chest. Though still lithe. Elegant. Draco noted that Nott was the human equivalent of a black and gold fountain pen. With sleek lines and a graceful and refined build. Nott had also learned how to properly cut his hair to a more flattering shape, ridding himself of the rounded mop that made his head look like a quaffle. The man had grown into the oversized ears of childhood. The two locked eyes for a moment. Nott was grinning wickedly. “Draco,”

Pansy stepped aside, and Theo took her place, wrapping his arms around Draco in a near crushing embrace. Dracos arms instantly wrapped around his friend. “Nott,” He greeted the other man, trying to repress the pain from his voice at how Theodore had nearly pulverised his ribcage.

“It’s Theo.” Theo corrected him. With his arms still around Draco. He felt his grip on him ease, though he did not release him. Theo started to rock their upper halves from side to side. Draco felt a laugh bubble within his chest. “And Theo has missed you, Draco. Even if you do look like shit.”

“You truly have a way with words, don’t you, Theo?” Draco patted the other man’s shoulder as firmly as he could muster. It proved more difficult than he had anticipated.

“Of course. I always have” Theo pulled back just enough for the two men to get a proper look at one another. “Goodness. You really, really look like shit. Are we sure a Graphorn didn’t chew you and spit you back out?” Though his words were playful, the Hazel eyes spoke words of worry his mouth had not uttered.

“I will kick you.” Draco threatened. He smiled at his old friend, wordlessly communicating that ha was fine. Perhaps not in great condition, though his life had significantly improved since the morning of his birthday.

“Doubt you’ve got enough strength for that.” Theo smirked in a testing manner. Draco kicked him with the toe of his shoe. Nott winced. “Tosser.”

“Wanker.” Draco bit back without malice.

Draco felt pressure on one of his arms, the elbow being adjusted and raised as a petite blonde slipped between the two men. He felt one of her arms wrap around his chest as the familiar face of Daphne Greengrass came into view. “I couldn’t wait much longer.” She explained with a chuckle.

Draco released one arm from Theo, wrapping it around her to hug her to him. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He said, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

Daphne didn’t appear to have changed much. She had lost her adolescent appearance, obviously maturing with the grace of her mother before her. Wiser eyes. A kind smile, highlighted by her high cheekbones. A light smattering of freckles atop her nose. Blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, with a long fringe that swooped to one side and tucked behind her ear.

“I can’t believe I finally get to see you. After all these years, you’re finally here.” She said with the air of disbelief.

“Good things come to those who wait, Daphne.”  He said, trying to reenact the arrogance from their teenage years. He did not succeed.

Pansy urged him to sit, waving him over to the seat next to her and pushed out the cherry wood chair with her foot. Draco had never before seen her wear such casual shoes. He had seen Granger in a similar pair of white-toed canvas shoes before his long slumber.

He sat next to her, facing the windows, and Theo and Daphne rounded the table to sit across from them.

“Can’t believe, last time we were all gathered, was for your eighteenth birthday, Draco.” Theo said, leaning his weight onto one armrest as he observed the newly freed man. “In fact, I want remember much of that night. I just know it happened.”

“No one remembers much of that night,” Pansy countered.

Draco didn’t answer. He remembered it all too clearly. Four days before his incarceration, celebrating the life he had led. The friends he had made. The life he was losing by leaving them all behind. He wanted to drink, to forget his troubles for even the briefest of moments. He didn’t have it in himself. He drank moderately. Laughed with his friends. Hugged. Kissed. Danced. Celebrated.

He remembered the conversations still. The way firewhiskey and white wine had spilled over the upholstery of a vintage fainting couch. Theo had gotten a hold of muggle cigarettes, which he had shared with Draco and Blaise on the balcony.

They had coughed and laughed. Blaise had been faket certain he had wet himself with laughter. Draco insisted it must have been vodka. They were not drinking vodka.

“Effie?” Draco asked, and was immediately grateful when the house elf apparated into the dining room, standing on his left.

“Good evening, Master Draco, sir.” Effie greeted with a courtesy. She wore a light green dress. Layered with frills, which graduated in hues from vibrant light green that went increasingly darker over four layers. The dress had puffed cap-sleeves and a petticoat that made it stand out from her small body.

“Good evening, Effie,” he greeted her back. He hadn’t seen her since she had used her magic to bind him to a dining chair, and she had stood on the dining room table to shove grapes and olives into his mouth. “I was wondering what you and Pikes have planned for dinner this evening?”

“This evening, Pikes had prepared what the muggles call Tapas. Many types of finger food and dipping sauces.” She said excitedly and extended her hand up, high above her head and snapped her fingers with a flourish and flick of her wrist.

The food appeared before them. Too many plates to count. Skewers of tomatoes and balls of mozzarella cheese. Plates of cured meats. Crackers and flatbread of varied sizes and flavours. A bowl of olives. Another bowl, with meatballs and tomato sauce. Grapes. Nuts. Bacon wrapped dates. Varying types of cheeses. None of them had been massacred. Boats of roast potatoes. Bread. There were several plates of food Draco had never before seen. Bowls of unknown sauces.

“Effie highly encourages master to try a bit of everything.” Her eyes pierced him, and he knew, without a doubt, that she could make sure he ate. Even if she had to force him to. He nodded to her once.

“Thank you Effie. Please tell Pikes it looks lovely.”

“Please tell Pikes I love him.” Pansy chimed in from his other side. Eating herself a smile from Effie as she craned her neck to see the witch.

Daphne laughed. “I think we can all agree we loved Pikes. And you, of course, Effie.” This earned a nod from Theo and a shy smile from Effie. She grabbed the uppermost frills of her skirt and hid her face in the fabric. Draco yearned a high-pitched squeak of thanks from the house elf, before she disapparated with a crack.

Draco took a toothpick from the displaying glasses, and pierced a bacon wrapped date. He was nervous to taste it. Though he remembered how he had liked the cubed bacon with granger. It was worth a try. “So… I expect you all to tell me everything about your lives. Spare me no details.” He asked his friends.

“You sure you want to know it all, Draco?” Theo quirked one eyebrow suggestively.

Draco felt his eyes widen as he shook his head vigorously. “You, Theodore Nott, can spare me most of the details.” He said. Pansy snorted beside him, in quite the unladylike fashion. He and Theo shared a grin before Draco popped the date into his mouth, sinking his teeth into the flesh of the dried fruit. Sweet. Salty. Juicy. Incredibly good.

Chapter Text

Nervously, Hermione debated whether or not to wear her pearl necklace. She had dressed herself nicely for the occasion of going to St. Mungo’s hospital with Draco. To visit his mother. Black trousers, hanging straight down her legs. Loosely and tastefully fitted. Ironed and pressed. Simple, black heels peeked out beneath the hem of the trousers. She wore a lilac-coloured satin blouse with gold rimmed pearl buttons, tucked into her bottoms. It accentuated her waist, just as it highlighted the delicate curve of her rounded hips. Her hair had been neatly manicured, tamed, with her curls glossed and draping decadently across her narrow shoulders.

The piece of jewellery in question, had belonged to her mother. A thin golden chain with a teardrop shaped pearl. The chain reached an inch below the dip between her collar bones, the pendant hanging beautifully on her chest, highlighting the tasteful amount of skin as it peeked out from between the opened buttons at the top of her blouse.

“You don’t need to worry. You look good either way” said Pansy from where she was sitting atop Hermiones bed. Once Hermione had started to dress herself after breakfast, Pansy had joined her. Perched herself on Hermiones mattress as she pondered about how to dress and tame her wild curls. She had helped her find clothes, digging them out from the depths of her shrunken clothes within Hermione’s trunk. Pansy had also snuck off to the bedroom she shared with Harry, finding a pair of dragonhide pumps from her own collection to complete the look.

Hermione tugged the pearl pendant to the back of her neck, so she could see her ensemble without it once more. Removing the necklace, would allow her to close one more button, though she found she might look a little too mature when doing so. “I’m just not sure, Pansy. I don’t think it’s much, but… Something seems off, doesn’t it?”

“You know it’s not much. It looks perfectly fine.” The witch on her bed insisted. She pushed herself up, climbing out of the bed, long legs carrying her over to where Hermione stood, placed before the wooden accented cheval mirror. They both looked into the reflective surface, sizing Hermione up critically together. “Perhaps it’s a bit heavy on the pearls. The necklace and the buttons and all. I think you should transfigure the necklace.”

“I am not transfiguring my mothers necklace.” Hermione opposed quickly, feeling her pulse rise with agitation from the suggestion. The necklace was one of the last things her mother had given her. At the very beginning of the summer holidays, after sixth year, Hermione had asked for her mother’s help; not knowing what to wear to a wedding. Her mother had offered advice. Talked to her daughter. Offered her dresses from her own wardrobe, until the two women finally landed on their winner. She had found a simple, pearl pendant necklace from her own jewellery box. Placed it around her daughters’ neck and asked her to wear it for Fleur and Bill’s wedding. Four days later, Hermione obliviated her parents. Removing herself from their existence entirely. “It’s staying like this.”

“Fine. It’s a pity though.” Pansy shot a pointed look towards a vase with two blooming, white flowers with opalescent shine. The vase stood perched atop Hermiones nightstand. “A necklace with a flower like that would have looked great.”

One of the flowers, the very first she had received, had laid on the coffee table. Waiting for her as she awoke on Draco Malfoys sofa. They had spent the entire night together. Watched the sunrise together. Cooking. Laughing. Sharing moments of feelings, she had yet to place. The other, Ron had brought her just the night before. Telling her, Malfoy wanted her to have it. That he had known she liked the flowers. She had placed them both under a stasis charm, fearing they would wilt or shed their petals. Wanting to keep them for as long as possible.

After handing her the flower, Ronald had smirked at her, and Harry had bullied her insistently about her reddened cheeks for hours after. They did not let the matter go for the entirety of the evening they spent together. Constantly reminding her that her childhood bully, that the one and only Draco Malfoy, had given her a flower. That he had asked for her company. That he had seemed flustered when handing off the flower to Ronald. That she had smiled and flushed when she received it.

She had not yet shared with her friends that she might, potentially, be marrying him. Draco Malfoy. She had not told a soul, and judging by the way Pansy hadn’t come home the night prior to scream at her, Hermione could only assume Draco had not told his oldest friends either.

It was, most assuredly, their secret. For the time being.

“I’m not transfiguring my mothers’ pearl. That is final.” Some people might think of Hermione as a stubborn witch. She was quite adamant that those people would be very wrong indeed. Perhaps a better term would be strong-willed.

In their reflection, she could see her raven-haired friend try to withstand rolling her eyes. She did not succeed. “Fine. I’m getting one of my own necklaces an- AH! No!” She raised her voice just enough to stop Hermiones incoming protests. Her finger was pointed sternly at the reflection of the curly-haired brunette. “If it’s my own necklace, I can do as I please with it. And I say you transfigure it into that flower Draco got you, and you wear it when you see Narcissa.”

Hermione glared at the reflection of Pansy Petronella Parkinson Potters smug smirk before the taller of the two turned from the mirror and stepped out of the room. She was certain that the girl who had once housed in Slytherin, was much more strong-willed than Hermione could ever muster. There was no use in arguing with her. Looking back at her own reflection, she was herself shaking her head with amused disbelief.

There she was. A brief decade after an earth-shattering war. Standing in the guest room of number twelve Grimmauld Place. Her best friend, Harry Potter had inherited the house from his godfather. He had gotten married to none other than Pansy Parkinson. She was pregnant with his child. It had started as a wedding of necessity, enforced by a somewhat unfair law. A law that would hopefully increase the post-war birth rates of their society. The pairs beginning had been troubling. They had barely spoken to one another. They had barely looked at one another. Refused to acknowledge the others’ existence within their shared home.

Harry had one day sat down at the dining table, wishing to occupy himself with a 1500-piece muggle puzzle. Pansy had given him space while she had downed a glass of red wine. Then another. Then, she joined him. An easy conversation had taken place between placing pieces. They had smiled. They had laughed. They got to know one another. They continued puzzling together. Every single evening, until they had finished the unmoving image of Northern Lights in the Icelandic sky.

Pansy had requested for them to plan a late honeymoon. Seeing the northern lights together. Harry had agreed, though only if Pansy allowed him to plan it. The couple went to Finland via Portkey, landing in a snow-clad set of woods outside of Inari. He had rented them a small, log cabin, the likes of which, Pansy had never before seen. They spent more time inside, huddled together by the fireplace. Enjoying each other’s company, in every which way they possibly could. They had seen the Aurora Borealis each evening. An incredible and majestic natural phenomenon that had brought them together. Vivid hues of greens, blue, purple and pink dancing across the night sky. Teasing the stars with it’s impressive and captivating beauty.

The pair had been inseparable since. Madly in love with each other. Harry had never been happier than when he was with her. Pansy had never glowed as she did when she was with him. The love they shared was something of a tale. Star-crossed lovers that finally came together, after years of loathing.

Nothing on the face of the earth, could have planned either one of them for how their lives would have turned out. Though she knew, none of them would ever have changed anything about their relationship.

Pansy walked through the door, carrying a delicate golden chain with a white, oval opal hanging from it. Iridescent pastels sparkling in the shifting between the dim light of the corridor and the natural sunlight of the bedroom. Hermione stared at the witch as she held out her hand, showing off the gemstone.

“You have to do it, Hermione. Wear it.” She insisted as she draped the chain against her neck, showing her how it complimented her blouse and the golden tones of her eyes. “I’m sure it will make Narcissa feel better… And maybe, just maybe, Draco will give you more flowers to fill your vase with.”

The hearth in the Malfoy Manor floo parlour roared to life with green flames, efficiently depositing Hermione into the familiar room. The parlour was empty. She stepped out of the hearth, looking around at the deserted room. Draco had requested her to arrive at the manor sometime between ten and eleven in the morning. Hermione had checked the time before she left Grimmauld Place. The clock on the wall had read 10:02. She had almost expected him to be awaiting her, so they could leave immediately. Evidently, she had been wrong.

The weight of the opal rested on her chest, heavy and noticeable as it contrasted with the light satin collar of her shirt. She stepped through the floo parlour and allowed her legs to carry her forward, not choosing her destination knowingly.

The corridor opened into a large space, crowded with plants of several shapes and sizes. The colours of the blossoms varied from white, to such deep reds they appeared black. The familiar violet, tufted velvet sofa was still facing the folding, sliding glass wall that led into the gardens. A head of pale blonde hair. Draco. He sat in the middle of the sofa, hunched forwards. Elbows on his knees and his head hanging forwards. White, blonde waves hiding his face from her sight.

“Good morning,” she greeted softly as she furthered into the solarium.

A sharp exhale from beneath sagging shoulders. “Morning.” His voice was low. The baritone comforting. Soothing in a way so different from their childhoods.

She stepped closer to him. Her heels clacking softly against the wooden floors. “Is it not a good one?” She asked, having noticed the absence of the simple word in his greeting.

“Why would it be a good morning?” His head lifted from its slump and turned slightly. She could see the definition of his cheekbone. The light reflecting against his alabaster skin. The tip of his nose, straight and pointed. His long, dark lashes. She knew the colours of his irises well. Deep grey. Stormy. Enchanting.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She asked, rounding the sofa before she sat down on his right. His eyes remained focused on the floors. He didn’t speak, just gave the smallest of shakes with his head. Blonde locks swaying softly with the minuscule movement; hiding his features from her once more.

She let him sit with it for a moment, though she chose to speak before he had seized the chance to do so first. “Look around you, Draco. Can you tell me what you see?”

He sifted his gaze from the floor, casting quick glances around the room, and the green garden beyond the opened wall. “I see a day like any other. I see grass. I see flowers. I see cracked flowerpots and dust. I see a teacup that needs cleaning.” He turned his eyes on her. Gazes locking on one another’s. They were deeper. A shadow of the silver she much adored. “I see a witch who shouldn’t have come today”

With a small shake of her head, she nodded her chin upwards, gesturing for the wizard to look outside with her. “Look at the sunlight. The blue sky. Do you know what shade of blue it is today? Do you see the shapes of the clouds? Can you hear the birds? See the way the grass is swaying?”

“It does need a mowing…” he muttered dismissively.

She did not know why, but she reached for his hand. Laying her left atop his right tentatively. Expecting him to flinch away. He did not. Her fingers wound between his thumb and forefinger, feeling his palm whilst her thumb rubbed lightly across his knuckles. The added weight of her hand seemed to calm his consistent tremors.  

“Remember the first time we met again?” The question hung in the air between them for a moment, before he nodded his head. “We sat at the pond, and you taught me to observe the world around me. The beauty of the colours, the way the swans moved… The beauty of nature, which we so often take for granted.”

“Today is not a day like that, Granger.” He turned his head to face her. The grey of his eyes was indeed harder. Iron and charcoal. A line had formed between his brows, a clear sign of hours having been spent with concern. “Today is not a beautiful day.”

“Actually, it is.” She corrected him plainly, not looking away from his eyes. “When I woke up this morning, the sky was periwinkle. It is my favourite colour, so I knew it would be a beautiful day, simply by how it started.”

“Good for you, Granger.” His upper lip curled slightly with a snarl as he spoke back to her. He turned his head way, shielding himself with his curtain of hair. “My day started in utter darkness. And it has remained that exact way since.”

She determined that he was, much like Pansy Potter and herself, a strong-willed person. “Shall we go to St. Mungo’s and have some colour restored to your day, perhaps?” He had still not pulled back from her hand. His fingers twitched ever so slightly. Almost clasping around her fingers. As though nearly accepting her touch.

“Another day, I think.” The words were spoken without a hint of gusto. “Mother had waited this long. A few more days won’t hurt her.”

Her heart sank in her chest. She could almost feel it dropping. The way her chest almost felt hollow with his words. “You’re lucky you have her with you, Draco. You’re lucky she’s still here.”

“Janus Thickey is for nutters.” He dismissed her further. “And I don’t need to see her. Not yet.” She stared at his profile in disbelief. She had not expected such a bad day to come after a night reuniting with his friends. Pansy had shared with her, that the four friends had a spectacular evening. Draco ate well. Draco laughed. He listened to his friends talk about their lives, updating him on everything that had happened. He had seemed happy. Excited even. The man before her, was the exact opposite of the one she had heard of from the prior evening.

“Janus Thickey is for heroes.” She recollected the Longbottoms. Frank and Alice. Tortured to insanity by the two dead Lestrange Death Eaters. She hoped Narcissa was not as far gone as they both were. “And we aren’t going there for your sake. We are going for her. Imagine how happy she will be to see her only son. To have some company.”

“I’m not going today, Granger.” His head sank forwards, hunching his shoulders further. His back curved forwards with anguish. “I think it’s best if you left.”

“If I go, I’ll go to St. Mungos to see her for you.” She declared insistently.

At this, his fingers clasped tightly around hers. His skin was warm. A sign he was healing. Slowly improving. “You wouldn’t.”

She only smiled at him. She recognised this. The dark days. The sadness that seemed all consuming. The ache and agony of leaving a comfortable piece of furniture. “I would. I know you need a friend today, but I know your mother has needed one for a while as well.” The reminder was a necessary one. Perhaps it was not particularly helpful to him in the mood he found himself in. However, it was a reminder that may stay with him. “We wouldn’t have to stay long. One hour, perhaps? Just to show up. Tell her we are here for her. Then we’d return here. Drink some tea and get through the day.” Her thumb rubbed gently in the divot between the knuckles of his index- and middle fingers. “Draco, would you please come with me?”

His eyes searched hers. Deep grey, stormy and intense. In the bright sunlight that flitted through from outside, Hermione noticed the faintest specks of blue. Hidden deep beneath the slate that held his turbulent emotions in check.

Since their night together, she had felt more at ease with the Malfoy man. She had seen him smile. Heard his laugh. Gotten to know him. She had touched his hand. She had tucked her feet below the calves of his folded legs, beneath their shared tweed blanket. She had combed her fingers through his hair. Though nothing that night, had felt remotely as intimate and breathtaking as gazing into his eyes at that very moment.

Hermione felt as though he was searching not only her eyes for lies or deceit; he was searching through the depths of her soul. Wishing to see her true intentions for the outing to St. Mungo’s. To see his mother.

She scooted closer to him. Fingers gripping tighter against his palm. Her eyes remained open to him. Allowing him to see anything he might be searching for. An open book. Her only intentions, from the very beginning, was to go for him. To be a support to him as he stepped into the wizarding world that surrounded them. To stand by and be an anchor, if he so needed, whilst he met with his hurt mother for the first time in eight years. She would do it for him.

“I can’t go.” He finally decided. Voice laced with regret. Brows furrowed across his stormy grey orbs. A troubled man before her. Usure of his decision, but standing by it nonetheless.

A simple nod of understanding. “I promise to tell you how she is doing.” She said in earnest. His brows pulled closer together for a moment, staring at her before nodding his head once. The action was barely visible. She struggled to place the look on his face. She chose to believe it was apprehension. Guilt. Pain. It was understandable.

She gave his hand a firm squeeze. A tingle ran through her fingers. Barely detectable. Barely noticeable. But most assuredly there.

“Tell her I’m so-”

She shook her head, still wearing the smile of understanding “I am not your owl, Draco.” She said to stop him. “If you are sorry about anything, you need to tell her so yourself. I will gladly be with you while you do so, but I will certainly not tell her for you.” With that, she reluctantly released his hand. His warmth. Fingers slipping from his as she stood. The tingle dissipating as soon as her skin and his parted ways.

He didn’t stop her. The tremor in his hand returned once more. Hermione through for a moment, he might be reaching for her. Might be wanting her to return to his side. The moment passed, and the realised it must have been but a simple muscle contraction. He didn’t speak another word. She left the solarium without him.

The long-term ward, named Janus Thickey after a former resident, was a quiet place. It had once only been a row of beds down the lengths of each wall, separated only by folding screens of cream-coloured curtains. All of which, resided atop white and green tiled floors, with towering heights of snow-coloured walls.

No conversations had been private. The long-term residents had no space for themselves. It had been a small and cramped space, where Hermione had felt shameful that its residents often spent years of their lives.

Things had, quite fortunately, changed drastically for the better. It was by no means a lovely place. It lacked décor. It lacked colour. It lacked any sense of personality. Warmth. The only improvement, vast and grand as it was, was privacy. Each patient had their own room. Certain patients, such as Frank and Alice Longbottom, shared a room. There was a living area, where the residents could unite for meals and other activities. There was a piano. Several kinds of lounging furniture. A bookcase with well-loved books. Board games. Playing cards. She did not know the condition of the latter two.

Hermione stepped through the lifeless, white, corridor, eyes glossing across the black name plaques on each door.

Percival Thinfert

Anine J. F. Y. O. R. King

Lucinda Robards

Cassiopeia & Hugo Unglop

Narcissa Malfoy

She stopped before the door. Hermione knew who she was about to meet. The Lady Malfoy herself. The woman who saved Harry. The woman who saved the wizarding world by lying to the dark lord. All done, to save her one and only son. The very same son, who was scared to see her. Who had chosen to stay back at the Malfoy Manor, rather than accompany her to meet his one and only mother. The same son, who was clearly in a state of depression from his return from Azkaban. The son who felt unworthy to be free.

She did not blame him. She knew he would struggle with his abrupt return to the wizarding world. Having been stowed away for far too long. All alone. Securely tucked away within the sheltered walls of Azkaban. He hadn’t removed himself from his property since his return. He had not asked of the outside world. He had not asked for The Daily Prophet. He was, in all entirety, living in a bubble. Secluded from the world of his peers. Secluded from his own world. A world that should offer him help. A world where she would do what she could, to help heal him.

Without Draco by her side, Hermione raised her hand. She paused, keeping her eyes focused on the name before her. She wondered what the woman would be like. She imagined the once prestigious lady, with her chin once held high, and let the vision alter and morph into the vision of a fragile and weak woman. Dribble on her chin as she stared mindlessly at a blank wall. She swallowed thickly, hoping intently her vision was wrong, and knocked. Tentatively. Just next to the name plaque. Three, in quick succession.

She heard the slightest of shuffle from within. Soft footsteps. She stepped back before the door swung inward, just opening wide enough for a pale face to peek out. Bright blue eyes, wide in surprise, framed by blonde, though greying hair. The ever so beautiful Narcissa Malfoy, in all her glory.

One could, with all sincerity, say that Narcissa Malfoy had aged well. Very well, indeed. It had been almost a decade since Hermione had seen her during the battle at Hogwarts. Since she had seen the woman across from her, parading with Death Eaters on the opposing side. The only difference in the Malfoy matriarch since their last meeting, was a few, vague smile lines around her mouth. The smallest hint of crow’s feet crinkled at her eyes.

The woman before her, tilted her head to the side, blue eyes sizing her up with surprise and wonder. Hermione kept herself quiet. Standing with her head raised. Shoulders back. Spine straight. Unsure of what to say. Scared she might utter the wrong things. Nothing had been planned. She found herself regretting not bringing a bouquet of flowers.

“P-P…” The woman started. Her brows furrowed slightly with the effort of forming the word she was sputtering. Hermione stood somewhat calmly, not allowing her unease to show. Allowing Narcissa to take her time. Patience was often key, she had found. “P… P… Po-Potter?”

Hermione felt relief at the one worded question. There was recognition. She knew who Hermione was. Perhaps not by name, but by association. “Yes. Harry Potter is my friend. My name is Hermione Granger.” She introduced herself calmly, offering the Lady Malfoy a big smile of joy. Happy she could go back to the other woman’s hope and tell her son some positive news.

The woman took a step backwards, her features were swallowed by the shadows inside of her room. She door swung open; a silent invitation for Hermione to step inside. Careful not to walk too quickly, too eagerly, she entered Narcissa Malfoys private quarters. The heels of her borrowed shoes clacked softly on the linoleum floor. Narcissa closed the door gently behind her and sat down in one of the three chairs within the room. A low backed armchair. Built with dark stained teak wood. The cushions were padded with scratchy, brown fabric. Between them, stood a low, round teak table, wearing the same dark brown stain as the chairs.

Narcissas room was, using one descriptor word only, sad. She had one window. Draped with grey curtains. The linoleum floor was grey and black specked. The walls were a muted, grey-hued olive green. A single bed was hidden behind a folding screen. She had no paintings on the walls. She had no flowers. No colour. No discernible life. From the gardens Narcissa had kept, from the lively and vibrant way she had decorated the manor, Hermione felt saddened on the other woman’s behalf. Having to live, not only in the simplest of fashions, but also without colour and the simple joy of flowers.

Narcissa kept her eyes on Hermione. Focused. Sharp. She leaned forwards slightly, pointing to the younger witch’s chest. “F-flo… w-wer…. Ho-ome?” Hermione noticed softer sounds seemed to extend with Narcissas somewhat delayed speech.

“Oh, yes.” Hermione tugged at the golden chain, pulling the opal stone from between her open blouse collars. It shone, even in the pale, plain lights of Lady Malfoys room. “I have recently gotten to spend some time at your manor. These flowers are incredible. So, incredibly beautiful. I was captivated by them, the moment I first saw them” Hermione told her. Narcissa scooted closer to the edge of her seat, staring at the blossom made of the gleaming gemstone. “You know, Draco… Draco seems to enjoy them too.” At the mention, the blue eyes ripped from the opal on the chain and stared into Hermione’s eyes.

“D-Drac-co? M-mmy dra-agon.” Narcissa unclasped her hands from her lap, reaching a hand forward. Reaching for Hermione’s hand. The very same, which she had held Dracos in just thirty minutes prior. Hermione noticed the tremors. Painfully familiar. With a heavy and difficult swallow, she realized why he, the youngest Malfoy, did not wish to tell her about how he got it. How he had been so unfortunate to get permanent damage to his body, due to extended use of the cruciatus curse. Not by him. On him. Presumably by another Death Eater. To punish. To destroy.

“Yes, your dragon. He’s been released.” Hermione said, clasping Narcissas hand carefully. Lady Malfoys’ quakes eased at the comforting touch. “He’s finally free. Under certain conditions, surely. But he is free. He is home.” A quizzical expression dawned on the other witch’s face. It was enough for Hermiones heart to clench of desperation within the confines of her chest. How she wished he was with her. “He unfortunately couldn’t make it here today, but I can assure you, he will come to visit you soon. I will drag him here myself if I have to.”

The mother smiled easily and nodded, giving Hermiones hand a firm press between both of her own. Her blue eyes seemed to lose their focus ever so slightly. The spark of a visitor fading. “W-w… wwaar?” She asked with curiosity. The war that had ended but eight years prior. The war she had helped end. The war they had both lived without for a very long time.

“The war is over.” She assured the woman before her. She watched as previously undetected tension washed away from the blonde witch. Her shoulders sagging with relief. “You made sure it ended. Eight years ago. You lied to you-know-who, and made sure Harry Potter could kill him. And he did.”

“Dr-Drraaco?” A hint of desperation rang in her voice.

“Draco is alive.” Hermione told the other. “He has been in Azkaban for a while now… But he’s out now. He’s free. I’ll make sure he comes to visit you soon.”

Narcissa released her hand, her trembling fingers reaching up to find Hermiones face. Her hand cupped around Hermione’s cheek, caressing it ever so gently with her thumb. Feeling across her freckles. Blue eyes became glossy as tears welled in her eyes whilst she observed Hermione. Taking in her features with keen eyes.

Hermione allowed it. Though the comforting, warm caress filled her with relentless melancholy. A vague memory of her own mothers love. Of how her mother had always cared for her. How they had picked her up from Kings Cross station for the holidays and hugged her. Caressed her face. Kissed her cheeks and her forehead. Ran fingers through her fringe. Observed how she had changed since they had last seen her. Seen all the changes, the subtle details of aging that Hermione had never noticed happening to herself.

It was a touch she hadn’t felt it’ll years. And there she was, feeling her heart ache at a mothers touch, from a wonderful woman, a mother, she did not know. From a woman she had never known.

“Narcissa?” She asked, willing her voice to remain steady. To not waver beneath the weight of the loving touch.

Narcissa’s slightly chilled fingertips slipped down her cheek, rounding at the curve of her jaw. Her fingers traced the edge of her jaw before slipping from her chin like droplets of water. “Hheer-rmiione.” Blue eyes so intently focused on her own. The very same manner Draco had looked at her before she had left the manor. Hard to place. Intense but warm. Caring.

The back of her nose burned sharply. Hermione found she needed to blink away the tears that sprung to life atop her lower lashes. She inhaled slowly, deeply, through the nose. Her chin quivered. Never before, had a simple touch caused her such an immense well of feelings. Sadness. Joy. Heartache. Love. Anguish. Wonder. The entire spectrum of the sensations danced through her veins. Through her heart. Festering. Overpowering her to the point where she did not know what to do. Her mind working quickly, she decided to ask a question that could cause the intensity of a simple connection to ease. “W-would you like me to read you something?” she asked, yet again forcing her voice not to quiver. She did not know, nor did she understand how Narcissa’s simple touch had been so meaningful to her. How it had affected her the way it did.

The other woman nodded, her warm and caring smile changing to one of excitement. Her eyes sparking back to life. The two women wordlessly agreed to walk with each other out into the common area.

The bookcase was much smaller than Hermione had anticipated. It was a simple frame, seemingly bult out of oak. It had been stained dark, but patches on the rounded ridges that travelled down the length of it, allowed the natural, yellowing wood to peak through. The books on the shelves, were well worn. Frayed edges. Torn covers. Cracked spines. Ripped leather. Parchments and pages sticking out in odd angles. Some titles were entirely unintelligible.

Pale fingers, belonging to the Malfoy matriarch, reached for a thin book. It appeared to be a children’s book. The cover was a bright yellow. The illustration on the front, depicted a brown-haired girl, facing away from the reader. She was standing in a field of wildflowers, her hand full of daisies.

Daisy’s Daisies

By
Ritchford A. King

Narcissa turned on her heel, hugging the colourful book tightly against her chest. As though the contents of its pages meant the world to her. She walked over to a chair in the common area, similar to the ones in her room. Sitting down, she looked up at Hermione with wide, expectant eyes. Hopeful and lively. Hermione followed her to the sitting area, leaving the sad bookshelf behind. Sitting down in a sofa across from the woman, Hermione made herself comfortable, crossing her legs. She was quickly handed the book, and thus, she opened it.

The dedication of the book made Hermione realize the book was, in fact, not meant for children. It was always meant for another patient of the Janus Thickey ward. Its bright colours ensured it would be read.

“My dearest Anine.

Although my words cannot reach your mind, I hope they will always reach your heart.

May we one day reunite with our Daisy up above.”

She turned the next page. Then the one after. Then, she started to read. The book had short sentences building the pages. Illustrations of blindingly beautiful blossoms flowed across the pages. Petals dancing in an imaginary breeze.

“Our Daisy always loved the flowers.

It started with Roses. Tulips. Flowers in vases, sharing with us their bright colours and wonderful smells. Her little hands reached for the petals.

Taking her first steps, she came towards you. Your dress was the red of hibiscus. She grasped at the fabric and spoke your name. The dearest of titles. Mama.

Mama taught Daisy to pour her love and care into the blossoming garden. Once started with your love, it had only grown. Just as Daisy.

Her third spring, she sat in a flower bed of peonies. Plucking each vivid petal and smelling them. Every single petal. They swayed to the ground. Floating gently. A motion familiar from when you rocked our Daisy to sleep.”

Narcissa was sitting at the edge of her seat. Staring. Though, she did not stare at Hermione. She stared past her. Above her shoulder. Beyond the confines of the common area. Her expression was open. Beautiful. She smiled. It was as though she had laid her eyes on the most breathtaking, awe striking sight.

“Mother,” Said a soothing, much too familiar voice from behind her. A voice very few people had the recent pleasure of hearing. It was deep. Inducing gooseflesh to rise up the back of Hermione’s arms, collecting at her nape.

“Drra-aagon. M-myy Draag-gon.” The quivering voice of Narcissa filled the room as she stood to her feet. She stumbled quickly around the sofa Hermione sat on, rushing to embrace her one and only son, to hug him as tightly as she could muster. Her fingers clutched at his jacket, her knuckles turning white as snow as she grasped onto him. As though begging for his presence to be a reality.

His arms wound around her, bringing his mothers frail frame against that of his own. Hermione closed the book, turning fully, to observe how the mother and son finally reunited. After eight years apart, they finally had each other. They could finally touch each other. Speak to each other.

Dracos eyes locked on those of Hermione. A small, lopsided smile adorned his lips. A quiet thanks for coming, for inspiring him to join her, even if it was a little while later. His mothers quaking hands clutched at his cheeks, tearing his gaze from Hermione and back to her own. “Come, mother. Let’s go to your room.” Draco said softly. Hermione watched as the two walked, supporting one another in their movements, to Narcissas private quarters. The door shut behind them.

Whilst waiting for them, Hermione opened the book once more and continued to read where she and Narcissa had left off. Daisy had been the daughter of Anine and Ritchford King. She had loved flowers. Started out by seeking those of bright colours and interesting textures. She often plucked the petals, using them to paint herself with varying shades of the vivid nature.

Purple-stained fingertips from the brightest of Irises. Cheeks the red of roses. Tip of her nose as yellow as dandelions.

She had lived in the countryside. Her first bout of magic had happened whilst on a walk with her parents. She was sitting in a bed of wildflowers. The front pocket of her skirt, filled to the brim with the brightest of flowers. She reached for a daisy, her fingertips barely skimming the reaching, white petals. It was too far away. With a sudden surge of magical ability, all the daisies in the clearing lifted from the ground and danced around her. Sharing her joy in the sunlight.

From that day, Daisy loved the white flowers above all. Her namesake. An understated blossom. One that persevered. That fought its ground. That brightened others around it.

Daisy grew older. Her mother gave her free reign of their usual paths in the forest. Where Daisy would pluck flowers. Where she would chase butterflies. Where she would count the spots on the backs of ladybugs. She would aways return home for dinner. She would always relay her adventures to her parents, sharing with them the exciting things that had transpired on her outings.

Until she was ten.

Daisy hadn’t returned for dinner. Her parents took each other’s hands and walked into the forest together. The clearing of wildflowers was empty. There were traces of her feet as she had run through the flowers, dancing to herself. Spinning happily, just as she always did.

They searched for her. Called her name. Ritchford had sent his Patronus to search, but it returned to him without her. They spent the entire night searching. Hoping she would walk out between bushes, smiling at her parents before telling them how she followed a fox. How she hunted for flowers in all colours of the rainbow but somehow got lost.

In the early hours of morning, Anine fell to her knees. She spotted a bouquet of daisies, sitting loosely in the limp embrace of a childs pale hand. The stream, sitting between two of Daisy’s favourite fields, had taken her. Carried her south, towards the lake. The lake she had not been allowed to go to. The lake that had claimed her.

The flowers, once so vivid, had dimmed. The nature, once a place of beauty and wonder, was nothing but darkness. The bedroom, once the home of laughter and joy, housed nothing but sorrow and despair.

Long, warm fingers, slipped against the satin fabric on her shoulder. Giving her the slightest of squeezes to bring her out from the last page of the book. An illustration of a lone daisy. Dropped to the ground. Her cheeks were stained with tears. “Mother fell asleep.” She heard Draco say from behind her. His voice was low. Careful not to rouse other occupants of the common area. “Would you care to come?” She nodded her head quickly whilst shutting the book. Her breath shook as she filled her lungs with what she hoped would be a calming amount of air. Dracos fingers fell from her shoulder, and she pushed herself forward. Standing from the sofa, she did not meet his gaze, hiding her reddened eyes and wet cheeks behind a curtain of brown hair as she hurriedly placed the book back on its shelf.

He allowed her the space she needed to collect herself. Lilac-coloured satin sleeves swiped at her cheeks, collecting her tears. “I’m sorry… Your mum… She wanted me to read her this book. About a little girl who loved flowers. She died…”

Draco hesitated for a moment before he spoke. She had yet to turn to him, but she could imagine him. Picture him within her mind as he spoke. “Mother always liked flowers. I assume she finds it healing… In her own way.” His word, healing, was what caused Hermione to turn. To finally look at him. His brows were pinched. His hands in his trouser pockets as his steely eyes bore into her. “Come, let’s go, Granger.” He insisted. She walked up to him, and they walked down the corridor together. No words were exchanged whilst in St. Mungo’s. The silence was easy, as it always seemed to be between them. Comfortable. She hadn’t noticed her arm winding around his until they separated from each other at the floo.

The silence stretched until they she had settled into the violet velvet sofa in the solarium. Draco stood by the opening of the folding glass wall. His feet remained on the inside of the tracks, not allowing himself to step out into the lively garden on such a beautifully sunny day. His shoulders were hunched forwards, though also portraying a stiffness she had often seem in him. She longed to comfort him.

She hesitated. It seemed he needed the silence. The comfort of the birds and insects fluttering about just outside. “Draco?” He nodded but once. His breathing was heavier than usual. Laboured. He was uneasy. She understood, she had remained quiet for too long, letting him wallow within his own mind. Thoughts swirling around endlessly. Destroying the little positivity the situation held. She stood from the sofa at once. Her legs carried her toward him, stopping when she had finally entered his personal space. Standing just behind him, she reached for him. A part of her seemed to yearn to touch him. To let him know she was there. Her hand hovered, just an inch from his shoulder. “Draco, could you look at me?” He shook his head.

He inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising with the effort. When he exhaled, his body crouched further. Sagging down as though weighed down by the world. “I’m sorry I asked you to come back here with me. You should probably go home.”

“I’m not leaving you like this.” She said with ease. She was about to say more, when a hollow plea left his lips.

“Please… Go.”

“Draco…” her hand finally landed on his shoulder. Allowing him to feel her presence rather than only hear it.

“For the love of Salazar, just go!” His head had turned slightly towards her, just enough to see his fury. His tense shoulders rolled and stretched with the unease, pushing her hand away from him.

She recoiled, taking a step back. “I told you, I’m not leaving.” There was finality in her voice.

A scoff left his lips. He turned quickly, his long legs carrying him out of the solarium with haste. Hermione felt his turbulent energy leave with him, parting ways from her. Leaving her with a hollow chill. A chill, which, the sun could not warm.

Minutes passed by. She remained in the very same spot, where Draco had raised his voice at her. Where he had pushed her off. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She knew his reaction had come from a place of pain. She knew he was suffering from his visit with his mother. The shadows outside had changed. She had stood in the same place for far too long. The arches of her feet hurt.

“Effie?” Hermione asked, her voice shaking into the open greenery of the back garden.

A soft crack announced that Effie had in fact appeared. Apparating just to her left. “Miss?” Squeaked the darling elf. She was clad in a bright purple, velour tracksuit. The trousers hung loosely down her stick-like legs, pooling at her sizeable feet. She wore white Adidas trainers, complete with three black stripes. The hoodie was half unzipped at the top, accompanied by a long, white top underneath. The bottom hem sticking out as a border between the two purple garments. Quite the fashionista, Effie was. Even familiar with popular muggle clothing. “What’s can Effie do for you, Miss?”

“Draco is quite upset at the moment… Could you please tell me where he is?” The request was made with a nervous quiver.

“Effie shouldn’t say, miss. If master is upset, he must wish to be left alone.” The elf stated factually.

Hermione frowned deeply. “Draco has been through a lot. I know he might say he wishes to be on his own, but sometimes, having a friend helps much more.” She insisted. “Please, could you tell me where he is?”

Effies hands grabbed at the fabric of her white top, wringing it nervously between her long, bony fingers. “Master asked Effie not to tell Miss. To tell Miss to leave, instead…”

“You’ve told me to leave. Now you can tell me where he is” Hermione crouched down, getting on Effies level, where they could look into each other’s eyes. Hazel and golden brown, both wanting the best for the man of the house.

“Effie… Effie doesn’t wish to defy Master Draco.” Her ears drooped lower over her shoulders. Her knees bending inwards to show her unease at the prospect.

“Well… I am going to ask you where he could be, and you either shake your head or remain entirely quiet when I ask you where he is. Shake your head for no, stay still and quiet for yes. That way, you haven’t told me anything.” She grinned at the elf, who seemed to light with mischief and joy at not entirely defying her master. She nodded, and Hermione watched as the large ears swayed.

“Kitchens?” A shake of Effies head indicated no. “Outside?” Another no. “Library?” A third no. Hermione hadn’t been to several parts of the manor. She was starting to feel herself nervous. “Drawing room?” Thankfully, another no. “His bedroom?” Effie remained still. Staring at Hermione with hopeful, hazel eyes. “Thank you, Effie. That’ll be all.” She grinned at Effie, who smiled back and disapparated with a crack. She was, once more, alone in the solarium.

Hermione retraced the steps she had only trodden once before, finding her way back towards Dracos bedroom. Her legs carried her up the grand, carpeted, marble staircase. Hand on the wide bannister as she stepped from the first floor. She only stopped by the second floor briefly to gaze out the window. The view over the hedge maze was beautiful. Streaks of clouds were painted across the bright blue sky. Weeping willows peaking over the tops of the hedges. Another beautiful day in Wiltshire.

The view from the third floor was just as dazzling. She could see more of the surrounding land. An equestrian estate, seemingly muggle, sitting just beyond the reaches of the Malfoy property. A doe and her fawn stepping across a field. The fawn jumped between the high grass, playing around its mother.

On her right-hand side, was the familiar path to his bedroom. She took it upon herself to walk it. “Draco?” She asked as she knocked gingerly on one of his double doors. “Draco, I know you’re here. Let me in.”

She felt the sunlight through the windows warm the back of her black trousers. Her legs. She had dressed up for him. For his mother. For the occasion. She felt her teeth pull at her bottom lip. It had been for him.

Draco did not answer her.

“Open the door, please.”

“It’s open.” Came his voice, barely audible.

She took the door handle. Shaped as the head of a hippogriff. Golden. She recalled his encounter with a hippogriff in their third year, Buckbeak, with a sudden hold within her chest. The handle was eased down, and the door swung inwards. Surprisingly easily for a door of its size.

The inside of the bedroom was incredibly dark. Not caused by drawn curtains, but because of the wallpaper. Blacks with hints of grey detailing. Six, large, arched windows lined the wall ahead of her. All of them covered by black, velvet drapes. A set of sheer, white linen lengths hung just whin them, causing an elegant display. The grand four poster bed was placed in the middle of the wall to her right. It was built with black wood. A black, velvet canopy swooped elegantly down from the frame above the mattress. Black linens covered the bed. Black wooden bedside tables. Only one was in use. The one furthest from the door.

The room was grand. The size of a suite. Though it was empty, save for a desk and a fireplace. The desk was placed at the bottom of the second most window to the left. The fireplace was in the middle of the left wall. The exact opposite of the bed.

She felt the space must once had housed sofas and armchairs. Carpets. A space where Draco would have sat with his friends. Where they would have laughed. Told stories. Been doing things most teenagers did together.

There was no sign of such a life. No sign of fond memories. Only blackness. Only sadness. A big, empty, dark, hollow… Void.

Most of the drapes had been closed. Except for the one just before the bed. She saw the whine linen curtains hanging shut to soften the bright sunlight of the world beyond. A head of blonde hair contrasted against the black pillowcase. He was facing the opened curtains. His black clothing nearly concealed him against his covers.

She shut the door behind herself, stepping around the length of the bed to finally sit on the edge, just beside Draco. The mattress dipped easily as she sat.

His eyes were vacant. Staring out into a nothingness before him. She reached for his hand, just as she had that very morning. “Please don’t shut me out when you need me.”

“I don’t need you.” Said his mouth. His fingers, clutching around hers, said something else entirely.

“You do.” Her fingers squeezed around his hand. “Let me be here for you. Let me be your friend.”

“I don’t want friends.” He grumbled, his eyes remaining unfocused.

She felt the weight of the opal against her chest. A reminder of the flowers he had gifted her. A reminder of the smiles they had shared. The comfort he had brought her. The warmth she felt when she was with him. The relief when he offered his bond to her. “Let me be here for you, as your fiancée then.”

His dimly lit eyes refocused, the steely sharpness of his grey orbs darting to her. His focus was set. She could tell something within him had ignited.

She didn’t wait for his words of consent. She toed off her borrowed high heels, hearing the soft dragonhide collide with the deep wood beneath the bed. His suit jacket had been tossed to the floor as well. She released his hand, and climbed over him, settling her body behind his long body, her chest close to his broad shoulders, laying on her side and facing his back. Her arm wound around him, putting her palm on his chest, adding pressure against it as she relaxed into him.

“I know today was difficult for you…” she mumbled against his shoulder. “But I have to say, I am so, so, incredibly proud of you for seeing her.” He didn’t speak. She felt his hand pressing against the back of hers. Her palm was pressed flat against his chest, just atop his heart. His fingers wound between hers. Her own closed over his. Entwining. The surge of the spark returned, evident in the way their skin connected.

“I hope we can go see her again soon.” She continued, allowing him to keep his own thoughts locked away in his head whilst she urged on more positive things to think of. “We should bring her flowers. Perhaps a painting for her walls…”

“Tell her we’re engaged?” Soft spoken words. She heard the amusement. The smile that must have spread over his lips.

“If you want to tell her.” She nodded, her nose rubbing lightly against his shirt.

He remained quiet for just a few heartbeats. “I do.” He said quietly. “Though, I doubt she’ll remember it for long… You know, she called me Lucius quite a few times today.”

“I’m sorry, Draco… We will just have to keep returning to her. To remind her. Not just of our situation, but the fact that we are here. We are present.” She told him, pressing her body further against his. The heat of his body mingled with hers. His oxford was too large for his body. She felt it as she hugged him close to herself. The easily discerning divots between each of his ribs. The way she felt the ridges of his spine.

“You keep saying we…”

“Because, from now on, I’ll always be here for you. Right next to you. Supporting you through thick and thin. Sickness and health. Good days and bad. All of it.” She murmured against his shoulder. “You’re not alone anymore.”

He remained quiet. Silent acceptance as they lay together. Fingers entwined. Holding onto each other like anchors. She pretended not to notice his quaking chest. His shaking breaths. The soft sounds of tears hitting the pillow they both shared.

Chapter Text

Breakfast had quickly become one of Dracos favourite times of the day. He and Weasley would gather every morning at nine. They would dine together whilst discussing the case which Draco had been invited to help with. It was Weasley’s job to follow up on their theories and their work. Thus far, everything had come up without much more to investigate. Draco had no further ideas. Weasley had no more clues. Speculation only drove their conversations in circles.

It had been exactly sixteen days since his release, when Draco sat down opposite Weasley with one question and one request in mind. Something he had been thinking of every single day, the entire week since Granger had climbed into his bed and declared herself his fiancée. Something he didn’t wish to ask her about. Something he did not wish her assistance with.

“Any news?” he asked, easing into the familiar morning routine with the redheaded man before him. He lifted the tea pot from the table and poured himself some well-steeped Earl Grey. Pikes had prepared handmade, twisted bagels with an assortment of toppings and spreads for the two men. Draco’s eyes had immediately fallen on the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. His mouth was watering at the thought. He had been eating more. Not much, by any means. But more.  

Weasley shook his head. He rolled his jaw with frustration. “Nothing. The guards didn’t even let on anything, when Harry had them in for questioning.” He said whilst putting half of a bagel on his plate. He covered it in butter. A thick enough smear that Draco wondered if he might keel over before the first meal of the day had even finished.

“Well… That is quite unfortunate.” It was also, in Dracos mind, quite expected. Draco took the other half of the recently split bagel. His smear of butter was much less hearty. A simple spread with his knife. He covered it in the bright orange salmon. Topped it with scrambled eggs. A squeeze of lemon to finish it off. The acidic droplets, the perfect final touch. “Could I ask you something personal, Weasley?”

The ginger looked up from the platter of roast beef, meeting Dracos eyes with curiosity. “Sure, mate. What’s on your mind?” he asked. His hands worked mostly without his eyes, only glancing down at his plate once in a while, whilst his fingers worked seamlessly on covering his bagel in two slices of roast beef. Onions. Remoulade. Sliced gherkins.

Draco tore his eyes away from the monstrosity Weasley had created. “I was wondering about you and Granger.” He started. Tentatively. “From what I recall from school… Well, I thought the two of you… I suppose, I thought the two of you would be married to each other, with a quidditch team of children by now.”

A bark of laughter rang through the dining room. Loud and surprising. “No, no, no.” He said through his chuckles. “Wow… No, definitely not. I mean we did like each other a lot. Loved each other, even. I was so happy when I could finally say she was my girlfriend and all.” He smiled at the memories Draco could tell the other man was fond of thinking back on it. How much she had meant to him. How he had felt about her. “And then I went into auror training. She went to help restore Hogwarts. Then she joined school again for her last year. I was still training. We met during the holidays and things were nice but… I don’t know, It was like reality sort of hit us like a bludger to the face.” He shrugged a shoulder and cut his halved bagel into quarters. Easier to consume. Draco had spent enough time with the Weasley man to know this. “We were always good to each other, but without the war, it was kind of obvious it was just friendship. Things got awkward and stale between us pretty quickly. So, we both agreed to end it before we became miserable in a relationship none of us really wanted.”

Draco nodded his head, quite impressed with how the man expressed the end of their relationship. “Sounds like it was the right decision.” He said, sinking his fork and knife into his smoked salmon bagel, cutting off his first piece. A delicious mouthful. The perfect combination of flavours for a Wednesday morning with Weasley.

Draco found himself having become quite fond of the auror he was residing with. The two had never gotten along in their youth. Draco had always been told; he was better than the likes of the Weasley family. Though, over the years, Draco had found himself envying the family more and more by every encounter he had seen between them. The Weasley twins, so full of life and joy. Sharing it with everyone, for a simple laugh. Nearly blowing up the Great Hall to prove a point. They were brave. They were adventurous. They were everything Draco was not.

Then there was Ronald Weasley. He, like the rest of the Weasley clan, had tattered clothes. Homemade knit sweaters. Robes that had been handed down for generations. But he had what Draco was missing. He had a choice. He had friends. He had someone who loved him. Both parents. Several siblings. Something to fight for.

Draco would gladly have traded most, if not all, of the gold in his vaults to have what Weasley had. Money. Power. Influence. None of it mattered, it one had no one to share it with.

“Yeah” the redhead said, already having finished one of his quartered pieces. “But why you asking me though? I seem to remember you and Hermione having become quite friendly recently.” He hid his smirk, ineffectively, behind his teacup. “What’s up with that, anyways?”

Draco and Granger had both agreed to keep their agreement quiet. To the keen observer, however, it would be obvious what was happening. How she had become less panicked about finding a suitor. Her worry of being paired with Dolohov in a forced marriage, orchestrated by Kingsley Shacklebolt, had seemingly vanished overnight. She had visited the manor more often. Visiting him. Some of her most prized possessions at Grimmauld Place had been moved into the bedroom nearest to Draco, which would be Hermiones when she moved in. When she was visiting, the two of them often sat in the hedge maze together. Sat with him in silence. Encouraged him to eat. To move. To try. She had told him, on multiple occasions, that nothing would improve if he didn’t try. And so, he did.

He, in return, met her in the floo parlour when she came to visit. He always had a flower ready for her; presenting it to her when she stepped through. She always smiled and thanked him when she took it. Their hands always touched. He held her hand at every opportunity he got. His entire being was drawn to her. A moth to a flame. Her warmth soothed him. Comforted him. Whenever they parted, he felt as though a part of him left along with her.

However, his upcoming request to the Weasley man before him, would make their arrangement known. Neither of them had expected it to be hidden for long, as they would have to marry within the next fourteen days without being partnered with someone else. Two weeks prior, Draco had not shared a single thought about who he would marry. It hadn’t mattered to him. Within a few short days. only a few, simple moments, Draco could not imagine marrying anyone other than Hermione Jean Granger.

“I know I could have asked her.” He said simply, before filling his mouth with another bite of rich, smoked salmon on chewy bread. He swallowed it before continuing. Draco was a kinder man than he had been in his school years. However, he still enjoyed keeping Weasley waiting whenever he could. Teasing him in a much kinder fashion than he had previously done. “However, I found it to be in poor taste.”

Blue eyes stared at him with confusion. “Poor taste?” he urged. Draco noticed there was only one bite left on Weasley’s plate. Draco nodded but once. Weasley raised a brow, urging him to continue. “Did your poncy etiquette classes tell you not to ask a lady about her past or something?”

“Not exactly.” Draco sighed, lowering his loaded fork to his plate. He took a steadying breath and collected his hands in his lap. His tremors soothing on the surface of his thighs. “I, personally, find it in poor taste to ask my fiancée about her ex-boyfriend.”

The scraping of the cherry wood chair against the wooden flooring as Weasley pushed himself back from the table with haste. “Your- Your what?” he demanded, pressing his hands onto the polished wooden surface that separated them. His face was showing a grimace of horror and surprise. Reactions such as those, was the sole purpose for the two choosing to keep it a secret as they, themselves, got accustomed to the idea.

“Fiancée.” The word seemed bigger than it should. It hadn’t been a formal proposal in the slightest. It had been two desperate souls clinging to each other. Steadying each other in trying times. “You know I didn’t care much about who I was to marry. She was terrified of marrying Dolohov. We made an agreement.” Draco said steadily. Quietly. He looked up at Weasley with a calm demeanour, hoping it would also settle the other man. settle the other man. “This way, she won’t have to fear for her life at every moment. And I get to spend my time with a witch who brings more life and light into the room, than she does anything else. I truly believe I get the better part of the bargain, if I can be so blunt.”

“Blimey…” Weasley muttered low, falling back into his chair. The back of his head collided with the wooden frame of the mostly upholstered back. “Next time you tell someone, you’d better ease into it better than that.” A freckled hand ran through red hair, displacing it from its neat combing. “Almost gave be a bloody heart attack…”

“I can assure you; it was the pint of remoulade and the entire four centimetres of butter on your bagel that would have caused your heart to stop. Not me.” Draco felt the corner of his lips tug upwards. Weasley rolled his eyes at the comment.

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy…” Weasley sat properly in his chair once more. The last piece of his bagel awaited him on his plate. “So, you and Hermione are… Actually engaged… When you getting married then?”

“That is Granger’s job to find out. Everything ministry-related is up to her. I will simply come to her when called upon. She is simply in charge of that, as… Well, the ministry if probably more on her side than they are mine.” Draco cut a piece of his bagel. Preparing himself for another mouthful. “So, Weasley, would you care to accompany me to Gringotts today? To help me pick out an engagement ring and wedding band for your ex-girlfriend?” With quivering hands, he placed the bite into his mouth and started to chew, before Weasley had time to react.

And react, he did. A booming laugh that echoed through the room. His pale, freckled face reddened with the need for air. He seemed to calm for a moment but started to giggle. The giggles became wheezes. Heavy and laboured. At one point, Draco could almost not differentiate the sound Weasley made from that of a tea kettle that had started boiling

Draco waited patiently. Chewing his food and watched as the auror struggled to level with himself. He found it almost impressive, how a man like Weasley, an auror no less, found a hard time remaining serious.

With a long hum and an amused coo, Weasley wiped tears from his eyes and leaned back on the upholstery of the dining chair. “Why do you want me to help you choose a ring for her? Of all the people, why me?”

“Because, Weasley, you are readily accessible to me at this very moment. And because you’ve known her for so long. In comparison, I barely know her at all.” Draco dug his fork into the last piece of bagel on his plate. He did not know Granger very well. Nor did she know him. They had ideas about one another. Feelings appearing in a way of comfort and chemistry rather than history together. “I want her to be happy with the chosen rings. She has told me a few of her criteria, though. I am not allowed to buy her a new ring.”

“Yeah, cause buying a new ring will just empty your vaults, now, won’t it.” Weasley quipped sarcastically. Draco chuckled in response, a light shake of his head. Buying Granger a new ring would have been nice, though he understood she did not wish for him to spend money on her. She did not seem the materialistic sort.

“It would break the bank entirely.” He mused. Both men started to load up their plates with more food. Draco noticed Weasley using much less butter on his second round. “I am also not allowed to get her something with a gigantic stone. She wants simple and elegant, durable and with yellow gold. The word ‘timeless’ was also mentioned.”

“I mean, that does sound like something she’d request, doesn’t it?” Said Weasley with a small shrug of his shoulder. “I guess we’ll see when we get into your vault.” The ginger said, loading up his halved bagel with cream cheese and the precious smoked salmon Draco simply couldn’t get enough of. “Also, can Harry come?”

At this, the Malfoy man stared at the other. Appalled. “Why on earth would I bring Potter along to my vaults?” he bit to the auror. Him and Potter had never been friendly. They had accepted one another, surely, though one could simply not call them friendly in any capacity

“Because would be really fun, mate. And he knows Hermione as well. Probably better than I do.” Weasley admitted before he put a piece of his food into his mouth. Smoked salmon vanishing before Dracos eyes.

Scooping some scrambled eggs onto his plate, Draco shook his head. “Potter won’t be joining us.” He protested simply. It was difficult enough of Draco to ask for Weasley’s assistance. He would not be requesting Potter’s as well.

“Malfoy, come on. Just imagine his face when you tell him we are all there to find a ring set for Hermione.” He presented his hands in front of himself, spreading them as though revealing a sparkling banner. “The next Lady Malfoy.” The two men locked eyes for a moment. Draco let his imagination free as he pictured Harry Potter in the smallest of the Malfoy vaults, yelling at him about marrying his best friend. It could be amusing, he reasoned.

However, he did not wish for Potter to accompany them. He would have preferred to go alone, to choose a ring for the woman he was set to marry. However, he felt it would make her happier if he asked for help. He really enjoyed making her happy. Seeing her smile. The way her joy made the world around her sparkle. “No. He’s not coming.” Was the final verdict. Draco would not change his mind on the matter.

A familiar figure stood outside of the crooked, white building of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Black hair. Cut somewhat short. Messily sticking out in places, as if there were curls that sorely wished to come in, though were not allowed. Circular glasses slightly askew upon his nose. Piercing green eyes surveying Draco and Weasley as they stepped through the narrow street that was Diagon Alley.

The two men had left the manor just after finishing their breakfast. Draco said he was so full he should probably have a lie down. Weasley, however, insisted they leave right away.

Something Draco would not admit, was that Weasley was right in leaving for Diagon Alley early. The shops had just begun to open their doors for customers. Hogwarts had not yet released its students for the summer. Everything was calm. The slight chill of mid-morning air hung around the shadowed street as they passed through.

Once Draco spotted the man outside of the bank, Dracos head turned sharply to his left, glaring at Weasley with pure distain. “I loathe you.” His voice was loaded with venom. Dripping from every syllable.

“Once we help you pick out a ring, you won’t.” Weasley only smiled back at him. As though the seething hatred wasn’t palpable. As though it was a joke. “Come on, mate. Harry’s not that bad.”

“He nearly killed me in sixth year, you know.” Said Draco, refreshing the redheaded mans memory of the day when Moaning Myrtle had screamed through the corridors about a murder in the lavatory. The day when Harry Potter had nearly taken his first life. The chosen one. The golden boy. The Boy Who Lived… The Boy Who Used a Spell He Did Not Know and Nearly Killed Someone in the Process. Draco found the latter title to perhaps be a bit lacklustre. Perhaps a bit long. Though he justified, it was accurate. “I am allowed to not like him, simply for that reason.”

“And you bullied both he and I our entire time at school. Neither one of us have to like you either.” Weasley reminded Draco with simplicity. Draco sighed. “Besides, he also saved you in the Room of Requirement, in case you’ve forgotten.”

The tension in Dracos shoulders faded, and the next building bite back fell form his lips. Weasley was right. Draco was, he always had been, would always be the villain. He nodded in accepting the defeat. He remained quiet. Willing himself to think of brightness instead of darkness. Willing himself to think of her, rather than his own past.

“Good to see you out of the Manor, Malfoy.” Potter greeted with a lopsided smile. The two childhood rivals hadn’t met often since Draco had been released from Azkaban. He had heard his voice more often than he had seen him. Although the occasional impromptu meeting, sometimes took place in the dining room. Talking about the murders in short strokes. Brainstorming.

Potter had aged like a true auror. His previously thin stature had broadened with lean muscle. There was a healthy smattering of scars covering his forearms, exposed from the way his shirt sleeves had been pushed up towards his elbows. Bunched. His face seemed to have gone by mostly unscathed, though Draco could still spot the whie, shining remnants of a gash on Potters jaw.

His green eyes had hardened over the years. Once innocent and lively, the emerald orbs ever openly displayed how the man had been through war. How he had sacrificed his life for the people around him. How he had died for those he loved. How he had died for those he loathed. How he had given it all for a better world. It was, by miracle alone, that Potter survived. That The Dark Lord fell.

“Good morning to you too, Potter.” Draco said simply. His hands were pushed into his trouser pockets, steadying the ever persistent quakes with pressure. Pressure he had to find for himself without her by his side.

The two friends and colleagues greeted each other with friendly familiarity. Draco did not offer his attention to them as they caught up. The two men were like brothers to one another. Draco let them speak between one another. Standing outside of their conversation with his intent focus on the flagstone exterior of Gringotts. Guessing the degrees of the tilting pillars as they piled atop one another.

“So, why would you need two auror escorts to your Gringotts vault, exactly?” Potter asked, the elevated pitch his voice snapping Draco out of his thoughts. The black-haired auror rounded one of the columns to push the door open for the two others.

Draco and Weasley locked eyes for only a moment as they followed Potter inside. Weasley gave an apologetic smile with a raised shoulder. Draco sighed in response. “Weasley thought it would be an interesting visit to Gringotts, if we all went together. He urged me to request your assistance.” He said calmly. He was not calm. He felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He felt his palms dampen within the confines of his trouser pockets.

Potter and Weasley exchanged looks. Potter seemed more than a little confused “You’ll see when we get there, mate.” Said Weasley to assure his friend.

Draco stepped around the aurors, his long legs carrying him further into the building, where he found a goblin, sitting perched at his Pedestal, waiting for the blonde wizard with scrutinizing eyes. Draco greeted him with a curt nod, learned from his father. “Draco Malfoy, to visit vault twenty-three.”

The goblin, his name plaque reading Bornuk, was an elderly goblin. His white hair was combed back, hanging behind his head in thin, wispy ringlets. His ears hung backwards, sagging with the weight of their length. His nose was broad, sharp as a blade and drooping so low, Draco was most assured it could reach his chin. He had a wide, thin mouth and with narrowed eyes hidden beneath wispy, long-haired eyebrows. Draco was oddly reminded of a monkfish as he eyed him.

“Draco Malfoy, you say?” The goblin croaked, leaning across his pedestal to size up the wizard before him. “Wand.” His toad-like voice demanded. Draco retrieved it from his inside pocket, handing it to the goblin with trembling fingers.

It was not the same wand he had from his childhood. It had once been a temporary wand, one of the several wands the Death Eaters had stolen from Olivander’s shop during the war. It, too, was Hawthorn, like his previous wand. It carried Dragon Heartstring instead of Phoenix Feather. Whippy instead of pliant. It was, and always had been, extremely unreliable for Draco. But it was the only wand he had available, and it had simply made do when he had truly needed it to.

The goblin raked his fingers against the wood of the wand, assessing it cautiously before returning his gaze to the man. His sharp eyes landed upon Dracos neck. The Azkaban prisoner tattoo. Visible, as it had been tattooed just beneath his pulse point. Two runes. Three numbers. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, the goblin returned the wand to its master “Very well. Follow me.” Said the goblin as he turned on his stool and climbed down. Draco heard Potter and Weasley step after him, following him like shadows into the cold, damp carriage area.

The ride to the bottom of the great Gringotts cavern, was foul. The carriages were surprisingly comfortable. The padding of the seat and the shoulders had truly been upgraded since his last visit. Though the turns of the track remained sharp and the hills and drops of the trail were extremely steep. The waterfall, aptly named The Thief’s Downfall, was always a bother to go through. Soaking him to the bone. He found he quivered more than usual. Fortunately, Draco found the dragons, whom had once been guarding the first vaults, had been removed. He had always thought the opaleye protecting the vaults was immensely beautiful, though he was thankful it might be free. In the wild. Feeling wind beneath its leathery wings.

The goblin quietly guided the three soaking wet men to vault twenty-three and stepped aside. Harry Potter, the saviour of the Wizarding World as they knew it, brandished his wand. He cast four sets of drying spells. The water from The Thief’s Downfall vanishing from them all.

The goblin, Bornuk, Draco recalled, could not grant them access to the vault, in any capacity. The door to the vault was ten feet tall. There appeared to be no lock on the grand entryway. Only two numbers in gleaming gold near the top of the arched top, telling them they were, indeed, at the right vault.

“How do you get in?” Weasley asked from behind Dracos left shoulder. It was a good question to those who didn’t have a similar vault. The eldest vaults in the bank often had different kinds of magic than the newer. Draco had only known the ancient magic of the vaults in the furthest reaches of the bank. The ones shaped with the glow of ancient magic, from centuries prior.

“Blood,” answered Draco, reaching a tremoring hand into the inner pocket of his jacket. Retrieving his wand once more. Draco found his skin crawling with the thought of using its unpredictable companionship. “A human sacrifice. Preferably two.” He said as he turned towards the aurors with a devious smirk. Potter looked on edge, his wand already clutched in his hand. Knuckles white. Eyes sharply focused on the blonde man. Ready for a fight, if one was to ensue.

Weasley, however, looked entirely relaxed at Draco’s words. His brow slightly elevated towards his hairline. “Good one, mate. You almost had us.” he said with mild amusement. “Now get a move on. I want to get back for lunch.” Harry rolled his eyes at the comment.

 “Believe it or not, Potter, I don’t wish to return to Azkaban for killing two aurors.” He said, rolling the tip of his wand ever lightly against his palm, casting the lightest of the ‘diffindo’ spell he could muster. The cut was deeper than intended. Draco could feel the slice parting muscle. Cutting into two of his bones. A familiar sensation. Blood pooled heavily in his hand. “And this requires only Malfoy blood.” The thick liquid seeped into the crevasses of skin, flowing out past the openings between his fingers. Soft splats at crimson droplets hit the flagstone beneath his feet.

The sight of blood only brought him back. The muggle, Sandra, collapsing to her knees before him. The blood from her throat spilling down her body. Pools of thick, red liquid seeping into the wooden floors. The girl with pigtails dead on the floor of the Great Hall. A white sheet covering her. Screams as he paraded through Diagon Alley, hidden behind a silver mask. They eyes of his fellow Death Eaters were on him. Watching his lack of blood thirst. His billowing black robes, the uniform bestowed upon him by The Dark Lord, dripped with blood of unsuspecting wizards and witches as he returned to his room that evening. Blood hitting the wooden floorboards with sickeningly soft sounds.

With a shaky breath, he turned his hand away from himself, smearing the blood onto the blank surface of the door. A cold wave of magic washed over his bloodied hand, healing the cut. The blood seeming to reverse its trails back to the gash as it closed itself seamlessly. There were only traces of the wound, in the red stains of his Oxford sleeve collar.

“I’ve always wondered about that. When you get married, will your wife have access to the vaults?” Weasley asked with light-hearted effort. From the concern dripping from Weasley’s voice, Draco knew he had spotted as he had faded back into the painful memories of his past.

The single slab of the door before them, created a gap in the middle, creating a double door. It swung inwards in a grand opening. Allowing the three wizards to view the beauty of the chamber within. Each wall was lined with several sturdy shelves, reaching to the tall ceiling above. Each wall, had a rolling ladder, cresting the feeling of a library of jewels, busts and ancient weaponry.

From the ceiling, hung a grand chandelier. From the walls, there were torches. Lighting up each and every gemstone in their vicinity. On the wall to their left, was a wall with rows of busts, beautifully displaying ancient, intricate necklaces of famed nobles of France and England. Most of them were displayed with belonging earrings. Some were displayed with matching crowns, tiaras and diadems. Some busts had names belonging to them, allowing the men to know who they had belonged to before their fate landed them in the security of the Malfoy vault.

Catherine the Great of Russia (1729 – 1796)

Marie Antoinette of France (1755 – 1793)

Queen Victoria of England, (1819 – 1901)

On the wall to their right, were display cases of various items. A large case of cufflinks. Tie pins. Brooches. Bracelets. All displayed in various sizes and colours. Some were created with flamboyant gemstones and others without. On the top of both shelves, were grand weapons. Displayed. Blades pulsing with centuries of old magic. Muskets from wars long since fought and won.

On the furthest wall, wands were displayed. The Malfoy family line had never buried their dead with their wands. They had been put on display in their vault instead. Each with a name plaque and date of birth and death. Generations of Malfoy wands. The first one had belonged to Roúl Malfóy, born on April 11^th. The year of his birth was 743. He had died on October 30^th, in the year 801. The latest wand to join the collection, was that of his father. Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Born on February 16^th in 1954, in their home in Wiltshire, England. Presumed to have died on January 23^rd, 2003. His body was found in Pontypridd, Wales. The wall before them displayed no less than 1263 years of recorded Malfoy generations. Of the family’s history.

In the middle of the floor, stood a table. Displaying the precise items Draco had come to see. On the left side, towards the busts, were rings and earrings of decorative means. Pieces to wear to galas and events, where Lords and Ladies danced with Dukes and Duchesses. Where royalty and noblemen were equals to their Wizarding counterparts.

However, on the right side of the table, were five grand display cases of love binding rings. Rings given from a man to a woman, in hopes of her agreement to a betrothal. A ring offered to a woman whilst the man was down on one knee. Asking for her hand in marriage. A ring given to the new Lady of the manor. The new Mrs. Malfoy. Several generations of love and hope. Several kept promises. Several broken vows.

“Yes. As long as she and I are bound, she will be a Malfoy.” Draco said, rounding to the right side of the rings display. He did not care to pay too close attention to the aurors. Draco knew the two men would not try to steal any of the items in the room. Even if they did, they would be unable to. Anyone who was not a Malfoy, could not remove an item from its place.

“Even if she isn’t a pure blood?” Weasley queried smugly, a playful smug tugging across his freckled features. Potter remained quiet, simply observing the two housemates.

“Even if she is a muggle.” Draco said coldly as his eyes glossed over the cases of rings “As long as she is my wife, she is seen as a Malfoy.” He averted his gaze quickly, glancing up to look at the familiar, friendlier of faces, which stared at a particularly unsightly necklace with pure distain.

“Why do you want us to look at your necklaces, Malfoy?” Potter asked cautiously, though his voice carried a hint of annoyance. He had remained in the grand, open doorway of the gleaming jewellery vault. Draco could see in his periphery, that Potter had yet to lower his wand. “Looking for a pair of special cufflinks maybe?” He asked, nudging his wand in gesture towards an open display. Several pairs of silver and gold cufflinks of various designs gleamed in the torchlight.

Weasley walked through the long row of displayed necklaces, taking in their intricate designs. He stopped in front of another necklace, though that particular one, had once belonged to Queen Victoria. Given to his great grandfather, Septimus Malfoy, second of his name, by the queen to thank him for one of his several noble deeds.

“Actually…” Draco felt himself nervous as he knew what revelation was about to come to life before The Boy Who Lived. The truth he was about to tell. The fact of the matter at hand. “I am looking for an engagement ring.”

“Oh. You’re preparing for your upcoming wife. That’s nice.” Potter said. It was easy to discern that he had calmed significantly at this. He entered the vault to peer into the several display cases alongside Draco. “Are you planning on surprising her with a rock larger than her own head?” He asked, pointing to a true blue, elongated cushion cut, sapphire. Around the edge of the stone itself, was a border, heavily cast in sparkling diamonds, swirling around each other like waves. The main stone must have been fifteen carats. At the very least. Weasley followed Potters lead and stood next to Malfoys other side. All three men eyed the various rings. Matching pairs. Beautiful sets.

“Actually, she said she wanted something smaller. With a band of yellow gold. Something timeless and durable.” Draco glanced towards Potter for only a moment, before returning his gaze to the several different rings on display.

“You already know who you’re marrying?” Potter questioned suspiciously. Weasley remained unnaturally quiet at Dracos right hand side. Draco assumed it was to stop himself from screaming the news as loud as he could.

Draco reluctantly met Potters eyes and nodded his head but once. “I do.” He didn’t allow the confused auror the time to ask who, as he turned his gaze back to the several displays of rings. “So, Potter, which of these rings do you think Granger would like?”

The silence that fell over the trio was heavy. Draco observed The Chosen One closely as Draco’s words dawned on him. His face quickly changed from casual indifference. It graduated into uncertainty. Closely followed by furrowed brows and thinning lips of anger and horrified surprise. “Gr-Granger?! Hermione? Tell me you’re not talking about Hermione.”

“I suppose you both know her by her given name, yes. Hermione Granger.” Draco nodded. He raised one quivering hand to his shoulder, indicating the witch’s height. “About this tall. Brown hair. Pretty smile. Her worst skill is shredding cheese. Can probably recite ‘Hogwarts:  A History’ by heart. Has titles such as ‘The Golden Girl’ and ‘Brightest Aitch of Her Age’. Probably saved the two of you from more dangers than you can count.” He stated it all factually.

“Pretty smile, you say?” Draco shot the horrid ginger a loathsome glare, quietly telling the man to remain quiet. “Also, her name’s gonna be Hermione Malfoy, pretty soon though.” Weasley added, fighting a snicker as he avoided Dracos gaze. His words only making Potters horrified grimace worsen.

“Only if she wishes to be.” He corrected. He stepped closer to the cases of rings, eyeing each one carefully. The leftmost case was entirely wrong. All the rings were much too large. Diamonds. Rubies. Emeralds. Sapphires. Opals. Adorned with overwhelming borders of other gemstones. Draco imagined the weight a ring of such calibre would weigh her down significantly.

The rightmost case was much too understated. Delicate bands with stones that seemed they would vanish from their prongs with even the slightest flutter from a butterfly. Otherwise, plain and simple bands. Barely visible. Plainly boring. Dull. Effortless. Unadorned. Not something fitting such a vibrant and vivid spirit as the one of Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger-Malfoy.

Hermione Malfoy.

Dismissing the leftmost and rightmost display cases, only left three more cases to be judged. Each display housed near one hundred rings. Several of them, were pairings of engagement rings and complimenting wedding bands. A fair few had matching male counterparts.

“Wait- I… are you seriously marrying Hermione?” Harry Potter had never been the brightest star in the night sky. Though Draco had expected him to be brighter than Weasley. We wondered if he perhaps had gotten the two confused with one another at some point. Weasley had accepted his engagement to Granger with ease. Potter seemed to not have the mental capacity to do so.

“Yes. She was scared about the possibility of marrying Dol-” the young Lord Malfoy began to explain, though was abruptly interrupted.

“Dolohov, yeah I know.” Harry nodded dismissively. “But there must be other alternatives, no?”

“Perhaps you’d prefer her to marry McLaggen?” Draco raised a single brow as he watched Potter’s face contort into a look of utter disgust. “Thought so… I, on the other hand, would have just accepted any witch the ministry would pair me with.” He reached for an Asscher cut engagement ring. The main stone was of pastel pink sapphire, with small, squared diamonds on either side of it. It was small enough. Elegant. Timeless. “And so, she and I made a deal.” He said as he placed the ring back in its original place. Draco assured itself it was a beautiful piece. However, Hermione Granger did not belong to a square shape. He imagined something rounder. Softer. Elegant. Nothing completely round or princess cut. Nothing too square. It had to be a middle ground.

“I suppose you are the lesser of three evils.” Potter muttered with reluctant acceptance. Draco felt relief wash over him. His shoulders sinking. Both of her best friends had accepted the upcoming change. “Though, I think I need to have a chat with her soon… I don’t like that she didn’t tell me. I live with her, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I mean, based on how often she’s been coming around the manor, I think it’s a great idea. She seems fond of you, Malfoy.” Weasley pat Dracos shoulder roughly. He lost focus of the rings for a moment. A chuckle passed through his lips at the gruff handling from the Weasley man. Draco looked over at him, wondering if he might think of Weasley as a friend.

“Fond of him?” Potter barked with glee “Remember when she hit him? Square in the nose, too! It was bloody brilliant.”

“She didn’t hit me on the nose. It was a smack on the cheek.” He defended himself, whipping his head around to glare at the other auror. “Though to be fair, it still hurt like a bludger to the head… Did you two teach her how to do that?”

“She knows how to defend herself, that one.” Weasley hummed through the words, his eyes still scanning the rings before the three of them. Contemplating each and every ring in sequence. Seemingly not finding a fitting one for the woman they all cared for.

“I think it’s safe to say, she was the one who taught us how to fight.” Said The Boy Who Lived, quite nonchalantly. “She’s really something else, Hermione is. You’d be best off if you didn’t anger her.”

Draco nodded his head absently. “She sure is…” he mumbled as he reached for a ring. It appeared to be a three-carat marquise cut diamond. Situated on a sturdy, yet delicate band made of yellow gold. The belonging wedding band was created with the design that it would lie beneath the centre stone. It was elegant. Eye-catching. Timeless. The entirety of the band was made with small marquise shaped diamonds, laying lengthwise. Separated perfectly with smaller, round diamonds. The golden border around the stones, only highlighted the beauty of the ring set. It looked older than it was. Elegant lines and beautiful simplicity. Timeless. Stunning.

“It’s beautiful.” Said Potter softly as Draco plucked the rings from the case. “I think you’ve found it. Hermiones ring.”

“‘Mione will love it, mate.” Weasley agreed with his best friend. Both aurors seemed to have softened. As though seeing the ring had made them understand their best friend was about to get married. They both seemed happy for her, in their own, overprotective manner. Like brothers usually would.

Draco ran his thumb along the surface of the centre stone. The cut of the diamond seemed to make every surface in the vault around them glitter. “You’re both certain?” He asked, not looking away from it still. He pictured it on her. Shining in the sunlight as she plucked opalescent flowers from the hedges. Decorating the solarium further with the flowers she loved. The flowers that brightened her days. The golden twinkle in her eyes seemed somehow reflected in the diamond in his hands. His tremors seemed to worsen significantly as he stared at it.

“Yes. I don’t think any other ring will suit her as much as this.” Weasley said whilst patting Dracos shoulder heavily once again. Potter simply nodded with his agreement, pushing his glasses up along the bridge of his nose by the help of his wrist.

Draco inhaled deeply. He felt nervous at the thought of how to hand it over to her. Of presenting her with a ring. Draco, down on one knee. A diamond held out to the most radiant witch he had ever laid eyes on. A ring offering. It simply made their situation feel more real. More personal. He had, of course, known he would marry her for a full week. Since she had climbed into his bed and held him close. Whilst he mourned the loss of his mother’s mind with Granger by his side. Their hands entwined as he shed quiet tears.

 Potter tore his eyes from the ring first, looking up at Draco with his piercing gaze. “Please tell me, you’re at least going to ask her properly.”

Draco turned his head to look back at the auror, a brow raised at him with utter judgement. “Do you honestly believe I would marry a witch like Granger, and not give her the world? Of course I’m going to ask her properly. Down on one knee and everything.” He informed the scarred wizard. “Believe it or not, I like it when she’s happy. I will do my very best to make it a daily occurrence.”

Weasley bent around Dracos back, locking eyes with his longtime friend, both exchanging a wordless conversation behind his back. Draco could not care to know of what they were discussing.

Beneath the surface of the table, there were drawers filled with jewellery boxes. Velvet. Large ones, to bring home the grand necklaces from long passed queens. Smaller boxes, to bring home necklaces, bracelets and brooches. Then there were the smallest boxes. The ones that meant the most. Varying shapes and colours littered the large drawer. Black. Red. Blue. Green. Violet. White. Velvet. Leather. Dragonhide.

He did not hesitate as he chose the most fitting box to present it with. Carefully placing the marquise ring into the plush slit. He closed the box with a snap and placed it in his trouser pocket. Where he would feel it. Where he could clutch it. Assuring himself it was real.

He quickly chose himself a wedding band. It was one of medium thickness, created of white gold with soft details of yellow gold. The shapes of her rings, the marquise ring cut, shaped into his band like flowing, golden leaves. He swiftly placed it in another ring box, along with the wedding band chosen for Granger. He pocketed it as well.

“I’ll help you get everything ready.” Weasley told him, offering the blonde a kind smile. “I know your wand is… Well, it’s shit, isn’t it? I’ll help you set up anything you need.”

“When do you want me to send Hermione over?” Asked Potter. Draco looked between them both, finding himself stunned. At what had been said in their wordless conversation, Draco found himself ever grateful.

“I think I can set it up myself, thanks Weasley.” Draco nodded to the redheaded auror. He raised his hand, patting his housemate heavily on the shoulder. A gesture Weasley had been fond of doing to him as of late. It was not a gesture Draco would continue doing. However, Weasley seemed pleased to see the change. “Though, I’ll need Pansy to come for a visit. And I do think, you should eat dinner with the Potters today. Or Daphne. Just… Just not at the manor. Please.”

“Don’t want her handsome ex there when you propose?” Weasley asked with a playful smirk. A wink in the Malfoy man’s direction.

Dracos lips thinned into an apologetic look. Prows pinched slightly together. “Your mother must have gone heavy on the lies, if she ever made you think you were handsome.” The snort leaving Potter made the look of utter shock and horror on Weasley’s face even better.

Chapter Text

The lifts in the Ministry for Magic had always been an uncomfortable affair. In all the time she had spent at the Ministry over the years, Hermione had somehow gotten used to it. The way her stomach lurched and swayed with each abrupt movement through the levels. However, the lifts seemed to have gotten much worse since she had last taken them.

The witch she shared it with, clutched at the railings on the wall with both hands, gasping at the sudden twists and turns as they seemed to spiral into place on the sixth level. Depositing Hermione at the floor of Department of Matrimonial Affairs. She turned to watch as the sickly witch whimpered along with the creak of the shutting gate. The lift abruptly whisked her away, leaving Hermione staring horrified as it departed.

The corridors were dark and winding as Hermione stepped through them, searching for the Department of Matrimonial Affairs. She followed the signs to the left. Then another left. Straight ahead. She wondered how large the sixth level must be, just as she rounded one more corner. The sign above the grand, glass door, was much the welcome sight.

Department of Matrimonial Affairs 

“Took the lifts, didn’t you? You are much better off by taking the stairs on your way out.” Said a male voice ahead of her. She quickly looked up at him, to give him her full attention. The man was tall. He had a slim face. Mousy brown hair and deep brown eyes. The big, bright smile seemed painfully familiar. Much like the smile of an eager boy from Gryffindor house. A bright and promising young wizard who died much too young. On the desk, the man’s name plate read

Dennis Creevey
Matrimonial Consultant

A sting pierced her heart as she managed to finally place the man before her. He was three years her junior. Colin Creevey’s younger brother. Another muggle born student from Gryffindor house.

“Thank you. I’ll make sure to keep that in mind for later.” She said with a smile as she stepped closer to him. “Dennis Creevey… I remember you from our time at Hogwarts. You’ve changed quite a bit since then.”

“I remember you too, Hermione Granger.” Dennis smiled broadly at her. “Though, last time I saw you, I believe I was fourteen. Fifteen maybe. So, I do hope I’ve changed since then.” He said with the slightest of bows to his head. “How are you, miss Granger? I think I saw your name was up for the third wave of marriages for the repopulation act. Am I mistaken?”

“Oh,” Hermione reached for her purse and found herself straightening her back. “That is actually why I’m here today. I know I have fourteen days left, until I’ll be appointed to a wizard to marry by this department.” Dennis nodded; his attention entirely focused on the witch. “It so happens; I have a fiancée. We would both like to marry each other as soon as possible. And we’d like it done at the ministry.”

Dennis’ smile only grew. “That’s wonderful news. Miss Granger.” He said, clasping his hands together.

“Please, call me Hermione.” She urged him, stepping tentatively closer to his desk.

He chuckled, nodding his head in approval. “That’s wonderful news, Hermione. Congratulations on your engagement.” His hand reached into his topmost drawer, pulling out a square piece of parchment. “All I need to set a date and time for your marriage, is for you to fill out this form.” He produced his wand. It was short and pale as bone. He tapped the blank parchment with the tip of it, and writing swam to life on the parchment before her very eyes.

Department of Matrimonial Affairs
Repopulation Act – Wave III
Self-Paired Bonding Form

“All I need, is for you to fill it out before you leave. I’ll send you an owl by noon tomorrow, confirming a time, date and location for your bonding ceremony.” He handed her a self-inking quill and gestured his hand towards a small, round table with two chairs to her right.

The room she was in, was rather small. It was dark, much like the rest of the ministry. On either side of Dennis Creevey’s desk, there were large archways, leading further into the Department of Matrimonial Affairs. The heard the soft, slightly muffled voices of his colleagues. Rustling of parchment against parchment. Paper notes being folded. Flying out through the arches in various shapes and sizes, and out through the oversized glass door. Searching for their recipients. 

She wondered what it was like to work there. To investigate people’s lives and histories. Comparing old grades from Hogwarts. Hobbies. Magazine Subscriptions. Anything they could find on the poor witches and wizards who were selected to marry, where the ministry had to intervene. Where the Department of Matrimonial Affairs had to appoint spouses.

She wondered who she would be partnered with, had she not happened to fall into the possibility of re-acquainting herself with Draco. Had Ronald not been assigned to the case of bringing the Malfoy man out of Azkaban and remaining with him until he found a partner. Or was appointed one.

She wondered if she had been correct in thinking she would be paired with Dolohov. A statement from Minister Shacklebolt. First, there was Harry Potter with Pansy Parkinson. An unlikely pairing of two people that had never belonged. That had never thought of each other in any other capacity than loathing. Up until their marriage. Then, there was Daphne Greengrass, the sophisticated and ever graceful blonde. The complete opposite to the man who was paired with. Ronald Weasley.

At last, there would be Hermione Granger. Once dubbed The Golden Girl. A young woman, who had spent more time in the spotlight than she had ever wished to. A woman, who had no one. Who would have been forced to marry someone she did not approve of. Paired with someone who would make a striking headline. Her eyes closed, as she envisioned the headline.

Golden Girl Gets Guerrilla

Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, had been paired with marked Death Eater Antonin Dolohov for the Repopulation Act. Inside informants, had revealed to us that Dolohov is set to be released pending their nuptials. More on page 6.

Opening her eyes once more, she set the tip of her quill to the parchment. Soft scrapes of the fountain against the surface of the thick paper as she filled out the form. She had assumed for it to be easy. She knew several things about Draco. She knew herself well. However, there were simple questions that required more thought. More consideration. Where she had to delve deep within her own heart and mind to justify her own actions. Her own thoughts.

Husband

Current name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Married name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Date of birth: June 5th, 1980
Prior children: 0
Occupation: Unemployed.
Current residence: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.
Married residence: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.

Wife

Current name: Hermione Jean Granger
Married name: Hermione Jean Gra Malfoy
Date of birth: September 19th, 1979
Prior children: 0
Occupation: Unemployed.
Current residence: 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington. London, England.
Married Residence: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England.

Type of bonding: Blood bond.
Bringing own wedding bands: Yes.
Name of witness 1: Pansy Petronella Parkinson Potter
Name of witness 2: Harry James Potter

She found choosing her own married name to be quite the difficult task. Draco had told her to keep whichever name she wanted. If she was the most comfortable with Granger, she should remain Hermione Granger. If she wished to hyphenate their surnames, he would be ever grateful she wanted her maiden name to be mixed with his. He said he did not expect her to be only Hermione Malfoy. He had indicated the name carried a grand amount of negativity. Of awful memories. Not only for him, but for her and their peers as well.

However, she shared her own name with no one. Her soon-to-be maiden name was not be one of spectacular meaning to her anymore. Her parents were no longer Daniel and Helen Granger, they were named Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They would never reunite with the Granger names of their pasts. They did not know it. They never would. She, as a Granger, was alone. The name held no significant meaning to her, beside it having been her name for nearly twenty-seven years. An identifying factor throughout her Hogwarts schooling. Miss Granger, the nosy little know-it-all. Miss Granger, the girl with her hand permanently raised in the air. Miss Granger, The Golden Girl. Granger, Harry’s friend. Granger, the girl with her nose in a book.

However, Draco still called her Granger. She hadn’t heard him use her given name once, as she could remember. Always Granger. Even after reuniting as adults. An old habit from their days at Hogwarts.

She found the quill started writing the name Granger, as though wanting her to hyphenate her old name with his. However, she found herself unable to do it. Unable to bring with her a part of her past that could only continue to hurt her. The Grangers were gone. She had made sure of that fact. It was time to leave the Grangers where they belonged. In the past. The quill crossed out the beginning of her maiden name; she wrote Malfoy in its stead. Hermione Jean Malfoy. An unbreakable union with her husband.

She had told him he was not alone. She was with him. Thick and thin. Sickness and health. Good days and bad. She would be by his side through it all. He was, most assuredly, not alone. On his bad days, when he did not want a friend, she would be his wife. Lend him a hand. Care for him. On good days, when his smile would shine brighter than the sun, she would be there with him. Enjoying the beauty of the world they shared.

A united Malfoy couple. Because he mattered to her. Draco and Hermione Malfoy.

Once she had finished filling out the form, she stood on her feet and walked back to the awaiting Dennis Creevey, who had resumed to other paperwork whilst she did what he had asked of her. She put the quill down atop his desk, where he had placed it for her to take, and handed him the parchment.

“How have you been since… Since last time?” She asked. Last time they had met, was at the first Remembrance Day after the war. The first anniversary of the battle of Hogwarts. She and Dennis had both lit candles in front of a portrait of Collin. The two had not spoken. Their eyes had met. His had welled with tears. Mourning his brother’s death. He had looked defeated. Crushed. Living in a world without one of his favourite people. She had given him the smallest of smiles, something to signal he was not alone. She mourned him too. Missed the boy. Broken that his life had ended so abruptly, at such a young age. Dennis had returned the smile. Understanding her message. She had left him, allowing him to mourn in peace.

“I’ve been fine, I suppose. Spent an extra year at home with mum and dad. Finally graduated from Hogwarts and moved to Namibia for two years. Just to get away, really. When I started missing home, and mum called me and begged me to return, well, that’s when I came back home and started working at the ministry.” His eyes spoke unheard words of melancholy. Of a tragedy. He remained quiet after that. Not speaking to bring the pain back to life. He looked away, focusing on something Hermione could not see on his desk.

She nodded her head slowly. “I think of him often, you know… I think we all do.” She said, tentatively. Her voice low and careful. Not wishing to overstep. “You know, Harry refuses to give autographs to anyone. The only one he ever gave, was to Colin.”

Their eyes met once more, and Dennis smiled once more. Half-hearted. Somewhat forced, though genuinely. “Is that really so?”

“It is. We all carry him with us in one way or another.” She clasped her hands, collecting them at her front. “We all cared for him. His care, his bravery and his enthusiasm was entirely unmatched.”

“Thank you, Hermione.” He eased back into his chair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. She did not push him further. She didn’t truly know him, after all. Only had memories with his brother. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who misses him.”

She only smiled at him, nodding her head in acknowledgement. Talking to a mere acquaintance about a loss they both shared, was not an easy conversation to navigate.

Ending the conversation about his brother, Dennis lifted the parchment form Hermione had recently filled. Deep brown eyes scanned the parchment, and his brows elevated noticeably, though he did not make a comment about what had surprised him. “Thank you so much for this, Hermione. I’ll set up an appointment and owl you as soon as it’s ready.” His smile, that time, seemed much less genuine after he had read her form. The warmth had gone from his eyes. “Would you like the owl to be delivered to London or Wiltshire?”

She remained quiet for a moment, thinking of where she would spend the next twenty-four hours. She did not have any particular plans for the evening, nor the entirety of the day after. She assumed she would go to the manor for dinner, so Ronald could visit his wife and daughter, and Draco wouldn’t have to dine alone. It would also allow the Potters to have a relaxing evening on their own. Without Hermione as a third wheel. She could easily return to the manor the next morning. “Wiltshire would be best.” She finally said, tucking her purse beneath her arm, holding onto the strap.

He nodded his head and set a mark next to the mentions of the manor. She noticed he held the feather quill tightly. Fingers turning white around the handle. “Very well. Do you have any questions for me, regarding your… Union?”

“Oh! There is one question, I suppose.” She said quickly. “One of our witnesses is Harry Potter. As I’m sure you know, he is a high ranking auror and might be whisked away at short notice. Is there any way it can be changed, or other witnesses added if he can’t show?” She had not specifically asked for Harry, nor Pansy to be witnesses to her union with Draco.

 She had yet to tell either of her friends about her plans to marry their ex-nemesis. Draco had informed her; he would have to let Ronald know. He would ask for his assistance to go to Gringotts before their bonding. Where he would pick out rings for the both of them. However, Harry had not been told. Nor had Pansy. They, however, had both informed her, they would gladly be the witnesses the day she got married. Hermione chose to believe that still counted. Even if her bonding ceremony would have her to wed the Malfoy heir.

Dennis sat further back in his chair, steeping his fingers atop his desk as he observed Hermione with an unreadable expression. “Changing the witnesses, is no trouble at all. Changing the groom, however, can prove to be quite the task.”

Her heart sank heavily in her chest. She stared at the man before her with hurt coursing through her body. A painful throb pulsing with her rapid heartbeat. The feeling, however, was not for herself, but for the man who was slowly winning her heart. The man who had, for the longest time, only known pain. “Please, don’t beat around the bush, Dennis. Say what is on your mind.” She urged him. Shoulders stiff with silent fury.

The man didn’t hesitate to fulfil Hermione’s wish. Speaking what was truly on his mind. “I never expected you to choose to marry a Death Eater. A convicted murderer, no less” he said calmly, his head falling to a condescending tilt, brows slightly raised to show how unnaturally calm he remained. “Willingly mocking all of those who died for our cause in the war, won’t you say?”

Shoulders squared. Back straight. Nostrils flaring, she took a step toward him. Her hands pressing into the polished wood of the desk that separated them whilst she leaned forward. Golden eyes locked on deep brown with burning intensity. “Draco is not a Death Eater. He never was. He was only marked to save his family. He had no choice. No say. It was to join the ranks of a psychopath, to have a chance of survival or to get tortured to death when opposing him.” She could see the man before her shrink just a fraction within his chair. He swallowed thickly. “Just because you know part of someone’s history, does not mean you know their full story.” One of her hands balled into a fist, fighting the strong urge to slap the younger man across the face for assuming the worst in Draco. With that said, she stood straight once more, straightening her jacket with a huff, turned on her heel and left the pale, speechless man behind as she made her way to the staircases. Descending them with blind fury crackling through her skin and hair.

“I had no idea Dennis Creevey was such a… A… A heartless troll! He’s just as presumptuous as Umbridge ever was!  I swear I should have hit him! He would have deser-… Pansy?” Hermione had charged through the floo with no regard, spewing thoughts that had raced her mind since she left the Department of Matrimonial Affairs behind. “Pansy?” She asked again. Though there were still no sounds. The house was empty.

Harry would, surely, be at work at the ministry at that hour. Pansy being out, however, was a bit of a surprise. She had been struggling a fair bit throughout her pregnancy thus far. She had bouts of extreme sickness and dizziness, which meant she wished to remain at home or in safe locations for most of her time.

Hermione sat on her bed, gazing out into the guest room she had occupied for nearly three weeks. Part of her, had expected her to remain in the spare bedroom at Grimmauld Place for a long time. She had almost hoped it, at one point. Hoped she could somehow evade the repopulation act. Avoid marrying someone she didn’t love, nor care for in any way.

She had once decorated the room. Perched picture frames of her friends and family. Magical and moving mixed in with still and muggle. Beside the pictures, she had placed her favourite books. Lining them alphabetically across the wall hung shelf. Atop her bed, she had spread a knit blanket. Made by none other, than Molly Weasley herself. Her nightstand had housed a vase of opalescent flowers. All, given to her by Draco. Surprises every time she came to visit him. When he met her in the floo parlour or when they had perused the hedge maze together.

The books had been taken down. Moved to her very own bedroom in Malfoy Manor. There, she had tall shelves lining her walls. More than enough space for books and picture frames and décor alike. She knew she had many books. She had brought them with her from her years living in Australia. From her years studying before that. From her Hogwarts years. From her year on the run. From her childhood. A whole life of harbouring tomes of different varieties. Her shelves at the manor were barely half full of her life’s collection.

All that was left at number twelve, was her trunk of clothes, the four books on her nightstand and the vase of flowers. Eight of them. All placed under a stasis charm. All, as beautiful as the very moments Draco had given them to her. The guest bedroom did not feel as though it was hers any longer. It was comfortable. It was nice. It was empty. Ready for Hermione to take her old Hogwarts trunk and leave Grimmauld Place behind. For her to move into Malfoy Manor permanently. With her husband. As Mrs. Hermione Malfoy.

She pictured Draco in her mind. Always tall and lean. Angular. With straight, clean lines. Sleek, dark clothing. Pale. White hair. Grey eyes. A monotone man. Having been a monotone boy. In a grey world. Surrounded by dark wizards. She thought back to how he had always displayed fondness for the colours his home now housed. The nature outside.

Clasping her purse once more, she pushed herself up from the bed. She had nothing to do for several hours. Pansy was gone. Harry at work. Usually, Draco and Ronald would be deeply invested in personal matters until early afternoon at the earliest. Her legs carried her to the upstairs sitting room, the home of the main hearth in the house. She had an idea. A vision. Something she could do to occupy her until dinner. With a handful of Floo powder, she called for The Leaky Cauldron and stepped into the green flames.

When visiting Draco for dinner, Hermione mostly chose comfort over fashion. She had dressed herself in a peach pink sundress. It’s a-lined skirt draped beautifully to her knees. It had off-shoulder straps and was, quite surprisingly, one of the more comfortable dresses she owned. She had bought it when living in Australia, having found herself needing clothes that cooled her significantly more than the knit jumpers and denims she often wore in England.

She paired her dress with flat sandals. She twisted her hair around her fingers, allowing it to form a natural bun shape on its own before she secured it with a two-pronged French hair fork. The three beads of fake pearls decorating the hair piece, were swallowed by her mass of brown curls.

Once she had returned to Grimmauld Place, Pansy had, very hastily, told her that Ron had already gone home to Daphne and Winnie for the night.  Hermione had charged out through the hearth, rushing through the sitting room with several shopping bags hanging from her wrists. She had changed her clothes in a rush, grabbed all of the shopping bags from several muggle stores and left the Potters to their own devices. She had managed to see Harry’s intense glare and Pansy’s smug smirk as the green flames whisked her away.

The floo parlour at the manor, was surprisingly dark for seven in the afternoon. The sun, which Hermione had grown accustomed to seeing over the vast, green and serene landscape, had been replaced with ominous, dark clouds covering the evening sky. Rain poured heavily down the windows. Stained glass flowers weeping with the heavy downfall.

Draco was nowhere to be seen. He often waited for her in the parlour. Opalescent flower in hand. It was an unusual change. Though, for what she had brought with her, the heavy bags weighing her wrists, it was much welcome.

“Effie?” Hermione asked into the darkness. Careful not to raise her voice too loudly, in case Draco was nearby. She suspected he was awaiting her company in the dining room, as seven in the evening, was usually scheduled for dinner. Part of the routine they had set to get Dracos body stronger. Having started with set mealtimes.

Effie appeared with a crack. Always the fashionable elf, she was wearing a bright yellow dress, the bust hugged her small chest gently, the white belt at her waist accentuating the four-layered frilly skirt that draped down the lengths of her legs. She had painted her nails the colour of raspberries. The combination of fresh colours made her appear as though a lemon tart had been transfigured into a house elf. “Miss!” The elf squeaked happily, a bright smile appearing on her face. “Master Draco is waiting for Miss.”

“I’m about to head to the dining room,” Hermione said, placing the large shopping bags down on the floor between the two of them, just as the elf spoke once more, interrupting the witch from speaking further.

“Master Draco is not in the dining room this evening. No, no, Miss. Master is in the solarium. He’s waiting for you miss. You must hurry.” Said the pretty little elf sternly. Hermione was almost certain she would be scolded by the elf if she didn’t go to meet him soon.

“I’ll go to the solarium in a moment, Effie. I need your help to bring all of these bags up into Dracos bedroom. Could you do that for me, please?” She pleaded, squatting down before the elf. “I would greatly appreciate it.”

Effie smiled demurely and nodded her head. “Of course, Miss. Are you certain you don’t want them in your rooms?” she queried, reaching for the bags with her long, decorated fingers.

Hermione only nodded. “I’m sure. These bags and everything within, is his. If he wants it, of course.” She explained. Effie nodded curtly, then gestured hard towards the solarium with her head, urging Hermione go start moving. “Of course. I’ll see you later, Effie. Have a good evening.” She stood, straightened the wrinkles from her skirt with two efficient brushes of her hands and stepped through the open double doorway, into the corridor.

The wall sconces, lit with candlelight guided her towards the solarium. She heard music. Soft tunes, playing gently and carefully through the grand archway of the room she knew best. A perfect contrast to the dark and stormy weather outside. Lightning struck in the distance. A bright light, flashing through the darkened sky. Hues of deep purples and blues was discernible within the moody clouds. A roar of thunder roamed the lands. She felt goosebumps rise up along her back.

Such weather had always been her favourite. Dark and moody. A reason to curl up in a comfortable sofa or chair with a good book. Preferably fiction. Academic titles simply didn’t make her feel the same during electric storms.

The tune grew stronger as she neared the solarium. It came from a gramophone. Music flowed into her ears. A French song. Old. She found herself humming along to the melody as it invited her to come closer. La Vie En Rose. Her hips swayed lightly as she walked, head lolling ever softly from side to side. Legs allowing her to nearly dance down the corridor. The music was familiar to her. Though she knew the English version, the French song still filled her with good feelings of warmth. The sounds of the soft crackle and near muted hum from the vinyl was mesmerizing.

The corridor opened into a softly lit room. The foldable, sliding glass wall had been closed for the evening. Pending the storm. The glass canopy above the sliding wall, showed the rivers of water pouring from the stormy sky. The sconces on the walls had not been lit. The soft light blessing the room, came from floating candles hanging in the air. A slight sway to them, as though dancing to the enchanting music. There were lit candles on a mirror atop the coffee table. There were trails of dried wax, having dripped down the lengths of the candles and onto the reflective surface over time.

The sofa, violet velvet and ever vibrant, had been dressed in cozy tweed blankets and fluffed pillows. All of which, were cream coloured. It had been moved, slightly to the left of the room. Closer to a fireplace, which had up until that day, been hidden behind flowers and plants of various sizes and textures. She stepped closer to the back of the sofa, her fingers trailing along the top of the backrest as her eyes wandered through the room. The flame from the lit fireplace warmed her body as much as her heart. Its light licking up against the walls and reflecting in the glass wall.

The various broken and cracked flowerpots had been replaced with new ones. The longest plants, having grown freely, weeping down towards the floor from their pedestals, had been trimmed and hung from pots, secured with ropes, to the ceiling. The room was tidier. Neater. Less overgrown. With more open flow than it had previously been. However, it still felt warm. It still was cozy.

However, the best feature of the room, was the man. He stood by one of the corners by the glass wall. Next to a golden detailed pedestal of Greek design. He had been fidgeting with a vase of her recently appointed favourite flowers when she had entered the room. Correcting the flowers and placing them just so. Opalescent sheen on white flowers reflecting the light from the dancing, floating candles and burning logs in the hearth. His face was alit with a smile. Allowing her time to observe the changes to the room they so often gathered in. However, more than anything, the changes in him, were more evident than those of the room surrounding them.

When she had met him, only a couple of weeks earlier, his cheeks had been visibly thinned and sunken. He had purple stains beneath his eyes, indicating the lack of sleep throughout his years in confinement. His skin so pale, the man so malnourished, he appeared to be grey. He seemed hollow. With severely hardened eyes. The sharpness of his cheekbones, giving the illusion of the ability to cut glass. His body had been hunched, and its shoulders weeping inward. Protecting his heart from the outside world. He had struggled to move or stand for longer periods of time. Needing a slow pace and consistent breaks. Lost in his own mind. Lost in the sorrows and the tragedies of his life. The things that had stained his mind and heart with trauma and evident horrors of his past. Ever prolonged and driven to constant reminders by the dementors that had surrounded the prison.

Before her, the man stood tall. His back straighter. Shoulders pushed back. Relaxed and broad. Choosing not to enclose his heart from those around him. His cheeks had filled in. A healthier glow appearing on his face. A brightness. The deep circles beneath his eyes, were nearly gone. Healed with several nights good, deep, dreamless sleep. His oxford fit him better, indicating that the once skeletal chest had filled in. That the divots between his ribs were much more difficult to feel and see. His grey eyes had softened. Soft blue specks, inherited from his mother, glittered in the beautifully lit room. He was healing. Getting better. Physically and mentally. A strong man. A good man. A man who finally had the ability to fight his demons.

He was not done healing. Not even slightly. He had a long way to go. The journey had the possibility to be never-ending. And she had vowed to herself, she would be there. Every small step forward. Every fall backward. Every tumble. Every leap. She would be there. Her hand in his. Helping him back on his feet. Walking alongside him.

She had declared it to herself earlier that very day, by taking his name. She would be there with him. His journey was her own. One day soon, he would know it as well.

He reached a hand towards her. His tremors visible. Inviting her to come closer. His fingers almost moving in tune with the song. Stepping around the velvet sofa, she allowed her legs to carry her body towards his. Drawn to him like a magnet. Like a moth to a flame. The pull he had on her, was absolutely, unquestioningly indescribable. She took his hand in hers. Fingers instantly finding their home between his. Entwined. His tendons and muscles calmed at her touch. Just as the butterflies in her stomach, calmed at his.

Neither of them spoke for the longest time. Simply observing one another. There was no inate need to greet each other with simple hellos. Nor greeting of telling each other by saying it was good to see the other. All she needed, was right there. Held securely in her hand.

“You’ve cut your hair,” She eventually said. The long, shapeless curtains of white, wavy strands was no more. It was still long. It was still platinum white. As striking as it ever had been. However, it was combed and styled back from his face. Shapely. Tastefully long. The new style allowed the waves to show more volume.

With a tilt of his head, his wavy locks fell slightly forwards. An invitation to touch. “I did,” he said, just as her free hand reached upwards. Fingers combing carefully through the white strands. They were just as soft as she recalled.

“It suits you” Awestruck at the change, she found no other words. Unable to tell him how the hair highlighted his strong cheekbones and jaw. Unable to put into words how desperately she wanted to stay attached to it. Words failed to speak how it made him look healthier. And how she was incredibly proud of him for cutting it. So many things in his life had changed as of late, and she never expected him to willingly change his hair quite so soon.

Grey eyes locked on brown. A stare which made the once stilled butterflies return to her stomach. Her hand lowered from his hair. Reluctantly. “Thank you, Granger.” His deep voice broke against the higher pitched one of the French singer, still filling the room with peaceful music and soft tunes to dance to.

The silence stretched between them. She did not know what to say. What to do. How to behave. His gaze was intense. His hand was warm. She felt secure. Safe. However, something seemed to be changing. Whether it was the electrical charge of the lightning striking in the distance, or if it was between them, she did not know.

It seemed he searched her. The very depths of her being. “I’ve been curious about something.” He said. Thunder roared. “When did you start calling me Draco, instead of Malfoy?”

The breath that left her was one of relief. “I think it happened in sixth year.” She told him. “You were obviously going through something. I started referring to you as Draco because… Well, you were more than just Malfoy the bully. You were a human. Going through your own things. You were a child, involved in a war you should have been left out of. A war that never should have happened.”

The intensity of his stare only faltered slightly. Just enough to show a softness. Warmth. Understanding. He nodded his head but once. She mimicked him. “Thank you, for seeing me that way.”

She yearned to step closer to him. To close their gap even further. To wrap her arms around him in a tight embrace. To feel his warmth against her own skin. To run her fingers through his hair once more. Instead, she stepped back. Her fingers slackened between his. “I… I’m thirsty.” She said. Her chest felt slit with blazing fire as she retreated from him. Legs carrying her back to the coffee table and the carafe of water that awaited her.

She drank slowly. Bidding her time. Lightning struck once more. The solarium lit with the electric crash. Thunder. Echoing off the walls. Though nothing, not even the ruthless nature just outside the sliding wall, could quench the atmosphere within the manor.

“Hermione.” Her breath stopped at the sound of her given name rolling off his tongue. Heart beating rapidly with the startling surprise she did not know she had yearned to experience. She stared ahead of her, into the fireplace. The crackling of the logs, soft pops of ember, mixing effortlessly with the easy noises from the gramophone. “Granger was the annoying girl from school. Always with her nose in a book and her hand in the air.” His voice was anything other than mocking. He was reminiscing. Tentative. The warmth in his voice ran deep. Like molten lava. “Hermione, on the other hand… She is captivating. She is a woman created with vivid colours. She is a woman who has made a greater difference in the world, than she will ever know.”

Shortness of breath was not something she expected to experience from hearing someone else speak. She felt her chest rising and falling heavily. The bust of her dress restricting her chest uncomfortably. She turned around, looking to face him. Except, he was not where she had expected.

She had left him standing by the glass wall. He was so tall, and his platinum hair and pale complexion made him easy to spot. However, when her eyes finally found the bright grey eyes, he had come closer to her. Only a few paces away. He was kneeling. Perched on one knee. His quaking hands were both supporting a silk clad ring box. It was the colour of periwinkle. Unable to contain her surprise, her hands clasped over her mouth, muting a gasp.

“I never expected anyone to walk into my life and make it better, until you came along. Like a beam of sunlight, piercing through dark clouds. You make everything you touch, light up with your spark. You, Hermione, are the brightness to my darkness. You are the colours in my monotone grey. You are vivid in ways I never thought could exist.” He paused. Trembling fingers opening the ring box to reveal the most exquisite, the most decadent and surreally mesmerising ring she had ever laid eyes on. “It would be the greatest honour of my life, to spend the rest of it with you by my side. Hermione, will you, still, marry me?”

Frozen, she stared at him. Her eyes wide with the complete and utter surprise of an actual proposal. She had expected him to make an effort whilst handing her the ring, perhaps over a nice dinner or with some hand-plucked flowers. They had both already agreed to marry one another. They had already agreed on the title of future husband and wife. However, she had not expected such a grand gesture. She had not expected him to get down on one knee. She had not envisioned him to declare grand, romantic sentiments. To present a stunning vision of a ring.

Her thoughts briefly wandered back to her bout at the ministry just that very morning. How she had chosen him. His name. How she had vowed to herself to remain at his side. With the possibility that their union would remain for the rest of their lives. Unspoken, yet, to the man before her. The man she had already promised to marry. The man she owed an answer. An answer that meant forever.

“Oh, Draco…” the words were muffled behind her hands. She lowered them to her chest, where they did not hinder the sight before her. “Yes, I still choose to marry you.” The words were said as she allowed herself closer to him. The magnetic pull from his body taking her ever closer.

Whilst her eyes were intently focused on his, she felt their skin connect once more. Long, warm fingers wound around her left hand. The callouses from his years in Azkaban ever evident. Rough texture grazing lightly against her own, soft skin. Cold metal encircling her ring finger. Tightening to fit her perfectly. A type of magic she had not researched. A type of magic that seemed not to matter to her. Not in the moment. Not whilst he was touching her. Holding her.

The weight of the diamond ring on her finger, was noticeably unfamiliar. Something she would have to get used to. She tugged at his hand, encouraging the blonde man to stand. He grasped her hands, and she helped him climb to his feet. Unsteady and quaking slightly, Draco stood before her. Officially her fiancée. Public, for the world to see.

Hands still linked; Hermione took a step backward. “Come,” she encouraged. He stepped after her. Matching her small, backwards steps until they reached the sofa. She sank onto the velvet cushions, her eyes still fixed on his as he did the same. His body relaxed into the sofa, close to the middle. Close to her. His body sank in a manner that spoke of a long time of tension; from spending the day pushing his body in unfamiliar ways.

She scooted closer to him. Hands releasing just moments before she wound her arms around his middle. Her body pressed against his side. Face at his shoulder. His arm slithered around her shoulders, draping down along the curve of her back. Not invasive. Careful. Tentative. Almost lovingly. Hermione felt herself at ease in his embrace. How he was ever so respectful of her. How it was almost as if he understood her pull towards him. Understood her urgent need to be near him. Understood how she needed his touch.

“You know you didn’t have to actually propose.” She spoke against his oxford. She could, indeed, tell that his chest had started filling with his slowly, steadily increasing weight. 

He angled himself differently. His body telling her, wordlessly, to look up. She obliged. Gazing up at him. His eyes searched her face. Observing her fine details for several, long, intense, moments. “There is a possibility you might never get proposed to again,” he spoke softly, as though increasing his volume would frighten the atmosphere and the delicate music from the gramophone. “And if that is the case, I wanted to make sure you at least had a good moment to look back on.”

She felt him tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She stared. Perhaps she gawked. She was unsure. All she knew, was that her breath was much shorter. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. “Are you saying you’re willing to hold onto me forever?”

“Forever is a long time Gra-… Hermione.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, a clear sign of disappointment in himself for going back to calling her Granger. “I am willing to hold onto you as long as you’ll let me. For as long as you’d want me to.”

Her hands unclasped from around his middle. The ring on her left hand coming to sight in her periphery. Glistening in the soft, twinkling light from the floating candles above their heads. “You don’t have to call me Ganger if it’s difficult to acclimate. We have a long time to get you used to calling me Hermione.” She assured him. Her hand resting atop his chest. He did not appear to mind. His free hand moved to rest atop hers. Long fingers swallowing her hand without hesitation.

“Granger,” He repeated her name comfortably. “I promise to try getting used to your first name. It… Will probably take some time.”

“That’s fine.” She assured him, resting her head back onto his chest. His heartbeat strong against his ribcage. “Calling you Draco, rather than Malfoy, wasn’t an overnight change, either.” The admission was comforting to her. It all happened gradually. It would continue to happen gradually. Soft changes.

The sky lit up with another strike of lightning. Closely followed by a second. Her eyes focused on the world outside of their solarium. Reflections of the floating candles seemed to light the dark clouds, with magic unlike any other.

“Lightning never strikes the grounds.” Draco spoke against her hair. “All the wildlife in the area, flee to our property to get to safety from it. So tomorrow, we might be able to see more animals around than we usually would.”

Hermione turned her head to meet his eyes once more. His face was ever so close to hers. There was a sudden urge within her to close the gap that kept them parted. A wish to touch more. To thank him for the ring. Thank him for the flowers. Thank him for her beautiful room. For allowing her to bask in his presence. Allowing her to touch him with such familiarity. For the safety of their futures together. Instead, she chose to find her words. “Could we go out to see them?”

He nodded his head. “Of course. Anything you want.” He shifted his eyes away from her. Looking out into the darkened gardens, stretching well beyond where they could see. “This is your home too. You have as much say as I.”

“This isn’t my home quite yet.” She said, laying her head back on his chest. “Soon though… An owl will arrive tomorrow with the time and date of our bonding.”

“Actually, I added your name to the deed today. While at Gringotts with Weasley and Potter.” Her head lifted abruptly, staring at the man with utter surprise. Questioning him wordlessly. “Weasley invited him along for a laugh. Said it would be interesting for Potter to find out about us through me…” the wizard explained. There was no malice in his voice. A hint of annoyance, however, was ever present. “They gave me the talk. Telling me if I ever hurt you, they’d murder me or throw me back in Azkaban. Perhaps feed me to an Acromantula.” He informed her with a small shrug of his shoulder.

“The normal threats?” Hermione bit back a snicker. She could imagine her two oldest friends threatening him. How they both defended her. Wanted the best for her. Threatened the best part of her life to make them feel like they defended her. “Wait- You added me to the deed of the house?”

“It was quite predictable, really.” Draco smirked at her reaction. “But yes. I did. You now own this manor and its grounds, just as I do. You’ll be added to the wards by blood when we bond. Oh, and you’ll get access to the Malfoy vaults at that time as well.”

She couldn’t help herself but stare at Draco. “Has anyone ever told you how thoughtful you are?” She asked, fingers spreading out slightly atop his chest. She felt his heart beating against her palm.

“Once or twice.” He mused. His grey eyes sparkled blue with what Hermione hoped was everlasting joy. She hoped to see him like that more often. To see him smile. To see the sparkle of joy in his eyes. To share moments of triumph and delight with him.

“You deserve to hear it every day.” The words were so softly uttered from her lips, she wondered if he heard them. Wondered if he knew she had even spoken.

“Then perhaps I should be particularly thoughtful for you every day.” Said Draco. “And then you can tell me, every day?”

A series of small nods “Yes. I’ll do that.” She reached up towards him, pushing his wavy, blonde hair away from his face. Her new ring glinted beautifully between his strands.

Lightning struck. Lighting the room with cold, blue, electric light. The roar was immediate. Her eyes met his. Light grey. Specks of blue. Staring intensely back at hers. Her pulse quickened in her chest. Thumping against her ribcage with ferocity. The urge to close their gap returned. The magnetic pull between them grew stronger. Her skin tingled, begging for her to get closer to him. Her fingers continued along his scalp. Nails raking behind his ear. Continuing to the side of his neck. They extended, feeling at his nape. Guiding him towards her as she reached closer to him.

The butterflies, dormant in her stomach until that very point; sprung to life. Encouraging her. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath was short, quick paced. Her body wanted it. To bridge the gap between them. To show Draco how he had a hold of her. How he had captured pieces of her, she never knew she had. How she desperately wanted to press her lips to his. To finally kiss him.

She noticed how his eyes glanced to her lips. He did not stop her. His hold around her only tightened, bringing her closer against his own body. Urging her lips closer to his own. His large hand was pressed against her back. The warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of her dress. His firm hold sending sparks of kindling fire into her body. The tip of her nose barely grazed his. His breath fanning lightly across the surface of her skin. His complete and encapsulating warmth surrounded her.

A crack of apparition made her startle backwards with the softest of gasps. He did the same, flinching at the sudden noise. Their spell, once intense and overwhelming; broken. No elf was to be seen. No one but them were in the solarium. No one but them enjoyed the lighting. The thunder. The French singer. Each other.

The change in the air, had come from the appearance of their dinner. Two plates. Heaped with food which made her release a laugh of pure glee. Excitment. Chips. Covered with several kinds of melted, shredded cheese and topped off with perfectly cooked, cubed bacon. “You really went all out for tonight, didn’t you?”

“I did,” his cheeks lifted his mouth into a wide grin. A version of him she loved to see. The handsome man before her lit up with the smiles he so often sent her way. “Anything for my fiancée.”

“Do you reckon it will be as good as when we made it ourselves?” She asked, sitting up straighter, reluctantly prying her body from his. The magnetism begged her to return to his warmth. His comfortable embrace. His scent.

He followed her movements, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the sofa. His knee brushed hers. Although there was fabric between them, there was comfort. The thirst and yearning for his touch was quenched at the light, comforting feeling. “I doubt it will taste as good. But it seems as though the cheese was better off without you.”

She shot him a look. Pointed and wicked. “You’ll never let that go, will you?” She knew he wouldn’t. She knew the ‘Cheese massacre of 2006’ was something he’d remind her of repeatedly in their years to come.

“Never” He smiled at her. Warmth and comfort appearing to seep from every fibre of his being. He leaned closer to her, his fingers grazing lightly over the back of her shoulders. “I’ll remind you of it when we are old and grey, when our grandchildren and great-grandchildren ask about how we came together.”

Chapter Text

The bright sunlight was glaring down at Draco, from its high position in the cloudless, blue sky. Burning at his clothed back and at the nape of his neck. He was bent on his knees in the grass. His hands were buried in weeds and shrubbery, to clear the Greek-inspired gazebo by the pond, from the gardens overgrown infestation of unwelcome greenery.

He had cleared most of the weeds that had coiled its way around the pillars. He had pulled vines out of cracks that had formed through the years of neglect. Ripped them from the structure in its entirety. Judging by the suns position and the broken sundial near the waters, it had taken him just over two hours. Two hours of manual labour was possibly more than Draco had ever done in his entire life. Even when helping his mother garden, in his youth.

He pushed himself to stand. Clinging to the carved pillar next to him for support whilst his knees buckled beneath his weight. He winced, finally straightening himself for the first time in ages, stretching his back and shoulders to combat his hunched stance for the previous hour. His spine cracked and tingled with the wonderful pain of stretching. His shoulders pushed backwards; he emitted a low groan of pure delight.

Stepping into the Greek-inspired gazebo, he picked up one of the smaller, broken flowerpots before tossing it ruthlessly into a pile with several other broken plates, flowerpots, as well as a large heap of weeds and vines. All to be vanished with a spell later. Another flowerpot quickly followed its former comrade.

His body ached with the effort he had put in. He was much weaker than he had thought himself to be. Though he found himself pushing his body to be better. Trying to improve, even though it would prove to be difficult. He found himself needing a break. To sit. Somewhere soft, dry, surrounded by shadows. The weeping willow by the pond bristled with a flock of colourful birds departing from it. Remining him of its existence. Stoic and strong. A sanctuary from both storms and sunlight alike. He felt his knees weaken as he stepped towards it. The broken steps from the gazebo nearly giving way beneath him.

He looked down at his clothes. Filthy. He had spent hours in the dirt. The ground was still damp in most places, a remaining memory of the hefty lightning storm the night prior. The knees of his new trousers were dirtied. The soft sage green of his short-sleeved cotton shirt, bore brown splotches across his chest and stomach. Denims, Granger had called his new toursers. And a T-shirt. The clothes were genuinely more comfortable than he had expected them to be.

That morning, he had found a large collection of paper and plastic bags from muggle shops, stowed away in his dressing room. He had almost walked straight into them, as they had been placed just within his usual path to his trousers. One bag had read Hackett London, another said Son Of A Stag. There was Hawes & Curtis. Primark. Stuarts. H&M. As well as a couple of white, nameless bags that seemed to be made of thin plastic.

He had been quite tempted to call for Effie, wishing to ask her why they were there. However, he quickly decided against it. He peeked inside each and every bag. They were filled with clothes. Muggle clothes. Trousers made of the same blue material Granger often wore. Shirts of various colours and patterns, with different styles. Some were oxfords. Others were short sleeved and seemed to be made with cotton. There was a black jacket, appearing as though made with low quality dragonhide. It had silver zips and button caps.

He noticed how the jacket was the only black item out of all the clothes that Granger had bought him. He raised a pair of blue trousers against his hips. The brand was named Levi Strauss. The fabric was thick and deep blue. The colour was faded slightly on the knees. With small holes ripped into the fabric at the thighs and knees. They seemed to have been a starched, yet soft enough for Draco to envision comfort whilst wearing them.

He picked out a short-sleeved cotton shirt. It was plain. No writing. No imagery. A simple, sage green. Much like the dress Granger had worn the night they cooked together. The night she had ever so brutally murdered the cheese.

Looking himself in the mirror, Draco had decided the combination of clothes looked decent enough for the work he had planned, by the pond. He appeared much more like the muggles he had seen when venturing into London or Paris. He could easily blend in, wearing those clothes. Perhaps his hair was a tad too striking; something to be easily altered for a potential venture into muggle London. He found his much-loathed wand and tucked it into his back pocket before venturing out into the gardens to see if the heavy rainfall had made any damage to the pond or the swans residing in the hedge maze.

“First, I hear overtly sexual noises through the bushes, and then this? What on earth are you wearing?” The male voice snapped him out of his own thoughts, bringing him back to real life. To the pond. On the trail towards the weeping willow. To having to whip his head around, meeting the brilliantly light hazel eyes of none other than his childhood friend, Theodore Nott.

“I’ve been told they’re called clothes. Usually worn by people who don’t like to be naked their entire lives. You should try it sometime.” Draco said with a blank face, gesturing with his quivering hand to the newcomer. His oxford was unbuttoned much too low to be considered decent in any capacity. The tall tales Theo had told their group of friends just a week prior spinning unfiltered through his mind. About beaches where people walk entirely naked. About all the clubs he had attended throughout the years. About how he preferred not to wear anything, if he could help it. About what he had let people do to him. Draco wished he had stopped Theodore from speaking much earlier than he had.

“But they’re so restrictive!” Theodore whined as he stepped in through the drapings of the grand Willow tree, following Draco into the calm, dry shadows. “But really, Dray, muggle clothes? Where did you get them?”

“Granger, actually got them for me.” He said simply. Fingers pulling the soft, green fabric of his T-shirt from his damp back with a swift motion of his hand. Cool air flitted in through the brief gap, sending a wonderful wave of comfort up towards his shoulders.

Theo’s eyebrows elevated with the drop of the much familiar name. “Granger, you say.” He said coyly, looking at his friend with considering eyes. “Would that be the same woman I spotted on my way here?” a smirk tugged over his lips. Smug. Cheeky.

Draco had bid Granger a temporary farewell in the floo parlour, earlier that morning. He had walked her to the hearth and watched as the green flames whisked her away. They had just finished eating breakfast together, and she was going back to the Potters residence in London to collect her things. To finally move out of their house and into the manor. She had insisted, she did not want his help. “Possibly. You’re the one who saw her, not me. Why are you asking?”

“I just saw half a pair of legs running up the stairs. But… You don’t know if she’s even at your house?” Theo crossed his arms across his chest, smirking at the blonde wizard. “Is what why Pansy sent me here. She wanted me to talk to you about your plans for the future and whatnot.”

Draco inhaled deeply through the nose, his eyes falling shut. “Possibly.” The word was repeated, this time with the hint of annoyance. “She… She’s moving in here. With me.”

“What do you mean she’s moving in?” He heard Nott step closer to him, and he opened his eyes once more. “She’s living with Pansy and Potter, isn’t she? That’s what Pans said this morning, anyways.”

“She’s moving in here because we have decided to pair up for the repopulation act.” Draco said with a small, tight-lipped smile and a shrug.

“You say that, as if it’s a project at school. You’re marrying her? Like you’re actually marrying her?” Theo stepped closer once more, his eyes wide with concern, furrowed brows making him appear as though genuinely worried for the paler wizard.

“You know as well as I do, that marriage was the only reason I was released from Azkaban.” Draco said. He felt his body protest. The work from the day previously, as well as the weeding and gardening of the morning, had caught up with him. His knees wobbling. The entire length of his body; unsteady. He sat down in the dirt. Arms crossing atop his bent knees. Steadying their tremors. “I could wait and get a random wife handed to me by the ministry. Possibly some dim-witted, annoying little thing who only wants money. Or I could marry Granger. A person I find I actually get along with.”

“You know what the repopulation act is for, right?” Theo urged, sitting on Dracos left hand side. “You know you need to shag her. Shag Granger, of all people. Bushy hair and swotty attitude and all.”

Draco found a laugh escaping him. A hearty one. Directly from the belly. “You haven’t seen her since school, have you?” he asked with a snicker, pushing his lengthy hair away from his eyes with a comb of his fingers.

Theodore shook his head. “No. Why? Unlike you, I have absolutely no interest in a brown-nosing little know-it-all.”

Draco felt a grin keep in place on his lips as he shook his head. “She isn’t the swotty little thing from school anymore. I mean, she’s smart. She’s incredibly clever. She still likes to read. But she’s also adventurous and funny. She wants to travel the world and to make a difference in it.”

“Saving the wizarding world from a snake-faced lunatic wasn’t enough?” Theodore asked incredulously. The man had never much approved of Potter and his minions. Of course, he had never openly despised them as much as Draco had. No, Theo had only mumbled and grumbled about their innate need to get into trouble. There had also been mentions of a ‘hero complex’ and how forsakenly annoying he had found them.

Draco nodded his head to the side once, with a slight shrug of one shoulder “Probably not. I mean, if I saved the world at eighteen, I’d probably want to spend the rest of my life making a bigger difference as well.” But he had not saved the world as a teenager. He had worked against those who did. He had worked against her. Helping The Dark Lord and his disciples.

“You’re still choosing to spend the rest of your foreseeable future with Hermione Granger.” The brown-haired man reminded him. Only Theo did not know how little it bothered him. He enjoyed spending time with her. He enjoyed her company. “The girl with front teeth down to her collar bones.”

“That was only because of my engorgement charm. She shrunk them after that.” Draco said with a small shake to his head. “You know, I actually rather liked her teeth before. Even if they were a bit long, they suited her. Made her smile really quite pretty.”

Theo adjusted his entire body to look over at Draco. A smirk pulling over his lips. “I see it now.” He said slowly, reaching over to grasp Dracos shoulder. “You like her.”

“I… What? No, That’s not-”

“Oh fuck me sideways and call me Bertha. You like her.” He pointed to Draco now. Shoving his finger into his chest. “You actually like her. You can’t wait to shag her!”

“Bertha... Please…” Draco sighed with frustration. Getting his friend to quiet about something, once had had what he thought was an idea, was near impossible.

“No. No! You like her. You do. I can see it on you. Your eyes light up the way most other people do when they see money.” Draco found that Theos own eyes had lit up with the prospect of annoying him even further. “You just talk about her and light up like that. So you must like her.”

“Oh please, for the love of Merlin, just shut up.”

“I’m just telling you, you like her.” Theo nodded factually. “Saying she’s hot”

“I never said that.” Draco said flatly.

“Saying she’s gorgeous.” Theo continued as though Draco had not spoken.

“Never said that either.” Draco said in the same manner as previously.

Theo raised a brow in his friends’ direction. “Saying you want to marry her.”

“I also didn’t say that.” Draco shook his head. Feeling increasingly frustrated.

“Said you want her to bite you with her bunny teeth.” The smirk on Nott’s face only grew.

Frustrated, Draco sighed. “Where on earth did you get that from?”

“That you can’t wait to sleep with her.” Theo wiggled his shoulders in a suggestive manner that Draco did not enjoy watching.

He shook his head slowly “I can barely walk stairs without fainting, Theo. What makes you think I’m in any condition to sleep with her?”

They raised his brows to look at him. “She can ride you like the dirty little pureblood that you are.” He said with a simple shrug “Oh! She’ll probably hand out points if you make her come. Or take some off if you don’t” He barked a laugh at his own mind. “Ten points to Slytherin for making her come. Fifty if you make her squirt!”

Draco was almost certain; he had never heaved a deeper sigh in his entire life. “I really don’t want to find out how your brain works…”

“Or wait, is it that you can’t get it up?” Theo urged with a grin, nudging his friend with his elbow. “Because they have potions for that you know. Also, muggles have pills for it too. It’s easier to get a hold of those, than all the ingredients for the arousal potion.” Draco shot him a deadly look. “I’m just saying. You have options.”

“I think that this conversation is over.” Draco tried

“And I think you need to tell your witch how you feel.” Theo winked.

“There is nothing to tell.” An exasperated groan left his lips along with the words.

“Yes there is. And you need to tell her.” Theo said, as though stating a mere fact.

Draco rolled his tongue over his teeth. Considering how to end the conversation once and for all. “Can I tell you how I feel instead?”

“Yes! Yes! Give it to me, Dray-Dray” the other man nodded eagerly.

“First of, I feel like you need to never call me Dray-Dray again.” Draco said, flexing his fingers in and out to try ridding himself of his tremors. “Secondly, I feel you should mind your own business. Granger and I are getting married. And I hope you find someone as wonderfully insane as yourself someday.”

Theo did not look pleased with this answer. “And how do you feel about Granger? Like truly?”

“I feel she is kind. She shows me compassion. She’s understanding. She’s patient. Stubborn. I think she hates cheese. Like not the flavour of it, rather the concept of cheese…” He started, averting his gaze from his childhood friend.

“Hates cheese?” Theo pressed.

“Yes. Prefers cheese massacres, it seems. It is rather brutal, if I’m honest.” Draco said solemnly. Theodore nodded his head mournfully. “Other than that, she’s funny. Her feet are always cold. She has soft hands… And she seems to like flowers. At least the ones in the hedge maze”

“That’s not your feelings about her. That is just stating how you observe her.” Nott said, leaning his body against his thighs to see Draco better.

“Okay…” He groaned the word with annoyance. “I feel like I want to spend more time with her. She makes me happy. I feel like nature looks more vivid when she’s around. She’s… She’s…” the word he was looking for, evaded him. It did not wish to be spoken.

He could almost feel the smirk forming on Theodore’s face. “You love her.” The man hissed excitedly.

His head whipped around yet again, staring at his friend with shock and horror. “Absolutely not. It’s not love. She’s just… Radiant, I suppose. But I can assure you, it is not love. Not even a little bit.”

“Sounds boring, mate.” Theo flicked his wrist, waving his hand dismissively. “You need to marry a witch who will whip your arse like a bad, bad Abraxan when she’s pegging you.” He said simply. As though talking about the weather.

Draco did not know what pegging was, and he did not wish to find out. Knowing Theodore, pegging would be something awful they did at sex clubs he had found in wizarding Guatemala. He stared at Theo for the longest time. Unblinking. Regretful about the entire conversation thus far. “I… I… I need you to stop talking.”

Theodore was about to speak, his mouth opening. Lungs in mid-inhale as he was cut off by a saving grace. An angel sent from above, to help Draco out of a very displeasing conversation. “Draco?” Grangers voice reached across the pond, to where the men sat in the shadows beneath the willow tree. He could not see her yet. She must still have been between the hedges, making her way towards them.

“She calls you Draco?” Theo hissed in wonder, his eyes glittering with utmost excitement. “And you just call her Granger?”

“I called her Hermione last night, when I proposed.” Draco said back. “It’s difficult to change over. She’s always been Granger. Potter’s little friend and all. It’s her name, you know. Granger.”

Theo sputtered at the over so casual mention of a proposal. It was not easy to make Theodore Nott speechless, but when it happened, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

“Draco?” She rounded the tall hedge, stepping into the grand area where the pond was hidden. The sunlight reflecting from the surface of the water, seemed to sparkle brighter with her sudden appearance.

She was wearing an oxford. Seemingly his own. Possibly taken from a set of spares he had forgotten in the dressing room belonging to her quarters. She had paired them with muggle denim shorts with white, floral lace detailing.  The front of the oxford was tucked into her bottoms. She had paired it with the same sandals from the night before. Her hair was pulled back from her face, in a high ponytail, dangling in shining curls down across her shoulders. She was clutching a sheet of parchment in her hand as she looked around. Gleaming, golden eyes looking around the area in hopes to find them. To find him.

Theo let out a low, long whistle from next to Draco. “I only saw her below the knees earlier but… Fuck me, man. She’s fit. Like really fit.”

“Shut up.” Draco reminded him, before raising his voice, to let Granger know where to find them. Her eyes did not seem to spot them in the shadows. “Under the willow, Granger. I’m here with Theo.”

“So you really call me by my first name, but not your fiancée?” Theo muttered as Hermione spotted them beneath the overhang of the weeping willow and stepped towards them. “Also, you should really stand when the woman you’re marrying is approaching you. You know, the mother of your future children. If you can even get it up, that is.” Theo gestured to Dracos nether region without subtlety.

“If I sand right now, I’m falling over.” Draco told him sternly. “Now, you best behave. No talking about anything… Sexual or dirty or… Theodorian.”

“You’re so boring, Dray-Dray” The scalding look sent by Draco, must have made the other wizard change his mind quickly. “I mean Draco.”

She slipped beneath the curtain of greenery, stepping into the chilled alcove of the weeping willow tree. “Hey there,” She smiled at the two men apologetically. “I don’t mean to interrupt you both but, I just got the owl, not ten minutes ago. It’s not a summons for a bonding but… Shacklebolt wants to meet us.”

Draco felt any remnants of a smile leave his face in a swift motion. “Shacklebolt? The minister? What would he want to meet us for? He’s not the one doing the bonding, is he?”

“It just says he wants us there as soon as we can. To have a private meeting with him.” She told him, stepping further into the shadows. Closer to both men.

“Sounds like you’re in trouble.” Theo said, eyeing Hermione as she handed Draco the parchment with their summons for a meeting. Draco took it without hesitation.

“It does… I don’t like this one bit.” She said, then turned to fully look at Theo. “You’re Theodore Nott, I presume? I think I vaguely remember you from school.” Her smile was back on her face.

“You presume correctly. I didn’t really make much of an impression in school. Next to how Draco always peacocked about, I was practically invisible” Theo stood, making a show of it for Draco. As though seeing how it was so easily done, would make it easier for him. He extended his hand toward Granger and she shook it. “And you must be Dray-aaaco’s fiancée, Miss Hermione Granger.” Draco turned his eyes away, glossing over the summons from the minister himself.

“I am, yes.”

“Could I see your ring? See what this stupid little boy chose for you.”

“I think he chose well” Draco glanced up from the parchment, which he had only been skimming, only to see Theo holding her left hand. She was proudly displaying her new ring to him. Glowing with the bright smile that adorned her lips.

“I think so too,” Theo said with an approving nod.

Draco folded the parchment and collected himself to stand. He could feel he wasn’t quite ready. Body still sore and weakened. Though knew he and Granger had to get going, so he could not remain seated much longer. Theo quickly released Grangers hand as he saw the blonde wobble and stumble whilst trying to stand up. He steadied him against his own body, one arm wrapped around his middle. Another hand around his bicep. “Thanks,” Draco muttered to his friend, taking a hold of the sturdier frame to right himself.

Granger appeared on his other side quickly. “I think you pushed yourself too hard yesterday.” She said, her eyes swimming with concern. “You can’t keep doing that, you know. You won’t get any better if you keep forcing your body to cooperate like this. You need to take brakes now and again.”

Theo looked over at her. Not a quip in sight. His eyes welled with confusion. It graduated slowly into realisation as he locked eyes with Draco, who gave him a small shake of his head. Almost imperceptible. A huff of frustration left Theo’s nose. “When the two of you get married, I think we need to celebrate you both with a party. And play a rather interesting game of truth and dare, don’t you agree, Draco?”

Draco kept his stare and nodded his head once. The message had been received. Loud and clear. “Sounds like a lovely gathering.”

Theo straightened Draco properly. Making sure he could stand on his own, though supported by the woman by his side, before releasing him. “You good?” Draco nodded. “Okay then. I best be off.” The playful and joking Theodore from earlier, had long since vanished. He turned to Hermione, the hint of a smile crossing his lips, covering the scrutinizing look he had given Draco just moments prior. “I’ll trust you to take good care of my best friend while I’m away, Hermione.”

“I’ll do my very best,” She spoke earnestly, nodding her head at the man she had only just met. Her hand on Dracos back was giving soothing strokes.

“He’s very important to me, you know. He’s a proper ponce, but he’s also a good man. When he wants to be, at least. But please don’t hesitate to let me know when you need me to talk some sense into him.” Theo said, earning a scoff from Draco. He doubted Theodore would be talking sense into anyone at any point in his life.

Granger shot Draco a rather unimpressed look before turning back to the brown-haired man. “I’ll keep that in mind, Theo. Thank you.”

With that. Theo left. Leaving Granger and Draco alone beneath the weeping willow. “So, what exactly is it you’re lying about?” She asked. Her tone was light. Her eyes, however, were distant. Staring at the hedge maze that Theo had rounded the corner of, vanishing from sight.

“I haven’t been lying… I’ve just not shared everything.” He collected himself with a deep breath, focusing his gaze entirely on Granger, and how she did not look his way. “He’s talking about my tremors. And why I struggle with walking and standing… Or… Or just doing normal things.”

Hermione turned her head, observing him with caution. Brows furrowed. Lips pressed tightly together. Urging him to continue.

“I suppose… Well, it all happened a few days after the battle had ended. The death eaters that hadn’t died or been captured that day, captured and tortured those of us who showed any sign of switching sides. They’d paid attention to me for months. Since you were captured and managed to get away, actually. Since I said I couldn’t identify you and Weasley. As if I didn’t know what you looked like. As though I could ever forget you. I’m not blaming you, by the way. It is all my own fault for being obvious since then. But that was when they first started doubting me.” He shook his head, taking another steadying breath. He stepped forwards, the feeling of being back in a cell crept over him. Though the willow was kinder. She was warmer. Better in every way. Escapable. He stepped through the greenery, holding the drapes open for her. She followed him out wordlessly. Their journey back to the manor continued with her looping her arm around his. Their skin connecting. She was comforting. Warm. “So they took me… In fact, my father was the one who handed me over to them. Then they tortured me for hours. It felt like days though. At the end, I couldn’t take it anymore. I begged for them to just let me go. To let me die. To light me on fire. Anything but the cruciatus curse. Anything at all” She looked up at him. Horrified worry alight in her eyes.

“Please tell me they stopped…”

A mirthless chuckle escaped him as he shook his head. “No. Death Eaters don’t give in to pleas. So, they kept at it. Just not for long. They changed tactics soon after. They told me to stand, but I couldn’t. My arms weren’t responding to me. I barely felt my legs. They sat me on my knees and ripped my shirt apart. Then they took a cursed blade and cut into my back. Scribed in a little message. Then they clothed me and dumped me in muggle London. Bloodied and unable to walk. Barely able to stand. Fortunately for me, a man recognised me and saw my condition. He took me to St. Mungos. They almost didn’t want to heal me. That is, until they saw my back. Then, after I’d gotten help, mother found me a private healer. But they all said the same thing as the ones in St. Mungo’s. They said the neurological damage in my body was already done. And could not be undone. That goes for both the hands and the feet. The muscles and my nerves don’t quite cooperate anymore.” He looked ahead as they walked. Staring at one of the opalescent flowers. “Said I was lucky I didn’t end up in the Janus Thickey ward, as a dribbling day-walker for the rest of my life…”

Her fingers felt lightly against the skin of his forearm. Where the shadowy memory of the dark mark was still visible. Faded since The Dark Lords death, but never gone. Not as long as his followers remained, sharing his vision.

“And as for my back… Well… The healers that looked at it, said the curse remains. It’s what’s keeping all of the other damage done to me that day, from having the possibility of healing properly. My back has scarred over, but the word still remains. And it will, for the rest of my life. As will my tremors. And my stumbling. I’ll never be healed, Granger. I’ll always be like this. I’ll always be damaged.”

She laced her fingers between his. Not saying a word at first, but she held onto him. Making sure he knew he wasn’t alone. He never did feel quite as complete as when he was with her. Quite as steady. Like she was a healing salve for his scars and his deep wounds. Physical and psychologial. As though she was a crutch for his legs and a soothing charm for his arms. A mind healer for his trauma. “I’m so sorry you’ve been through that. I’m sorry… For everything.”

“None of it is your fault, so please don’t say you’re sorry. I participated in the war, just as you did. I should have done something. Anything. I knew their plans for so long, and I didn’t fight it. I just… I stood by. And I let them fight you. I let them hurt you. Kill people from your side. Good people. Innocent people.” He gritted his teeth as he shook his head with utter disbelief at his own past actions. “I should apologise to you. I should have tried telling you somehow. But…”

“We were gone by then, Draco. We had left.” She reasoned. But he knew she was wrong. The famed trio did leave, though it was not until quite some time later. “You couldn’t have reached us, even if you wanted to.”

“No. I could have easily told you. Because you were still in school at the end of fifth year.” He told her. They locked eyes. “I knew what they were doing. Their plans about the ministry. I knew Dolohov would try to curse either you or Weasley.”

She stopped. He stopped along with her. They had made it into the solarium. Unlit candles still floated in the air above them. Dancing to music which had long since stopped. “You knew he was going to try to kill me?” Her hand dropped from around his arm. He felt his heart drop within his chest as he saw the hurt within her eyes. The pain that flooded through her.

He shook his head. “If Dolohov had truly wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” It was true. Antonin Dolohov was a ruthless murderer with an aim that never failed him. Draco had seen it more than he had ever wished. One of The Dark Lord’s most accomplished assassins. “If the healers at St. Mungos hadn’t undone your curse, you’d be under the control of the Death Eaters. As a pet. A puppet. They’d use you to get inside information from The Order of the Phoenix. Have you work with me to get Death Eaters into the castle. To help murder Dumbledore. To help The Dark Lord win the war by handing over your best friend and watching him die. There was a whole plan for it.”

Her wide eyes stared at him. Unblinking. Utterly horrified at the prospect. “How… Wh-”

“During the summer, I sent an anonymous owl to the healers. I let them know what to look for. What to get rid of. And then, next I saw you; you were back in school. Healthy. Alive. Not under the Death Eaters command. Not there to help me. Not there to help The Dark Lord win.”

Her hand lifted to her face. Fingers covering her mouth as she watched him. He was almost certain she would hit him. Yell at him. Slap him across his cheek. He could have told them. By doing so, several people would be uninjured. Sirius Black would still be alive. Granger would not have had to spent an entire summer battling a curse. If he had only spoken up about it. Sent a note. Given them information, the war might have ended sooner. With much less bloodshed. Perhaps he could have even fought alongside them. Fighting for a better world. One he believed in. “You saved me…”

“No. I just sent an owl with the knowledge I had.” He said with a shake of his head and a weak smile. “I needed you on the good side, so you’d win the war. Without you, Granger, The Dark Lord would have won. Without you, the world would be a nightmare at this very moment. Without you, Hermione, everything would have been for naught.”

He took her hand in his. Enveloping her much smaller one with both of his own. She looked up at him. Surprise was still evident on her face. Though her eyes had softened. The horror had left. She gave him a series of small nods. Barely perceptible, but he saw. She inhaled deeply. Her breath was shaking. The surprise still holding onto parts of her body. “I never knew that.”

“That’s because you’re the first person I’ve ever told.” His smile grew as she shared one with him. She took a step towards him and nodded her chin ahead, wordlessly telling him to keep walking. Together, they made it to his room. She was supporting him up the steps to the third floor. Stopping alongside him when he needed a break. Holding his hand. Showing him patience. Attentive care. Affection. So much that he had been without for several long years.

He stepped through the double doors to his quarters, leaving them open for her. “You can come in if you’d like,” he told the witch. “I want to be honest with you. Show you full transparency. So, I’d like to show you everything. Show you the scar they left me,” he said. The fabric of his cotton T-shirt was stretchy enough for him to easily grab hold of its hem, and he yanked it upwards in one swift motion. Pulling it over his head. Revealing his disfigured back to her.

Her gasp echoed through the room. Loud. Shocked. Horrified. Trembling. “Oh, Draco…” She breathed the words. He heard her step closer. Ever so slowly. Carefully. Like one would approach a wounded animal.

He turned his head, peering over his shoulder to view her. She was rereading it. Over and over. The two rows of the harshly, deep cut word. The lines of the script was jagged, with several cuts and slashes creating each line. Marring his back with its violent message.

BLOOD
TRAITOR

Her heels clacked quickly against the dark, polished wooden floor within the ministry as they stepped through corridors together. She was much smaller than he was. One long stride for him, equalled, at the very least, two for her. Perhaps three. Draco did not pay her strides much more attention than was required of him. His heavy work in the gardens, had rendered his body weakened. His steps felt odd. His thighs and knees giving him odd sensations as he strode forward, by Granger’s side.

The witch was quite anxious. He could tell, by the way she carried herself. Her back was stiff and straight. Her shoulders pushed back, just a tad too far, just enough to make it evident to him, that it was forced. She walked hurriedly, with the sway to her hips long forgotten. Left behind, at the manor. It was obvious to him in the way she glanced up at him with wide, panicked eyes. How she wasn’t speaking. How her lips were tightly pursed.

“It will all be fine, Granger.” One of his hands pressed lightly against the small of her back. Both steering her around a broom, sweeping on its own, and trying to comfort her with his presence, much in the manner she so effortlessly did to him every so often.

“You don’t know him like I do…” she muttered. Her hair bounced in her ponytail as she shook her head.

“I know I don’t know him. But I know you, don’t I?” He offered with a half-hearted smile in her direction. He did not like the feeling of foreboding that was pulsing through his body. He believed something to be up. Something he would not like. Though he tried pushing past it. Tried to believe it would all go well. He had learned tactics of negotiations from his father. He would use them if needed. He willed himself to believe that the meeting would turn out in favour of the Granger-Malfoy pair.

Her fingers grasped his hand as she stepped up to the minister’s secretary. Her fingers entwined with his. A movement so natural, it felt engrained in his core. Holding her. Seeking her touch. Her skin against his. Her warmth. Her softness. He gave her hand a squeeze. Letting her know she was not alone. She gave his one back, returning his sentiments. “We are here to see Minister Shacklebolt. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. He told us to come as soon as we could.”

“Of course,” the secretary stood after the announcement. She was a short witch. Stoutly built. She looked kind. With warm eyes and a face that seemed to have been painted just a tad too heavily. He recalled, it was not nearly as bad as Rita Skeeter. He could see on the name plate atop her desk, that her name was Ullarena Franks. “He’s been expecting you. Please, follow me.” Miss Franks said as she rounded her desk and continued further down a narrow corridor to their right. She knocked on the single door at the end of the long corridor, opening it just to peek her head inside. “Minister, Miss Granger and Mister Malfoy are here to speak with you.”

“Let them in, Miss Franks.” Said a deep, thunderous voice from within the office. Most recognisable as Kingsley Shacklebots voice. The secretary stepped aside, ushering the two young ones in to meet with the most powerful man in all of wizarding Britain.

Last Draco had seen him, the man had worn colourful dress robes and had seemed a kind and respectful man. A man who earned trust. Who earned respect. A man who belonged to the position of Minister for Magic more than any of his predecessors.

The man before him, however, was not a man like the Shacklebolt of years prior. The man before him wore sleek, black dress robes, paired with a white oxford. He looked formal. He looked slick. Slippery. As though he could wind those he wished, around his fingers to do his bidding.

“Hermione,” he greeted her with a wide, fake smile, standing from his leather chair. “And mister Malfoy. How good to see you out from Azkaban.” An awfully obvious reminder that Draco owed his new freedom to the poisonous man before him.

“Kingsley,” Hermione greeted back. He could hear the fake joy in her voice. He did not remove his eyes from the Minister for Magic, though he could imagine the forced smile on her lips. The way her cheeks would stretch. The way her eyes would not hold the same glittering, warm gold he had familiarised himself with.

He nodded his head to the man. “Minister Shacklebolt.” He said simply. His thumb rubbed against Granger’s. Calming both himself and her with one motion.

Next to him, Granger quickly spoke up. “Why did you summon us for a meeting today, Kingsley? I thought our blood bond would be done at the Department of Matrimonial Affairs. At a set date. With our witnesses.” Granger had not come to play. Nor was she there to beat around the bush.

Kingsley Shacklebolt gestured to two chairs facing his desk, as he himself sat down opposite them, back into his own leather chair. She stepped over first, sitting down on the rightmost chair. Draco sat into the left. The seats for guests were quite uncomfortable. As though it was to rush people out of his office sooner, rather than later. “I summoned you to let you know your request had been denied.”

“Denied? On what terms?” Granger hissed venomously. She had not been surprised by the denial in the slightest. Draco, however, had not expected a downright denial of their bonding ceremony. Perhaps certain requests. Perhaps some scrutiny. Not a denial.

“You are both on the third wave of marriages for the repopulation act. We do not wish for people on the same wave to couple with one another.” He said, stepping his fingers before himself as he leaned back in his chair. “We have a set number of couples we wish to create, and of two people from the same wave, were to marry, the quota would be lowered. It would be unwise, wouldn’t you say?”

Draco had several nasty words he wished to voice towards the man before him. But thought better of it. Granger spoke instead.

“That wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the documents sent to either of us.” She said primly. She tried to keep her composure; however, Draco could tell her pulse was racing. Her breaths were shortened. Slightly laboured. The stiffness had returned to her body.

“It was implied.” The man said with a fake smile. He leaned forwards on his desk, looking at the couple with utmost confidence.

“Implies don’t count, Minister Shacklebolt.” Draco spoke softly. He leaned back in his chair, spreading out comfortably as he made eye contact with the Minister for Magic himself. Letting him know that the older man was not in control. A technique he had often seen his father portray during negotiations.

Grangers fingers tightened around his with approval. She calmed herself and tried showing herself more comfortable next to him. Relaxing into her seat with a much similar effort to his.

“Right you are, mister Malfoy.” Draco could see the gears turning within his head. Churning and creaking. Slowly preparing the next cause of action. Plan B. “In fact, we have already found perfect spouses for the both of you. We are working on extracting one of them as we speak.”

“Extracting?” Draco urged with a raised brow, head falling to a slight tilt. “From where would you need to extract someone, exactly?” His shoulders squared. Broadening his frame.

“That is not vital information to you, mister Malfoy.” Shacklebolt tried to dismiss him with his ever so slick exterior.

“From Azkaban. I knew it.” Grangers voice was doused in venom. Dripping heavily with loathing for the man before them. “I knew you’d pair me with a Death Eater.”

“You seem you have found a Death Eater, all on your own, Miss Granger.” Suddenly with formalities. She had gone from being Hermione to being Miss Granger. He was getting uncomfortable with their words of non-compliance. “What is one for the other, truly?” Shacklebolt did not meet Dracos eyes as he said this.

“I beg your pardon?” She hissed violently. “First of all, that so-called wish of yours, was not mentioned in our summons. All the criteria and the restrictions of finding one’s own spouse, was that it needed to be one of the opposite sex, unless one could prove a sexual preference towards the same sex.” She crossed her legs, her black heel pointing towards Draco. “If one was to find their own partner, both partners had to agree to the union within the required 30 days. We are currently on day seventeen out of thirty. Whoever you have found for him and are working on extracting for me, you better stop. We have agreed to marry each other. Through blood bond.”

“Miss granger, there is no stopping the extraction of your husband.” Draco was reminded of an eel. Long and slippery. Coiling around to get his way out of the clutches of the younger witch and wizard before him.

“You better find a way then. Because I would rather die than marry anyone other than Draco Malfoy.” In any other occasion, the words might have made his heart thunder with delight. However, he knew it was said so she did not have to marry a man such as Dolohov. Someone who could so easily wound her again. Or put her under his own control. Lik a pet. A puppet. He had mastered the curse once. He could do it again.

“I urge you to see reason, Hermione.” Shacklebolt said tentatively, his dark brown eyes locked on hers. Trying to portray care and kindness. Although failing to do so. “We have limited alternatives for you.”

It was Draco’s turn to speak up. His posture was relaxed. Confident. His words just as slippery as the ones of the man across the desk. A nonchalance emitted from him. “Actually, minister Shacklebolt, you are the one with limited alternatives. As I see it, you have two options today. The first one, is not giving us what we want. Thus facing a rather lengthy inquiry by the Malfoy solicitor. Who leaves no stone unturned. No crumbs left on the table. No secrets in the dark.” His smirk grew as he watched Shacklebolt square his jaw. “Your second option, however, is that you could give us what we want, and I’ll leave my, nay,” he lifted Hermiones hand, using it to demonstrate his devotion to her by gently placing a kiss on her knuckles as he held her eyes with his own. Oozing confidence he had not carried for several years. “Our solicitor out of it.”

Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt eyed the couple cautiously. Weighing his options. “I am not a genie, mister Malfoy. I do not grant wishes.” His tone of voice had changed drastically. Colder. Brisk. He knew he had been cornered.

Draco released Hermiones hand carefully, before grabbing both armrests of his uncomfortable, wooden chair. He pushed himself up to stand. One, rather difficult, yet fluid motion to avoid the wobbling knees and usual stumble. He straightened his jacket, looking down at the minister with a haughty smirk. “That’s fine. I suppose we will meet again soon. During the Wizengamot hearing of No Confidence.” He held out his hand for Hermione. She took it and stood alongside him, not breaking his eye contat. “No one wants a minister who defies the laws that he himself has put into place, after all. Think of the headlines…” He spoke with the sly and ominous nature of his late father. As the final mark of unity with the witch, Draco placed his hand on the small of Grangers back. His eyes locked in on hers. “Come, my darling. It’s time to go.”

“W-wait. Wait a minute.” The ministers panicked mutters filled the room as he followed their motions to stand. The pair had not yet had time to turn themselves around. “I…” He huffed a grand sigh. “What exactly do you want, mister Malfoy?” His nostrils flared. Brown eyes piercing him as he finally realised that he had, in fact, lost.

“Firstly, we get your approval to wed.” Draco said calmly, prying his gaze from the shimmering golden brown before him.

“I can do the bonding ceremony right now.” Shacklebolt said. His hand sweeping across the polished surface of his desk.

“We didn’t bring our rings.” Granger said from Dracos right hand side.

“You don’t need rings for a blood bond. If it was a regular marriage bond, they’d be required.” The minister for magic informed her with a low grumble to his voice. “Blood does as blood does, no matter the jewellery. The rings would only be a bonus.”

“Secondly,” Draco spoke once more. He looked down at his fiancée. Beautiful, she was. With flushed cheeks from her recent buildup of anger. “You give my wife a job at the ministry. At any department she’d prefer. A high-ranking position, at that. Seeing as she is The Golden Girl, the Brightest Witch of Our Age, after all.”

“W-wha- I can’t – I don’t- there’s no-” the sputtering quickly seized as Draco slowly turned his head and gave him a dangerous look. One he had learned from his father before him. How to penetrate someone’s barrier with a single glance was but a Malfoy privilege. “Fine.” Shacklebolt croaked.

“Thirdly,” Draco smirked at the man. He gritted his teeth, his jaw working through the commandments of a wizard much younger than himself. A Death Eater no less. “You treat her well. You fight alongside her, not against her. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of our family. I can assure you of that.”

The minister for magic raised his brows, the creases in his forehead ever evident. Then, he nodded but once. “We are in agreement, mister Malfoy.”

Draco gave the man one nod and turned back to the wonderful woman by his side. “Are you ready to get married, love?”

“As long as it’s to you,” She said with a pleased smile. The pad of his thumb rubbed lightly along the length of the marquise diamond on her finger. She turned to the minister, his shoulder hunched with evident defeat. “Should we reconvene in ten minutes? I need to get Harry and Pan-”

“No, miss Granger. It’s now or never. Miss Franks can be your witness.” He spoke bitterly. The anger present in his voice after having his plans so viciously altered.

Draco knew Granger did not wish to get married like that. He knew she wanted the white dress. Their friends. Their families. For the people she loved to be present. However, she got to wear muggle denims, a white shirt, once having belonged to him, and a jacket. Her hair pulled back in the same ponytail from before. With simple pearl earrings and a drop shaped pearl necklace peeking out between the opened collar of the oxford.

She sighed and looked to Draco, who simply nodded his head to her. “We’ll have Pikes prepare a big meal and we’ll invite everyone over this evening,” he told her. She inhaled deeply and nodded her head. She was defeated. Saddened by the idea of her wedding not being made more special than it was. “t’s just the bonding. The most important part is what we do afterwards.” Whether he meant the celebration or their shared lives, he did not know. Perhaps it was meant for both.

“Now it is.” She said with finality, turning to the Minister for Magic on the opposite side of the desk. “Get your secretary. We’ll prepare ourselves.”

Shacklebolt glared at the two with clear distain before rounding his desk and leaving them alone whilst he collected Miss Franks. Granger sighed, turning towards Draco. “How do we do it? How do we bond? Where do we cut?” she was blinking rapidly, her eyebrows downturned. Defeat. Regret. Her eyes wandered, looking anywhere but at him.

“Look at me, Granger.” He spoke softly. Their hands still clasped to one another’s. Her eyes met his. Brown. Golden. Sad. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to get married. Let me make it up to you this evening. Make it special for you. For us both.”

She stepped closer to him. His arms instinctively wrapping around her small frame. Holding her close to his chest. Her arms wound around his waist. “Thank you… I’ll… I’ll be fine. I just wish it happened differently; I suppose.”

“I know… I know. Me too.” He admitted. He wished his mother was there. Wished her parents could attend. Their witnesses. Their friends. Anything other than in an office with an angry bonder, having been coerced into doing it against his will.

She rubbed a hand against the small of his back. Just beneath the written message that had been so brutally carved into him, years earlier. Permanently etched into his being. “Tell me how we do this. I’ve never seen a blood bond done before.”

The door opened, and Miss Franks entered, closely followed by Minister Shacklebolt. “I suppose you’ll find out soon. I have only seen one done myself, when I was very young.”

Miss Franks bowed her head to the couple, as she rounded them and placed herself just next to Shacklebolt’s desk. “You’ll hardly know I’m here, dears.” She said kindly, a smile present on her overly painted cheeks. She remained standing as the minister for magic stepped up beside the two to be wed.

“Left palm up.” He commanded. Draco did as he was told, his hand quaking in mid-air. Granger did the same, her right hand also followed, to steady his left from below. Shacklebolt looked at Dracos tremor, then back to the man’s face. The two locked eyes for only a moment. Neither said anything. Both stood quiet as realisation dawned upon the eldest.

Shacklebolt turned his gaze away, producing his wand from his dress robes. He pointed it first at Dracos palm, dragging it lightly across the surface of his calloused skin. A slit appeared in its wake. A trickle of blood pooling within his palm. Granger’s hand was next. The cut appeared. Her blood, as red as his, wept from the slice. Both cuts much deeper that was necessary.

“Hermione, put your palm against his. On top.” Her left hand flipped over. Her palm pressed against his. Her blood mingling with his. Pouring into him.

The minister wound his wand, binding a golden thread of light around their hands and forearms.

“Repeat after me.” Shacklebolt said

“Per sanguinem coniungimus sicut unum.
Protegam te ab omni malo.
Fortitudinem meam tecum communico.”

After each sentence, the pair repeated in calm unison. Draco wrapped his fingers around the side of Granger’s palm, holding her securely. He felt her fingers around his palm. Slippery with their mixing blood.

Kingsley indicated with his wand that they should turn their hands. Draco carefully did so, manoeuvring Granger’s hand with him own, until his was on top. His blood dropping onto her wound. Binding them.

“Beatitudinem meam tecum communico.
I amabo te usque in novissimo die.
Meus es sitcut ego  tuus
Per sanguinem, religati sumus.”

They continued to repeat the Latin with an effortless pace of uniformity. Together. Every word spoken at the very same time. As though planned. As though practiced.

Through blood, we unite as one.

I shall protect you from all evil.

I shall share my strength with you.

I shall share my happiness with you.

I shall love you until our last day.

You are mine, as I am yours.

Through blood we are bonded.

The shining golden thread broke from the tip of the wand of Kingsley Shacklebolt. It wound tightly around the connected hands and glowed a bright, illuminating white, before sinking into their skin. Leaving a slight trace in its wake. The sign of a marriage bond. Of their blood bond. The skin slightly glossed, as the magical thread of their union resided just beneath the topmost layer of both of their skin.

The blood, smearing their fingers and leaving trails towards the backs of their hands, shrunk backwards. As though time was rewinding, pulling the blood back into the nearest wound. For it didn’t matter which of them it returned to. They both shared blood. They were both united by it. He bore hers. She bore his. The blood he had once thought dirtier than the other, the blood he had once deemed pure, mixed together within the two bodies. The same colour. The same thickness. One was not better than the other. One was not pure, nor was the other dirty.

The wounds on their palms sewed themselves shut with a final glow of brilliant, bright white light. It was nearly blinding. Flashing so brightly, so vividly, it lit every corner of the Ministers dark office.

Draco looked up from their united hands, gaxing into the eyes of his wife for the very first time. She met his eyes. Wide. Brown. Swimming with electric flecks of gold. Shining, even in the dimly lit office. She smiled at him. A radiant smile. One of relief. Of happiness. A smile like no other. Beautiful in every way. Breathtaking. He felt a pull of his cheeks, his lips stretching into a smile to mimic her own. Not as radiant. Nor as beautiful. Nothing could compare to hers.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Shacklebolt finally spoke from next to them. Draco looked over, seeing the man had his brows furrowed across his forehead. His eyes lingering on their hands. Still holding onto one another. Staring at their connection. Their bond. As though surprised. As though confused. Astounded, perhaps. “Now… Get out of my office.”

Granger and Draco looked at one another once more. Neither of them saying anything, although the look they exchanged said more than words ever could. The slightly arched, brown brow. The smallest twitch of the corner of her lips. She gripped his hand tightly, lowering them between their two bodies. “Thank you, Kingsley.”

Draco gave the other man a grateful bow of his head. “Thank you, minister Shacklebolt.” He said, before being whisked away by the witch. His witch. He opened the door for them, and she stepped through it first. He followed her. Walking down the narrow corridor together. Away from the ministers private office.

“Mister Malfoy.” Came the deep baritone voice of the Minister for Magic behind them. They both stopped, turning to look at Shacklebolt at the same time. He stood in the doorway, looking at the paler wizard with hard eyes. “Your hands. Who did that to you, boy?”

Shacklebolt was well versed in war. He had been there at the battle of Hogwarts. He had been there in fights between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters. Draco had faced him whilst on opposite sides. Fortunately, not directly in Shacklebolts direct wandline. He knew the signs of war. He knew the signs of damage. He knew what had caused it without so much as asking.

“Doesn’t matter.” Draco said simply. He did not like to think about it. The war. The torture. The look of hatred as his father handed him over to the two Death Eaters. The pain of the continued curse being cast upon him. Fired again. And again. And again. Until he wished for the most excruciating ways to die. For the promise of release was better than torture for the sake of insanity. For the sake of nothing other than the joy of their casters.

He felt Grangers’ fingers slip between his own. A reminder of where he was. The memories were nothing more than visions of his past. The pain was not real. Only the residual effects remained. The tremors. The scars. The weakened body. His fingers tightened around hers. Grateful for her presence.

“Tell me.” The older man said. Demanded. “Now.” The deep voice echoed like a bark.

With a deep breath in his lungs, Draco spoke. “It’s not from your side, Minister. You don’t need to worry. It was Thorfinn Rowle and Rabastan Lestrange. My father handed me over to them.” Her fingers soothing over the back of his hand was like a salve to his soul. The presence that was needed to heal his wounds.

“Before your sentencing then.” Shacklebolt deduced, squaring his shoulders.

“Four days after the battle.” Draco informed the wizard, casting glances down towards the floor. The confidence of minutes previously had long since passed. “It was just the night before the aurors captured Rowle. Hours before they caught him, in fact.”

“Tortured half to death by your own comrades?” Shacklebolt asked, his head falling to a tilt as he sized up the blonde wizard before him.

“Yes. Tortured and branded as a blood-traitor.” Draco said bluntly. Happy he had revealed it to Granger just hours prior. “Last time we spoke, Minister Shacklebolt, I told you I wasn’t a Death Eater. But you just pointed to my mark and told me what the guards of Azkaban did to people like me. Then you shipped me off to Azkaban for fifteen years.” The two men locked eyes once more. Hard brown on cold grey. Even metres apart, the stare between them was intense. Serious. Significant. “If you had only believed me, Minister…”

“You’re out now, kid.” The man reminded him. Draco pressed his lips together and looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with Granger before turning back to the minister. She was there. She was by his side. Her fingers between his. Her warmth surrounding him. A halo of protection emanated from her. Enveloping him. Pulling at the strings to bring him closer to her. Allowing him to forget the horrors of his past.

“The war may be over minister. But I’m still a Death Eater to most people.” He said with a heavy heart. Shacklebolt nodded his head slowly, eyes still focused on the younger man. Thoughtful. Considering. Draco turned back towards the corridor. Back towards Granger. Back towards his wife.

She smiled at him. A warm smile. One he would see every day from then on. “But not to everyone.” Her voice was kind and low. He was the only one to hear her message. A message he could feel deep streaming through him with every beat of his heart.

“Not to those who matter,” he said in the same fashion. So only she could hear. Because she mattered to him. More than he understood himself. She was important. She had done so much in such little time. She was truly extraordinary.

She beamed up at him. A sight for sore eyes, his wife. “Now let’s go, darling husband of mine. I want to find Harry and Ronald, to invite them this evening.” She tugged at his hand. The office behind them was forgotten.

The minister was left behind in his own doorway, watching as the couple left. A smirk on his face as he knew what was awaiting the pair in the atrium. A swarm of journalists, with the knowledge that Hermione Granger had willingly married Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The atrium was as familiar as ever. Dark, with golden décor and a grand fountain in the middle. Fortunately altered since the terror of Voldemort’s reign. The only unfamiliar thing about the atrium for that particular day, was the grand stream of reporters. She saw the familiar ones. Signing in from The Daily Prophet. From The Lost Thestral. Snippeting Snitch. Witch Weekly. The Unspeakable. However, there were several reporters from unknown newspapers and gossip-rags. Unknown to her, at the very least.

Bulbs flashed from magical cameras from the moment the horrid lift came to a halt. Hermione had noted to Draco, it needed to be repaired. The gate slid open with a creak, and then the vile questions started.

“Miss Granger, when did you switch sides?”

“Miss Granger, why did you decide to marry a Death Eater?”

"I hope the killer takes you next time."

“Do you sympathise with his views, miss Granger?”

"How could such a bright witch, possibly choose to marry a Death Eater?"

“Is Death Eater cock really that good, miss Granger?”

Hermione whipped her head around, meeting the gaze of a familiar Rita Skeeter, having just asked the crude question with a smug smirk plastered on her face. She was now reporting for Witch Weekly. “You haven’t changed one bit, have you? You vile beetle!”

“Come…” Dracos hand slipped around her waist, pulling her away from Skeeter, with her smile gleaming of golden-toothed smugness. “We don’t talk to vermin.”

“Is that what I am, mister Malfoy?” Her shrill voice echoed over the several flashing cameras and otherwise asked questions. “At least I didn’t murder innocent children!” other voices quieted, though the cameras did not relent. More flashes lit their surroundings.

She could feel the way his body tensed against hers. Feel it in her own body, how he wanted to bite back. How he wanted to stand up for himself. To retaliate. How he chose not to. She had long believed he had not murdered. Had believed he would not choose to take another life. Not after the happenings of the astronomy tower with Dumbledore. She recalled how he had always told her she should not believe those thoughts she had. He had often reminded her he was a convicted murderer.

“Don’t mind her.” She uttered to him. Her arm wrapping tightly around his waist as they stepped forwards. Pushing through the masses of reporters and photographers alike.

“Miss Granger!”

“Death Eater scum!”

"I hope you married him for his money!"

“Death Eater sympathiser!”

“Death Eater whore!”

“Miss Granger, was it worth it?”

"Murderer!"

“Mister Malfoy, what was it like to be saved by The Golden Girl?”

“Miss Granger, what is it like to fall from grace?”

“Do you feel safe living with a killer?”

"Best not get comfortable on the outside, Malfoy."

The first hearth was only metres away. Bulbs flashed in her face.

An unintelligible mass of “Miss Granger” and “Mister Malfoy” felt like crushing waves washing over them. She felt she struggled to breathe. Fought to keep herself aloft, though the waved were relentless. Deadly. Pulling her down to a vicious current.

“Nearly there,” Draco reminded her. His voice deep and soft. A hum of honey. Muting all other voices and noises effortlessly. She melted her body against his. Seeking his comfort. His warmth. The way he fit so perfectly against her.

“Miss Granger!” Skeeters shrill voice penetrated his barrier. “Perhaps he’ll kill you next!”

Draco walked her to the hearth at a brisk pace. Just a few more steps and they’d be gone. His fingers were digging into her side. Trembling. She assumed it was from his anger and hurt. Neither of them had expected reporters to be awaiting them. Hermione had deduced quickly, that Shacklebolt had sent out Patronuses when he was out of his office to collect miss Franks.

“Miss Granger!” “Mister Malfoy!” “Miss Granger!” “Miss Granger?” “Mister Malfoy?” “Miss Granger!” “Golden Girl Granger!” “Death Eater Malfoy!”

She was typically rational. Typically, so easy to keep her calm in stressful situations. So easily able to look away and let the reporters leave with no comments and no eye-contact.

Dracos heat seeped through her clothes. Her side warm with his presence. She had him. He was hers. Tall. Slender. Stoic. Traumatised. Her man. Her wizard. A man like no other. A man she’d grow old with. She would never let him go. Never let him feel loneliness again. She turned her head to look up at him.

His eyes had hardened significantly from how they had appeared to her outside of Shacklebolt’s office. Deep grey. Charcoal. Glaring past the masses of reporters and flashing cameras, aiming for the floo hearths for departing the ministry. Their path was blocked. People swarming them to the point where getting passed them seemed impossible.

“Let us pass.” Draco told the huddle of people before them. No one moved. The symphony of questions rang true, bombarding them further. No questions registered to the pain. They glossed over them, too plentiful to even take notice of single words, despite their names.

“Miss Granger!” “Mister Malfoy!” “Miss Granger!” “Mister Malfoy!” “Miss Granger!” “Miss Granger!”

“If I let you in on a secret, will you please let us pass?!” Hermione growled with evident frustration. Neither of them wished to stay there. They wished to return home. To invite their chosen families to a gathering for the evening. To get away from the horrible reporters and their invasive cameras. The bulbs did not stop flashing. Nearly as blinding as the light of their bonding here minutes prior.

“Of course, miss Granger,” “Yes, miss Granger,” “A secret you say?” The mass in front of her all murmured with much excitement. Quick-Quotes-Quills fluttered excitedly overhead.

She looked up at Draco, meeting his eyes. His brows were furrowed. Suspicion and confusion swimming behind them. “My name isn’t Hermione Granger anymore.” She said, mostly to him. Her eyes never leaving his. The onlookers were quick to photograph them. The quills started fluttering as they wrote with haste. “I took your name, Draco. I want to be united with you. I want the world to know I’m by your side through it all. Thick and thin. Better or worse. I am yours, as you are mine.” His eyes softened. The thin line that had once been his lips, parted with the surprise of her confession.

“Granger-Malfoy?” He asked in a low voice. Just loud enough for her ears.

A shake of her head. “The same as you. Exactly the same as you.  Just Malfoy. Hermione Jean Malfoy”

The flashing bulbs of cameras faded away. The shouting voices ceased to exist, as Draco lifted his hand to truck a loose strand of brown, curly hair behind her hear. The skin of his fingers grazing lightly against her cheekbone and the shell of her ear. The connection sent a surge of electricity through her body. Her pulse quickened. Her breathing became increasingly laboured. His sole focus was on her. And hers on him. Molten silver eyes, with specks of blue. Piercing blue, like the cloudless skies above their shared home. Her body craved for his touch. For him to never break contact with her. To be united, just the pair of them. Forevermore.

“You’re barmy.” His words were laced with adoration. She nodded her head in agreement. “You new name looks good on you, Granger.”

“Malfoy,” she corrected. A small slope spread over his lips. Lifting his cheeks until his eyes gleamed with the unspoken appreciation. The flash from a bulb brought them back to their present. The ministry atrium resurfaced in her periphery. The swarm of photographers and reporters reappeared around them. Dracos hardened gaze returned in a heartbeat, the molten silver settling into a hard slate. He did not hesitate, as his fingers around her waist gripped firmer, pulling her with him through the masses, and towards the nearest hearth.

“Mr. Malfoy!” “Mrs. Malfoy!” “What bond did you choose?” “Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!” “Look here Malfoys!” “Vermin!” “Malfoys!” “Mr. Malfoy!”

The were quickly whisked away, returning to Wiltshire in a flash of green sparks.

The manor gardens had been beautifully decorated for the evenings event. Walking through the solarium, the sliding glass wall had been opened up to the vast, perfectly manicured, green back gardens  of the Wiltshire property.

The patio outside of the solarium, was decorated with pedestals of flowers and tall, white, pillar candles. Taking the three steps down from the patio, the grass had been magically firmed and sealed, so no shoes would be dirtied, no heels, no chairs would sink into the ground. No shoes would be dirtied. The ground behaved much like a lush, green carpeted floor.

The area was set with one large, oval table. There were no less than twenty-five place settings around the circumference of the table. A cream-coloured tablecloth had been draped across the tabletop. And decorated with low, deep cut vases, filled with hand-plucked flowers from the Malfoy gardens.

Seeing as Draco’s wand had been acting up all afternoon, failing him in destructive manners whenever he had tried the simplest of spells, she had asked him to pick the flowers to decorate the table. He certainly knew more about the sentiments and hidden messages written within the petals of the flowers, than she ever would.

He had picked peach-coloured peonies, where the tips of the petals were warmer. Pinker. These symbolised gratitude and appreciation. White lotus flowers, plucked from the swan’s pond within the maze, symbolising rebirth. White and pink Baby Cosmos, symbolising harmony and balance.

Beyond the table, a dance floor had been set. Hundreds of floating candles illuminated the gleaming, wooden dance floor. In the corner, the gramophone from the previous night had been placed. Draco had found old vinyl records, fitting the occasion. Soft background music. French songs. English songs. Muggle and magic alike. Mixing in perfect harmony.

Once they had finally escaped the horrors of the media frenzy taking place in the Ministry atrium, Hermione had sent her otter Patronus out, delivering messages of a celebration taking place at the Malfoy Manor that very evening. Effie had been utterly delighted by the news, and had quickly set to work. Hermione had tried her very best to help, though the elf had quickly shooed her off to find her dress and relax before the many guests would arrive.

The entirety of the Weasley clan had been invited. Her friends. Draco’s friends. Her new husband only had three remaining family members to invite. One of whom, was his mother. Still residing within the safety of the Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungos hospital. The others, were Andromeda Tonks. His aunt. Long since shunned by her pure-blooded family for marrying a muggle-born wizard. And then, there was Andromeda’s grandchild. Teddy Lupin. He was eight years old, and had been invited for that evening as well.

Since they had returned to the manor, Draco had been distant. He had not spoken much to her. Choosing his words carefully when doing so. After placing the third, and very last, centrepiece atop the table, he walked around it. Eyes lingering on the chairs. As though wondering how the evening would go. Who would be there. How they would all mingle. If he would be accepted by the people she had as her chosen family.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked as he walked around the arch of oval table, which was the closest to her. She wanted to reach for him. To touch him. Hug him. Anything. Her skin tingled for his contact. Something she had been so fortunate to have until they had reached the floo parlour at the manor. Then, he had released her and called for Effie.

He briefly looked up at her, though after a moment, his eyes returned to the place setting before him. “Shacklebolt alerted The Prophet, didn’t he?” he asked towards the empty wine glass and gleaming silverware.

“He must have sent a Patronus, when getting Miss Franks,” She said, carefully treading closer to him. The small noises of the grass crushing beneath her feet, was audible as she stepped nearer. “Does it bother you?”

She heard him swallow. He hesitated. Bidding his time before answering her. Choosing his words before speaking them. “Didn’t you hear what the reporters asked? What they said about you? What they called you?”

Echoes of loud voices rang through her mind. Paired with the sounds of flashing bulbs of cameras.

Death Eater Sympathizer!

How could such a bright witch, possibly choose to marry a Death Eater?

Have you switched sides, Miss Granger?

I hope you married him for his money!

Though, the words that rang clearer within her mind, was what was said about him. What not only the reporters, but onlookers, civilians said as he crossed the atrium with his head hung low. Hand on the small of her back. Around her waist. Hoping the shield of his jacket took the brunt of the hits.

Murderer!

Death eater scum!

I hope the killer takes you next time.

Best not get comfortable on the outside, Malfoy.

“What of it? Everyone is entitled to their own opinions.” Her fingers found his. Long. Slender. Alabaster. Tremoring. Her little finger wound around his. Knuckles pressing lightly against one another’s.

Their eyes met. Gazes locking on the others. “How do you think everyone is going to react this evening? All your friends. The Weasley’s…”

“I honestly don’t know how they’ll react to finding out you and I are married.” She said simply, a small, halfhearted smile present on her lips.  “But one thing I do know, is that everyone seems to believe a child who didn’t get to choose sides, gets a second chance. That’s how it was with Pansy, and that’s how it will be with you.”

“Pansy was never a Death Eater…” the statement was true. She had never been marked. However, she had been on the losing side of the war. Cheering for Voldemorts reign. Mostly because of her father.

“Pansy was still a bully during our time in school. A bully, who tried to hand Harry off to Voldemort when the battle started.” She told him, peering deep into his eyes. Searching for the affectionate look he gave her in the atrium. “She was given a second chance, and as will you. There is no doubt in my mind.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, staring at her. She wiggled her little finger, reminding him of their minuscule though ever-present connection. “I suppose we will have to wait and see.” He said with a sigh.

“True.” She agreed with a deep nod to her head. “But when they show you they can give you another chance, you had better not deny Molly Weasley any hugs. They’re the absolute best.”

One of Dracos eyebrows elevated into the smallest quirk. Barely noticeable if she hadn’t studied his face immensely over the span of the last couple of weeks. “Second best, perhaps.” He said, and the small twitch of the corner of his lips, caused butterflies the sizes of barn owls to soar through her stomach.

Their guests had arrived. The couple had greeted them in the floo parlour upon their arrival, and Effie had walked them to the gardens. Hermione had been the one to talk the most. Introducing Draco to parts of the Weasley family he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Draco had politely greeted all, except his aunt. Hermione had eagerly greeted her, whilst Draco and Teddy had a brief yet pleasurable chat about quidditch. 

The newlywed couple stood within the solarium, watching as their guests mingled and talked. Theo Nott was evidently flirting with Ginny Weasley. She reciprocated. Giggling and biting her lip as she watched him try to woo her. Pansy Parkinson-Potter was speaking excitedly to Blaise Zabini and his new wife, Giulia Zabini. Bill Weasley was speaking with the eldest of his younger brothers, Charlie, giving him pointed looks and exasperated waves of his arms, as though mimicking their mother.

Luna Lovegood, Andromeda Tonks and Fleur Weasley seemed to be in deep discussion whilst sipping white wine together. Arthur Weasley and Gregory Goyle were having a kind and light-hearted chat whilst their wives, Molly Weasley and Susan Goyle, née Bones seemed to be invested in a conversation about knitting. Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Teddy Lupin and Ronald Weasley all were huddled together, chatting about something that appeared to be quidditch, based solely on the gestures Ronald and Neville were making with their hands.

Daphne Greengrass-Weasley and George Weasley were in deep discussions, with George pointing his fingers hard onto the tabletop and appearing to count on his fingers afterwards. Percy and his wife, Audrey, were sitting in their own little bubble, with Audrey being heavily pregnant snd the two showing each other much love and affection.

Hermione had recently come back from her suite. She had changed from her shorts and Dracos old Oxford, to a white dress. It was not a wedding gown in any traditional sense. It was simply a white dress she had found, hidden deep within the confines of her traveling trunk. It had been a dress she bought at a sale when she visited Sydney two years prior. She had never worn it before. In fact, she had removed the price tag just minutes before entering the solarium to meet her husband.

The ivory fabric hit perfectly at her knees. Tulle beneath the skirt, gave the dress the perfect A-line. The bodice was nicely fitted around her chest. The bell sleeves were sheer and hanging loosely down the lengths of her arms. The entire exterior of the dress wore a sheer, white, soft fabric with golden specks. If the light hit it well, the dress would seem to sparkle. 

The bottom half of her hair was hanging loosely, cascading down over her shoulder and back in shining ringlets. The top part of her hair has been tied back in a twist. Adorned by one single opalescent flower, tucked neatly and secured into her hair.

Draco was standing by the plants, in a corner just beyond the opened wall, peering out the glass at their guests. Unsteady fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. She came up behind him, stopping at his side. “See anything interesting?”

A breath escaped him. “My wife’s reflection, actually.” He told her, before turning to meet her gaze. His eyes of molten silver had returned once more, gleaming with the same adoration she ever so often saw in them. “I don’t know how she does it, but she always looks exceptionally radiant. Beautiful in a way I’ve only heard of deities.”

“You know how to flatter your way into a witch’s heart, Mr. Malfoy.” Her pulse was beating rapidly in her ears. “Are you saying she is beautiful, even when she’s wearing her husbands’ oversized pyjamas and slippers?”

“Especially in those.” He nodded his head deeply. She felt her heart flutter within her chest. Something about the way he looked at her, told her he was being sincere. Telling her he truly found her beautiful.

“You’re looking quite dapper yourself; you know.” He did. He always did. Even wearing dirtied muggle clothes earlier that day. The way the knees of his jeans had been browned with him kneeling in the dirt, had truly altered something within her mind that day. He wore his usual black trousers and white dress shirt. A classic combination that never went out of style. Particularly not on him. With crisp lines that fitted well to his body. Broad shoulders. Lithe build.  

“Well of course. It is my job as the groom, to outshine the bride, after all.” He smirked down at her. His hands, still heavy with tremors, tried to fix the silver cufflink through the second hole of his sleeve. He did not succeed.

“In our case, I believe we will be equals.” She reached for his hand, though instead of looping her fingers through his, she raised his hand and fixed his cufflink. Silver. Old. The slight floral design had been worn over time, nearly erasing the M that adorned the centre. “How many pairs of cufflinks do you actually own?”

“Too many to count.” His answer was immediate. “I actually chose these because… As far as I know, my great-great-grandfather wore this when he married his wife.”

“Does your great-great-grandfather carry a lot of significance in your life?” She looked up from his sleeve, having fixed the silver to his shirt in only a moments effort.

“In a way, I suppose. He and his wife were the last parents in the Malfoy line, who had more than one child. They are also the last Malfoys who soul bonded, because they married one another for love. His parents did not agree to the union, as they had chosen a wife for him in England. A pure-blooded aristocrat, whose family they wished to have a business agreement with. And he went to France, marrying the love of his life instead. Of course, she was also a pure-blooded aristocrat, though one of a significantly lower class than he was, but he said he would have married her even as a poor muggle. They soul bonded in secret and continued to live a life full of love together.”

“That sounds wonderful.” She said honestly. She had only known of the Malfoys as a pompous and wealthy pure-blooded line of bigots. Hearing exceptions to the rule she had found, gave her hope. “Did they live long, happy lives together?”

“Unfortunately, they did not. The mother, Geneviève, fell ill and died when their youngest was in his first year at Hogwarts. Only two years later, did their youngest daughter choose to follow her mother into the world beyond ours.”

He turned his body fully towards her, allowing her to fix his other cufflink. “Why is this family of such significance to you?”

“Because I always wanted to marry someone I could love.” Molten silver eyes locked on hers. The specks of blue swimming in his irises. The butterflies from earlier that day, sized like barn owls, returned to her stomach. Wings fanning mercilessly against her lining. “I was promised to someone else, from the time I was very young. A girl I had no interest in. A girl that never caught my eye.”

“Are you saying I caught your eye?”

A shy sort of smile tugged at his lips, and his eyes pried themselves away from hers. Returning their focus on their guests. “Have you never wondered how my parents knew of the witch who bested me in everything? By name, no less, and not by blood status?” Silver eyes seemed to drift to Harry, Neville, Teddy and Ron. “I believe you are familiar with Dobby? One of our old house elves?”

“Yes. Yes, I remember Dobby well. He was a good elf…” memories of the elf, swam through her mind with fondness. From his arrangements of various Hermione-made elf-knits to

“He looked up to Potter, didn’t he? Idolised him?” His eyes had still not moved from the group, still discussing quidditch.

She lowered his hand, stepping closer to his side. “He did. He absolutely loved Harry.”

“Did you ever wonder how Dobby had heard of him?” He turned his head to meet her eyes once more.

She had thought of it. Several times, in fact. “You really did want to be Harry’s friend in first year, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I just didn’t know how to actually become friends with anyone. My experiences with my father, taught me that friendships had to be bought” a small sigh left him. “With vaults full of gold and trinkets, buying people was no issue.”

“But when Harry didn’t want your help or your money… You started resenting him.” The dots connected within her mind. How Draco had always been cruel to them because they had what he wanted within his own life. Genuine friendship. An honest connection.

“All of you.” Draco nodded. “Of course, I got some good friends along the way but…”

“They all started with money.” Not a question. Though he answered it with a small nod.

“Father paid Nott to bring his son around. Paid for us to go to quidditch games together. Paid for us to do anything. I’m quite sure Pansys mother has more Malfoy necklaces than my own mother does.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you didn’t have to buy me, or my friendship.” She assured him. One further step forward, as she stepped into his space. Her arms wrapped around his narrow waist.

His arms wound around her. Fitting her against his frame. “And the three carat diamond on your ring finger is what, then? A good luck charm?” He teased. The lightness surged through the air again, as his playful side resurfaced.

A genuine laugh escaped her. He smiled. A bright, illuminating smile. His eyes crinkling as his cheeks lifted. One she hoped to see every single day. “I never wanted a big ring. You decided you wanted to give me one.”

“Speaking of… I have our wedding bands.” An eyebrow quirked in a silent  question.  

She retorted with raising her own brows “You heard what Shacklebolt said. We don’t need them.”

“I don’t care. I want to wear mine. I want you to have the complete set.”  His head fell to a tilt. His luscious hair flopping to the side. “Please?”

“As if I could ever deny you anything.” A raised eyebrow was all it took for her to stumble over her words. “I mean these days. School really shouldn’t count.”

He kept his gaze locked on hers. Scanning one eye. Then the other. “Our past will always remain, Granger. We can’t outrun it.” He said, before releasing her body. One quaking hand reached into his trouser pocket. Removing a simple ring box. This was not like the one he had offered her the night prior. It was not silken. Nor periwinkle. It was small and sleek. A black leather rectangle, with a hatch closing in the front.

One alabaster finger slid the latch to the side, and the box opened to reveal the rings. A thicker band. Either made with white gold or platinum. The shapes of leaves or perhaps a series of marquise shapes, similar to her own diamond ring was engraved into the ring with yellow gold. A handsome piece of jewellery. Understated. Simplistic in an elegant fashion. Much like its owner.

Next to it, sitting in the cushioned slit, sat the ring she assumed to be her own. The entire band seemed to be made of diamonds. Laid lengthwise, in yellow gold, were miniature marquise diamonds. Each one was separated by a small, circular diamond. The piece was elegant. Dainty. Delicate. Supposed to fit beneath the ring and the rock she was already wearing.

She had almost expected simple wedding bands. She had almost expected plain gold. Polished, simple and timeless. She had almost expected it, because it would have been easier than picking out such works of art, as he had so effortlessly done.

Without any hesitation, Hermione removed her current diamond from her left-hand finger. The large stone had only been housed there for a day, however she felt its loss somewhere deep within her body, as it left her finger. Draco reached for the ring in the box, plucking hers out from its position in the cushions.

“Forgive me if I make any mistake in this,” He started, as he held her hand in his, preparing himself to slip the ring onto her finger. With a deep breath gathered in his lungs, he spoke once more. “I, Draco, take thee, Hermione, to be my wedded wife.” She felt her lungs deflate entirely. Eyes entirely focused on him. On the man who was reciting muggle vows. Vows he must have recently learned. Just for her. Just for the occasion. “To have and to hold. For richer or poorer. For better or worse. Through sickness and health. To give you my devoted love and friendship. From this day forward, until death parts us.”

The ring warmed her skin as it settled itself perfectly onto her finger. Draco placed the diamond ring back where it belonged. A perfect harmony resonated through her body as both rings found their home above her knuckle. A sensation she had never before felt. Her entire body tingled with it. As though struck like a diapason. It vibrated through her. Singing beneath her skin as her breath and mind momentarily escaped her.

He removed the other ring from the box, about to place it on himself before she stopped him, snapping herself out of what unknown magic had surged through her. Taking a hold of the wedding band between her own fingers, removing it from his grasp. One deep, shaking breath later, she followed his initiative. Reciting after him. “I, Hermione, take thee, Draco, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold.” The magnetic pull between them seemed to only get stronger. Her feet willing her forward. To do exactly as the vows told her to. To have him. To hold him. She had to resist. Digging her heels into the wooden floor beneath their feet. She did not know the vows as he did. She only repeated what he had so beautifully recited to her. “For richer, for poorer. For better, for worse. Through sickness and health.” The ring slipped onto his finger. Sizing itself to fit him ever so perfectly.  She felt the weight of her own wedding band seemingly sing to her as its partner found its home on him. “To give you my devoted love and friendship. From this day forward, until death parts us.”

The moment sat heavy in the air. Not bad. Not in the slightest. She felt a tension fill her lungs. Her heart pounding quickly within her chest. Something was different. She could not place it. The feeling was everywhere and nowhere all at once. She was drowning in it. She was soaring through it. It vibrated through her veins. A harmony like nothing she had ever imagined.

Draco appeared to have the same sensations flowing through him. His breathing was laboured and hasty. His molten silver eyes focused entirely on her. Pupils blown wide. She could feel his tremors. She could see how he took one step closer to her. She followed. Stepping into his embrace once more.

She did not know, nor did she understand why or how she reacted this way. The magnetism of their bodies was outside of her world of understanding. She could not for the life of her, begin to describe it. She felt as though her body was his. His was hers. They belonged together as though perfect pieces of an imperfect puzzle. She did not wish to release him. She did not wish to part from him. He was but an extension of her, and her entire universe all at once.

“Granger…” His voice sounded deeper. The vibrations of it, wreaking havoc within her body. She nodded. Her fingers soothing along the back of his oxford. She felt the slight definition of lithe muscle beneath the fabric. He was about to speak, when he was interrupted by one of their long-forgotten guests.

“Oi!” came Ginny’s voice, alerting every single person to what had got her attention. She, along with their other guests, were staring directly at Draco and Hermione. A wicked smirk playing across her painted lips. “Stop snogging and get out here!”

Next to her, Theo howled wolfishly. A few seats down, Ronald and Harry joined in with lighthearted laughter.

“Snogging?” Draco mused next to her.

She turned to look up at him yet again, disentangling her body from his. “I suppose it’s time we go out and tell them why we invited them here.” She spotted the sudden apprehension in his eyes. Felt the sensation of his shifting emotion within her own body. She felt the worry in the man before her as he pressed his lips into a thin line.

She worried for him. She did. He had expressed to her, a worry of how their friends would receive the news of their union on her behalf. She did not care. But she worried about him. She worried what thoughts were running through his mind about himself. His confidence, or portrayal thereof, earlier that day, had only been but a reflection of a memory of the Draco she recalled from school. For the man before her, was not confident. He was self-deprecating. Self-loathing. He did not appear to like himself. Simply going through the notion of every day as though forced. He did not wish to better aspects about his life. He simply followed the demands of those around him.

She saw him hesitate, and took his hand in hers, slowly stepping backwards towards the opening in the folding glass wall. “Come, Draco. I’m right here. By your side.” She said, her voice only loud enough for him to hear. She willed her body calm itself. To not let her heart pound with his worry, when it should be leaping with joy for what they were sharing with those they loved most.

Together, they stepped out from the solarium, and onto the elevated patio. Facing their friends. Their chosen family. Standing side by side. A united front against any negativity that may come their way. Draco tried releasing her hand, possibly to hide his own. Hiding his tremors. Hiding the damage his old comrades had done to him. After his own father had handed him to them. But she clutched his hand tighter. Wanting to show the others that she was not afraid. She was not hiding him. She would much rather be proudly displaying him. Her fingers linked through his. And he stopped trying to pull it away. Standing by her side.

“Thank you, Ginny,” Hermione smiled to her friend. The redheaded woman inclined her head in a gracious gesture. “So, you all might be wondering why you were invited here today,” she started, looking around the table at everyone who mattered to them. How her friends and his mingled together. Thinking of how far they had come since their school days. Some nodded. She noted the absence of a reaction from the Potter-Weasley-corner. And a stern look coming from Pansy.

Draco inhaled a shaking breath by her right-hand side, and she looked up at him. Assuring him with a smile. “There is no need to beat around the bush, I suppose. Draco and I got married this morning. By blood bond.” A soft gasp sounded from someone seated at the table. She turned her head to look back at their united comrades. “And we simply wanted to invite you here for a meal, perhaps a few dances. Not to mention, to meet each other anew. For some much-deserved second chances.”

Draco stilled by her side. He did not look at her. He did not look at them. He kept his gaze on the spot where the bottom patio step met the grass. Green blades having been freshly cut, mowed for the occasion of the gathering.

“That’s wonderful news!” Cooed Molly Weasley from the middle of the length of the oval table. Her voice showed no malice. No ill-intent. She was happy for them. Genuinely so.

“Welcome to the family, mate!” Ronald cheered with a grin, causing Draco to finally look up. Their friendship had blossomed over the last few weeks. They had become closer than Hermione could ever have expected. Ronald had spoken well about Draco during dinners at the Burrow.

Hermione felt his body relax next to her as he saw a plethora of smiling faces looking up at them. Not a single bad reaction. No one seemed appalled. No one seemed angry. Some seemed to be surprised. However, there was not one negative reaction.

The background music faded away, opening for La Vie En Rose to start playing from the gramophone at the dance floor. Just as when she had entered the solarium the evening before. A hand squeezed hers, reminding her of his presence. His hand was large and warm, with long fingers that draped effortlessly in between her own. “Would you care for a dance, dearest wife?” his voice was smoother than silk.

“I’d love to,” There was no hesitation. The evident excitement and joy within his body, quickly seeped into her own. Vibrating through their connection as she turned to face him. He was smiling at her. The way she had only seen him smile towards her. Genuine. Lopsided. A crinkle in the corner of his eye. The specks of blue just barely visible within the molten silver of his eyes.

With their hands entangled, Draco walked her down the flagstone steps of the patio, leading her to the dance floor. Theo howled once more, as the pair stepped onto the parquet floor. Hermione felt her eyes roll backwards at his antics, as Draco situated her to his front.

A hand resting on her waist. Another holding her hand. The song was familiar to her. Graceful and warm. A woman singing of seeing life through rose-coloured glasses. Viewing her life in happiness. A song about love. Her love. Deep and unforgiving. Beautiful in her depiction of the strongest emotion there ever was.

Hermione looked up at her husband. Observing his kind eyes. The glow that seemed to emanate from him warmed her, as though basking in the sun by the pond. Their pond.

She pondered about love. She had never been in love before. She thought she had been, however, she had not. She had loved Ronald. Adored him, even. Though it was more familial than it was romantic. She felt the way her body moved with his. How his warmth radiated through her clothes. She found the thought of being in love with Draco Malfoy to be ridiculous. She could not be in love with him. Not after mere weeks of friendship. Could she?

Falling in love with him, was not a scary aspect. It was almost as though she found it normal. As if inevitable. Not at that very moment. But someday. Perhaps sooner than she expected. Her heart screamed it. Her body knew it. It was coming. Like their magnetic pull was slowly dragging them towards the end goal of a romantic union. Like a moth to a flame.

Her hand grazed over his broad shoulder, settling itself lightly on his nape. Against her palm, she felt his crisp, starched shirt collar. Her fingertips found his skin. Soft against hers. Warm. Atop her knuckles, lay his hair. Silken. White. Wavy. His fingers tightened around her waist, his eyes glowing with a fashion she could not place.

Other couples joined them on the dance floor. Molly and Arthur Weasley. Gregory and Susan Goyle. Harry and Pansy Potter were dancing amongst them.

The song came to its end, the final notes playing through as the couple stilled on the dance floor. The crackling of the vinyl letting them know another song was coming.

She gazed up at him. Her eyes drinking in every detail. From the faintest hint of freckles, dusting across the bridge of his nose, to the shape of his cupids bow and the way his long, dark lashes framed his eyes ever so beautifully.

No, it was not love. Not yet. As of the moment, it was simply a strong connection. Adoration.

“I believe it is a muggle custom for a father to dance with his daughter on the day of her wedding?” She had not noticed Arthur had come up by their side. She had also not noticed another tune having started to play.

Reluctantly, she released Draco. His hands fell, before quickly being tucked into his trouser pockets. He nodded his head upwards to her, telling her to dance with her ever present father figure. He would be fine. She turned to Arthur and was swept away in a wonderful and light sway that fit the music.

The soft melody coming from the gramophone, was ever so delightful. Perfectly harmonious as she swayed in sync with her surrogate father.

“I know you may not be my daughter, but I do love you like one. You know that, don’t you?” He spoke softly into the space between them. “Sometimes, I wonder where the little girl I first met, has gone off to. She most certainly can’t be the woman in my arms today.”

“I’m still just me. Just Hermione. The very same girl from back then.” She beamed at Arthur. “Just me. I haven’t changed that much.”

“Oh no, you are not just Hermione. You are a wonderful, clever, charming young woman, who has done incredible things. And now, you’ve even gone and gotten married.” There was a small quiver to his voice. “Now, you’ll get to share your greatness with your husband. And after a while, your children.”

She inhaled deeply through the nose, then cast her eyes to the left, as though she knew he was there. And he was. Her husband. Her wizard. Standing just outside of the group of people beyond the dance floor, talking with his long-estranged aunt, Andromeda. She was reaching up to him. Touching his cheek. Speaking affectionately towards him. “How did you know Molly was the witch for you?”

Arthur Weasley remained quiet for a moment. Hermione noticed other people join them on the dance floor. The length of silvery white hair told her it was Fleur and Bill. Across from them, was Blaise and Giulia. Theo and Ginny were also stepping up. “I wish I could tell you how I knew. If there was only one moment that made me realise it or if there were many.” He said thoughtfully “One day, I simply realised I did not want to live without her. I wanted to see her smile every day. Wanted to hear her voice. Feel the warmth of her embrace…”

She lifted her head, so she could look up at the man she adored like a father. His eyes were filled with wonder and adoration as he looked back at her. Both of them smiled. “You don’t think I made a mistake, do you?”

A moment of hesitation. A moment of consideration. His eyes searched her. He turned his head to fix his gaze on Draco. Tall. Lean. Quiet. His hands in his trouser pockets as he spoke with his aunt. Possibly for the very first time in his life. His eyes seemed to be lost. Either in thought or perhaps a memory. She did not know. “I have never known Draco. I only knew what he did during the war. What he was convicted for.” He said honestly, then turned his head to look back to Hermione. “But I trust you know what you are doing. I trust Ron when he had said Draco is changed. I trust when Daphne and Pansy tells us he’s a kind man. But most of all, Hermione, I trust the smile I see on your face when you look at him.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “And I trust that if he proves to be difficult, you can defend yourself and get away.”

She relaxed into him, as they continued to sway. A comfortable, easy melody playing from the gramophone. One she was not familiar with. Her eyes searched the guests. Looking for Draco. He wasn’t among those on the outside anymore. He was dancing. Smiling and chuckling as he danced with none other, than Molly Weasley.

The height difference between them was staggering. She reached the middle of his chest, yet they seemed to dance together quite well.

“You know, sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy… I feel this intense connection to him. Like a constant pull.” She said, just as Arthur noticed his wife dancing with the tall Malfoy. “Drawn to him. Like my body needs his touch. Just to know he’s there.” She confessed to her father figure. “These last couple of weeks have been torture. To go back to Harry and Pansy’s home. To leave him behind. He gave me all of these flowers, and I kept them on my nightstand because I needed something of his close to me to find peace…”

Arthur nodded his head slowly. “You love him?”

“I don’t.” She said quickly. “I like him. I could probably learn to fall for him over time… Right now it’s just…” The word did not find her.

“Building?” He offered, smiling over at his wife and the new member of the Weasley-clan.

“At a pace I never knew was possible.” she hummed.

The tune from the gramophone came to a halt, closing the dance off with a gentle hum and the soft crackle as the vinyl kept turning into the next song. Arthur released her with a bow of his head and a brief embrace. He then departed the dance floor, arm wound around his wife’s shoulders.

She instinctively paced over to Draco, who did not hesitate to drape his arm over her. Pulling her into his warmth. “I believe it is time for dinner.” He said in a low voice, his eyes focused on the grand, oval table. She turned her head to look over. Plates, trays and all kinds of serving dishes had started to appear. Housing a wide variety of food. Stews. Soups. Sides of all sorts. Beef Wellington. Steak. Chicken. Pork. With different marinades and prepared in such different ways, that everyone would find something to enjoy.

Even Luna was presented with tastefully created vegetarian options.

Their seats were at the middle of the lengthy side, with their backs towards the manor. Candles, floating and sitting atop the table, lit the pair and their guests beautifully. Before either of the pair sat down, Hermione stood by Draco to say a few words. “Thank you all so much for coming this evening. I know it was quite short notice. So, thank you all so much for joining us. It means the world to both Draco and myself, to have our friends, our chosen families here with us this evening.  So please, eat well, drink up and have fun.”

“Hear, hear!” Cheered George Weasley, raising his filled wine glass aloft. “To the happy couple!”

“To the happy couple!” More wine glasses, one filled with water and another with cola, lifted along the table, clinking to the newlyweds. They smiles to one another. Almost shy as their loved ones drank. He pulled out her chair for her, and once she was seated, he sat in his own. Joining the festivities.

The meal went off without a hitch. People acquainted themselves with one another. Friendships started. A seeming flame started to kindle between others. The evening was alight with the vivid sunset of bright pinks and peach tones, painting the Wiltshire sky with promises of a beautiful future ahead of them. Their friends talked. Laughed. Shared stories. Ate. Drank. It seemed everyone had a great time.

Hermione had turned to her right, her and Draco talking to Andromeda about Teddy coming over to fly on the quidditch pitch, placed deeper down on the Malfoy grounds, when she heard Neville to her left, across the table.

“Merlins beard, Hermione!”

She quickly turned her head to face him. His face wore a look of amazement and bewilderment. “What is it?” She asked, feeling nervous now that most of the attention around the table, were on them. Even Teddy had quieted, his eyes darting between Neville and Hermione with wonder.

“That flower in your hair.” He quickly said, his brows furrowing. “Is it really a Virent Irides?”

“It is,” she nodded her head cautiously. Her hand reached to the back of her hair, pulling it out to reveal it fully to him. “It’s truly beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen one before.” He said softly, his eyes focused entirely on the flowers. The sheen of opalescent smatterings on the petals, shining beneath the light of the floating candles above them. “Do you know how rare they are?”

“I’m not too certain.” She glanced over at Draco, whom, like her, was not entirely aware. “It needs to grow on land blessed with ancient magic. Old magical lands, such as these or Hogwarts might be good. The land needs to not be troubled by war… So Narcissa was unable to grow these during the war.”

“Not just that,” Neville tore his eyes away from the glittering petals, looking at the couple. First, his eyes studied Hermione. Then, he studied Draco. His green eyes seemingly seeing something no one else could. “That would make them fairly common magical flowers. However, these can only grow on lands where soulmates reside.”

The length of the table went entirely still. Not a fork was moved. Not a sip was taken. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest. She turned, looking up at the blonde wizard next to her. His brows were furrowed ever so slightly, eyes focused on the other wizard. Lips parted, only just, in surprise.  “That can’t be. Granger didn’t move in until this morning. Yet, the flowers have been here for weeks.”

“Well, it’s only from old wording, so it could mean something different. But, when did you first notice them?” Longbottom asked curiously. He was leaning forward, looking at the flower in Hermione’s hands.

Draco met her gaze, a soft huff of air escaping through his parted lips. “The first day you came to visit…”

“In the hedge maze,” she breathed the words in the same fashion Draco had. Evident surprise was cast over the both of them.

It explained the pull she had felt. The way her body fit to his. How his tremors seemed to cease when they touched. How, even after a short amount of time, she felt a stronger connection to him than she ever had to anyone else in her entire life.

How she had not been afraid to marry him. How she cared for him, so very deeply. She would gladly drown in his embrace, as long as it meant she could be with him until the end of her days.

It explained the bright, white light that had illuminated from them durning the bonding ceremony. The feeling of being complete once they both bore their wedding bands. The way she knew where to look for him. How she felt his body’s response without touching him. Without looking at him.

“What if it means someone else is Dracos soulmate? Since he has lived here the entire time?” The question slipped her before she had much time to even think it over.

Neville shook his head slowly. “They would have wilted and died the moment he married the wrong person, then.” He said simply. He had knowledge about the flowers. He must have read extensively about them.

She thought back, not hoping to disprove him, however, she wished to confirm it was indeed true. Draco Malfoy, her one and only soulmate. Written in the stars, to find each other. To be made for each other. “I transfigured an opal to look like one of these flowers… Narcissa recognised it.”

Draco was the one to speak up next. “Remember the family I told you about. Who soul bonded?” She nodded her head, eyes alight with curiosity. “Their family was always painted with these flowers.”

“She would recognise them from there?” Her question was met with a nod. She turned back to look Neville, her hand instinctively grasping Dracos atop the table. An anchor. Tethering her to security as her laboured breaths steadied with his presence.

“Would never have expected you two, of all people, to be soulmates.” Ginny said with a light tone.

“Neville, you have to ask McGonnagal if she had any idea.” Blaise grinned from across the table.

“Slughorn too!” Chimed Harry.

“You think Trelawney might have had a premonition about it?” Gregory asked the table.

“Please!” Ronald howled from the other end. “Trelawney graded my paper as Exceeds Expectations when I told her my tea leaves said Harry would spout another head.”

“Oh please. Anyone who didn’t see the tension between the two of them in sixth year, must have been blind.” Pansy smirked over at the pair in question. The tension in the air eased.

“Isn’t the soulmates connection supposed to reveal itself when the soulmates first kiss?” Theodore asked from across the table. His brow cocked smugly as he gazed over at his longtime friend. “Which means, Ginny, they were actually not snogging earlier. Because then, they would already have known. In fact, I bet they have yet to share a kiss. Isn’t that right, Draco?”

Dracos fingers tightened their hold around her hand. Hermione sighed, hoping he would not bite at the bait Theo had left him.

“But kissing at one’s wedding, is a muggle custom, is it not?” Blaise teased alongside Theodore. “Giulia and I kissed at our muggle wedding. It should be something a married couple should do, I believe.”

“Fortunately for us, neither of us are muggles.” Hermione retorted sharply to Zabini with narrowed eyes. The smirk slowly faded from his lips. Giulia, on Blaise’s arm, tugged at his sleeve to keep him from speaking further on the matter. “And we will share that moment when we both wish it.”

“In private.” Draco added with finality punctuating the words. She felt the discomfort within his body radiating through hers, seeping between them as they continued to hold hands.

“I think it’s wonderful you’re soulmates.” Said Luna dreamily from somewhere to Dracos right hand side. “The Futterfwools seem to be in agreement as well.” At this, Hermione noticed Molly and Daphne rolling their eyes with clear distain.

The newlywed couple shared a look of astonishment. Hermione had to fight the urge to laugh. Luna continued to be as unique as ever. For Hermione had never in her life heard of Futterfwools. And from the look spread upon Dracos features, she could safely assume that he had not heard of them either.

“Soulmates?” Draco asked her, his voice only loud enough for her ears to hear. His hand adjusted, releasing hers for just a moment, before lacing his fingers effortlessly in between hers. The feeling of being complete rang through her body as their skin connected once more.

Her own fingers found their home between his. The flower resting in her other hand. The flower that had always meant more than she expected. More than she knew. The flower that caught her eye the day she reunited with Draco. The day she met the man her soul was made for, anew. She spun it between her fingers, twirling it effortlessly before laying it down atop the table. For she did not need the flower to remind her of the man on her right-hand side. The man who had been destined for her since the moment the universe was created. “Soulmates.”

Chapter Text

Nine days had passed since their blood bond. Since their sacred union. Only nine days, had the pair known they were soulmates. Married to one another. Set to navigate through their new lives. The length of time that had passed, was confirmed by the dates written upon the front pages of several wizarding newspapers and magazines. Front pages, which all bore strikingly similar images.

Images of a newlywed husband and wife staring into each other’s eyes. Lost in their feelings towards the other as she announced her new name. As she reminded him that she was his, as he was hers. A moment of which, Draco hoped to never forget. A moment, which had his heart swelling with admiration for the witch he got to call his own. His soulmate. The various news sources had been living upon their dining room table for the entirety of those nine days. They had more copies in the solarium.

Effie had even taken her favourite front page and cut out the picture of the two. Framing it and placing it atop the mantle in the solarium, where the couple had spent most of their afternoons together.

Beside The Daily Prophet, lay Witch Weekly and thereafter, a folded booklet of The Snippeting Snitch. The pictures on the covers, were quite striking. A truly beautiful moment between the pair, having been captured by the press. The headlines varied drastically. As did the articles within.

From Golden Girl to Mrs Malfoy
Where did Hermione Granger go wrong?

Asked the Snippeting Snitch, with the most guessed and poorly estimated article of which Draco had ever read. Courtesy of Mr. Farrgus Gomp. Having read his writing aloud one afternoon, Granger had leaned back in her seat, clinging to her cup of tea as she had laughed ever so heartily.

Mass Murderer Malfoy marries Mrs Magnificent

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy has willingly chosen to tie the knot. Uniting the muggle born witch to the oldest and wealthiest of the standing Wizarding family in Britain.

More on page 4.

Said The Daily Prophet. They had a retelling of how a certain Hermione Granger had hunted the newly released Malfoy heir, seeking nothing but his gold. It had been mentioned she had resided at the Potter’s residence in London, which according to Esmerelda Epsinth, was quite troublesome for the Potters. Having Harry Potters old flame sleeping on their sofa, whilst Pansy Parkinson-Potter was heavily pregnant with Twins.

All of this had been news to everyone who had been mentioned in the article. Granger had justified the writing, and it’s inadequate journalist, by saying Miss Epsinth had at least gotten their names somewhat correct. Even though they continued to call her Miss Granger and not Mrs. Malfoy.

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy Meant To Be?

The Wizarding World has welcomed a new couple to their midst. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy have united their legacies through blood bond. Miss Granger revealed to the press, she took her husbands family name. Indicating she did so because of her overwhelming love for the wizard; thus, making her the new Lady Malfoy of Wiltshire.

Mr. and Mrs Malfoy fought on opposite sides of the war, with her being a powerful war heroine with an Order Of Merlin, First Class. Whereas he was a Death Eater, supporting he-who-must-not-be-named and murdering muggle-born witches and wizards.

Do you, dear reader, wonder about the intricate details of their newfound relationship? Read the full article on page 10, for the inside scoop.

Wrote Rita Skeeter for Witch Weekly. She had spoken to a so-called ‘inside source’, who had spoken about Mr. Malfoys heavily damaged body. It had been mentioned that it was immense use of dark magic that had caused the damage. Whether it was he who had used the dark magic too often, or if someone had cursed him, was not mentioned. The inside source also spoke of the blinding light of their union, offering the excruciatingly accurate suggestion that the pair were, indeed, reunited souls from a previous Soul Bond.  

Since their outing to the ministry, for their binding, the couple had remained at their manor. They were trying to settle into their new, joined lives as normally as once could. They had started getting into a routine of incorporating each other into their own lives. It had gone better than Draco had ever expected. The magnetic pull between him and his spouse, caused a flow that was overtly natural and normal. As though their Soul Bond knew what they needed before they did.

They had agreed to fix the Gazebo by the swan pond together. They had tried it one day, until Draco and his wand had sent a heavy branch flying into one of the grand pillars of the structure. That was when Granger said they would not do any more work within the hedge maze, until Draco had gotten a new wand. He had reluctantly agreed to her demand. He truly did need a new wand.

“We’ve got an owl already?” Granger asked as she walked in through the grand double doors of the dining room. They had downsized the dining table, as they were usually not forty people dining together at each meal. She rounded the corner, and strode along the length of the table, where she sat down across from him. Her back towards the windows. Between them, on a white, gold-rimmed plate, lay a thick, luxurious envelope. It was addressed to the both of them. Draco, of course, already knew what it was. He had seen the sigil on the red wax stamp which closed the envelope, and thus effectively set it aside for his wife to open.

“If you’ll look closely, you’ll see it carries a stamp.” Draco said. A tremoring hand reached forward, touching the brim of the plate to turn it, so the letter was facing her. There was no returning address on the envelope. “I believe I already know what it is, so I want you to open it.”

“Alright…” She said slowly, cautiously as she reached for the envelope. “I didn’t even know we had a muggle post slot.” She said in a thoughtful tone, before quickly moving onto the next question. “Can muggles even see the manor?”

“They can,” He informed her with a smile. “The main grounds, at least. Up until the end of the hedge maze. The quidditch pitch and the forest and the magical creatures that live on our grounds, are all hidden into what would appear a small copse of trees. For the muggles, it appears as somewhere the rich pricks at the Malfoy Manor dump their weeds and the trimmed branches from their trees. Nothing special at all.”

She nodded her head slowly. “So they can see the kelpie fountain in the front?” she asked him now, her brows slightly pinched as she observed her husband.

“To them, I think it should appear as regular horses in a fountain,” Draco said with a small nod, though he was not entirely certain. “I could be mistaken, though. But yes, muggles can see our home. Just a limited version of our grounds. And if they don’t have a proper purpose to come here, such as delivering the post or actually coming to speak with us, they will remember a more important errand and leave.

“Noted,” She pried her glimmering, honey brown eyes from his. She fixed her gaze upon the envelope. Her eyes glossed over the recipients. Then she reread it. And then, read it once more. Her jaw dropping lower with each pass of her eyes. “To The Duke and Duchess of Wiltshire, Mr. And Mrs. Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Salisbury…”

Draco pressed his lips together, watching her with much amusement. He felt her surprise within his own body. His heart racing because hers was. “Yes?”

“Duke and Dutchess? Might there be something you have failed to mention to me?” Her eyes remained focused on their titles at the front of the envelope, which were still gripped within her fingers.

“I believe I might have forgotten something, yes.” He admitted to his wife with as much nonchalance as he could muster. He pressed his hands to his knees, trying to steady his tremors. A nervous habit by that point. Even though he knew Granger was not one to pinpoint his tremors in any capacity.

“You were such an insufferable prat in school, it seems quite unbelievable you forgot to mention you were a Duke…” She hadn’t even opened the letter yet. She had even yet to turn it in her hands and see the wax seal, which had yet to be touched by either of them. “You’re royalty?”

“Royalty might be stretching it a bit far, Granger. And also, I wasn’t a Duke back in school. I was just a Lord. When father died, his title was passed onto me.” He said simply, leaning back in his chair. His unsteady hands lifted from his knees. Long fingers reached forward, lifting his teacup from its saucer. She eyed him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. Her breathing laboured. “You knew you married into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy. You knew we had a long-standing history. My ancestors have several notable titles and orders of Merlin for various reasons. This, therefore, includes being Duke of Wiltshire. The title has been passed through generations, for several centuries, in fact. I promise you, it’s nothing special and it doesn’t really mean anything.” He said before taking a sip of his tea. Earl Grey. Five heaping teaspoons of sugar. He considered adding a spoonful of honey as well. Something about the bitter aftertaste didn’t sit quite right with him.

Her eyes were daggers focused on his. Sharp and judging, with what might appear as distain. He knew better. He could feel it from her energy. From how her body spoke to him. She was not angry. She was surprised. Perhaps a bit confused. Bewildered, some might say.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,

We send your newly formed union our most sincere well-wishes, for a bright and happy future together.

We are most excited for a new Duchess to be welcomed into our ranks.

Yours sincerely,
Her Majesty the Queen”

He lifted her gaze from the letter. At the bottom of the print, was a hand-written signature from the muggle queen herself. “See? Nothing too special. Just a note, if you will.”

Another piece of paper within the envelope, was a letter of verification, reading her full, new name and her new title. Topped with a stamped seal of approval from the Buckingham Palace and Her Majesty the Queen.

Hermione Jean Malfoy
Duchess of Wiltshire

“This has to be some sort of joke.” She declared, lowering the letter to her own plate, though she did not yet release it. She continued to stare at it. Her eyes focused intently on the signature of Her Majesty. She then compared it to the other letter. Scrutinising them both, as she searched for flaws in the penmanship.

He took another sip of his tea before lowering his cup. It clattered lightly against the saucer due to his tremors. “How would this be a joke?” He asked her with curiosity. He leaned slightly forwards in his seat.

“Duchess Hermione Malfoy? Duke Draco Malfoy? Doesn’t it sound a bit odd?” She finally released the pieces of thick, golden embellished paper onto the plate before her.

“You could call me Lord if you’d prefer?” Withholding his snicker was quite the difficult feat.

A stern look was sent across the table. “There are several things I’d like to call you” She folded the letter and plucked the plaque from the plate and tucked them neatly back into the envelope. “I can’t believe I didn’t know.” She spoke the words mostly to herself.

“I promise you, I didn’t withhold the information on purpose.” He insisted. His hand automatically reached for hers, meeting at the middle of the table. Her presence stilled his tremors in no more than a heartbeat.

“I know,” her voice was as soft as silk. Her eyes glinting with mirth. “My Duke,”

“Oh, put a sock in it, Duchess.” Draco felt his lips tug into a smile. What a wonderful way to start one’s morning. Sharing smiles and affectionate comments over a letter from The Queen herself.

“Oh, but a Duchess such as myself, would never touch a sock. That is so far beneath me.”  Her poshest accent was used, with her nose raised high into the air.

“Malfoy!” The voice of none other than Harry Potter could be heard, echoing through the corridors of the manor. Potter was shouting. Loudly. His hurried footsteps could be heard alongside his yells.

Draco and Granger shared a look, before they both stood from the violet sofa in the solarium, where she had been cuddled up against him, her head in his lap, with him playing with her hair. They had both been reading muggle literature. Books Granger had brought with her when she had moved in. Draco did not mark where he left off, as he placed the book down onto the table, closing it.

“What is going on?” asked Granger, her voice a mere whisper. She was nervous. He could feel the way her heart pounded, only he felt it within his own body. As though it was an echo of his own reaction.

Draco shook his head in response. “Haven’t the foggiest.” He replied in an equal whisper to hers. He stepped towards her, using his body to come between her and the open arch of the entrance to their favourite room.

“Malfoy come out!” Echoed Weasley from somewhere down the corridor. They seemed to be getting closer to the solarium in their haste.

The tall blonde parted himself from his wife and allowed his wobbling legs to carry him out towards the corridor with a rather shaky walk. His knees weak after having been sitting for nearly an hour, enjoying the company of his wife, The Dutchess of Wiltshire.

“Malfoy!!” yelled Potter once more.

“Draco…” He heard Hermione hiss in his direction. He took over his shoulder at her, giving her a smile, assuring her that he would be okay. He would be fine. “I don’t like this.” Her beautifully brown eyes radiated worry. She was still clutching her book in her hand. Her forefinger pressed between two pages to mark her spot.

“They’re not here to arrest me, at least.” He said with a small smile, before peeking his head out passed the corner of the opening of the solarium. “Potter? Weasley? What in Merlin’s shaggy arse-crack has you shouting like this, so early in the morning?”

“Shaggy arse-crack?” Weasley asked with raised brows. “You’ve been spending too much time with Hermione.” He said, closing the distance between them whilst wearing a haughty smirk. Potter followed alongside him, looking much less amused. than his redheaded friend; frazzled, one might say. “She can’t curse either, you know. Besides, it’s noon.”

“Posh boys like him, don’t need to get up at the crack of dawn to make money for food and bills.” Potter grumbled. The two men stopped just ahead of Draco, being just outside of the grand opening to the glowing room.

“Last I checked, you inherited the entirety of the Potter and Black family fortunes.” Draco said, tucking his quivering hands into his pockets for safe keeping, securing his physical damage from the critical eyes of the aurors.

“Doesn’t make me a ponce like, you, does it?” Potter snapped at Draco, through gritted teeth. Potter had, since their excursion at Gringott’s Bank, been friendly with Draco. The two men, the two former enemies, had joked with one another. Their conversations had been light-hearted. They had started bonding as friends. So, seeing Potter in a less than favourable mood, told Draco he was worried about something. And it was bad.

“And what, exactly, has got your wand in a knot?” Asked Draco, leaning his shoulder against the arch frame, letting his body relax as he forced his knees to remain steady by drinking in the radiating energy from his wife, a few metres away from him. She had sat back down into the sofa, though he could feel how she was turned in the lounge, her eyes focused on her husband. The warmth of her gaze spread through him like a fire. Sending sparks from a kindling flame across his skin.

Weasley peered over Dracos shoulder, his neck stretching to see where the sofa had been placed, back when the redheaded auror had used to reside at the Malfoy manor. “Is ‘Mione in there?”

“Yeah. We were just on the sofa. Reading. Perhaps you have heard of the activity?” He answered with a quip before turning to The-Boy-Who-Lived. “Potter, what has got you lot charging in here like this?”

“Dolohov.” Potter answered simply. He had crossed his arms across his chest, his eyes sharp and piercing behind his circular spectacles. “He was set to be released pending a marriage.”

“We believe he was meant to marry Granger.” Draco said with a slow nod of acknowledgment, his head nodding in gesture towards his wife, still perched on the sofa. He could feel her curiosity tingle across his skin.

“Malfoy.” Weasley corrected light-heartedly. He was smirking. “Are you wearing… Colour?” He was. A light blue oxford, courtesy of the clothes shopping his wife had done, two mere weeks prior.

Draco closed his eyes with as much strength as he could muster, as to not roll his eyes so hard, he feared they might fall out of his head. “Oh, shut up, Weasel. And yes.”

“You love it, Ferret.” Weasley winked at him, though did not speak further on the topic of clothes.

“He was supposed to be picked up on Sunday next. The guards counted him in his cell last night, on their rounds, and had not discovered he was missing until he was found hanging from Tower Bridge in London, just this morning.” Potter said, ignoring the light antics of his ex-nemesis and his longest standing friendship.

Both sets of eyes immediately shifted to the spectacled man. “Hanging?” Draco asked with surprise. None of the previous victims had been found anywhere that wasn’t hidden. Shrubbery, bushes, hidden, though somewhere they could easily be found if one only looked close enough. “Did the muggles see him?”

“His body was fortunately warded, so no, the muggles did not see him. Everyone who knows magic, though, was able to. Including muggleborn children that still don’t know of magic.” Weasley told regretfully. “The muggle pleasing-officers got several calls about it in the morning hours. But no normal muggles could see them, but some children were hysterical. The obliviation-squad have had a rather busy morning.”

“He has been taken down now.” Potter said, his hand rubbing at the back of his head, making his raven hair stand on end, in odd salutes across his skull. “And I have to ask you, Malfoy, if you could please come along with us.”

“As long as I am not under arrest?” He said, crossing his arms across his chest, looking at the shortest of the trio with sharp, narrowed eyes.

“No. No, you’re not a suspect, Malfoy.” Potter assured him. “But the killer is picking up pace. At this rate, you or Goyle, or even both of you, could be dead before Christmas.” He was not smiling at the thought. In fact, the auror in charge was frowning.

Granger’s reaction to the news was palpable in the air of the solarium. It almost appeared to thicken around her. Her heart had sunk into the depths of her stomach. A small, shuddering exhale could he heard from her. Draco nodded his head slowly, looking between the two men, trying with all his might to not go over to her and wrap her tightly in his arms. He kept his focus on his new friends. People who, surprisingly enough, cared for him. “Okay. I’ll come with you.”

“It’s quite brutal.” Weasley warned grimly, the usual sparkle oh ease and comfort were not present across his face. “Dolohov’s murder, I mean. Just in case you might not want to come.”

Draco turned his head to face him, then started shaking his head with a grave expression. “I can assure you; I’ve seen worse.”

“Don’t say that just yet.” Potter said, turning to face the end of the corridor, his back towards the taller blonde. “Now come on.” He said, allowing his legs to carry him away from the solarium. Back towards the floo parlour.

Draco turned his head to look over his shoulder. Granger was still sitting in the sofa, her fingers clutching her copy of a book called Fellowship of the Ring until her fingers were white. She was looking over at him with the wide, bright eyes, reminiscent of the summer sun, though they bore fright. “Dolohov?” She asked him.

He nodded his head, the corners of his lips tugging into a small smile for her. “Apparently. So, I have to go, Granger.”

“Malfoy.” Weasley corrected from the corridor. Draco could hear the smirk within his voice.

She got up from the sofa, abandoning the book on the violet velvet. Her feet sounded softly against the floor as she slowly stepped towards him. He felt a faint smile creeping over his lips as he reached his arm out towards her. She sped up, closing their gap in mere moments. Her body fitting perfectly against his. Made for his. A perfect fit within his arms. The embrace was warm. The witch in his arms was utter perfection. “Promise me to be safe,” she spoke into his chest.

“Of course, love. Anything for you.” Draco muttered into her hair, brushing it lightly and carefully away from her face. “I’ll be fine. You enjoy your day and I’ll be back before you know it.”

She looked up at him. Big, round, brown eyes. Specks of gold swimming in an ocean of melted chocolate and honey. The perfectly spaced freckles, laying like constellations across the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks slightly reddened, quite common as of late, the tops of which were also highlighted with a smattering of soft, brown freckles. Her lips parted.

Lips he wanted to press his own to. He had wanted to kiss her for so long. Finding out the pair had been written in the stars, Draco found himself wishing to hold her and kiss her at every waken moment. He had not been quite so lucky. The moment of a kiss, a first kiss no less, had unfortunately not presented itself. He had only had the pleasure of viewing the freckles that dusted her lips. He had not yet had the privilege of tasting them.

“I get that you’re soulmates and all, but we need you to come, mate.” Weasleys voice brought him back into reality. Back to the archway between the corridor and the solarium. Back to the space he shared, not only with Granger, but also Ronald Weasley.

Draco quickly pecked Granger’s hair before releasing her. The motion happened to be quite reluctant. He would have preferred to hold her the entirety of the day. But he was unable to. At least that specific day. “I’ll be home soon,” he repeated. The gold swam within her eyes, igniting a flame of hope within him. She nodded her head but once, and with that, he turned back to their redheaded friend and strode down the corridor alongside him.

Potter stepped through the floo first. Then went Weasley. Draco was quick to follow. Doing as the men before him and calling out for the Ministry of Magic before being swallowed by a wall of green flames.

The department of magical law enforcement was much bigger than was expected. Of course, the offices and cubicles were as Draco had envisioned. He had been there before, in his youth, when he had accompanied his father. Though it had changed through the years, it was still somewhat as he recalled. Potter did not stop to greet his fellow aurors. He continued through the floor at a brisk pace, his green eyes dead set on a dark corner across the cubicles from where the deadly lift had deposited them.

“Potter,” greeted a grown man. Old enough to be either of their fathers. Grey strands had started peppering through his blonde hair. His skin bore signs of aging, with lines streaking from the corners of his eyes, much in the same fashion as lines around his mouth showed he had spent years smiling. Happy. His forehead, and two permanent lines between his brows, showed Draco the signs of worry. Of deep concentration. Evidence from his line of work.

Potter nodded his head firmly. “Robards.” He greeted the head of the department, though he did not stop. He continued forward. Striding along with haste.

“Weasley.” Robards greeted the second person in their line.

Weasley gave him a kinder greeting. “Afternoon, Robards.” He said, whilst giving the man a nod with his head. His tone was friendly and light.

“Malfoy?” The senior auror stared at the tall blonde. His brows pinched together, causing the lines between his brows to crease tightly together.

Draco nodded his head sharply, glancing between Robards and the back of Potters head, as the raven-haired wizard kept charging forwards. “Good afternoon, Mr. Robards.” He said, feigning confidence as he rushed after the two other aurors, forcing his legs to maintain their strength, though he felt they were waning.

Potter rounded an office wall ahead of them and opened a door, somewhat hidden in shadows. “Hurry, Malfoy.” He said, gesturing aggressively with his head.

Weasley and Draco rushed through the opening Potter held for them, before he too, followed them into the narrow, nearly secret hallway. It was dimly lit, with sparsely placed torch-sconces on the dark wooden walls.

“And where, per se, are we going?” Draco asked, his voice was a sharp hiss, as he felt it was much more appropriate with their atmosphere, than speaking at his normal volume.

“This is the way to the morgue, mate.” Weasley said in a hushed voice, though at a higher volume than Draco had previously. “We don’t exactly have corpses laying about in our offices, you know.”

“Well, you lot ought to inform people better, when you practically kidnap them from their homes…” Draco grumbled, his voice remaining low.

Weasley stopped in front of the furthest wall within the narrow hallway. There was no door. He heard the dull noise of wood tapping against wood, as he imagined the tip of a wand being held against the wall, and Weasley muttering a Latin word, his tone hushed and secretive.

The wall swung inward.

A cold, white light penetrated the warm darkness of the corridor. Light teal walls. A white ceiling. White tiles, gleaming in the horrid light, lined the lower third of the walls, as well as the floors. Polished, stainless steel surfaces reflected their surroundings. A white sheet covering the asymmetrical surface of a table. Hiding a corpse from plain view. Hopefully placed under a stasis charm.

“I’m guessing this is Dolohov?” Draco asked, nodding his head towards the covered body. His feet carried him towards the table, showing no sign of hesitation.

Draco had seen several corpses through his years. Being a Death Eater, would give a person the most morbid of opportunities to observe bodies, most in various stages of decay. He had seen freshly felled from killing curses, he had seen decapitated bodies, the outlines of those who had been eaten alive by overly large snakes. He had seen those who were mauled to death by hounds, smashed into puddles by giants, and those who had been tortured to death by various means. There were several more ways Draco had experienced corpses, though he did not wish to dwell upon it.

“Yeah… this is where we left him before we came to get you.” Weasley said, following him towards the table. He seemed quite uneasy. There was a grimace, a curled upper lip, with his nostrils flared in disgust.

Potter stood by the head of the corpse, across the table from Draco and Weasley. “Want me to get you a chair?” He asked the newcomer to the department, his brows elevated in question.

Draco shook his head at the question, glancing up at the auror before him. “Seeing Dolohovs corpse will not be as traumatising to me as you’d think, Potter.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve seen. I just know about… You know, Crabbe. And Hogwarts.” Potter explained as his hand reached towards his face, adjusting the glasses that were sliding down the length of his nose.

Draco rolled his jaw, his tongue slipping over the surface of his canines. He did not wish to go into too much detail, yet he wished to inform Potter and Weasley of some of the horrors he had been unfortunate enough to witness. “Do you remember Professor Burbage?”

“The old muggle studies teacher?” Weasley asked from his left.

Draco nodded “I sat not two feet away, watching as The Dark Lords damned snake ate her. While she was still alive.”

“You’re joking…” Weasley groaned as Potter looked down at the thick, coarse fabric of the sheet that separated him from Dolohov, a low groan coming from his throat.

“If you think your lot being tossed into our manor was the worst, I can assure you, it most certainly was not.” Draco locked his hard, steely gaze onto Potters emerald. “You have no idea what horrors happened within the manor. What nightmares I can assure you has come from it.”

Potter nodded his head slowly. “Understood, Malfoy. But if you vomit, at least aim it on the floor.”  He said before lifting the sheet. Revealing the corpse of the one and only, Antonin Dolohov.

He had been severely burned. His skin was glossed with large bubbles, revealing the seared muscular tissue beneath his skin. His Azkaban uniform had melted into the surface of his body. Dirtied, thick stripes of black and white, a permanent reminder of his previous residence. His face sagged with how it had melted from his skull. Boiled from the inside, with blisters littering the surface of his skin in a matter Draco had only before seen of pork-belly. His hair had melted to his scalp in large patches. The bones of his collar and his hands were revealed in yellowed white, where the tissue had eroded away from his skeleton.

His neck was long and stretched from having been hanged, seemingly for hours. The rope had been thin and durable, digging deep into the flesh behind his jaw. Cutting into the burned and marred tissue, with the duration he had been dangling from the bridge.

“Was he hanged with twine?” Draco asked with curiosity, bending forwards to take a closer look at the corpses neck. The indentation was quite deep and narrow. Whoever had strung him up, could not have been using any form of normal rope. And though twine was strong, it was certainly not strong enough to hold the body before him. Particularly not for an extended period.

Potter narrowed his eyes at Dracos question. “A polypropylene rope, actually. Blue, in case you were wondering.”

“A poly-propeller?” Draco asked with squinted eyes, looking up at the auror with questioning eyes. He had never heard of such a thing.

“Polypropylene. It’s a strong plastic rope used in boating and such.” Potter explained in a simple manner. He bent forwards slightly, looking at the same spot Draco was investigating.

“So, he was hanged after he was burned.” Draco deduced. “A plastic rope would have melted from the fire, would it?” He could see the way Dolohovs throat had sunk inwards, the normal shape of the top of his neck had flattened with the malleable soft tissue of someone who had been freshly seared.

“You’d be right.” Potter said slowly, his brows furrowing as he continued to watch alongside Draco. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, side-along apparition with a hot body, especially so hot it’s probably still boiling in places, would be rather difficult. Especially if it’s over a longer distance as well.” Draco explained his thoughts. “So, I think the killer must live, or at least do this somewhere close to Tower Bridge. Perhaps from such a short distance, where he could even levitate the body there.”

This caused potter to stand straight, his eyes wandering the walls as his mind worked as fast as a racing Firebolt. A hand ran through his pointed, black hair, mussing it further. “Excellent point.” He muttered.

Draco looked down at his old, felled comrade. More than happy to see him go in a gruesome manner. “It’s just an idea. Nothing says the killer can’t reside in Scotland or St. Ives.” He justified, taking a deep breath.

After several moments of silence, where Potter was working his mind along with, what Draco assumed, to be several ideas, only worthy of the mind of an Auror. Weasley broke the silence they all shared. “Well, if you think this side is bad, Malfoy… Just wait until you see his back.”

Potter snapped out of his bubble, where he quickly looked over at Weasley. The two aurors exchanged quick, knowing looks before Potter raised his wand. With one flick, the corpse levitated from the gleaming surface. With another flick, Dolohov turned and was subsequently lowered, revealing his back to the three men.

Draco immediately pressed his lips together to suppress a wince, and then a groan. He did not know why they threatened to escape him. He thought it might have been from the memories of having such pain inflicted on his own body. He also thought it was because of the message inscribed into the dead Death Eaters skin. The message itself, the two words before him, were more sickening than the marred skin.

Over the top half of Dolohovs back, were several deep slashes, much like was on Dracos own shoulders. Carving two words into the man for eternity. The cuts had been melted over with fire, though it did not hide the gruesome acts that had been caused upon him. A blade of sorts had been stabbed into the muscles. Slashing vertically. Horizontally. Diagonally. Several slashes per side of each letter. Blooming open, even after the fire that had melted the skin.

Not that the Death Eater did not deserve it. For he did. If anyone deserved such torment, it was Dolohov.

“It was cut into him while he was still alive.” Weasley said from Dracos left. His voice was cautious.

“Good,” Draco muttered. He felt his stomach twist and lurch. His knees wobbling heavily beneath his weight. His throat felt tight as we swallowed. Mouth filling with saliva as though he was about to release his stomach contents onto the floor, much like that Potter had mentioned earlier.

Draco pressed his eyes shut. Tightly. He gripped the edge of the gleaming surface before him as he thought of the breakfast he had with Granger. How she laughed. How her foot brushed against his shin as she crossed her legs. How she kept altering her voice to an exaggerated posh accent as she called him Duke and herself Duchess. How her hair framed her face so elegantly. How her nose scrunched as she gaped over the croissant. How her eyes focused on him, gleaming with gold from atop the brim of her cup, sipping her coffee.

How she smelled when he kissed her head goodbye. Like vanilla and peonies. Like a beautiful summers day. How she felt against his body. How her warmth spread over him as she settled against him. The piece he did not know he had been missing his entire life. The woman who gave him strength. Who gave him everything he needed with a simple look.

And there it was. Her name carved into a despicable and violent man’s skin.

Hermione
Granger

Bile rose in his throat, vile and vicious in its elevation. He quickly swallowed it back down. A hand, with a heavier tremor than ever before, raised to rub his fingers over his eyelids. As though he could remove the sight. As though he could alter it somehow. Change the name that was slashed into the skin before being melted by fire.

“Are you certain this is the same killer?” Draco said, opening his eyes, only to reread his wife’s maiden name for the tenth time. Still disbelieving.

He found himself needing to occlude. Just as his mother had urged him to do during the entirety of the war. In times of trial, in times of great horror; occlude. Removing himself from the moment. Allowing him to separate his joyous moments from the gruesome.

“We don’t know, Malfoy.” Potter said with a sigh, looking down at the man on the table. He pressed his lips into a thin line, much as though the name on Dolohovs back made him just as uneasy as it did Draco. “So far, the only things that are the same, is the abduction from Azkaban.”

“And from that, I believe the murderer has inside information from the guards or someone working with the extractions. Because it was not common knowledge he would be released soon. And they definitely hurried to get it done.” Weasley reasoned, staring down at Dolohovs carved back. He appeared paler than normally. His skin a twinge of green compared to his red-hued freckles.

Draco nodded his head slowly, having successfully pulled back significantly from the moment before. It had been years since he had last occluded. He was not quite as well trained in it as he used to be. Though the process was still familiar to him. “Burning would be more efficient than skinning them.”

“And probably just as painful. If not more.” Potter agreed thoughtfully. He pushed his glasses further up on his nose with a small sigh through his mouth.

“But why hang him from Tower Bridge?” Weasley asked. “And with a blue plastic rope?”

“Does blue mean anything to the killer?” Draco pondered aloud, glancing between the aurors he shared the space with.

Potter shrugged “Perhaps they were a Ravenclaw? As for Tower Bridge… Did they want to send a message?”

Brows raised on Dracos forehead. “A message to who? Granger?” he asked incredulously.

“Malfoy.” Weasley corrected with a light-hearted smirk. The man still appeared to be green behind his freckles, though he wished to mask it with humour. Much like his older brothers used to do in their youth.

Draco chose to ignore him, keeping his focus on Potter, who was watching Draco with keen, observant eyes. “Or perhaps you?” he asked The Chosen One.

“Could be to you too, Malfoy.” Potter retorted, keeping his eyes sharply locked on Draco. “They chose to write Granger instead of Malfoy on his back. Could be for a reason, wouldn’t you say?”

Dracos eyebrows elevated with sheer surprise, the occlusion lifting from his mind. He had not thought of that. “So… I could be next.” He said with wonder. His heart sank at the idea.

The prospect of dying hadn’t scared Draco since the rise of The Dark Lord. He had not been frightened by it in the slightest. He knew Death would come for him. Whether it was in his youth or after a century of life, he knew Death was coming. He had expected to die young. For his corpse to be one of plenty, littered in a battlefield. A casualty of war. A little rich boy, supporting the wrong side of the war and dying for it.

Of course, he did not wish to die. He, like most others on the surface of the earth, would have preferred to remain alive. To see where life took him.

And life truly had taken him to several places. With incredible highs and lows. He had, of course, experienced immense horrors. He had suffered tremendous loss. Both of his own sanity and physical wellbeing, but also of an innocence he wished he still had. He mourned the loss of the life had once led. The life of a somewhat normal boy. The life of a true git, with the potential to be someone better. The innocence he had lost, when he had first taken a life. Forced to do so, so his mother would not be murdered in place of someone who would have been murdered, no matter what.

And the highest of peaks, had been reached in his most recent times. Since his release from Azkaban. He had met a witch. Wonderful, she was. She cared for him. Her smile lit the world around her, with the brightest ray of sunshine. She was clever; incredibly so. She was exceedingly beautiful; with long, luscious curls casting down across her shoulders. With eyes as bright as gold. She was much shorter than him, which meant she fit into his arms better than anyone or anything else. The curves of her hips screamed to him. The way her thighs jiggled ever so deliciously as she walked, made him senseless beyond words.

Not only had she chosen him. She was meant for him. Destined for him. Her soul and his were written in the stars. Meant to be from the creation of the universe. He was hers, as she was his.

And with the killer on the loose, he had to face the unfortunate facts. He could die. He could be killed. Murdered; brutally so. Before he would even have the chance to enjoy his life with her. Before he could have the opportunity to truly fall in love with her. Before he had so much as kissed her.

For he wished to do that. He wished to live a long life alongside her. He yearned to know the happiness they could share. To wake every morning at her side, sharing a sleepy kiss as sunlight flittered through the sheer curtains. To comb his fingers through her hair. Long, soft curls gliding between his digits; smelling of summer and warmth and love.

To welcome a child into their lives. Hopefully several. To support her as she climbed to the top of the Ministry. To buy her flowers, just because it was a Tuesday. To stand beside each other and cook. To travel together, the muggle way, in an aeroplane. To meet her parents. To try new things with her. To repeat old happenings. To create new traditions with their family. All by her side.

If he died; if he was murdered, he would lose all of those possibilities. He would lose a life with Granger. Hermione. His Hermione. And she would lose her soulmate, before she had the opportunity to enjoy the very same moments he wished for them. She would be torn in half, exactly as he would be if he lost her. She would be alone. Missing a piece of herself; a piece of her soul.

“I could die…” The words left his lips in a whisper. Barely audible, even in their shared silence of the revelation that Draco Malfoy might just be the main target of the murderer.

“We’ve been trying to tell you this, mate.” Weasley said, his piercing blue eyes watching his cautiously beneath furrowed brows.

“No… I know that Weasley… But I…” He locked eyes with Potter, who was smiling at him. His glasses were slowly sliding down the length of his nose. “Oh stop looking so smug, Potter.”

“You didn’t have anything to live for, until now, did you?” Potter asked him, his grin gleaming from across the corpse that parted them.

Draco heaved a sigh, his eyes casting down onto her name. Her maiden name. Hermione Granger. “I just found her, Potter. I can’t let her go. Even if it is by me being ripped from her… I can’t go into a world beyond life, without having lived this current one to its fullest extent. With her.”

“Well, if you want to live a long life with your soulmate, we need to find the killer.” Weasley said, bringing both Draco and Potter back to the task at hand. The corpse before them. The murderer at large. “Why do you think the killer carved her name into him?”

“Because she was set to marry him, wasn’t she?” Draco offered swiftly. “Even Kingsley said they had started the extraction process. Granger-”

“Malfoy.” Weasley once more reminded his blonde friend.

“Believed it was Dolohov she would be paired with. I believe that suspicion has now been confirmed.” Draco continued, as though Weasley had not interrupted him.

Potter looked thoughtfully down at the carved and burned back of the corpse. He raised his wand aloft once more, flicking it to effortlessly turn the remnants of the Death Eater around. Revealing to them, once more, the torched and melted front of his body. “We need to find out who knew.”

With a deep inhale, Draco stepped back from the body. He had previously taken note of a stool in a corner behind him, and thus allowed his weakened body to have a rest atop it. His knees were shaking as he walked to it. His ears buzzing with the light-headedness that had suddenly come upon him. He leaned his body forwards, breathing shakily through his mouth as he rested his elbows on top of his knees.

“Y’alright mate?” came Weasleys voice from next to the table.

“I told you, if you need to vomit, aim it on the floor” Potter said in a manner that was much too casual for Dracos preference. The auror almost sounded amused.

“I’m fine… I’m fine.” He said, running his quaking hand through his hair. “I’ve just been moving about too much. Standing for too long. It got the best of me.” He told the two other wizards. And he had. Without Granger by his side, Dracos body was not the same. He did not have the capacity to walk at a brisk pace for long, nor was he able to stand for much longer than absolutely necessary. His knees were weak. The tremors in his hands and forearms ever present.

Had she been there with him, hopefully holding onto him; her skin on his, he would still be standing. He would still have the strength to walk. To move. To toss ideas out into the open, for Weasley and Potter to work with. However, she was not there. She did not share her strength with him. She did not hold his hand. She was not by his side to support him, nor to steady his tremors.

“You look like shit.” Potter said.

“Could say the same to you.” Draco muttered; his eyes closed as he breathed through the spell of dizziness that had rattled him. There was a slight ringing in his ears. He could hear the blood pounding through the veins in his skull. The back of his neck felt immensely hot, whilst the entirety of his back felt cold and dampened with sweat.

“Oh yes, ha-ha, some mean comment about my scar or whatnot?” chimed Potter sarcastically.

“No. I mean, it is unfortunate that your scar is literally on your face, especially considering the history of it.” Draco said, reaching a tremoring hand upwards, to wipe a msting of dampness from his brow. “But I have scars too. Plenty. One of them is quite similar to Dolohovs.”

“What?” the snap in Weasleys voice, caused Draco to lift his head, his eyes opning to focus on his red-headed friend. “You have a scar like his?”

“Not exactly like his. It doesn’t say Hermione Granger,” he said slowly, entwining his own fingers before him to steady them. “Why?”

“I won’t ask what it says, but who would know about it?” he asked. He seemed both worried and eager. Draco assumed it was to have something to cross-reference between other revelations of that afternoon and morning.

“It says Blood Traitor. It’s in the exact same fashion and placement as Dolohovs.” Draco told Weasley. He noticed Potter close his eyes tightly behind his glasses, a face of regret ever present. “And I’m guessing anyone who can get to my Azkaban files could know about it?” Draco said with a quirked brow as he returned his gaze back towards Weasley, who seemed to have paled at the mention of the title Draco now bore on his back. “I got it just after the Battle of Hogwarts. It should be documented in my file. Somewhere alongside my dark mark and the scars Potter gave me in sixth year.”

Potter met Dracos eyes once more. Green, and heavily apologetic beneath his pinched brows. “I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I was for that.” His voice was what Draco could only describe as small. Miniscule. A man who deeply regretted his past actions.

“It doesn’t matter now, Potter. It was the least of what I deserved.” He gave the man with the circular spectacles a half-hearted smile. “Those scars are as much a part of my history as yours is. No need to dwell upon it now.”

Potter slowly, reluctantly, nodded his head. “Alright. So now we cross check who knows about Dracos scar and then who know about Dolohovs release. Perhaps even add it to the perimeter of who lives close to Tower Bridge.” He said, turning his eyes back do the dead Death Eater with furrowed brows.

“Why do you think they’d rush to kill him?” Draco asked after a moment’s worth of silence, his eyes falling back to the profile of Antonin Dolohov. “They must have only had him for hours. They’ve previously done several days.”

“Last time, they downscaled to a weekend. Perhaps something fun their life has changed recently. They might not have the same freedom as they once did.” Potter uttered, straightening his back and craning his neck.

“Could they have gotten married recently?” Weasley wondered, casting glances between his friends, both on opposing sides of the room. “Part of the repopulation act and all?”

“Brilliant, Weasley!” Draco said in earnest, sitting up from his hunched position, his shoulder finding the wall for support. “Perhaps from the second wave?”

Potter shook his head thoughtfully, his hand running through, and messing up his already angered hair, even further. “Could be an idea. But they could have also just started a relationship on their own. Or even just moved houses. Or started an activity.”

“So what, you think he’s out playing quidditch with his mates, every Wednesday evening between seven and eight, and therefore can’t murder during his weekends?” Draco asked, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

Potter gave him an exasperated look before turning to Weasley. “You should help him reach the floo, Ron. I have theories to explore.”

Weasley did not question it, as he turned and stepped closer to Draco, who was already working on climbing to his feet. His legs still quaking beneath his slowly increasing weight.

“Please, let me know if I can be of any assistance.” He said, his fingers pressing against the wall to keep himself aloft. He did not believe it would be comfortable to land forehead-first onto the white tiled floor.

“Why? Looking to leave the house? Getting away from the shackles of marriage?” Weasley joked lightly, offering his arm to Draco for support.

“No.” Draco said flatly. “Because I want to help. Just so I can live a long life with my soulmate.” His eyes met the vibrant blues of Weasleys. His brow elevated. “Just as I know you wish to spend the rest of your life with your wife and your daughter.” 

Weasley nodded his head. Then he shifted his gaze back to Potter, who was standing over the covered corpse of one Antonin Dolohov. “It best he’s gone, right? Dolohov?”

Draco nodded. “If there is one person who deserved a horrible death, it was him. I’m glad the world is rid of him.” It was a fact. Dolohov had ended countless lives. And destroyed even more than he had ended. His list of horrid deeds was endless.

“Why the bridge?” Potter asked, his emerald eyes focused on the white sheet before him once more. “Why string him up? The others were hidden. At least more hidden than this…”

Weasley shrugged a shoulder. “Seems like something to ponder.”

Draco nodded his agreement. “You two do that, while I go have a bit of a rest.” The clearest indication that the blonde wished to return home. To return to her. To hold her. To smell her.

Weasley turned towards the door, just where the other wall had opened. The inside of the door quite obviously had a door handle, and an easy way to escape the blinding, white light and pale coloured walls. He stepped towards the exit, bringing Draco with him, supporting the palest wizard of the three as they worked towards the exit.

“Talk to you later, Potter. Tell the missus I said hello.” The blonde spoke over his shoulder. Pansy had been feeling under the weather since the wedding, and had remained at Grimmauld Place, as floo-travel nauseated her.

“Yeah. Later Malfoy.” He muttered, lost in his own thoughts as he continued to stare at the white sheet.

Weasley didn’t speak until they were in the lift. It was moving horrendously jerky. An awfully sickening spin took them upwards as they were whisked away. “You don’t want ‘Mione to know, do you?”

“No. I don’t. I understand she deserves to know. She should know. But I want to keep her out of this. I want her to be separated from this.” He clung to the overhead handles for dear life, his knuckles white with the might he used to keep himself on his feet.

“But with her starting at the Ministry soon, that probably won’t be a good idea.” Weasley reminded him. Granger had owled Kingsley back and forth. She had asked for a position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Shacklebolt had not agreed, thus offered her a position in the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Granger had countered with a demand of her most wished position. Her second choice was also listed as an option, working for the Department of Magical Education. Her third option was one to note; working in the office of the Minister for Magic. Then, she had acted like a true Malfoy, adding a thinly veiled threat of the Malfoy solicitor should he not agree. So he had allowed her a leading position in the DME.

Draco sighed with defeat. “Should the official aurors tell her, or should her husband be the one to do it?” he asked, keeping his focus on his friend, rather than the freefall of the lift that held them.

The two men locked eyes as the lift jerked forwards, setting itself rather abruptly into place at the atrium. Fortunately for Draco, it was much less crowded than it had been on his last visit, a mere two weeks prior. No reporters. No flashing bulbs from the cameras of overeager photographers. Only a few stray workers. A couple of house elves, working on sweeping the floors. The atmosphere was relaxed. Easy.

“I’ll do it…” he said. He knew Weasley agreed. He had been around the man enough, to know exactly what his much too animated grimaces meant. “And then I’m taking her somewhere. Perhaps I should show her to our villa in Marseille.”

“You’re such a rich prat, you know that?” Weasley said as the gates finally opened, allowing the men to walk through, out into the open space of safety

“As would you be, if you had grown up with money instead of affection.” Draco was quick to bite back at the light-hearted comment. He pulled himself away from the redheaded man, straightening his jacket with a quick tug of both of his hands. He wasn’t upset at the comment. Not really. His body’s weakened state and the sickening ride on the lift, had caused his mood to sour.

Weasleys joking demeanour quickly retreated. “Hey, you know I don’t mean anything by it.” His voice portrayed the kindness Draco knew he had always carried. A true Weasley. Lovely, just as his mother and father.

“I know, Weasley. I know.” Sighed Draco with defeat. He did not wish to push his newly made friend further from him. He appreciated the relationship he had formed with the youngest Weasley man. It was comfortable. Easy.

“You could just call me Ron, you know. Like most of my friends do.” The other wizard smiled sheepishly, apparently feeling a hint of awkwardness at the aspect of mentioning their blooming friendship aloud.

Draco raised his brow as he looked over at the man by his side. “As you must have noticed by now, I still haven’t started calling Granger, by her first name. I still call her by the name she bore in school.” The name that she hadn’t shared with a soul for the better part of a decade. The name she had chosen to rid herself of, as her parents did not carry the name. Nor did anyone else. Draco’s heart sank in his chest as he realised the pain and suffering the name carried. She had chosen not to carry it with her into her adult life. She had chosen not to be Hermione Granger. Not only for him, but also for herself. She had done so very much for him; sacrificed sizable parts of her own being for him. And he had not once returned the favour. “Yet, you assume I’ll start calling you by your first name, before I do so with my own wife?”

“But Hermione is so much longer than Ron,” Weasley moaned playfully, his head rolling backwards with oversized dramatical effect.

“The length of your name means nothing to me. A short name is but a boring name. Perhaps even indicating a boring person.” A smirk befell his lips. A brown cocked in the direction of the taller, freckled man. “And Granger is anything but boring. Anything but mundane.”

“You’re insufferable.” Said the other man with a small huff. “Why can’t you resent her, the way you did in school?”

“Because she’s my soulmate, little Weasel.” Draco’s smirk only broadened at the man, patting his shoulder with a quaking hand. “When I was a child, I didn’t have the mind I do today. I didn’t recognise the way the universe pulled me toward her. I still don’t understand it. I still don’t fathom how the stars have aligned for us. But I do know, I am now willing to try. Which is more than I could ever say for my teenage self.”

Blue eyes sized him up whilst his face bore an impressed expression. “It’s amazing to see how much you’ve changed since then.” The comment was one of pure honesty.

“It’s incredible what a couple of hours of the cruciatus curse, some mutilation, severe trauma and eight years in Azkaban could do for one’s mental state.” Draco spoke light-heartedly to the other wizard. Of course, the message was one that reminded Weasley of the scar he somewhat shared with Potter. The horrid fate the man had suffered before being stowed away for several years, but the tone was light. Draco did not mean to bring don any mood. He did not wish to make the other wizard feel sorry for him in any capacity. He simply wished to be able to joke about it. To be able to mention it without having the world fall apart around him. Without feeling the traumatic flashes of the torture. Of the pain. Of his incarceration.

Weasley stared at him for a moment. Unblinking. Lips slightly parted. “Right… Why did someone carve you up with ‘Blood Traitor’ anyways?”

Dracos brows furrowed. He stepped up towards the grand line of departing hearths, staring towards the polished, black brick. “That’s a story for another time.” Draco dismissed effectively. Though he was sure the auror could imagine, he did not know the whole story. He did not yet know what Draco had risked, making sure the war was won. What trauma he had suffered to ensure the freedom of the Golden Trio. The rage of The Dark Lord that he had been faced with on multiple occasions. How he could not have The Brightest Witch of Her Age be a puppet at the hands of Antonin Dolohov. A pet to the Death Eaters. Ensuring the dark side won.

Weasley, Ron, nodded. His brows slightly pinched. Lost, somewhere deep within his own mind. “Mum wanted me to invite you to dinner on Sunday.” He said, somewhat absentmindedly.

“Really?” the surprise was evident in his voice. He even heard it himself. “Mrs. Weasley specifically told you to invite me??”

“Yeah. Said she wants you there. Part of the family now, and all.” His blue eyes refocused on Draco. “I think she’s fallen for you, mate. Hasn’t shut up about how well you danced and how handsome you are. I swear, it’s doing dad’s head in.”

A proper smirk spread across Draco’s lips “If Granger and I are in England on Sunday, we’ll be there. I’ll let you know.”

With one last look, both men sharing a small smile, Draco stepped into the hearth, and he was whisked away in a spark of green.

“Mistress is pacing, Master Draco. Has been since you left with Misters Weasel and Chosen-One this morning.” Effie greeted Draco nervously at the floo parlour. She was dressed in a royal blue dress, with a red belt hugging her small waist. Clasped, pearl earrings weighed at her already drooping ears, causing them to sag below her shoulders. 

Draco blinked, not having expected such an abrupt greeting the moment he stepped through the hearth. He felt the warmth of the manor, the warmth of Granger, wash over his body. “Why is she pacing, Effie?”

“Mistress hasn’t told Effie, sir.” She wrung the hem of her dress between her hands, her fingers digging roughly into the elegant fabric. The elf did seem utterly bewildered and worried at Granger’s pacing.

“Did you ask her, Effie?”

“Effie did not…”

“Alright Effie. Thank you for telling me.” Draco smiled at the little elf. He did not need to be told Granger was uneasy. He de felt it. The air within the manor was filled with tension. Her discomfort was palpable through the corridors and the rooms they shared.

Effie bowed her head to her master, then disapparated with a crack, and Draco was almost certain her quick disappearance would spark into a fire with the tension in the air.

He did not need to ask the elf where Granger was. There was an invisible thread uniting them. Her body was reeling him in, as though he was physically latched to her. A dog on a lead. His body knew where to find her. He rounded the corner and allowed the momentum to pull him up the stairs. He clutched to the banister, his quaking legs struggling to push him upwards, though each step should have gotten more difficult, they became easier. Lighter. The power of her mere presence was healing him.

He felt her before he saw her. Her presence blossoming around his senses. Her perfume reached his nose. She smelled as divine as a French bakery. Notes of vanilla, almond, cardamom, chocolate and cinnamon floated through the air. Her warmth, as familiar to him as her embrace, sank into his skin. Into his bones. Her healing touch reached him before he could see her, his tremors easing on the banister. He lifted his gaze, fortunately able to see her rounding the corner as she approached him.

“Finally,” she said in greeting, rushing down half the flight of the grand stairs to meet her husband. Her hair bouncing with every step she took down the steps. He had stopped, opening his arms to her. She did not hesitate to rush into him. To wrap her arms around his waist. He felt her nose pressing and rubbing ever so lightly against his collar bone.

His nose pressed into her hair as his arms wrapped around her. There was nothing like being in her presence. Nothing like holding her close. Nothing like knowing he could look forward to her presence, for the rest of his life. No matter how short it may be. “Missed me?”

“More than I care to admit…” Her voice was muffled by his shirt. He could feel her entire body relax into his. Her heartbeat steadying. Her worry easing. The tension that had filled the entirety of the manor just moments prior, melted away into nothing. The light air of summer flowing through the grand, open spaces with ease.

His fingers stroked ever so gently up along her back. His fingers stretching out across her shoulder blade, before curling lightly over the curve of her shoulder. “I missed you too.” He admitted. He had. Being near her again, had made him realise it.

He felt so utterly complete with her. He had spent the full length of the last nine days by her side. Parting only to sleep in side-by-side bedrooms. Even then, he felt their parting deep within his bones. He had felt the loneliness of her not being next to him. Of not being able to reach out and touch her when she was all he needed to survive. When the nightmares had gotten to him, rattling his existence, he only wished to curl up with her. To hug her to his body. To feel her existence. Yet, she was a wall away. Unreachable in the looming darkness.

“Hermione,” He spoke into her beautiful, brown curls. He felt her body still in his arms. Her heartbeat seemed to quicken within the confines of his own chest. Her breathing stopped for only a moment, but he felt it. The sheer surprise of being called by her first name echoed through her body, resonating within his own through their bond.

Her head lifted; her face not remaining hidden against his chest. Brown eyes searched his, her gaze intense and questioning at the drastic change. “Did you… Why did-”

His eyes holding onto hers like a vice. Brown. Shimmering with the golden notes of honey. Magic sparkled within her. A beauty like no other. Incredible. Astounding. “Because you are the most incredible person I have ever met. You are not only a brilliant witch, but you are also everything I thought I could only wish to experience in another person. You are clever, you are kind, your heart is bigger than I think either of us could fathom. You radiate beauty from within, your soul is what makes the world spin; you are the magic of the setting sun. You are the beauty of gems, sparkling and captivating the world around you. You, Hermione, is the eighth wonder of the world. Nothing is as wonderful, as unique and as particularly precious as you are.”

He held her face in his hand, her jaw resting in his palm as he gazed deep into her eyes. Her breathing was laboured against his chest. He could see the way her lips tried to form words. Struggling in their venture.

The freckles, golden brown on her sun kissed skin, had stretched from her the bridge of her nose. Down to her cheeks. Peppering lightly along the outer frame of her face. Her lips even bore the marks of a presence in the sun.

“And all I have ever done, is call you names. I have fought against you. I have been a horrible person to you. All because I was afraid of you, of your unwavering brilliance and astonishing beauty. Your brain, your heart, your soul. I have never been able to understand you. I am still unable to.” The pad of his thumb stroked against her cheek. Soft as the petal of a flower. “I wish to spend the rest of my life making my horrible words and actions up to you. I wish to make you feel the love I can give you, instead of the horrors I can inflict. I wish to be the one to help you bear your burdens and to be there, by your side, through thick and thin.”

“Draco,” her voice was soft in the air between them. She searched his eyes as though she was searching his soul. He wondered if she could spot something that was hidden dep within him. Something he had yet to find for himself. One of her arms shifted, tangling itself around the back of his shoulders. He awaited her following words, but they did not come.

He could not forcefully contain himself further. He yearned for her. His body aching to be closer, calling out to her as though he was a drowning man in the night, and she was a ship, come to rescue him. Her gaze was set on his. Molten gold. Beautiful droplets of amber dancing within her brown orbs. If it was true, and the eyes were indeed the windows to one’s soul, he knew for a fact, Hermiones soul was made of the purest magic, stemming from the deepest and most awestriking reaches of the vast universe which surrounded them. She was sunlight. She was starlight. She was the diamond in the rough. She was the one and only hope in a broken world. She was everything to him. He had just not realized until that very moment.

The word was scary. The word was not one he deserved to share with her. For it was too deep. Too real. Yet the pull he felt towards her body, was nothing he could ignore. The tips of his fingers spread into her hair, feeling the soft locks as he lowered himself. Her quivering breath hitched as she rose to the tips of her toes. The moment before meeting in the middle, seemed to last for a century.

There she was. The witch of his dreams. In his arms. Mere centimetres away from him. She could change her mind. She could turn her head. She could reject his advances, his proclamation. She could slap him across the face. But she did not.

The gap between them closed. His hold around her body, tightened, his fingers finding a path into the glorious volume of curls. Her arm wound around his shoulders, holding him in place as their lips finally united. In that life, as the one before. Soulmates truly reunited with one another.

Her lips were ever so soft against his, fitting perfectly together. Moulded to perfection for the other. Her freckled pillows tasted of almonds and honey. Fingers combed through his hair, her nails raking lightly against his scalp.

Though, nothing in the world, had prepared him for the heat that emanated from their lips. She felt like fire against him. Licking hotly against him, though not searing his skin. There was a flash of blinding light, coming from each of their left hands. The threads of their bonds glowing as they had at the time of their union.

But Draco did not care. He did not care if the magic within had set him ablaze. He did not care if the kiss had been one of his death. For he was finally doing what he had been created to do. He was kissing her. Pouring his emotions onto her through their new connection. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. She clung to him like a vice, refusing to part from him. Their lips never leaving one another’s as they both got lost in the new sensation.

He was meant for it. He was meant for her. Created to kiss her. Created to serve her. Created to love her. And in that moment, and for every moment forward, he had her. His life would be complete, as long as he could worship the woman who was created from starlight and wonder. For he was holding her. He was kissing her. He was sharing the remainder of his life with her. His wife. His soulmate. The woman he loved.

Chapter Text

The breeze swayed her peach-coloured dress lightly across the glittering surface of the water. Her toes had sunk into the silken sand beneath her feet. The sun above was gleaming down at the beach, warming their skin, whilst the softest of ocean air cooled them back down.

Draco had folded up the hem of his jeans in neat sections, so he could join her in the water. The scars from his previously worn shackles, were ever prominent on his skin. Large, rough indents of where the heavy metal eroded his skin for years. It was reddened, glossed over with the sheen of torture. It was healing. Though, it would probably never vanish entirely. Just as the rest of his wartime scars.

He waded over to her, their souls bringing them together in the water. The gravitational pull from one another united their hands as they both relaxed in the sun.

The hem of her dress slapped lightly against the top of her calves. The fabric had touched the surface, causing the ocean water to soak into the fabric. She found she did not care.

She swivelled joyously in the water, stepping further from the beach. Dracos hand remained in hers, holding it aloft, though connected as she made her spin. Her dress tugged at her shoulders, heavier now with the water that had swallowed the hem. She didn’t mind. The feeling of freedom in the air was greater than she had anticipated when leaving England.

He joined her at her depth. She could see a weight having been lifted from his shoulders. His entire body seemed lighter than air after their portkey had landed them in the Malfoy family villa in France. “Thank you,”

“You don’t have to thank me every five minutes, Hermione.” He said, stepping closer to her. Ripples of water found the folded helm of his jeans.

She knew she had thanked him quite often over the last hour, for taking her out of the country. After his arrival home the previous day, he informed her properly of Dolohov’s murder; how he had been carved with her name. It had sent her into a frenzied panic. She had paced the corridors. She had marched into the study and opened a roll of parchment to start jotting down ideas. Draco had tried to calm her. He had tried to assure her that she was not the next victim. Which was never her worry to begin with.

She had, at that point in time, been connected to the murder. The murderer wished to send her a message. A grotesque and horrid message, which she did not wish to receive.

The roll of parchment was, before long, littered with theories, ideas, speculations and her own thoughts of who to look further into. She had owled it to Harry before she even had so much time as to breathe properly.

Draco had tried his best to be supporting her in her stupor, however, when she had reemerged from the depths of focus she had been in, he had suggested to her that they go to his ancestral home in France. It did not take much to persuade her.

She had, of course, envisioned a house similar to the manor in Wiltshire. A large, ancient, flagstone building or castle, placed somewhere in a vast landscape, away from the big cities, away from people. Perhaps close enough to a village to walk to. But nothing had prepared her for the location they arrived at.

A villa. It was indeed old and grand, but it was not placed in a large, open field and hidden away from people. No. The villa sat in a hill in a secluded, magical neighbourhood, hidden from view of muggles. As was the beach, which belonged to the neighbourhood. The building was of a commonly Mediterranean build, with a sandy beige structure and an orange tiled roof. The doors and windows were of wrought iron, decorated with majestic swirls and patterns. Tiles depicting magical creatures in nature, lined a wall within, just by the entrance of the home, and each room within the house, had at least one stained glass window, casting a warm and inviting feeling into the old villa. There were two levels to the home, a large garden, with a highly elevated patio, housing a firepit and a comfortable sitting group.

The view was, to say the very least, amazing. She could see the entirety of the city the villa was placed in the outskirts of. The harbour was curved, with bright, vivid blue water. It was lined with rows and rows of boats and docks. The historical, and majestic city of Marseille stretching up the hills, with lightly coloured houses and tiled roofs. Atop the grandest of hills, stood a basilica. It was large. It was beautiful. Eye-catching in every way. Notre-Dame de la Garde. She recognised it from several books she had read on French history.

The city and its harbour, opened into the Mediterranean Sea. The air was fresh. The boats were sliding along the water, with flags of various countries waving behind them, allowing Hermione to see where tourists were visiting from. Switzerland. Italy. Norway. Wales. The United States. Brazil. Countless more.

The tension she had felt the day before, had faded away the moment she had seen the beauty of the French Riviera before her. The fresh smell of seawater had sunk into her body along with the sunshine, and she had truly, finally, allowed freedom to wash over her like a wave.

Like the waves she was standing in, alongside her husband. Her arms wrapped around her torso as she stepped into his frame. Her heart felt like it was leaping within her chest as she looked up at him. He was unmistakably handsome in the sunlight. His alabaster skin seemed to glow with his magic, the ripples of the water sending captivating reflections onto his skin. His eyes were of her favourite state, molten silver, with specks of sapphire surfacing from within.

And for her, that day, he had worn muggle clothes. Jeans and a white, vintage AC/DC T-shirt, with the logo being red and yellow. A black leather jacket lay discarded in the dry sand on the beach. His hair was half-up, pulled back into a bun, whilst the rest of his wavy, white hair hung at his nape, curling lightly into ringlets beneath his ears. She felt the need to thank him again, for doing so much for her, only she had done so mere moments prior.

She untangled one hand from his waist, draping it lightly around his broad shoulders, urging him to bend forwards. Since their first kiss, shared in the stairwell just the day before, she could not get enough. She longed to press her lips to his at every moment. She yearned for it. That morning, as she had awakened, her entire body had nearly vibrated from her bed as her skin had tingled for his. Her lips needed their connection. Her skin prickled with the need of his presence. The need of his touch.

His kiss was soft. Tender. Filling her with warmth as though her entire being had been set ablaze with a magical fire, of which would not wound her. He tasted of Welsh Cakes and overly sweet tea, his breakfast from that morning. His fragrance washed over her. Smoky vanilla with a hint of deep, rich wood and sharp, enveloping citrus. She felt his fingers threading into the lengths of her springy curls, as she proceeded to wrap both of her arms around his neck, bringing his body impossibly closer to hers.

The water lapped at them. The sound of the waves faded to nothing as she was entirely swallowed by his presence. Everything else ceased to exist. It was just them. Two halves of a whole. Years of trials and tribulations had having finally reunited the pair; completing them both.

Her entire body surged with electricity, prickling at her skin. Her breath catching in her throat. She could feel his magic surging from his core, entering their shared space. Enveloping her. The pull from within, the invisible twine that connected their souls, pulling them tighter together. A tug at her heart. A pull on her very essence. Completing her.

The kiss did not last long. It was only moments before she pulled away from his lips; reluctantly so. The sensation of their souls colliding was overwhelming to her senses. Her entire body body, her mind, her soul craved for more. The connection to him, so strong she needed him to breathe. To survive.

A shaky breath was released from his lips, as though his soul shuddered at their broken connection. She looked up at him, feeling a smile tug at her lips. “I think we should go.” She spoke into the ocean air.

He had agreed to go into Marseille with her, to explore the city. To show her the magical side, apparently hidden in a cavern beneath the grand hill beneath the Notre-Dame de la Garde. She had insisted they get him a new wand whilst visiting, seeing as he feared to meet Garrick Ollivander in the wand shop in Diagon Alley. Especially after what the old man had to endure at the Malfoy manor. Perhaps even under Draco’s wand. His own creation.

“I think you’re right,” he concurred breathlessly, giving a small nod in confirmation, though he did not release her. His fingers played aimlessly with her curls, his eyes seemingly scanning her, flitting over her face to observe every small detail. What emotion, what thoughts lay behind his eyes, she did not know. All she knew, was his eyes of molten silver settled upon gazing into hers. Just as she was with his.

Her heart hammered within her chest, fighting itself to calm down. “We probably shouldn’t apparate, should we?” She knew the answer was no. She knew he was in no condition to apparate them both, and she hadn’t any idea what or where to apparate to. They needed to leave the beach, trudge their way to the villa and leave.

But she did not want to. His arms: his embrace, was the epitome of home.

“We need to floo to La Petit Matagot,” The way he spoke the three, simple French words, caused her beath to still for a moment. With his effortless French accent, there was an entirely new feeling to explore. It was flooding her veins, mingling with her blood. A wave from a passing boat sent water up to her knees, and she took a step back, his arms releasing her.

“And from there, we can go out into muggle Marseille?” She followed the current of the waves, leading her back to the silky sand beach, her gaze locked on the man who was following her out of the water.

A sway to his shoulders as he trudged after her. A tug at the corner of his lips. “Yes. Or we can go into wizarding Marseille, if you’d prefer?” the backlit, fallen angel with blonde hair surely knew how to pique er interest.

La Petit Matagot was but a small bar, with an atmosphere most decadent compared to The Leaky Cauldron. It was elegant. It was quiet. The crowd within was nicely dressed and mingled haughtily with one another. The two differing floo hearths were placed outside of the bar, so the patrons within, would not be disturbed of the hustle and bustle of the people arriving to the hidden magical world of Marseille.

Dracos hand enveloped hers, their fingers linking together as he guided her up the darkened cobblestone path, leading to what she assumed to be the main street. The path was quite narrow, to the point where the pair had to step entirely up against the wall of a building to the right, as other witches and wizards passed them to get to the departing hearth.

Draco gestured to a long drape of green vines hanging to their right, covering what seemed to be the mouth of a tunnel, winding upwards. “Behind these vines, are a hill and set of stairs, leading up into the muggle city. But if you want to stay here, we go left. And around the corner, we will find Le Chemin des Lumières. Which is practically like Diagon Alley.”

“Why is it called The Path of Lights when it’s so dark in here?” The entirety of the space around them, was black. Pitch black, like the deepest of nigts. They were in a seemingly boundless cave, deep beneath the bustling streets of Marseille.

“If you go left, you’ll find out.” She could spot the way his brow quirked upwards, even in the dimly lit space.

Contemplating her option, she cast her eyes upon the draping greenery. Going right, through them, she could take her husband to see the sights, to act like a muggle. Carefree and anonymous.

Going left, she would experience a magical world that she had never before seen, sitting in a cave beneath one of the most historical cities in France. Of course, she had read of the city above. She had seen images of it, and knew she had a full week of exploration ahead of her, alongside her husband. “Show me the lights then, Mr. Malfoy.”

At this, his fingers squeezed around her own. “Follow me then, Madame Malfoy,” the last two words, her new marital title, was pronounced with a French twist. Their eyes met for a moment, before he turned to their left and pulled her along into the darkness.

Turning the corner, she was met with a nearly blinding scene. The path of lights was aptly named, indeed. To illuminate the street before them, deep within the darkness of the cave, they had not magicked the arching cave ceiling to replicate the sky above. Nor had they placed lamp posts or allowed floating candles from the heights. No.

Each shop had, what almost appeared to be neon signs. Reminiscent of busy streets in the most hectic of the big cities. The signs were made on blackened stone or deep coloured woods, and apparently painted in what was glowing vibrant, colourful writings and drawings. It was everything that Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley were not. Every building was lit in bright and vivid colours from the crowding, glowing signs or the illuminating, vivid lanterns that floated aimlessly just above the rooftops of the houses.

Hermione saw that the shop windows were displaying magical items. One building with orange, illuminating lanterns above the windows, sold Wands, or as the sign in the window said Baguettes De Magiques in large letters, followed by Fabriqué à la main par Pierre LaBeouf. All written in swirling, glowing, purple lettering, with a golden border.

The next shop had French doors, made to appear like a cauldron, opening in the middle, letting blue and grey smoke billowing into the open street, mingling with everyone who entered and exited. Chaudrons de Cassiopeia said a flurry of golden letters on a wooden sign above the cauldron-door, with the U in Chaudrons made to appear into yet another cauldron. It didn't take a lot of wondering what Cassiopeia was selling within her shop. 

Amongst the several stores of the cavern street, lay cafés and bistros, selling everything from normal muggle food to animated pastries made to appear as magical creatures. Hermione found himself particularly drawn to a Chinese Fireball Dragon that was flapping its wings towards her and Draco, heaving its chest viciously at them, as though to create the famed ball of fire of which it bore its name.

She did not get the pleasure of seeing it appear, because Draco continued to walk her further into Le Chemin des Lumières. "Those Nifflers will steal your wand and your appetite if you let them." He told her as they passed a haggle of laughing witches, referring to the lifelike Niffler pastries they had spotted in the window of the bakery.

She cast her eyes over her shoulder, spotting the sign of the shop belonging to Pierre LaBeouf, selling wands. “You promised me you’d get a wand. One that actually listens to you.” Her hand tugged at his, willing him to stop, to turn back around

Draco turned his head as his strides stopped. His gaze met hers, and the hardened expression he had worn whilst walking through the street, softened immensely. “I will, Hermione. But LaBeouf doesn’t make the best wands in France. Several people travel to Marseille for the wands crafted by Maurice Mullière for his selection. If he doesn’t have a wand for me, I promise you, I’ll go to LaBeouf.”

Intrigued, she stepped closer to him. “What makes his wands so special that people travel here for them?” she asked, her voice laboured with deep set curiosity.

A chuckle escaped Dracos throat. “Last I heard, he had incredibly rare cores. Not everyone finds a wand at Mullière, because their magic might not be strong enough, or they don’t bond well with the cores at all.”

Interesting. A spark ignited with her mind as she urged him to continue walking. She strode alongside him, her hand comfortably resting in his. “Do you know what cores he uses?” she urged excitedly. “And the woods? Do you know why he has a rare selection? Is there a book on the history of this? I’d love to read it!” The words rolled off her tongue and past her lips before she had taken the opportunity to stop herself. “Oh, will you stop laughing?” a smack to his bicep.

“Impossible!” he said between hearty chuckles, trying desperately to calm himself. His smile, even in the brightly coloured, almost neon-like signs, was captivating beyond words. When his eyes gleamed with joy and the bright smile appeared across his lips, she couldn’t help herself but melt. “This is part of the reason why I haven’t shown you the library yet, you know. I’d never see you again.”

“Imagine telling that to your eleven-year-old self, that he’d be upset to never see me again,” She took a step closer to him, nudging his arm playfully with her elbow. “I’d come out for meals, you know.”

“You want to know a secret?” Eyes locked over his shoulders once more “He wouldn’t be surprised.” Heat rose up her neck at the simple statement. “But I doubt you’d ever come out for air. You often skipped meals in school, in favour of the library, so I think you’d just call for Effie if hunger really struck you.”

Surprise rippled through her being. “How would you even know that I stayed in the library?”

“Because, even if a certain bushy-haired, bunny-teethed witch was too busy having her little nose in a book to pay attention to those around her, I, on the other hand, noticed you. And your unhealthy habits.” He said simply. She could tell he was fighting a smirk.

“You noticed the nosy little know-it-all, did you?” She could really not recall spotting him in the library too often. At least not often enough to notice her bad habits. “And besides, reading is not unhealthy.”

“Actually, I noticed the annoying little girl who got to all of the best books, just moments before I did. And then I had to wait for hours, sometimes even days, for you to leave it.” His entire demeanour was so relaxed. His face filled with an easy expression of amusement at the memory of being annoyed with her. “So, reading too much is a bad habit. Particularly when you avoid food, water and sleep for it, Hermione.”

There it was again. Her name on his lips. Rolling off his tongue like the purest form of ancient magic. The way he said it made her skin tingle; the hairs on her arms standing on end for those four, simple syllables.

Swallowing her shudder, breathing calmly through her nose, she allowed herself to calm, though she could feel her heart fluttering within her chest. The soul bond having been reactivated after years of dormancy was such a new and surprising feeling, she did not entirely know how to manoeuvre herself around it. Nor with it.

“Anyways. Wand cores?” She looked up at him with raised brows “Which ones? Are there rare woods used? What combination have you heard of? Do you know anyone who owns a wand from him?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. His white, blonde hair swayed at his nape. “I believe I know one witch and one wizard who have a Mullière wand. The cores he carries are Thestral Hair,” Very rare and very powerful, though unstable and quite picky when it came to its owner. Only a witch or wizard who could accept death, could ever master such a wand.

“Then there is Graphorn tail nerve.” Again, very powerful but temperamental cores. Have been known to shoot off spells on their own, if defence or attack was needed. The witch or wizard needed a strong magical core within themselves to be able to master a Graphorn wand.

“And Siren’s Song.” Hermione did not know much about it. She knew it was named so, because the core was in fact a Siren’s vocal cord. It was quite the selective core, and that one needed to have great control of ones own magical abilities to wield the wand, though that is where her knowledge of it stopped.

“If you match with a wand he’s made, which core do you think you’ll get?” she asked with curiosity. She sensed an inquisitiveness within herself as well, wanting to know what kind of wand of his she might match with. Though was afraid to try. Her dragon heartstring wand, made from Vinewood was but an extension of her. She did not wish to give up her friendship to the wand for another, not unless she absolutely had to.

A shake of his head “I don’t know. During the war, I think… I think perhaps Thestral Hair.” He said with a small shrug of his shoulder. His gaze focused ahead, navigating through the most crowded part of the busy street.

She looked up at him with wonder. “You’ve already been the master of a Thestral Hair wand before, so it would make sense.” She said simply, thinking back to the Elder wand, which Draco had mastered, though not taken advantage of.

Dracos head turned with a quick snap, looking down at her with complete surprise and puckered brows. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have. You disarmed Dumbledore, remember? And got his wand. It is made of Elder Wood and Thestral Hair, and it is the and only wand from the Tale of the Three Brothers.” She realised afterwards, how she had spoken with a demeanour that might have been much too causal.

“Hermione, that’s a children’s tale,” Draco said with a hum of amusement, surprise clearly having been cast aside. “And they don’t even mention the wood or the core in that tale,”

“Draco, trust me when I tell you this, I am absolutely, completely honest with you, when I tell you, it’s the wand from the tale. Harry is a descendant of the Peverell family, so he inherited the cloak of invisibility. He also had the resurrection stone, and I believe it’s still somewhere in the forbidden forest since he went out there to meet Voldemort. And the wand Dumbledore had, was the very same wand from the tale. The only fictional thing from the story, was that Death gave them the artefacts. I believe they united their powerful magics and made them on their own.”

Draco nodded slowly; his grey eyes focused somewhere distant as they walked through the colourful street. They had gotten to a part of the path, which held less shops. Less signs that lit up everywhere, so between the house roofs, floated colourful lanterns of varying, colourful and vibrant colours. “If you’re speaking the truth… I can’t believe I actually mastered such a powerful wand. If only for a minute.”

Her thumb soothed over the back of his hand. “Actually, it was until Harry disarmed you, back at the Manor. You were the master of the Elder Wand for nearly a year. So, it could happen again. Thestral hair.”

“I don’t think so, though.” Draco said with a distant look still present on his face. “To master Thestral Hair, one needs to be accepting of death to wield it. I...” His grey eyes locked on hers, with a fiery intensity behind them that made her soul sparkle “I have just gotten something to live for. I’m not willing to accept death at this moment.”

The pull, the familiar gravitational force, presented itself. The urge to step into his arms and kiss him, as though a future between them may never come. His soul called out to her. She yearned for his. Their connection sending fireballs through her skin. “Draco…”

“Suppose we’ll find out soon,” His breathing seemed laboured. She understood. He felt the pull too. He simply must have; it was the feeling of their souls needing each other. His legs, long and sturdy, stopped.

The cobblestone path around them was nearly entirely vacated. A few stray witches walked up or down the street. Hermione glanced back towards the entrance of The Path of Lights, Le Chemin des Lumières. It was far behind them. The street had led them to a slight hilltop at the back of the cavern. Last time she had walked a somewhat long distance alongside Draco, his body had been unable to keep up. He had been quaking and quivering, needing to hold onto something as to not topple over.

That day, not only had he walked into the Ministry and taken the stairs with her, as they lifts still appeared to be making people ill. They had taken a portkey to the villa. He had walked the entire way down the hill, going to the beach with Hermione. And then back up, without any form for hesitation or sign of weakening. He had walked with her through the cave, guiding her through the masses of people.

Yet, he was standing by her side, steady and strong. There was not a tremor to his fingers as his arms hung idly by his sides, one hand holding onto hers. His knees did not appear to be weakened. He was standing tall and strong. “How come you’ve been able to walk so far?” she asked, her eyebrows pulling together across her forehead

Draco’s eyes connected with hers once more, his head falling to a tilt. Thre was amusement painted across his face. “You really don’t know?”

She mirrored his amusement with ease, her thumb stroking against the side of his forefinger “And how would I know if you haven’t told me anything?” A blonde brow of his elevated at her question.

“Hermione, without you, this walk would have been impossible.” He gestured down the darkened cobblestone path they had just walked, with their joined hands.

“But I haven’t supported you. Nor have I pulled you along.” She felt her brows pull together over her narrowed eyes. She didn’t understand how she had made him able to walk. How she, so much smaller than him, had made it possible.

“Hermione,” he said softly, inching closer to her with a small step. Her heart thundered at the sound of her name. She had heard it several times now, but she felt her heart needed time to get used to the sound of it. “I don’t know how it works, exactly, but your presence heals me.”

Utter surprise must have been evident across her features at the revelation. “I don’t? I can’t?” She was no healer. She knew the essential spells, of course, but she had not once tried healing him. She knew his damages were far beyond any repair she could do.

“I mean, since we got married, I’ve felt healthier each and every day. When I’m close to you, my body stills, it’s able to endure more. And when I touch you, when I hold your hand, I feel invincible. I have more energy, less aches. My tremor stops. I’m steadier. I don’t get light-headed. You heal me. Your presence alone is healing more than any potion, or any spell ever could.” She felt his silver orbs pulling her in. A step took her closer towards him. “But when we’re apart, my body goes back to how it used to be. It feels like it’s wilting. Deteriorating. Eroding.”

“So, it’s not a kind of healing that stays with you?”

“Not that I know of. Yesterday, at the ministry with Potter and Weasley, I thought I was going to faint. Weasley had to walk me back to the floo.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear “I suppose I thought you’d noticed you make me better.”

“I only get to see you in your best states, then. I thought you’d been healing all this time.” She truly had. She had seen how it was moving incredibly fast, but she hadn’t spent much time apart from him since their wedding. It was always the two of them. “You see, Draco, this is what happens when I’m not reading. When we get home, you’re showing me the library, so I can look into soul bonds.”

“Fine… Yes, okay, I’ll show you the library when we return home.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles lightly “But only if you promise me to come out for air whenever Effie or I ask you to.”

With a sigh of exasperation, she croaked two words of confirmation. “I promise.”

“Good girl” not the two words she had expected in response.

Finding herself needing to change the topic before her mind went into overdrive about the previously made comment, she thought back to the wand. “Now, where is that wandmaker of yours?”

“In the shop just behind you.” He nodded his head slightly upwards, signalling to something he could see over the top of her head.

She turned her frame slowly, seeing the lit sign that read Magique de Mullière, with illustrated wands on either side of the name. It was located just a few houses down a side alley, partially lit by sparse, floating lanterns in pink and orange hues. Her heart sank in her chest.

“What’s the matter?” He must have felt the shift in her mood.

“If I make you stronger, then perhaps I shouldn’t go in with you?”

“I want you in there with me…”

“I could alter your magic, Draco. Perhaps the wand will only choose you because of my presence?” Her head turned to look up at him, locking eyes with the beautiful molten silver.

“And perhaps it won’t. So, please come in with me.” Her expression portrayed regret. She shook her head. “I’ll be speaking French, you know.” His eyes showed mischief. “I noticed you liked that.” He said with a quick quirk of his eyebrow.

A scoff escaped her lips. “You’re playing dirty, Draco.”

He leaned closer to her, his fingers trailing lightly over the curve of her hips as he spoke against her hair. Low, just for her ears. “I was a Death Eater, my love. Of course I play dirty.” She could feel the twitch of his lips against her temple just as the breath snagged in her throat and heat rose from the back of her neck. She hastily turned herself around, following the guidance of the hand on the small of her back, which led her down the side street, towards the door with the illuminating, blue and silver sign.

He pushed the door open, greeting Maurice Mullière with a bow of his head as the pair stepped through.

“Bonjour monsieur Malfoy,” said the man behind the counter. He was short and plump, with a balding head, and tufts of grey sticking out by his ears. A round nose and freckled cheeks, portrayed a kindness in the man. He looked as though he had been awaiting the pair to enter their shop. “Qui as tu amené avec toi?”

“C’est ma belle femme, Hermione.” Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes drifting upwards, to focus on the tall Malfoy man by her side. Speaking French without hesitation. Sounding as though he had been speaking it his entire life.

“Une beauté pas comme les autres.” The man bowed his head in greeting her. “Ravie de vous rencontrer, Madame Malfoy.” She knew some French, of course. She had travelled to France on multiple occasions with her parents and then once with Ginny after the war; however, she was clearly not as fluent as her husband.

She greeted him kindly in return. “Bonjour, monsieur Mullière.” She said weakly, before turning her gaze to her husband “he knows your name?”

“Of course. Do you think my father only liked wasting our gold back in England?” He asked her, feigning nonchalance, though his eyes spoke of hatred towards his father. “That, I assure you, was an international happening.”

With a furrowed brow, she nodded. She did not need to ask further, as she was certain Lucius Malfoy had spent more than a few galleons on an evening with friends and other associates on multiple occasions.

She reached up to him, her fingers brushing lightly against his white waves, tucking some errant strands behind his ear. “Good thing he can’t do that anymore” the tug of his lips told her he was fine, and with a nod, she turned to look at the several displays of old wands, hanging framed on the wall, or placed on shelves in display cabinets. Beautifully carved, every one of them. The detailed craftsmanship told her everything she needed to know about the popularity of the Mullière wands.

The men talked between themselves. She could hear Dracos voice fill the small shop as he spoke. French. French. French. French. The pitch of his voice was slightly deeper than when he spoke English, and the beautiful, melodic, romantic language slipped off his tongue with his fluency.

It was easy enough to vow to herself, to return France with him more often. Getting to hear him speak the language of romance was something she could most assuredly get used to.

The sound of a box sliding against another, and she turned around, just in time to watch her husband get presented with a dark wooden wand. It was polished. Straight. With a swirling, open ended handle. Dracos fingers trembled ever so slightly with hesitation as he reached for the wand.

Pale, long fingers wrapped around the swirling wood before plucking it from the box. She observed as the pad of his thumb rubbed soothingly against the wood, feeling the grain before he muttered a simple spell. The first one she had learned in Hogwarts.

With a swish and a flick of the wand, he muttered “Wingardium Leviosa,” but the book before him did not elevate from the desk. With a soft mutter, Draco placed the wand back into the presented, brown leather box. She could see the defeat in the manner his shoulders slumped. Felt it in the way her own heart sank in her chest, mimicking his.

“It’s okay, Draco. It’s just the first one.” She spoke softly into the silence that filled the room.

He gave a nod of his head as he watched the wand box be carried away and be placed back on the shelf. “I knew it wouldn’t be Thestral Hair.” He said absentmindedly. She stepped closer to him, her hand instinctively going to soothe down the length of his back. The black leather jacket hiding the ridges and slashes of his horrid scars.

Another leather box was presented to Draco by the kind wandmaker. The wood was golden yellow, seemingly quite springy. It was not particularly adorned, thought the hilt of the handle was nicely highlighted with a ring of gold.

Draco reached for it. The second wand did not seem remotely as scary, as his fingers showed no sign of hesitation. He plucked the wand from the slit it was placed and felt the handle. His cool-toned alabaster skin contrasted against the yellowing wood as his fingers took in its details. The wandmaker told him something, a kind sentence spoken in French. Hermione was not able to decipher the message before Draco flicked the wand lightly in his hand, muttering “Accio,”

A box with a wand flew off the shelf, but it did not quite make it to Draco’s hand. This made the wandmaker optimistic, to say the least. A flurry of hurried, excited words left him as he plucked the wand from Draco’s hands, placing it back into the box.

A measuring tape flew into the air before draco. Starting to measure every last detail on Dracos body. It started with his hand, measuring from the tip of his middle finger, down to the base of his palm. 21 centimetres. The length of his nose, from the bridge to the tip. Hermione believed it said 6 centimetres. Length of his feet. 30 centimetres. His height. 192 centimetres.

“What’s happening now?” She asked, just as the tape measured the length of his neck Collar bone to the hinge of his jaw.

“He wants to find me the right wood and length for me to try.” The tape measure flew on its own, measuring the width of his forehead next.

“And that is done through measurements?” She tried her best not to giggle, watching as the tape flurried around his body with haste.

His eyes met hers as it was wrapping around the widest part of his thigh. “I don’t know. It seems to be part of the process.”

“And he didn’t start with this because?” The last of her words became a laugh as Draco’s eyes widened. Apparently, the centimetres of his inseam were also quite important to note.

With a forced calm voice, he spoke. “He needed to find my core first.” The flurry of the tape measure, went back to its rightful owner, to relieve itself of the information.

A wave of relief and comfort flooded her as Draco turned his entire body to face her, his arms winding around her. “To celebrate later, we can go get one of those cakes you were eyeing earlier. Was it the Niffler you liked?”

“Actually, it was the Fireball dragon that caught my eye,” She admitted “Thought, as long as it’s not an Ironbelly, I’ll be fine to eat most things.”

“Not a fan of Ironbellies?” Draco asked curiously, his brow raising.

“I don’t hate them, but I’m not particularly fond of them either.” Realisation dawned on her. She hadn’t told him. She glanced over at the wandmaker behind his counter, who  seemed to be busy calculating. Her eyes returned to those of her husband. “So… After we escaped Malfoy Manor that time, we… Well… Harry, Ron and I broke into Gringotts. Specifically, the Lestrange vault. And to escape, we hitched a ride on the Ironbelly that protected the vaults.”

Nothing could have prepared her for the surge of electricity that flooded through her body at his awed state. He stared at her with complete and utter adoration, his eyes sparkling with the pink and orange lanterns that floated outside of the shop. “Y- You what?”

“I brok-”

“You broke into my aunts vault, took the dragon and rode it into freedom?”

“Yes”

“You’ll never cease to amaze me, Hermione.” A kiss pressed to her temple. “Never.”

“Miseur Malfoy,” came the voice of the wandmaker from behind his counter. Atop it, lay one opened box with a wand, beautifully presented to Draco.

The wand before him, was lengthy, and made of deep brown colour, similar to coffee. Almost black, but not quite. The handle was beautifully carved into a rounded shape, where a hand would naturally clutch. There were miniature engravings of stars just above the hilt of the wand, and the bottom of the handle was carved into a crescent moon. The protruding details were shining a soft metallic, which seemed to come from the wood itself.

Confirming with the man, Draco reached for the wand, and it emitted a series of red sparks before his fingers had even connected to the wood. Miseur Mullière removed the wand from sight, turning around to collect another wand from the very same shelf.

“What was the core?” She asked him in a whisper.

He met her eyes with a small smile as he anticipated the next wand. “Siren,” he said, the excitement reflecting from his eyes. She made a note to herself to learn more about the wand core in question.

Draco was presented with yet another wand. It was of a silvery white coloured wood, which graduated slowly into hues of grey, ending in complete and utter black at the base. It was carved elegantly, making it appear as though to twist and swirl with rivers of water was trailing down along the wood. It was beautifully polished, to the point where it seemed to shine.

Hermione thought it was breathtakingly beautiful. The craftmanship the wandmaker had poured into each and every wand continued to astound her.  

Long fingers reached for the wand, and though the magical tool did not shoot sparks at him, it did not accept his hand. It started to shake within the confines of its case, and Mullière simply tutted and turned his back to the pair, closing the box before returning the wand to its shelf.

The third wand presented to him, was made of a reddened wood. It was shorter than the two prior to it. Down the length of the wand, it was carved into rings, pooling together in threes down to the very bottom. It was brilliantly polished. It allowed Draco’s fingers to pluck it from the slit. The wandmaker looked at him, expectant blue eyes shifting between Dracos face and the wand.

A wordless flick, causing a flame to sprout from the tip of the wand. “Non.” Maìson said, quickly urging the box forwards, for Draco to place the wand back in its casing.

Twenty-two minutes after entering the shop, Draco was presented with yet another wand. One of seven remaining Siren wands. The French wizard had promised Draco a Siren wand, though he might just have to create a new one for him. Specifically designed for his measurements. Hermione had questions whether the Siren core was the best one for Draco, and then the wandmaker started raving on in loud, hot-tempered French.

Draco had spoken back to the man in a cool, calm, though undoubtedly angered manner. After Mullière made a few gestures with his hands and the two had shared a series of loud and rushed sentences, they seemed to come to an agreement.

The seventh to last wand, was finally to be presented. The length on the box said 32 ½ centimetres. Maìson had originally wanted Draco to try wands between 34 and 36 centimetres, simply because of Draco’s height. But the lengthier wands  had long since been tried and discarded along with the shorter ones. It had been explained that getting a new wand as an adult, could prove to be quite the difficult task. A child and its wand could grow together. An adult and their ways was not quite so malleable.

Mullière opened the lid, presenting the wand to a very weary Draco. He had tried at the very least, fifty wands. All of which, had been discarded for reacting negatively to the blonde. His body was growing tired, both from the failed magic, as well as standing. Hermione was surely healing him in some aspects, though his body was still not in optimal condition.

“Only seven wands left, and we can go have lunch,” She reminded him. She had stepped up to his side, her arm wrapped around his waist, just beneath his jacket, supporting him against her own body. The tremors had started returning to his hands. His knees weakened.

She cast a look over at the wand. 32 ½ centimetres wood in such a dark brown, it nearly appeared black. This one, had runes etched into the part of the wood which would most naturally be the handle. Four down the length, on opposing sides. Soft divots were carved around the runes, framing them before gradually disappearing into the length of the wand.

A twitch of his eyebrow as he eyed the runes upon the wood. He reached for it. No hesitation in the movement, though his fingers were quaking as they wrapped around the wand handle. Alabaster on the deep coloured wood. Polished, though not gleaming.

A surge of magic blew through the room. She could feel an echo of his body’s completion coming through her own. A pulse of electricity, coming from his body as he connected to the wand in his hand. Golden sparks ignited from the tip of the wand, telling every spectator of the perfect match, having finally been made.

Mullière grinned with utter glee, lowering the empty case onto the desk that separated him from the couple. “Félicitations, monsieur Malfoy,” he said, closing the lid over the empty case.

They did not make it to the pastry shop that sold the animated Nifflers and fire breathing Dragons. They ended up in an orange and pink hued restaurant, only a few paces down from Mullière’s shop. Draco had no spare energy, and nearly collapsed into his seat, having only managed to stagger over there with Hermione’s help. She sat down next to him, sliding into the cushioned sofa on one side of the table to offer him her continued support. “You did so well in there,” she told him, her voice barely louder than a whisper, her fingers grazing lightly through the strands of stray, white hair that framed his face.

A small, breathy chuckle left his lips. “All I did was lift a few wands.”

“Actually, you used more magic today than you have, combined, since your release from Azkaban” The pad of her thumb stoked lightly over his eyebrow. She felt his eyelashes, long and soft, against her skin as he held her gaze. “Meaning you probably haven’t used this much magic since…”

“Hogwarts” He finished for her, his eyes casting away with apparent discomfort of the memory. “You’d probably be right.”

“That’s eight years ago, you know.” She noticed the movement of his hand, shaking more than she had seen in weeks, lying the wand atop the table before them. Runes on display. The divots carved into the wood, shining in the soft glow of luminescence around them. 32 ½ centimetres. 12 ¾ inches, compared to her own 10 ¾. It was made of Willow, just as the tree in their gardens, protecting the pond and its swans from rain. It had been dyed, glossed over with a protective colourant, which in turn, encased the ruins carved into the wood. “I completely understand your need for rest after all this.”

His head collided with the top of her shoulder “And when we get back to the house, Theo and Blaise will be there…” He said through an uttered groan. It was true. She had requested to spend more time with his friends, wishing to befriend them as well. Thus, they had been invited to join their vacation in France, and both had accepted.

A server came over, placing two glasses, a carafe of water and a menu before the pair before hurrying off.

“I know, Draco…” Her fingers rubbed lightly at his nape. “Not just them though. Blaise is bringing Giulia.” This mention was met with sagging shoulders. “Theo is supposed to come alone, though. Isn’t he?”

“Odds are, he has some girl on his arm when his portkey arrives.” Said the blonde with his head on her shoulder, his voice coated with utter exasperation.

A smile tugged at her own lips, as her fingers started playing with the soft, almost curled locks at the base of his head. “I think you need something to eat, Draco. What are you hungry for?”

“Pikes’ lamb.” said the man without a hint of hesitation.

“We are not returning to England just because you don’t want to see your friends.” She chastised him, wearing a smile against his hair.

His head rolled lightly against her shoulder, as though shaking it. “My friends are fine. It’s just Theo’s energy I don’t want to think of.” She figured, in his fatigued state, it was probably not optimal for Draco to have such a ball of energy by his side.

“Draco…”

“Just pick something for me.” She felt his hands resting on her thigh, quaking against the soft, peach-coloured fabric of her dress.

She cast a glance towards the table, eyes landing upon the menu they had been presented. “The menu is in French. You need to help me read it.”

With a deep inhale, Draco lifted his head from her shoulder. His grey eyes bore signs of exhaustion, the colour reminding her of a misty, fogged morning. He reached a quivering hand towards the menu, lifting it from the tabletop to have a quick look over the items. “Their lunch menu has soup of the day, pasta of the day, chicken salad, escargot, white fish plate and a grilled chicken sandwich.” He spoke hurriedly, though his tone showed his fatigue, before then dropping the thin menu back atop the table, his head returning to its rightful place; resting on her shoulder.

“I think I’ll have the days pasta.” She said, finding comfort in having him resting on her in such a way. The closeness of his body was everything she could ever want. It was a reassurance of her soul and his, finding complete and utter peace with one another.

“Me too then.” He uttered in agreement. “And then we go home?”

“And then we go home.” She granted, pressing a soft kiss to his head. “You can rest in your bed, whilst I get to know your friends.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with them, Hermione.” He lifted his head from her shoulder once more. Her hand resting on his nape, her fingers following the gentle slope towards his broad shoulder. His gaze was fixed on hers, intense. Easy to lose herself in. “I’ll be by your side.”

“Good.” she breathed into their shared space. “That’s where I prefer you, anyways.”

Chapter Text

“And so, I went in to get that Frieball Cream Puff and Draco, that bloody arsehole, went and spoke to the clerk.” Hermione had drunk precisely four large glasses of red wine. She was most assuredly not sober. She was sitting at Draco’s right-hand side in the sofa. He was leaning backwards, gently supporting his low crystal glass of iced tea between his fingers. She smacked his thigh lightly with the back of her hand. He could feel her diamond against his jeans. “He asked how much it was; you know. The shop”

“Oh! I remember those!” Said Theo excitedly from across the fire pit. He was sitting in another sofa next to his date, a girl he had decided to bring along. Draco had expected him to bring company. He had just not expected said company to be that of Ginevra Weasley. “My favourites always were the Abraxans. They’re made with vanilla and cherry filling.”

“I can probably get them tomorrow – for free, since Draco has now bought me the shop!” She turned sharply around to shoot him a startling, sharp glare. Four more sets of eyes followed along. Blaise. Giulia. Theo. Ginevra.

Draco sat up from where he had been leaning, joining at Hermione’s side, his arm draped around her waist. “I didn’t buy you a pastry shop.” He lifted his gaze to meet the sharp and judgemental eyes of Giulia Zabini. “I didn’t!”

“I don’t believe you.” She said in a mostly American accent, though there was a hint of Italian within it. He watched as her mouth twitched into a smirk. She either approved of his supposed actions or she believed him a little.

“I didn’t buy her a shop.” He clarified with simplicity. “I asked the clerk if he knew who owned the place. He said he was the owner. I asked if he would ever be willing to sell it, leave the paperwork and worrying to someone else and he said he would – for the right price. So, I made him an offer.”

“You bought your wife a fucking pastry shop?” Theo laughed, rolling back in his own sofa, bringing Ginny backwards with him. “I mean I know you have a lot of money and all, Dray, but a shop. Really?”

“I didn’t!” he opposed quickly, his hand having a mind of its own as it soothed gently over the small of her back. She inched closer to him.

“What do you plan on doing with a pastry shop, all the way over in France anyways?” asked Theodore, with the littlest Weasley draping a leg around his. Draco had observed she had consumed quite a few glasses of wine as well.

Draco’s head fell to a slight tilt, as he watched his friend across the crackling fire. “Just imagine it in Diagon Alley. I know I would have gone feral for them whilst out with mother, shopping for School supplies.”

“You went feral for any kind of sweet treat.” Chimed Blaise from the sofa to Draco’s right.

“You’re right,” Agreed Ginevra, her brow cocked ever so lightly as she looked at Draco with measuring eyes. “With Fortescues gone, it’s kind of missing a place for sweets. I mean, of course George sells some, but it’s not the same, is it?”

“So, you’d like to franchise it?” asked Blaise. Of course, he was the one to think more in the line of business than Theo ever would. “Selling moving pastries in Marseille and London? Are those your desired locations?”

“If it would do well in Diagon, it would also do well in Hogsmeade.” Dracos fingers found the stretchable hem of Hermione’s dress, which was circling her shoulder blades. He watched as she pulled her hair slightly to the side, revealing the much too forbidden skin to him.

“So, Marseille, Diagon and Hogsmeade? You’re sure you’d want to buy it?” Blaise urged, oblivious to, or choosing to ignore how Draco and Hermione seemed to mindlessly toy with one another.

“I’m sure. I think it would be fun. It would also get me something to do, other than lounging at Home whilst Hermione’s at work.” He said he’d think about it and send me an owl next week.” He said, leaning in to press a small kiss to Hermione’s shoulder. He saw the small, delicate hairs on her body stand on end from his gesture. “So, it would look like we will still have to pay for your pastries if we return tomorrow, my dear.”

She looked over her shoulder at him, meeting his gaze with fiery intensity. “Fine. You win this one, Malfoy.”

Pale fingers traced mindless patterns of the exposed skin between her shoulder blades, calming selected sections of her exposed gooseflesh. “You’re also Malfoy now. I guess we both win, then.”

She kept her eyes focused on him as she downed the remaining contents of her red wine.

“How many have you had now?” He asked, nodding his chin to gesture at the emptied glass, which was promptly left on the masoned brick edge of the fire pit. He, of course, knew with acute certainty she had just finished her fourth.

“Two.” She lied. He found watching her lie was impeccably adorable. The way her top lip curled ever so slightly, causing her nose to wrinkle just a fraction. She didn’t do it on purpose. It was her body’s reaction to it. The way her face mimicked a bitter taste on her tongue.

“Only two, huh?” he twirled a brown curl around his finger, keeping his eyes locked on hers, watching as she struggled to breathe normally. Almost hearing her counting her breaths, just by looking at her. Her thoughts as good as visible within her gleaming, golden eyes. “Would you like a glass of water before your fifth?”

“I think I’ll just dive straight into it, if you don’t mind.” She nodded her head in gesture over the side of the sofa, where he could easily reach the opened bottle of Zabini wine. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“I don’t think he’ll want to shag you when you’re that drunk, ‘Mione.” Ginny chimed from across the fire pit. Draco deduced that their light flirting had been spotted by the keen Chaser’s eyes.

His wife stiffened slightly in her seat. His fingertips trailed softly along the edge of her shoulder strap as he felt the echo of her heart sinking within his chest. Disappointment. Perhaps resentment. Of course, the topic of sex might make her uncomfortable. Kissing him was one thing. Cuddling up next to him might be comfortable and feel like home. Sleeping with him, taking their relationship much further than what it had been up until that point, was something completely different.

Of course, she would not want to sleep with him. He should have known as much. Should have understood it. Trapped beneath a Death Eater. Dark Mark permanently etched into the flesh of his forearm. The runes and numbers on the side of his neck, almost glowing in her face. A crude reminder of his crimes in their most intimate moment. Her fingers raking against the deeply scarred tissue of his back. Blood Traitor.

She would never want that. Could never want that. Not with him. Never with him. No matter how deeply he felt for her, no matter how she was the entirety of his world, she could never feel the same for someone who had aided The Dark Lord in his wish to eradicate the muggleborn population entirely.

Of course, they had the repopulation act to abide to, to further their genetic lines with offspring, though he was certain there would be ways to work around it, so she wouldn’t have to suffer beneath him.

Draco reached for the bottle of wine she had indicated, filling her glass with the remnants of the bottle. It was not as much as the glasses she had drank  previously.

“No offence, little Weasley, but I don’t think you should care too much about other people’s sex lives.” He said with a hint of a smirk playing over his lips. Of course, he did not wish to embarrass the love of his life by letting their friends know they had not been intimate yet. He knew it was his own fault. The factors were twofold. His scars and markings were the first. Depicting his disgusting past that she was far too good for, far too polished a diamond to be spending time with the soot-fallen Death Eater.

The second factor, was because his body had yet to reach a state where he was physically capable. Yes, Hermione healed him. His stamina had strengthened at her side. Most parts of his body was ready for such moments with her, should she ever allow it. Though the most essential part of his anatomy for such a task, did not cooperate. He had not been able to raise the fallen soldier since his release.

It was nothing he wished to share, but if it came to it, he would gladly take the blame.

“You’re no fun, you know.” Ginevra bit, just as a piece of wood popped with the heat of the fire.

Hermiones hand was on Dracos thigh, near his knee, giving it a light squeeze with her delicate fingers. “Are you sure you don’t want something else to drink? Whiskey perhaps?” Everyone else was drinking. There was no pressure to join them, there never had been, but the atmosphere was easy and friendly. Comfortable even with getting to know one another.

He eyed her for a moment, hesitating ever so slightly as he mulled it over. She had drunk four glasses of red wine by herself. He hadn’t had a proper drink in eight years. He was surrounded by friends. His wife at his side. His heart felt heavy within the confines of his chest with the defeated feeling that he was not wanted by the woman who occupied his entire existence “I suppose a glass of Ogden’s won’t be the death of me.” He finally conceded. Just to edge the pain away.  

“That’s my boy!” Cheered Theodore, hopping from the sofa he shared with the youngest Weasley. He went over to the bar cart to pour Draco three fingers’ worth of whiskey in a crystal glass. He carried it over to the pale blonde, handing the glass over, switching it from the drink of iced tea, before returning to the girl he had somehow wooed.

Draco took the glass from Theodore and turned to Giulia. “So, Giulia, we haven’t had the pleasure of properly getting to know one another.” He said, knowing full well both Hermione and Ginny had a lot of spent time at their wedding celebration, chatting with the muggle woman. All whilst he had been much too preoccupied with Molly Weasley, and their twelve shared dances throughout the evening.

“No, we haven’t. But I think I know you well enough, from what Ginny and Hermione have both told me.” Giulia was a very pretty, young woman. She was tall, made entirely of legs, with dark blonde, straight hair and brown eyes. The coy smile across her face, showed that Ginevra and Hermione had shared memories from their time at school. Draco did not dare wonder the specifics of what his wife and the littlest Weasley had told her.

“But I don’t know you.” Draco said, draping his arm around Hermione as she settled into his side. The movement felt as natural as breathing. How he only wished his soulmate would want him for more than comfort. “What did you do for work before you met Blaise? You work at the vineyard, now, correct?”

“I do,” she said with a quick nod to her head. “And I was a driving instructor,” she announced. Draco, Theo and Ginny all looked at her with confusion. “I taught people how to drive a car.”

“You did? That’s fascinating.” Theo leaned forwards, nursing his glass of whiskey between his fingers. Ginevra followed his movement, her fingers wrapped around her glass of Zabini wine. “Is that considered a dangerous profession, at all?”

“Not really. Though sometimes you end up in a small car accident.” Giulia said, before taking a sip of her own drink. The muggle appeared to enjoy firewhiskey, even if she winced slightly with every mouthful.

“Those are dangerous, aren’t they? I’ve read in the papers that many muggles die from them.” Said the Weasley girl, scooting closer to the edge of the sofa, where she could see Giulia better.

“I mean, yes. The ones that happen at high speeds can take lives. But the ones I’ve been in, have been at low speeds. I broke my ankle but that was it.” Explained the Italian-born woman with nonchalance. Blaise wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close against himself.

“Oh! A broken ankle takes what, like two minutes to heal?” Theo said with a firm nod to his head, as though he knew exactly what Giulia had been through.

Dracos eyes shot over at his brunette friend. “Yeah. With magic, it does. And muggles don’t have essence of dittany, nor do they have wands or other potions. I bet you fifty galleons, it took her weeks to heal.”

Giulia chuckled at how quickly a pure-blooded wizard had jumped to her defences. “It took me nine weeks to heal. And it’s still not entirely good, but it’s getting better.”

“Shit.” Ginevra winced, baring her teeth. “Last I broke something at work, I just had to take a ten-minute break.” Her hand travelled to her collar bone, rubbing it lightly between her fingers. It wasn’t hard to imagine a professional Quidditch player being struck by a Bludger, or simply being tackled off her broom.

“So how did you meet Blaise then?” Draco asked. “Because I can’t imagine he would ever want to take lessons in learning how to drive.” And he truly couldn’t. Muggle transportation was much too slow for most wizards. Even the Hogwarts Express was an outdated mode of transportation. Of course, he knew it was to help the children who did not come from a family such as his, but he had much too often found himself wanting to floo or portkey in, without having to spend an entire day on a train.

“Well, Draco,” drawled Blaise. “A pretty girl walked into a wine-tasting I was hosting. Her hair was long, her eyes were beautiful and the dress she wore fit her like a second skin. The rest, as they say, is history.” His dark brown eyes met those of his wife, gazing at her with eyes of wonder and adoration.

“If this is some more soulmate bullshit again, I’m leaving.” Ginny said with a chuckle, casting a glance across the fire pit, to where Hermione was tucking herself into Dracos side, as his fingers stroked mindless patterns onto her bare shoulder.

“It’s not. The first time we touched, there was no indication of an old soul bond. Nor of a new one.” Blaise said with a small smile playing over his lips. He couldn’t take his eyes from his wife.

“What?” Hermione perked up, her head shifting to look at Blaise. Dracos hand was shifted, to where it fell to her waist. “There are supposed to be signs?”

“Oh yes. The first time your skin touches, you’re supposed to feel the connection, almost like a surge of adrenaline or a spark.” He said, sharpening his eyes on the Malfoy couple. “Are you telling me, the two of you didn’t feel that?” A quirked brow hinted to the question hanging in the air between most of them. Had Longbottom been mistaken? Or lied?

Draco lifted his glass to his lips, chuckling with utter amusement before taking a sip of his drink. He swallowed whilst shaking his head.

Hermione turned her head to him then, her brows pinched into a frown as she observed his obvious amusement. “What’s so funny about that? I don’t remember touching you as a kid and feeling that connection.”

“Tell me, my lovely wife, when was the first time we touched?” His brow quirked as he watched the cogs within her mind churn.

“Didn’t we shake hands on the first train ride?” She craved for the facts immediately. Draco recalled it clearly. A bushy-haired girl, competed with her Hogwarts robes five hours before their arrival at school, a book about their school tucked safely under her arm. She had bunny teeth and freckles on her face.

Hermione Granger, she had announced her name, extending her hand for Draco to shake. He had only raised an eyebrow at the offered appendage, then snickered in her face, refusing to touch the muggleborn girl before him.

“No. You offered, but I wouldn’t touch you.” He fought a grin, not at the memory of their encounter on the train, but for what had actually happened. How they could have missed the surge of adrenaline, the feeling of tingling skin and sparks soaring within.

Her brown eyes eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened as she recalled. They were beautiful, reflecting the firelight from the masoned brick pit. “Oh! Oh… Oh no…”

“You could say that again.” Mused Draco, who was unable to keep his hands away from his wife, after finally getting to call her his very own. His fingers had travelled up along her back, once more playing with the hem of her dress.

The littlest Weasley raised her brows. “Well, share with the class, Miss Granger.” She urged, waving her glass of wine ahead of herself, almost letting some wine escape her. Almost.

“Malfoy.” Theo and Hermione corrected in unison.

Draco turned to Weasley. “The reason why we didn’t know, is because the first time our skin touched,” Draco said, his fingers having absentmindedly moved to play with her luscious curls. Twirling the ringlets around his long fingers. “Was when my lovely wife here, slapped me across the face, back in our third year.”

Ginevra stared at them for a moment, accompanied by Theodore. They both laughed, heartily, at the revelation. “Of fucking course, it was!”

Hermione’s eyes widened; he could see the firelight dancing across her golden hued irises. “It was, wasn’t it… To think we could have known sooner, had we only shaken hands or something once. We could have saved ourselves so much heartache.”

Draco shook his head. “Or made everything worse… But no, you slapped me.” He pressed a light kiss to the side of her head. “I feel that charge very often now though. The electric pulse. The electricity.”

Her bottom lip was partially stuck between her teeth as she worried at it. “And the pull?” The insatiable feeling that often rang through his body, where he needed her presence more than anything else on the face of the earth. “Do you feel it too?”

He nodded his head in response, his eyes not faltering from hers for even a moment “Of course I do.” His voice was low. Only captivating her as his audience. “When I need you more than I need the blood in my veins; you’re more important than the air that I breathe. Hermione, I am but a speck, drawn to the brightest sun in the universe.”

We watched as her lips parted, about to speak, when she was interrupted from a voice, coming from across the fire pit from them.

“He did fall for you then, I think.” Theo said, allowing Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy to return to the world outside of their own cocoon.  “Couldn’t shut up about you afterwards. It was always Granger and her bushy hair, Granger and her hand in the air. Granger’s perfume smells up the classrooms. Grangers stupid cat keeps following me. Granger got higher grades than me again. Granger took my table in the library. Everything was about Hermione sodding Granger.”

Draco nodded “True. She was the first person who had actually stood up against me. The first person who had put me in my place. Besides that hippogriff, at least. I was still mean to her afterwards though.”

“You weren’t good friends before?” Giulia asked. Blaise snorted against her shoulder. Weasley let out another barking laugh.

“I think it’s safe to say we kind of hated each other.” Hermione informed, though she kept her eyes on him, the words she had wished to speak before, left unspoken on her lips.

“I called her slurs. I bullied her. I wished her dead on some occasions.” He told their group, keeping his eyes on hers. The way she watched him, the way she shone from within, was nothing except the most extraordinary magic he had ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

“But then he realised he was being an arse and saved me from Dolohovs curse after fifth year.” The pull was back. A gravitational force, pulling him in. Reeling his closer towards her. Electric currents sweeping across his skin, spreading from where her hand so gently touched his.

“What?” Theo, Weasley and Blaise echoed in horror.

He could tell she felt it too. The way she moved closer to him. No care in her word as the tip of his nose pressed lightly against hers. “It was the least I could do.”

“And he saved my parents by telling me the Death Eaters were coming for them.” Her voice was slightly louder than his, just enough for their group to hear.

He could feel several eyes upon him, hard and intense stared from across the fire. Nothing mattered but Hermione. His soul was insatiable for her proximity. “How you remain alive to this day, is a miracle.” Blaise spoke with severity.

“You’d be dead within seconds if anyone found out, Draco.” Theo said, his voice depicting an equal severity to that of Blaise.

“I know that.” Dracos fingers were wrapped around a fistful of dark curls. He was aware all eyes seemed to be on them, as he stole a small kiss from her lips. Just enough to quench the unyielding thirst for her entire essence.

It granted him a bough willpower to pull away, just enough to go back to their normal conversation at hand.

“Are you always going to act like horny teenagers?” Weasley asked, a smirk playing over her lips. Her glass of wine had been topped up.

“I don’t think so.” Hermione answered, turning her body ever so slightly away from Draco, shifting her focus on her friend. “It’s just that our souls kind of call for one another. I know we can’t help it. It’s not a choice, it’s just this… Pull. This force that draws me to him. Like I can’t breathe until our souls have connected somehow.”

“That sounds beyond intense.” Blaise observed, resting his arm around Giulia’s waist.

“It is. But I think with time, our connection will settle, and we won’t have too many moments like that.” Draco told his friend, whilst nodding his head. He still felt this pull, the need for her, but tried to push it away, allowing their bodies to stay connected through touch rather than something deeper.

“So, back to the story… You put your life on the line for your enemy?” Giulia asked. She was sitting closer to the edge of her seat as she refilled her glass of firewhiskey.

“I suppose I did. Because I knew she was needed on the good side. The Dark Lord would have won the war, if the good side didn’t have her… And I don’t want to think of what might have happened if he had.” His eyes settled into Hermione’s. “So, I helped the woman who was once my enemy. Because some part of me knew, I needed her alive.”

“See, that is some epic kind of soulmate bullshit right there.” Ginny hummed, raising her glass to Hermione, who returned the gesture with a grin.

Theo mused, using his wand to elevate a piece of wood, lugging it into the dimming fire. It landed against the embers, snapping another piece of well toasted wood in half.

Sparks flew into the air, brightly flaming specks soaring upwards, where they slowly faded into the stars, becoming one with the constellations above.

“I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask, but can I see your wand?” Giulia asked whilst leaning forwards, nodding her head towards Theo’s wand with intrigue.

He twirled it lightly between his fingers, hesitating slightly before he passed it over to her. “Sure. It’s made of Dogwood. 11 ¼ inches, and the core is Dragon Heartstring.” He told her, as he watched Giulia spin it with keen interest between her fingers. Taking in every last detail of the wood and the way the grain had been carved.

“Want to see mine too?” Ginny asked, reaching to the crevasse between her thigh and the sofa cushion, where her wand lay. Giulia nodded eagerly, and Ginny passed it over to the muggle woman. “It’s of Yew wood. 10 ½ inches and Phoenix Feather core.”

Hermione was the next to offer Giulia her wand, reaching it over, for Giulia to inspect. “Vine wood. 10 ¾ inches and Dragon Heartstring core”

“These are all so pretty” she cooed, laying the wands side by side in her opened palm. Blaise had not offered his, so Draco assumed she had looked at it several times before.

“Draco got a new wand today,” Hermione said, her hair whipping about as her head turned to him, her forefinger pressing onto his knee “You should show her, Dray-Dray”

“If you promise to never call me Dray-Dray again” he truly loathed Theo for that nickname. She grinned in return and kissed his cheek. There was no way he could say no to her, no way he could deny her any request. He conceded under her sparkling eyes and pulled his wand from beside him. Even if he hadn’t used magic since he got it, he liked having it at his side. A comfort in its presence. He passed it over to Giulia. “12 ¾ inches, made of Willow wood, with Siren’s Song core.”

Blaise sat up, setting his glass of whiskey aside, atop the bricks by the fire pit. “What runes are these?” Blaise asked with piqued interest, eyeing it from over Giulia’s shoulder.

“I haven’t looked too closely yet.” Draco said, once more winding his arms around his wife, lifting his glass of whiskey to his lips to have a sip. “You took Ancient Runes; you tell me what it says.”

“I haven’t read or studied runes since fifth year.” Was the retort that fell from Blaise’s lips. “I don’t know if I could translate much, even if I tried.”

“You can read this?” Giulia asked her husband, turning her head to look at him. “Really?”

“I mean… One of them very obviously says ‘protection’,” Blaise told her, his shoulders broadening slightly as he tried to take up more of her line of vision. Theodore and Draco exchanged a look.

“Makes sense, considering it’s Siren,” Theo chimed, as though it was the most common knowledge in the world.

“Yeah, ‘protection’ and I think the third one says ‘earth’, I believe. I’m not too sure of the other two. One actually looks like a rune on your neck.” He nodded to Dracos prisoner tattoo on the side of his throat.

“My neck runes are quite ironic though. One means ‘Luck’, the other means ‘Light Within’.” At the revelation, Ginevra snorted.

He met her gaze with a mirthful grin. “I know, right?”

“Please don’t tell me the two of you are going to trauma bond, now?” Hermione said, one arm winding around the back of his waist,

“Probably not, but it is rather funny. Besides, I can’t hate him forever, Ron and mum loves him.” The youngest Weasley nodded her head towards him, elevating her brows to her hairline.

“Oh yeah, your mother invited us for dinner on Sunday.” Draco nodded; his fingers once more fidgeting with Hermione’s shoulder strap. He wished to pull it aside, to kiss her shoulders, trailing kisses up along her delicate neck as she sank against him.

Hermione turned her head to stare at him, her lips ever so slightly parted. “And you knew before I did?” He nodded in return. “Preposterous!”

“Mum loves him.” The littlest Weasley repeated. “Actually, loves him. Said he dances like a God.”

“That would be true. I do dance like a God.” His grin was spread wide, though he managed to withhold his laughter. Hermione’s fingers pinched at his side, causing his entire body to jerk against hers.

“And he’s humble too,” Blaise smirked.

“That explains why she danced more with you at our wedding, than I did.” Hermione said, pressing her lips together to hide her amusement. It was an unsuccessful move.

“Wait… wait okay so… I need to know something. Sirens. Dragons. Phoenixes. Are these all common in your world?” Giulia asked with wonder glittering in her eyes.

Draco found himself wondering how long she had been with Blaise at that point, seeing as she was still so mesmerized by magic. Hadn’t Blaise told her anything? Showed her anything other than his wand?

Though he knew, muggles had things the wizarding world did not. They had automobiles and aeroplanes. They had technology that could never even work within the manor, technology that would have made some parts of life easier. Hermione had mentioned coffee makers and electric cupboards for wines, which cooled them.

There was bound to be things of his normal life that would baffle Giulia, just as she had parts of her life that would astound him.

“One of my brothers works in a Dragon sanctuary,” Ginerva told her with a nod.

“Our old headmaster owned a Phoenix. Though they are exceptionally rare.” Hermione told her next.

“And Sirens aren’t too common either. Though common enough that muggles have heard of them.” Theo explained to her. “We don’t have Sirens in the UK, do we?”

“I doubt it.” Draco said. “The closest we get are Grindylows, like those living in the Black Lake.”

Blaise shuddered “I hated those things.”

“What are Gwindel-lows?” Giulia asked.

“A kind of mer-people living in the lake outside of our school.” Hermione said, then quickly turned to look at Draco. “Have you seen them?”

“Of course. Our common room had big windows out into the Black Lake. Our dormitories also had portholes out to them. The didn’t often show themselves, but sometimes they were just everywhere.”

“Vile things.” Blaise told Giulia. “They have little octopus tentacles and faces kind of like a human.”

Hermione turned to Giulia. “They look a little like the fish from the film Shark Tale.” To this, Mrs. Zabini nodded her head in understanding within seconds. “Like human-passing but still a bit off.”

“Those tentacles are disgusting, by the way.” Theo said with a finger pointed down into his knee.  

“Didn’t you have a dream about Grindylows once?” Draco asked his brown-haired friend.

“Not plural Grindylows. Just the one. You know the one who always carried the seaweed-bag?” The Grindylow in mention, had been a frequent visitor of the Slytherin Common Room when they were children. He often peered into the portholes, particularly those of the boys’ dormitories. Very other catching Theodore in less-than-optimal conditions. “I think it was a man. He hated me.”

“I think he fancied you.” Blaise mused.

“Probably thought you were the most dapper boy in all of second year.” Draco chuckled before clinking his glass against Hermione’s nearly finished fifth glass of wine, and they both finished their drinks.

“And these things just lived outside of your school?” Giulia gawked at the five previous Hogwarts students. She got to her feet, handing back the wands she had been exploring.

“Oh yes. A bunch of them lived in the lake outside of our school.” Theo spoke as he tucked his wand back against his thigh.

“What other creatures lived nearby?”  She asked with excitement, plopping back into the sofa next to Blaise.

Hermione turned her entire body towards her, rest her shoulder against Dracos arm. “There were Acromantula, which are basically tarantulas, the size of large cars.” Blaise shuddered at the mention of them. “Then there are trolls.”

“Tall as trees, those are.” Muttered Theo gravely.

“Thestrals.” Hermione had now started listing them on her fingers.

“They are shaped kind of like horses, but they have a beak instead of a muzzle and their bodies are quite skeletal, with black leather instead of fur.” Draco told her with a nod of his head. “And they have wings. Only people who have seen death, can see a thestral.”

“So, naturally, we can all see them.” Ginny said with a forced, tight smile.

“Then there are centaurs.” Hermione continued her list.

“Half-men, half-horse.” Blaise informed his wife. “Quite fond of the stars, they are.”

“That’s so many creatures…” Giulia said, staring between the witches and wizards around her.

“Our school was placed in the Scottish Highlands. Far from society and near a massive forest, with several things that wanted to kill you.” Nodded Theodore, lifting his glass to his lips to down the remaining contents of whiskey.

“And there was also the Basilisk that was inside the school.” Ginny reminded them. “I freed that one while possessed by the… What was it again? The essence of the darkest wizard that ever lived.”

“Ah, yes. My old housemate.” Draco said, lifting his wand to levitate a bottle of wine to fill Hermione’s glass. Theodore did the same with the bottle of Ogden’s.

Giulia stared at him. Her jaw slackened with surprise.

“You see, I was just released from prison for war crimes. I did them all under duress, mind you. Anyways, the old snake man that started the war on all muggles and muggle-born, lived at my house and used it as his headquarters.” Draco smiled at her, lifting his shoulder to a shrug. He felt the clinking of a levitating Ogdens bottle against his low-ball whiskey glass, filling it with liquid.

“That sounds awful.”

“Well, it was.” Draco agreed, then turned to look at his wife. “As for creatures by our school, we also had Unicorns, puffsk-”

“Unicorns exist?”

Draco turned to Blaise “I don’t mean this to be rude, I promise, but have you told her nothing about Hogwarts? Or magic? Or anything about your life? How long have you been together, anyways?”

“Seven months.” Blaise said, looking at Giulia. “And married for just over one. I have a friend in the department for matrimonial affairs, who told me I’d be on the third wave. So, Giulia and got married before that.”

“Now that makes sense!” Ginny nodded, leaning against Theo. “So, you have only been able to tell her about magic for about month then?”

Blaise nodded

“He never explained why he hadn’t told me before.” Giulia said softly, turning to gaze at her quite new husband.

“Because if he had, he could have been arrested, tattooed on the neck and thrown in Wizarding Prison along with Draco.” Theo said.

“The ministry would have to remove your memories about magic or of Blaise entirely. And they’d have to do the same with your family and friends.” Hermione said.

“The statute of secrecy is very strict. Especially since the war.” Ginny added with several grim nods in Giulia’s direction.

The Italian woman nodded her head slowly in understanding. “I see.”

“Oh! And the forbidden forest had Hippogriffs.” Blaise chimed, grinning viciously over at Draco. “You remember Hippogriffs, don’t you, Dray-Dray?”

Draco lifted his right arm, the AC/DC T-shirt he was wearing, easily showing off the slashes from the talons that had once struck him quite deep. “I do, indeed.”

Giulia stared, her eyes wide once more. “What are Hippogriffs?”

“Horses with eagle-heads.” Hermione quickly said, her thumb stoking lightly over the white, somewhat glossed slashes in his skin.

“And eagle feet. Those talons really hurt.” Draco informed, though he guessed she could assume as much.

“And why was it you got attacked again?” Hermione asked, her brow cocked with anticipating amusement.

“I insulted it. Called it something like a chicken and it attacked me. So, I completely deserved that.” He knew he had. Everything about the encounter had been unfortunate, and he had truly gotten what he deserved. All because he wanted to show off.

“Yes, you did. And then you tried to have it executed.” Ginny hissed.

“Not me. I didn’t push for execution. My father did. I would have been happy to never see it in class again.”

“Oh yeah, your father had quite the proclivity for killing beautiful creatures, didn’t he?” His beautiful wife’s face was distorted into a grave frown in his direction.

His hand reached for her face, the contrast between his skin and hers ever evident as his thumb stroked lightly across her tanned freckles. “He did. And your heart is too good for this world, you know.”  

“Speaking of creatures and Hermione being too good for this world,” Theo started, his brows quirked as he took a swig of his drink. “Didn’t you start a campaign to free house elves or something?”

“Oh yes! Spew!” Cheered Ginevra from his side. Draco assumed she did not need more to drink.

“It wasn’t spew. It was S.P.E.W! It was the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.” Hermione shook her head with amusement. “I’m glad there is now a law, that each house elf has to be paid and have free hours.”

 “I can honestly say, I am a bit surprised that you haven’t made a ruckus about us keeping house elves.” Draco admitted, his fingers tucking brown curls behind her ear.

“Because Effie dresses like a queen, I can only assume she makes more than enough money. And she and Pikes both have their own suites.”

“Hermione and her big heart for creatures.” Ginevra’s eyes glittered with mischief as she turned to Giulia. “You know, there is another magical creature that Hermione has quite the heart for. This one lived in our school.”

Theo’s eyes lit up with the mention. “I love your mind, Gin.”

“And what is that?” Giulia asked. Blaise buried his nose against her shoulder, his own shaking with poorly withheld laughter.

The littlest Weasley’s eyes locked on those of the Malfoy man. “A white ferret named Draco.”

Theo and Ginevra had been the first pair to leave their little group, leaving their sofa empty by the fire pit as Draco begged them to put up silencing charm. Closely after, followed by the Zabinis, leaving a trail of giggles and suggestive murmurs in Italian in their wake. Both pairs had run off to their respective bedrooms within the villa. Hermione and Draco had put out the flames and gone for a walk in the moonlight. Fingers entwined with one another’s as the constellations in the night sky showed them the path to the beach.

The sand beneath their bare feet was soft, allowing them both to sink into it as they walked along the edge of the water. “I can’t believe you nearly bought a shop today.” She said softly, her arm wrapping around his, so she could rest her head upon his shoulder.

“And why not?” He asked into the night sky. “Soon, you’ll be spending every day at the ministry. I’ll be all alone and looking for something to do. Managing a shop could be just that.” He said with a shrug of his shoulder.

It was not what he wished to do with his life. He once had plans and desires to delve into alchemy and potions, though he had not finished his schooling. He could not get a mastery without having finished his N.E.W.T.’s, and even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to do with a mastery in alchemy, apart from playing with alchemical reactions and ancient runes in his own study.

He had always had a mind for numbers. Calculations and money had not been an issue for him, as he had aided his father throughout the years.

“I think it’s a great idea.” She said, her body relaxing against his as they stepped into the slightly chilled water of one in the morning. “But you know as well as I do, that it’s not something you wish to spend your life doing.”

“It isn’t.” He agreed, feeling her fingers slip between his own as they stepped along the gentle curve of the private beach. “But it’s something to do for a while. Just until I figure out what I want to do with my life.”

Their eyes met. Even below the darkened sky, only lit by the moon and stars above, her eyes were that of sunlight. “I seem to remember you as quite the clever boy. What would you like to do? Your dream?”

“I quite enjoy alchemy.” He was quick to tell her. Everything that alchemy was, had been explored and tested already. And creating a Philosopher’s Stone was near impossible in a normal lifetime. “And potions.”

“I’m sure you could play around with those two, come up with something that interests you” she said. Her arm, which was wound around his, released, and she pulled him by the hand, deeper into the soft ripples of Mediterranean water.

He followed her, keeping his eyes on hers as she backed deeper and deeper. Her dress was captured by the small waves, the peach-coloured skirt spreading outwards atop the surface. The water was at her waist as she finally stopped. He came closer to her, feeling the denim fabric of his jeans cling to his legs as he stepped into her space.

Her fingers released from his, trailing her fingertips lightly up his left arm. They brushed against the skin of his forearm, marred with the Dark Mark. It travelled further, smoothing the unforgiving goose flesh that rose alongside her touch. Both of her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers resting lightly at his nape, her fingers warm against his skin. His arms draped around her waist; hands dipped beneath the surface of the water as they rested at the gentle slope atop her backside.

“Why are we out here, Hermione?” He asked in a soft whisper, barely audible over the sounds of the soft waves lapping at their bodies.

“Because I want to kiss you beneath your constellation.” She said, urging him down towards her.

A breath of a chuckle left his lips before he closed the gap between them, bending into her space to finally press his lips to hers.

The electrical surge between their bodies returned, sparking between them with a force as powerful as lightning, struck from a cloudless sky.

The current of her deep waters pulled him in, swallowing him with the gentle warmth was was her embrace. How he had ever been without her forces in his life, he could never understand.

Her body pressed against his, her warmth sinking into his clothes like a scorching fire against his skin. Setting his nerve endings ablaze with a yearning, so deeply seated within his soul that he could not dampen the longing within his body.

Whether her lips parting for him was an invitation, he did not know. His tongue reached forwards, tasting the sweet and rich flavour of the red wine that lingered on her own.

Her fingers tugged on the hairs at his nape, her body shifting upwards, trying to get closer to him by elevating herself to her toes, which made her sink further into the sand beneath their feet.

He urged to reach below the curve of her rear, pulling her up against her body, his fingers yearned to curve into the fabric of her dress whilst his tongue continued its exploration of her mouth. So, that was exactly what he did. Her legs encompassed his waist, the wet skirt of her dress, allowing saltwater to sink into his shirt as he carried her back to dry land.

The uneven, dry sand on the waterline caused him to fall to his knees, bringing her down into the sand along with him. Her brown curls spread beautifully out into the sand, haloing her as the gentle waves washed over their feet.

A soft noise escaped from the back of her throat, piercing the night sky with the delicate noise. Her fingers finding the elastic in his hair and undoing it, before entangling her fingers into his platinum waves. Her sharp nails scraped against his scalp, sending his mind and pulse into a frenzy unlike any other.

Her lips chased his as he parted from her, though he was not away for long. Hunger consumed him, the desire for the woman beneath him, so strong he couldn’t contain himself as his lips pressed to the side of her neck, his tongue trailing along the heavily pulsating vein on the side of her neck.

“Draco,” his name left her lips like a prayer, her voice was but a breath into the night sky, causing his teeth to scrape her delicate skin. Fingers curled into fists within the wet fabric of her dress, easing it up along the curve of her thighs.

Goose flesh rose along his skin, proudly presenting itself against the tips of her fingers, which found their way down along his neck, trailing his spine towards the hem. Her fingers gripped at the fabric, tugging it upwards, exposing his lean torso to the elements.

Exposed skin against exposed skin, her silken thigh brushed against his side as her leg hooked around his waist, bringing his body, his weight down atop hers. Delicate fingers tightened their hold in his hair, loosening his attachment to her neck. They gazed at each other for a moment, hungry eyes meeting a mirror in the other’s until their lips crashed together once more. Tongues reuniting with newfound lust and insatiable appetite for the other.

He wished to tear her dress off. He wished to have her under the stars. He desired to her his name slip from her lips between moans as his skin repeatedly collided with hers, their bodies becoming one beneath the stars.

A wave seeped along their legs, reminding Draco of the word that existed beyond himself and Hermione; beyond the taste of her lips and the feeling of her skin against his.

Reluctantly, the kiss was broken. Because, even with his burning desire for the woman beneath him, with the golden-hued eyes that reflected the constellations above them, her lips swollen with the force of their shared kisses, her reddened cheeks and chest rising and falling with heaving, shaking breaths, he could tell his body was not yet ready to perform for her.

“Not here,” his voice was barely audible over the waves, broken in a manner he tried to hide. The utter disappointment he carried in himself, he didn’t wish to show her. It wasn’t her fault. It would never be her fault.

A small nod to her head, she swallowed thickly. “Back at the house then?” She offered. He felt it in the manner she spoke, in the way an echo of her pulse raced within his chest, she was nervous. Of course she would be.

The tip of his nose circled hers, a soft kiss pressed to her lips for only a heartbeat. “Perhaps tomorrow, when we are both sober.”

“I’m not drunk, Draco…” he could tell she wasn’t. She had been drinking water and even eaten snacks with him. She was in excellent condition. Perfectly aware of her actions and their consequences.

“I am.” He lied. “And I don’t want to be, when I’m with you for the first time.” A wave lapped at their entwined legs, reminding him of the leg that was wrapped around him.

She lowered it, her toes sinking into the sand. She took a breath and nodded her head. “You’re right. Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” he returned the nod before using his arms to their fullest potential to help himself detach from her body, sitting next to her in the sand with his arms resting atop his bent knees. “I’m sorry…you know I don’t want to disappoint you.”

She shifted herself in the wet sand, sitting up next to him. She adjusted her dress carefully, draping the wet fabric back across her legs. “I would be more disappointed if you lied to me.” She said softly, leaning in closer to press a kiss to his cheek. “At least you told me. And this way, we can make it up to each other tomorrow.”

He didn’t understand himself for not daring to tell her the truth. Part of him thought it was because he wasn’t good enough for her, and it was his body’s way of showing it. Another part of him believed it was because she would change her mind, as she should. He was not worthy of her, no matter his great desire for anything about her. Another part of him wished the problem would cease the moment he climbed into bed with her.

“Tomorrow,” he smiled at her. Her fingers raked through his hair once more, pulling him in to seal their promise to one another with another searing kiss, one he was certain would leave scorch marks on his soul.  

Chapter Text

Number twelve Hammersmith Road in Aberdeen. The home of the Briggs family. All of them muggles, except Ella. Ella was the oldest of Grant and Alice’s children, and she was a muggleborn witch born in 1982. She was quite tall, with brilliant auburn hair and blue eyes, perfectly matching the blue and bronze of her Hogwarts House; Ravenclaw.

After her, came her brothers. Julian, born at the end of 1987 and their youngest brother, Eric, born in 1991. Eric had yet to turn seven years old.

Draco stared at the red door of the Briggs family home, reciting the information of the family to himself, his mind completely occupied with the limited amounts of facts he had gotten to know. An entire family: five innocent lives, summarized into what had only taken him thirty seconds to read.

His long, black Death Eater robes already reeked of hellfire; the bottom of his coat had been scorched in the first house he had attacked that evening. The sickening smell of burnt flesh was etched into his nostrils, just as the sounds of sobs and screams still echoed within his ears.

Fenrir Greyback and Rodolphus Lestrange apparated in by his side, just moments later. “Last house?” Barked Greyback.

Draco nodded only once. He hated the werewolf. There was no better word than that. Hated him. Loathed him. He absolutely despised him and what he usually did to his victims. Particularly his female victims. He had only heard retellings of his vile and crude acts and had promptly decided to not allow such heinous behaviour on missions where he was the leader. Such as that day.

And there he was, on the very first mission he would lead. Flanked by Greyback and his uncle, who would observe him, take his orders and find out if the boy, the youngest Death Eater of all, was worth the trouble. If he was trustworthy, or to be tossed in a cell along with the blood traitors; executed at the side of the muggle borns.

The Briggs’ home was their fifth and final home of the evening. Their last victims. So far, Draco had proven himself to be a worthy Death Eater. Someone who deserved his spot in the ranks of The Dark Lord, no matter how much he hated himself for what he did.

He had killed no less than thirteen people that evening. The Killing Curse slipping his lips as effortlessly as though it might be a levitation charm. He knew that to kill with that curse, he needed to will it into existence. He needed to want his victims dead. But he did not want it. He wanted them free. He wanted them alive. For most of them had been children, caught in a war they had no say in. Victims for the sake of a reptilian madman feeling better about himself.

The only manner in which Draco was able to kill them, was with the promise of a swift and painless passing into the world beyond. Should his uncle or The Dark Lord’s favourite werewolf have a go at their victims, they would be tortured until their final breath. Greyback seemed to prefer skinning and scalping those days. The women he got hold of, had to endure the force of him pleasuring himself with their bodies before he killed them. If they even survived the first happening. Lestrange, on the other hand, was fond of the concept of death by one thousand cuts. Slashing his victims with a blade or Diffindo, slicing them until they slowly bled to death.

Draco killed swiftly, so his victims would not have to endure his partners, and their vile ways.

Still, the weight of the curse sat upon his shoulders like boulders. Not only was the burden of murder heavy to bear, at least for a boy of only seventeen. But the curse, the unforgivable curse that had left his lips so many times that evening, seeped into his pores. His bones and soul tainted with the green light that had flashed from his wand. He could smell it. It was a faint hint of decay that lingered on his robes, along with the smell of fire.

Draco inhaled deeply through the nose, once more filling his senses with the smell he had come to familiarise himself with for the evening. Homes and memories set ablaze. Lives extinguished. Corpses littering the floors. He then exhaled through his mouth, breathing the bile away from his throat.

Hatred. Hatred towards Greyback, who raped and tortured. Hatred towards his uncle, who allowed it without hesitation, who tortured in his own manners. Hatred towards The Dark Lord, who put Dracos mothers’ life on the line, just to watch Draco squirm and do his bidding.

Hatred towards himself, for not ending the madness before it became too much.

He justified it to himself, the muggleborn would die, no matter what. Whether it was by his wand of someone else’s. The only difference was, if he didn’t do it, he would also die. Or perhaps in his stead, The Dark Lord would take his mother. Though his father was much too valuable to the dark forces to kill. But Draco did not care much for his father, for he was no man to be idolised further. He was weak, he was cruel and he was only kept on, because of his deep pockets and the towering stacks of galleons within his vaults.

Greyback stepped up the path to the house, raising his fist towards the red door. After a heartbeat of hesitation, the werewolf pounded on the door with immense force. The brass knocker and matching mail slot clanged helplessly, a whimpering metal on metal.

Lestrange rounded the larger framed man, muttering “Get out of the way, you oaf.” As he forced his body to take Greyback’s place. He aimed his wand at the brass door handle. The incantation for the unlocking charm could be heard before the door swung open with a slow and ominous creak.

The door swung inwards, opening into the sitting room. The family had been sitting in their large, angular sofa, huddled together and enjoying family time together, enjoying their last evening together, before Ella’s return to Hogwarts. The Christmas tree in the corner cast soft, warm white light into the living room.

Alice, the mother, hugged the two children who had been the closest to her. Her fingers like talons as she clawed them behind herself, shielding them from the intruders with her own body. A ten-year old boy, Julian, and Ella, who was just about fifteen were both hid behind their mother.

The father, Grant, quickly pushed the youngest boy, Eric, behind himself as he stood from the sofa, facing the three Death Eaters at his doorstep. His hands trembled as he squeezed the boy’s arms tightly, securing his son to the spot behind him.  “Wh-who are you?”

Grant was promptly ignored. “Look what we have here,” Lestrange snarled as he entered the quaint muggle home. Draco clutched his wand tightly between his fingers, his knuckles white as he strained against the wood. Both he and Lestrange were masked, hidden behind the decorated silver that The Dark Lord’s servants wore. “Filthy. Little. Muggles.” His uncle taunted, taking slow steps into their private space at the same pace at which he spoke.

Draco heard the faint sounds of the sirens belonging to the fire brigade, several streets away. Possibly visiting number 23 Allan Street, where the house was set ablaze jus minutes prior to when they arrived at Hammersmith Road.

Finally building the courage to enter the house, Draco pushed past Greyback, his shoulder pushing roughly against the werewolf as he finally crossed the threshold, his eyes focused on the hooded back of Lestrange’s head.

“Get out of our house!” Grant barked at the intruders. Draco cast him a look, glad his sickened and sorry face was hidden behind his silvery mask. He could see how Grants lip quivered with worry and unease. Of fear.

“How rude these muggles can be.” Sneered Greyback, taking a long step towards the man of the house. Draco knew what was coming for the poor man. He had witnessed it at the second and third home they had visited.

Greyback had seized the first man’s throat, pressing him so hard against the wall, showing the utmost brutality of his nature. The poor man was pressed so hard into the surface behind him, the pressure of Greyback’s fingers around his throat building so significantly, that the man’s eyes had bulged out of his head. Garreth Turner had his trachea crushed. All whilst his child, Juliette, aged 13, and girlfriend, Paige, had been watching. Screaming. Pleading for his life. Two flashes of green later, and both Paige and Juliette joined him in the afterlife.

The second of Greyback’s victims, had been a visitor at the third family’s house. The man, Draco did not know his name, had tried to defend his friends and family from the Death Eaters. Greyback had marched up to the man, lifting his by the neck with his Claes hand, and had watched with pure enjoyment as the man was choked to death by his own weight. 

Draco closed his eyes behind his mask. He prayed to Merlin, to every muggle Deity he could think of, that he would be forgiven in his afterlife. He did not wish such a horrid fate on the family before him. “Avada Kedavra.” He muttered, sending a bright flash of green light crashing into Mr. Briggs’ chest. Dracos fourteenth kill for the evening. He collapsed, his body slumping down atop the sofa he had shared with his son, not minutes prior. He then slid, landing lifelessly on the floor, earning screams and sobs from his family.

Fourteen.

The mother hugged her children close, staring wide-eyed at the family’s assailants.

“Probably wish you were the rightful owner of your magic now, don’t you, mudblood?” Lestrange stepped in front of Draco, sauntering towards the four remaining members of the Briggs family, which had all collected at the smallest sofa with their mother shielding them from the intruders.

Ella’s tear-filled eyes stared up at them from behind her mother’s shoulder, horrified. Terrified. Scared for her life, knowing she couldn’t do anything to save herself. Possibly not the rest of her family.

“What do you want with us?” Asked the scared Ravenclaw. “I’ll give you anything. Everything. Take me, if you spare them.”

“Ella no!” Alice quickly turned her head to her daughter. “Do not offer yourself as bait to these- these-”

“Death Eaters.” Draco completed Alice’s sentence. The distain that could be heard in his voice, was not for the muggles. Nor was it for Ella. No, it was for them, the Death Eaters. Come to collect five more lives that evening, all to please the manic Dark Lord.

“And we don’t want you.” Greyback grinned, flashing the family his pointed teeth, always being in his grand shape of half-transformed into his werewolf self. “We just want you gone.” There was a slight sound of his claws clicking against one another as he observed the family with hungry eyes. Draco knew he lied.

“We have dinner to get to,” Draco said, trying to come off as someone who would much rather be at said dinner party, than at number twelve Hammersmith Road. “So, we best not linger.”

He didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to have been sent on a mission to kill muggleborn witches and wizards. But he had been. And he had let their families join them in the world beyond life, all at the request of a madman with no shoes.

“What do you suggest then?” Hissed Lestrange. The mission was Dracos task. Seeing if he could do as he was asked by The Dark Lord without hesitation. Lestrange and Greyback had been brought along to observe. To help, if need be, but mostly to give word back to The Dark Lord whether he had been successful or not. So far, he had been. And his so-called success made him unbearably sick to his stomach, to the point where he had to swallow his bile at each and every home.

Draco craned his head to the side, spotting the mother over the Death Eaters shoulder.  Her long, brown hair was seemingly protecting her children from harm, a curtain of love and tender embrace as she held them all close, whispering words of utmost love to them, as though she could cast a protective enchantment over their heads. Perhaps praying to her deity that her children might be spared. “Killing curse,” he saw Ella and her mom flinch. “Quick and easy. We’ll start with the youngest and work our way to the mother.” For he knew that a mother’s love could kill them instead.

Part of him wished he would die. Wished he could be so brave, to join them in death. But he wasn’t. He was but a boy, terrified of death, just as most people were. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t have much to live for, other than keeping his mother safe and alive, but he feared she would join him in death quickly, once he passed into the great beyond.

“Please! No! Take me. Take me instead. Don’t take my children.” Tears trailed down her cheeks like waterfalls, as Alice begged for her children’s lives, crawling towards the masked men on her knees. “I’ll do anything as long as you let them live! They have their whole lives ahead of them!” Desperation rang through every syllable she spoke. “Let me die in their place.”

Draco sighed, pushing Lestrange aside as he marched closer to Mrs. Briggs. “This is your last chance to tell your children you love them. Do it. Because, in ten minutes, you’ll be dead.”

He watched as the woman stared at him, meeting his hardened gaze between his silver mask and hurried to her feet, only to scurry back to the sofa, where her children awaited her company, clutching one another. Draco shifted his focus from the family, turning his back to them.

Occlumency was a gift in moments where a family, loving each other to the very end, needed a moment of peace to say farewell. For they knew what was coming. He weighed his wand in his hand, twirling it between long, elegant fingers. “Greyback. Lestrange. Go outside. I’ll take care of them.”

“He wants us present, Malfoy.” Reminded Lestrange with a snarl in his voice whilst he turned to the youngest Death Eater.

Draco snapped his head in his direction, his lips curling into a sharp sneer of his own, behind his mask. “The Dark Lord is the best Legilimens this world has ever seen. If he needs to look into my mind to see I have killed this filthy family, then he is more than welcome to. I just wish to finish them off without the interruption.” He gestured his head towards Greyback, who appeared to be eyeing the mother with hungry eyes. “I need you to babysit him for me. Either take him outside or take him back to the manor.”

His uncles’ eyes narrowed with suspicion behind his mask, though Draco held his gaze as if he had meant every word. As if he truly believed the loving family deserved to die for one of them being born with magic. “What are you gonna do, kid? Free them?”

“I’ll kill them, uncle. I just don’t want the last thing they see, to be you. Or Merlin forbid, him.” He nodded his head towards the despicable hybrid once more, earning him a snarl from the tall beast.

A mere minute later, two pops of apparition sounded from the front step of the house. The two had gone back to the manor without him.

The embossed silver mask, the truest mark of the dark soldiers, was lowered. Removed from his face entirely. He swallowed thickly, staring at the inside of the mask, the dark metal that had concealed him from the world, before tossing it to the floor with distain. He hated the mask. Despised it. Loathed what it represented.

“Who are you?” Asked Ella from behind him. Draco chuckled, though the sound lacked amusement of any kind. His head lifted as he turned his entire being to face her, revealing his identity to her. Surprise etched on her face as realisation dawned upon her. “You…”

“Me.” he said with a firm nod. The familiar face from Hogwarts. Hugh and mighty, snarling down at those he had deemed below himself. The boy who had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. The boy who had been nothing but cruel and vicious towards those of muggle descent. Though the teenager standing before Ella Briggs was hardly recognisable. He was sad. Heartbroken. His eyes showing her exactly how much he hated himself for what he had become. For what he was forcing upon the family. “I don’t want to do this. I honestly don’t want to kill any of you. But if I don’t, He’ll not only kill me for my failed mission, but the Death Eaters will hunt you down by killing everyone you have ever known or ever loved.” His tone was almost pleading as he explained to Ella, hoping, in one way or another, she would not hate him as fiercely as she would a Greyback, when the door closed on her life.  “I am only doing this because otherwise, it would be a fate worse than any death I could give you.”

Behind her, her younger brothers stared at him, clinging to their mother as though she could save them. As though the clothes in her back were God sent. “You could let us go.” Ella said.

“Yeah. And when the Death Eaters have murdered your entire extended family and everyone you’ve known and loved from your muggle life and wizarding life alike, Greyback, our dear werewolf, will hunt you down. He will rape you. He will either kill you or turn you into another member of his pack. Where he can rape you and torture you until your heart finally gives way.”  He nodded his chin upwards, gesturing to the three people behind her. “Your brothers will get torn to shreds whilst they are still alive and your mother will suffer being a werewolf plaything until the full moon, when she becomes theirs to tear limb from limb. She will drown in her own blood, whilst screaming for mercy.”

Ella had paled significantly, looking sick. “Don’t you dare say, you are doing me a favour.”

“I’m not saying that at all. But a killing curse, a painless death, is the best I can do for you.”

Her eyes searched his for something. Perhaps she was looking for his humanity. It was buried; hidden far below the mere surface she could see. For deep within the depths of his soul, his humanity, his true feelings of anger and despair lay dormant. Before her, stood the much-occluded teenager who had but one task; to kill her. One way or another.

She shook her head, tears seemingly resurfacing within her eyes. “I don’t want to die…” her voice was meek. Sad and hollow, a desperate whisper towards the only person carrying a wand.

“I know. You’re too young. You all are. But you’ll die either way.” He glanced down to the floor, where her father lay between the coffee table and the shortest, overstuffed sofa. Brown eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. “He’s waiting for you. Ready to welcome you with open arms, once you cross on.”

She watched him for a moment, “You promise it will be painless?” The whispered question was met with a heart shattering sob from her mother. He swallowed thickly, nodding his head. “Then… Do it quickly.” She said with a whimper, her bottom lip and chin quivering.

He nodded his head in utmost agreement. “I will.” He watched as the teenage girl retreated, and sank into her mother’s arms, her arms winding around what remained of her family.

“Avada Kedavra.” He said, pointing his wand towards the youngest boy. He fell limply into his mother’s arms, the weight of his body slumped slightly against his older brother.

Fifteen.

“Avada Kedavra.” Yet another green spell left his wand, landing in the oldest boy, Julian. The once firm grasp he held upon his mother, slackened. His arms falling limply to her sides the moment he joined his youngest brother in the life beyond.

Sixteen.

Their mother sobbed with utmost heartbreak, her body trembling with the way she defeated a scream whilst hugging her three children close. Two of them dead.

“I love you mum,” whispered Ella, who was clutching onto any part of reality, of her family, as she could.

“I love you, my girl. I love you so much.” Her mother whispered back, kissing any part of her daughter she could reach.

“Avada Kedavra.” The spell came swiftly, and as soon as Ella’s body slumped against her mother, her head rolling against Alice’s shoulder.

Seventeen.

The mother screamed. The heartbreak she felt soared through the air, filling their shared space with a tangible taste and feeling thicker than mud. She cried heavily, fingernails digging into the corpses of her children, clutching at them, with every fibre of her being. Willing them alive. Willing for the last few minutes of her life to be but a nightmare.

But it was not. It was real life. And she was, however unfortunate, next.

“Avada Kedavra.” The curse filled him with venom as the fifth and final member of the Briggs family collapsed, lifeless. Tears still shining upon her cheeks as she joined her husband and three children into the world beyond life. 

Eighteen.

One more spell was needed to complete the evenings mission. A ritual The Dark Lord had passed upon him, testing him just as much as he had with the murder of seventeen innocent people. Seventeen lives that had not needed to be ended.

The carved edges of his hawthorn wand dug into the pad of his thumb as he stared hopelessly at the family before him. The shields of occupancy lifted as he cased at them. Huddled together. Dead, but remaining a family, sharing love in their final moments.

He wondered if he would die like them, one day. Surrounded by his family. Surrounded by love, feeling it pulsating within his veins at he took his final breath. Though on the other side, perhaps he too, would be begging for the life of those he cared for, before a green curse would come hurdling towards him at hop speed. Ending his life as a teenager.

His wand twitched in his hand, protesting the next curse, as though it knew what was coming. The unicorn hair within his wand was pure, not quite welcoming to his uses of the dark arts.

“Pestis Incendium.” He watched as a flaming snake coiled from the tip of his wand, slithering towards the corpses. The flames whipping from its body, lighting the room in lethal flames. Draco watched it, allowing his own control of the curse to wane. Allowing the snake and its vicious flames to be the one in charge. He did not care. He did not mind. He stood there, feeling the way his skin began to prickle with sweat. The way his lungs filled with soot. A smile upon his lips as he allowed his eyes to close.

Perhaps death wasn’t as cruel as he had believed it to be.

With a newfound heartache, draco awoke. His heart was pounding within his chest, and although he felt an overwhelming amount of sorrow for Ella Briggs, he simultaneously felt immensely hollow. As though he was a vase. Transparent and hollow. Filled with something but memories and aches of a world he somehow wished to leave behind, yet he also wished to carry with him into the future.

There was a warmth surrounding him. He felt it against the slight, cold misting of his brow, where the fine strands of his white hair clung to his skin in platinum rivers. Eyes finally fluttering open, he was not met by the much-expected darkness of the bedroom he had occupied alone. Instead, he was greeted by a slightly moonlit face. A peppering of cinnamon-coloured freckles, barely visible in the cold, dark night. Eyes is gold, appearing to glitter as an enchanted sea before him. Her wild mane of curls haloed her beautifully in the moonlight.

Hermione was sitting atop him, legs draped in either side of his body. One hand cupping his chin and staring down at him with worry, whilst the other was in his hair, her fingers warm against him as she had brought him out of his memories. Out of the nightmare from which he had created. “There you are,” she whispered into the darkness “I felt your sadness. It woke me up…” she explained her presence. He found himself wondering if she did not feel welcome in his bedroom at night. 

“I’m sorry… I had a bad dream.” He had the sudden need to apologise to her, though he could not control his dreams more than he could control the days of the week

“It was a memory, wasn’t it?” Her voice was laced with concern. Her fingers threaded his hair once more, easing the dampened stands from his brow.

“It was…” he said, his head nodding slowly in her grasp. He found himself quite unable to test his gaze from her. Her eyes in particular, was nothing that could be measured by anything. By anyone. She was a goddess. Effortlessly beautiful and captivating in every sense.

She nodded, the minor movement barely perceptible in the darkness, if it hadn’t been for the movement in her hair. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” He swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…”

“Draco…” his name left her like a whisper, his arms wound around her, his heart aching for her embrace. She settled into the mattress next to him, her arms wrapping around his body to bring him close, into her unyielding warmth. “What did you dream of?”

“I’ve done so many horrible things, Hermione.” He said as he nuzzled his nose against the softness of her hair. “I think this was the worst I’ve ever done.”

Her fingers combed his hair. “I’m here if you ever want to tell me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you… because I do.” His hold around her waist tightened, pulling her closer against himself. “I’m afraid you’ll leave. I already know I don’t deserve you.” A halfhearted, mirthless chuckle passed his lips. “I know I’ll never be good enough for you. I know you will never want me, like I want you, and that’s okay… But at least without the whole truth, with some things left in the dark, you might still want to be in my life.”

She pulled him close against herself, nuzzling her nose against his chest, possibly feeling the rapid thunders of his heart as she lays there. “I don’t know what you’re on about, Draco. But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here.”

He inhaled her scent. She smelled of sleep, of the fire they had sat around for hours. Sea water seemed to linger on her skin after having gone to the beach with him. She smelled beautifully, so brightly of the enticing scent that was only Hermione. Her body fit ever so perfectly within his arms. He was almost certain the two had been shaped for one another. Their bodies perfectly piecing the others to completion.

 One more truth. He decided he could do it. Decided he should to it. He could tell her, getting the weight off his shoulders and the pressure off his chest. He knew he could not lie to her. He could not keep any truth from her. He knew he did not want to lie to her. The idea of such an act made something in his body feel immensely wrong.

 “I was tasked with a mission by The Dark Lord at the end of Christmas break, the year you were on the run with Potter and Weasley. I was told to take down the muggle born students who lived in Aberdeen, as well as their families. Set their houses on fire, to send a message to the masses.” she stilled in his arms. Her once even breathing halting for only a moment. “Five families were set to die that day. Six families did. Either by my wand or my uncles, or of Greyback taking their lives.” He shook his head at the memories of those Greyback had reached before Draco had been able to stop him. “I used the killing curse before Greyback could get to most of them. I took nineteen lives that day. The youngest one, was a girl, about to turn three years old. One family had visitors over, so they had to die as well…” he felt unease settle in his stomach. “I almost killed myself that night. I stood in the Fiendfyre, waiting for it to take me. I didn’t deserve to live after that. I didn’t deserve to live on when six innocent families did not.” He had felt the walls within his mind closing in over him, his chest aching with the horrendous memories of his awful and selfish acts. Her arms tightened around his torso as she hugged him closer to herself, her nose pressing against his sleep shirt. His long fingers gripped at anything within their reach; one hand in her hair and one fist forming in the back of her cotton T-shirt. “So, I waited for death to take me. To make my kill count that night an even twenty. But Rodolphus came back and pulled me out of the house before the fire got me.”

She remained quiet for a long time. Draco assumed she had stilled, so she could think of the nicest way possible to reject him completely. “I think, once we get back to England, it’s best you see a mind healer.” She told him, shifting back just enough to allow their eyes to lock onto one another’s. Warm honey brown on cold steel.  “Is that okay with you?”

He blinked. Then he blinked once more. He was bewildered, if anything. Astounded. “Okay.” He nodded his head but once. “For you, I’ll do anything.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Thank you for telling me, Draco… And don’t worry about it. I will never think less of you for what happened during the war. The fact that this still haunts you, proves to me how you were never a Death Eater at heart.”

“I don’t deserve you.” He uttered into their shared space. He meant it. Those four words were Merlin’s utmost truth. For Draco did not deserve a goddess clad in gold, a deity who forgave his sins and comforted him when he recounted them to her.

No. Draco only deserved punishment for his deeds. The most vile and cruel penalising. Whips on his back. Bloodletting. Being eaten by a snake. Torture until his heart gave way.

Instead, he had her. The most radiant of suns shining down upon him, leaving no shadow in her wake. He made his shadowed world vibrant and lively. Vivid. She was the exact opposite of him in every way.

Where he was dark, she was the light. Where he was damaged and broken, she healed. Where he was timid and scared, she was tentative and safe. Where he was cool, she was warmth. Blonde hair and pale grey eyes contrasted her chocolate locks and golden-brown orbs. Pale skin on tanned. Tall and slender against short and curved. Where he was despicable and a disgrace to the world he lived in, she was a Goddess. As descended from the Gods of Olympus themselves. Perfect in every manner.

Hermione shook her head. “Don’t say that. We are exactly what the other person needs. In so many ways, I think we both feel we don’t deserve each other.” She said with a voice softer than silk. “But even I feel I don’t deserve a soul as good as yours, I know I don’t ever want to be apart from you.”

That time, it was his turn to close the gap between them, capturing her lips in a soft and tender kiss, allowing his love and undying gratitude for the woman in his arms to peek through. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips.

He felt her teeth barely ghosting at his lips as her own pulled into a smile. He could barely see the way the corners of her eyes crinkled with the merriment. “There’s nothing to thank me for.” She whispered in return. “Now, turn around.”

“What?” He pulled his head back just about where he could look at her, his eyes fixing onto hers in the moonlit night. “I don’t want to turn around.”

“Just turn around. I don’t think you’ll regret it.” She said, still wearing a gentle smile upon her lips. She quirked her brows upwards, allowing him to see she meant business. He continued to hesitate, keeping his focus on her whilst she pressed her lips together and nodded her chin upwards. “Now.” She urged him, impatiently.

With a frown, he conceded. Rolling around on the spot, he turned his back towards her. He felt her shift her weight on the mattress. Then, he felt her embrace. Warm and inviting. Her arms slipping around him as she pressed the front of her body to his back, allowing him to relax fully against her.

Her fingers combed through his hair, her gentle caress urging his hair from his face as he settled back against her. “I hope this means you’ll be staying the night with me?” His tone was light, hoping to come off as nonchalant and easy. But he did not wish to fall asleep in her most comfortable embrace and wake up without her. Alone.

“I think it’s about time that I do.” She agreed, pressing her nose and lips into his platinum waves.

The urge to turn and face her was beyond measure, but he fought it. He collected one of her hands in his, allowing their fingers to loosely intertwine. “Perhaps… Perhaps, if all goes well, we can continue that arrangement at home too?”

A lightness washed over him. A comforting ease, if there ever was such a thing to exist. It came from her. Her heart had seemed to lighten at his inquiry, sinking into his very own skin as they lay together. “Are you asking me to move in?”

“I believe you have already moved in. But I suppose I am asking you if you’d like for us to move into a shared bedroom?” The tip of his thumb stroked lightly over her nails. Perfectly long enough and rounded at the tip. Strong, and painted over with a soft pink nail varnish, which caught the soft moonlight with specks of glitter. “If tonight goes well.”

“Why are you afraid it won’t go well?” She asked, her other hand still soothing though his hair in a gentle caress, twining the strands lightly between her fingertips, tugging the strands ever so slightly, to where he could feel the whisper of a tug on his scalp.

He was quiet for a long moment. Hesitating as he mulled over his upcoming words. “What was it like for you? After the war?” Her fingers halted mid-way on their journey through his strands. “I know you’ve mentioned a mind healer, and I know you’ve had nightmares… But has it gotten better?”

Her fingers softened in his hand. A breath of air was released against his crown. “I have meetings with your aunt in the upstairs drawing room at least once a month. Even now, so many years after it happened. Sometimes it’s memories of that day. Other times, my mind creates new scenarios or alterations to what actually happened.”

He released her hand and swiftly turned his body around in her arms. His eyes locked on hers. Golden. Glittering like fairy dust with unshed tears. “Last time, I dreamt she found a knife and carved me, just like the others did with you.” Her fingertips traced the outline of the scarred B on the back of his shoulder. “Then, when you tried to help me, tried talking sense into her to stop…” she sniffled, a small tear leaking from the corner of her eye, collecting in a small pool of salted water at the bridge of her nose. Her fingers came to his heart, resting firmly atop it on his chest. Feeling the steady rhythm beneath his bones. “She stabbed you. Right in the heart.”

His hand found hers yet again, the same hand that she had resting atop his steadily beating heart, telling her he was there. By her side. Alive. His fingers enveloped hers with ease, as he gazed intently at her. “You never have to worry about things like that happening. I promise you, Hermione, I’m not going anywhere.”

A small series of nods of her head, the tips of her fingers pressing against his chest.  “I woke up crying, you know. I think I even screamed. The loss I felt in my dream was unreal. I was so nervous, so scared to actually lose you. So, as any normal person would, I spent the entire day at your side.”

He recalled the day without question, and he remembered it fondly. She had knocked on his door to wake him, and had awaited him to dress before going to eat breakfast together. They had spent the morning walking the hedge maze, plucking blooming opalescent flowers from the structure of the maze, making a shimmering bouquet. They had fed the swans the remaining pastries from their breakfast.

After, they sat together on the violet sofa, starting side by side, until he had ended up laying back against the soft pillows, his long body stretched across the length of the lounge. His fingers were playing with her beautiful curls, feeling each ringlet with the tip of his forefinger, whilst he read aloud to her. The Great Gatsby. She had fallen asleep with her head on his chest, her ear pressed agains the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He had drifted off to sleep not long after.

The evening was spent in much a similar fashion. Awoken by Effie, the pair had eaten something called Lasagna for dinner, at Hermione’s request. Draco had poked fun at her for her awfully shredded cheese, whilst their feet were toying with each others beneath the table. They were never an inch apart.

The pair had walked the grounds whilst enjoying the sunset. The sky had been painted with shades of yellow and coral, which ever so gently faded into a deep purple. The feathery clouds which specked the night sky, were lit with the vibrant oranges of a fire.

They had lit a fire in the fire pit outside of the solarium and sat in the garden daybed, talking about nothing. About everything. Theories of life and favourite foods. They had pointed to constellations, watched as stars shot across the sky and made wishes upon their bright tails of gold.

He had wished for more nights such as those.

She had, yet again, drifted off to sleep with her, her head on his chest and arms wound around him. Her lips had been parted, breathing evenly and relaxed out into the evening air of Wiltshire.

Parting from her after such a lovely and close knit day, had been nothing but excruciating.

“But in all honesty, I used to have nightmares all the time. I used to see the dead bodies from The Great Hall. The trolls and the centaurs and the house elves on the battlefield at Hogwarts. Everyone being dead. Fred…” her head shook, her eyes squeezing shut, only to release the next tear which had been threatening to fall.

He adjusted himself on the bed, propping himself up on an elbow, where he could view her better. Where he could be there for her, much more accessible if she needed another hug.

Silent tears had streaked from both of her eyes. One, having slid down the length of her nose, the other having faded into the mass of curls that lay beneath her. “I’m so sorry you had to live through that. That you had see it. I’m so sorry that it ever happened…” He said softly, his long fingers grazing her cheek before fading into her hair.

The pain she had suffered, the death and destruction she had seen, had all been done because of him. Had he not let the Death Eaters into the school at the end of their sixth year, the war might not have started. The Battle of Hogwarts might never have taken place. Fred Weasley might still be alive. So many of their peers might be alive. He might not have had to learn the killing curse, might never have had to wield it for the serpentine man. It was his burden to bear. It was also his acts to apologise for.

“And now, my nightmares have become about you. Not you hurting me, but you… Intervening. Getting yourself hurt in my place.” Her fingers tightened at the front of his shirt, just above his heart, gripping it fiercely. “It’s as though the you from my dreams would…” her eyes met his, recalling the mention from the conversation around the fire pit, just hours prior. “As though you’d put your life on the line, be willing to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Her curls slipped cleanly between his fingers, feeling like silk against his skin. “If I could go back in time, I would step between you and Bellatrix…” He admitted with a resolute softness to his voice. “I would stop her for torturing you. Stop her from causing you so much pain, that you are still carrying it with you. Even to this day.”

“Draco-” her head shook yet again.

“I wish I had the courage to do what was right, at that time. I wish I told her to stop. I wish I raised my wand at her and… And…” His lips pressed together as he tore his eyes away from his saving grace, the woman sharing his bed with him. The most radiant angel he had ever laid his eyes upon.

The softest of fingers threaded his hair once more. “You don’t have to say it. It doesn’t make any difference now.” Her voice was soft, displaying her understanding to him.

Dracos eyes had focused on the sheer blue curtains, carrying the colour of Forget Me Nots. They were wafting gently with the soft breeze that flew in from the Mediterranean Sea, allowing the moonlight to peek in through the gap, created by the gentle caress of nature every few seconds. The stars were still out, twinkling, spreading its timeless beauty across the vast, sleeping world. There was yet to be any sign of sunrise on the horizon. “I should have killed her.”

“She was your aunt… You wouldn’t have killed your own family.” Her fingers traced his jaw, leaving a trail of soothing warmth in their wake. His head turned to her. The constellations across the bridge of her nose were mesmerising. The reflective glow of her eyes, drawing him in to give her his sole attention.

A deep inhale, filling his lungs to their fullest extent. “She was a monster. Had I killed her that day, had I only stepped in between you, so many lives would have been spared by her wand. So much trauma would have passed by, without ever having been.” A sigh released through his nose, heavy and pained. “She deserved it, if there was ever one person to deserve such a fate, a cruel death, it was her.”

“We can’t go back to change what has been done.” He was eased down by her guidance, his forehead meeting hers as her hand graduated from his jaw, trailing down the side of his neck before soothing along the width of his shoulder. “What’s done is done. We can only learn from it and grow… No matter the painful memories.”

The tip of his nose pressed to hers. There was such comfort in feeling her skin against his own. To feel her hands on him. It was a welcome invitation, an open door to enter ones very home after having been lost at sea for years.

He closed his eyes, allowing her scent to invade his nostrils, filling his soul with his share of her ever so mesmerising presence. She smelled of the beach. The specific smell of seawater and sand that mixed beautifully with the remnants of her perfume. Vanilla, almonds and cardamom lingered on her skin, just as the taste of red wine had lingered on her lips just hours prior. Then there was the smell, ever so familiar, of fire and embers, having caught in her pores and her hair from their hours around the fire pit with their friends.

Her body, next to his, held the softened quality of a body that had recently awoken from deep sleep. His fingers trailed mindlessly over her side; clad in the same shirt she had worn on her first visit to the manor. A drawn, somewhat dog-like figure, dressed entirely in yellow.

But he did not care for the figure on her shirt. He only cared for the woman who wore it. The woman, who was gazing up at him with glittering eyes of wonder. “If you choose to sleep by my side every night, just know I get them too, the nightmares.”

“I kind of understood as much.” She spoke with such kindness and understanding. Her voice the gentle caress of fairy wings in the night. “I didn’t hear you scream, but I felt your heartbeat. It woke me. I felt how you were scared, how you were sad… “

A small nod of his head. “It happens quite often. Not always in the shape of nightmares but…”

“Reliving it?” She offered. He felt her fingertips play with the hem of his sleep shirt, just at the nape of his neck.

“Exactly.” He agreed. His fingers had found their way into her hair once more, his pale digits curling into a loose fist as he parted his nose and forehead from hers. “I have many regrets from the war. Some dreams are worse than others. I thrash and kick. And I’m quite a bit bigger than you, so I might hurt you if that was to happen.”

“I seriously doubt you could ever hurt me.” Her comment was met by an unimpressed look and a cocked eyebrow, silently telling her he had already hurt her on several occasions. Though he had never done more than using his words. “All I’m saying is, I’m quite good at defending myself. And even if you could hurt me, I’d have my wand nearby, so I could immobilise you if I couldn’t get to you.”

A moment of hesitation, where he kept his eyes locked on hers, focusing on not getting lost in their depths “I suppose it might be time we start sharing a bedroom.”

“And bed.” She interjected sternly.

“And bed.” He quickly agreed, not even trying to hide the ridiculously large grin that spread at her interjection. Of course, the brightest witch of their age would make sure to read the fine print, to make sure she got her way. Though, he had not planned to make her sleep in another bed, even in a shared room.

Oh no. Draco was, had always been, selfish. Greedy. Perhaps more so in his youth, however, even as an adult, he found himself wanting only the best of the best. And the woman on top, he woman draped in gold, which matched her eyes and the radiant shine that came from within her soul, was Hermione. His Hermione. To have her, not only in the very same bedroom, but in a shared bed, their shared bed, would feel his insatiable need to be with her even further.

His very greatest desire, was to sink into bed with her at the end of every evening. To wake up to her radiance every morning. To kiss her whenever he so wished. To take her to lunch dates. To treat her to evenings in famed restaurants. To travel the world with her. To feel stomach, swollen with a life they had created together. To take their children into the forest, introducing them to the wildlife that lived on their lands. To read bedtime stories to little children that looked like Hermione, though perhaps they had the Malfoy silver eyes. His greatest desire was to live a life with her; a life worth living.

He would have preferred having her with him at every moment. Would have preferred to spend an eternity at her side. But one could not always get what they wanted. He could not have everything. Though, as long as he had her, he would be fine. And he would take everything she was willing to give him.

“I would prefer spending every night with you, much like this. Though, hopefully with less nightmares and perhaps some more kissing.” His brows quirked, the mood in the chilled air between the two having lightened significantly.

“Don’t tempt me, Malfoy,” her fingertips trailed slightly up along the side of his neck, creating goose fresh in their wake.

“Back to surnames again, are we?” He asked with an amused hum to his voice. His fingers gripped lightly at her shirt, feeling his pinky slip against the soft, warm skin of her waist, exposed by the cotton, which had slipped up the curve of her waist. “I hope I don’t have to remind you, you are also a Malfoy now.”

“Does that mean I get free reign to do as I please?” Her voice was that of a playful purr, her finger twirling a section of his white hair around her finger.

“Of what? The manor? Absolutely.”  He watched as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Our properties? Of course.” The fingers toying with his hair, travelled upwards and into his hair. The intense eye contact between then, caused his heart to thunder. “Our vaults? They’re all yours.” Her nails raked across his scalp, sending chills up the length of his spine.

Her eyes brightened. “I get free reign and get to do as I please at the manor?”

“Yes?” He asked with amusement.

“So, I can move into your bedroom?”

“I mean… It’s dark and cold and depressing, but yeah. If you’d like?” He laid body entire body down next to her, his shoulder and elbow tired from holding him up for such a length of time.

“But if I get free reign, I can renovate it? Make it brighter. Less ‘I-Am-Sixteen-Years-Old-And-Forced-To-Be-A-Death-Eater’ and more… Warm? More us?”

“I don’t know if I have a preferred style. But you are more than welcome to change the room in any which way you’d like.” His hand rested lightly at the side of her neck, his thumb stroking lightly over the light smattering of freckles. “I would prefer it to be more of you, and much less of me.”

Her eyelashes fluttered against the pad of his thumb, her own arms winding around his waist. “Why do you say that?”

“Because the manor is only a place. It’s four walls and a few rooms.”

“A few rooms?”

“Just a couple.” The chuckle escaped his lips before he even knew it had happened upon him. “My point is, it’s not special. It’s just a building. It’s not home unless you’re there.” Her brows puckered slightly at his words. “Because you, Hermione… You are home. Anywhere in the world is home, as long as you are by my side.”

The three words, the ones with the deepest meaning, the words that had been swimming through his mind for days. Weeks. They nearly slipped his lips as she scooted her body closer against his.

“I think I feel the exact same way,” Her words were but a whisper as the tip of her nose brushed lightly against his jaw. “Now, let’s go to sleep. We have a long and… Adventurous day ahead of us.” Her lips brushed against his pulse point as she spoke, reminding him of the upcoming, physical event he had promised her for the day after.

Meaning, come morning, he had to speak to Theodore about some muggle pills that might, and hopefully would, help him with his problem.

“Of course, love.” He agreed, shaking his shoulders to rid himself of the goose flesh that had risen across the entirety of his body. “Would you like to be my little spoon?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would want to be the little spoon again.”

He thought about it. Considered it. The feeling of her arms around him, made him feel safe. Protected in a fashion he hadn’t been for several years; a feeling he had been without since before he had been forced to become a soldier in a war that started long before his time.

The way she had held him before, the back of his head resting against her clavicle and chest, her fingers in hishair. Her kind and warm embrace was utter perfection around him. “I’d like that a lot, actually.”

She replied with a grin, loosening her grip around his body, indicating for him to turn around, returning to their previous position. He turned his body swiftly, settling back against her. The familiar warmth of her body enveloped him. Her scent wafted over his body as her fingers immediately found his hair, brushing the loosely hanging strands back from his face.

“Who would have ever thought it, Draco Malfoy, enjoy being the little spoon.” She mused, pressing her lips against his head.

He pulled one of her hands forwards, entwining his fingers loosely with hers. “If you tell anyone, I will never be your little spoon again.” He threatened with an idle smile playing over his lips. “That especially goes for Weasley.”

“It’ll be our little secret,” She agreed, and he could tell by the sound of her voice and the lightness of her voice, that she was smiling. “Good night, Draco.”

“Good night, Hermione”

I love you.

Chapter Text

Sunkissed fingers slipped through his white-blonde hair in the late night. His shoulders, scarred and battered, rested against her as her fingers continued to thread his locks. Silver eyes softened with the moonlight before finally hiding behind a hard line of wispy, black lashes. His breaths were deep and steady, his chest rising and falling with ease as he finally fell into a state of rest, where sleep overtook him.

She lay awake for a while longer, allowing herself the comfort of watching him sleep. He had never looked more peaceful. Never seemed more at ease. She owed it to him. Owed him an opportunity for rest. An opportunity to feel cared for.

The darkness which surrounded them was ever so peaceful. The soft breeze of the outside world, carried with it the sound of waves on the sand, the sound of grass and branches rustling as dawn seemed to creep nearer. The stars had started to fade, his gleaming constellation nothing but a memory as the sky faded from the depths of space, slowly graduating into the light purple of sunrise.

With his weight settled against her, her fingers in his hair, she finally allowed herself to slip away, letting the slowly building sunset claim her as she fell asleep with the man who held her heart.

Though, that was not how she awoke hours later. His warmth had parted from hers. His weight was not anywhere on the bed. She had awoken alone. The clock on the wall read four minutes passed noon, and she felt her heart sink within the confines of her chest, as disappointment washed over her. It had been their first night sharing a bed, and she had woken up entirely alone.

On the nightstand, lay a note. Black ink swooped elegantly over the fresh parchment, slanted slightly to the right, with the front letter of each line slightly smudged with where his finger had brushed against the fresh ink.

Love,

I woke at 7, and decided to let you sleep in.
It seemed you needed it.

Going for a walk nearby.

Yours,
Draco

If he had awoken at seven in the morning and left her alone to sleep, it meant his walk must have been over. Which meant, at least she knew he was somewhat close. Hopefully basking in the bright sun in the gardens or perhaps relaxing on the sofa in sitting room.

It put her heart at ease, even though she sorely wished to have awoken alongside him, his weight against hers, his enticing smell filling her nostrils.

She went back to the bedroom she had occupied the previous evening, showering and dressing herself before stepping downstairs to join the others for lunch, keeping a sharp eye out for the man she had sorely missed that very morning.

“There she is!” Cheered Ginny as Hermione finally slipped into the sitting room. She wore a smug smirk on her face, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “I went by your bedroom this morning but found it vacant.” A quirk of her eyebrow made the smirk much more menacing. “So, tell me, how was it? Shagging your husband?”

“Now, now, Gin, be nice.” Said Theo, draping himself over the back of the sofa, his lightly tanned hands resting against her pale, bare shoulders. “I’m assuming the new Lady Malfoy doesn’t like talking about how Draco fucked her into next week.” His smirk was vicious, if there was ever a word to describe it.

Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping through the sitting room and into the kitchen. “Does it matter what a married couple does or doesn’t do after midnight?” she asked, checking if the water in the kettle was hot enough to steep tea. It was.

“Don’t worry Hermione, I’m sure you’ll get to it soon enough,” said Giulia politely from her position on a chair in the other room, and Hermione could hear a smack and a soft “ow” coming from one of the men. “Will Draco be joining us soon?” Asked the Italian beauty.

Her heart sank like a boulder in water, her back shooting up straight. “He’s not back yet?” Her cup of tea was left steeping on the counter as she rushed back to the sitting room.

“Back yet?” asked Blaise, his dark brown eyes focusing on Hermione with worry. “We haven’t seen him all day?”

“He left me a note, saying he went for a walk around 7 this morning.” The small clock on the wall, deep brown with Roman numerals. read eight minutes to one in the afternoon. “That’s six hours ago. I’ll have to go find him.” She declared to the four others. She barely noticed how Ginny sat up, as though to rush after her as she exited the room and headed for the exit made of wrought iron and glass.

Footsteps follows behind her. Long, quick strides, sounding almost like Draco’s, made her determine it was Theo who was hurrying after her across the wooden floors. “Why are you in a rush? Draco’s fine. He’s strong enough now you know, you’ve seen him.”

She tore the front door open, fingers pale around the black door handle as she quickly turned to look at Theo, who looked as relaxed and at ease as ever. “Draco is only fine when I’m nearby. Our connection… I don’t know how it works, exactly, but it heals him. But it doesn’t last when we’re apart or when he pushes himself too hard. After he got his wand yesterday, he was shaking for hours.”

The ease faded from his face within moments, thick, expressive brows furrowing over his hazel eyes. “What?”

“He has eight years of healing to do, Theo. It’s not done in a month, even if he seems better.” She shook her head, taking note of how the tall brunette checked for his wand in his back pocket “I’ll find him on my own, don’t worry.” She assured him, giving him a small smile to reassure him. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I don’t want to risk anything.” She stepped through the door, hearing Theo mutter a word of acceptance before shutting the door behind herself and setting off to find her husband. Her steeping tea on the kitchen counter, long since forgotten.

She was not entirely certain of how their connection worked. It had fascinated her for some time, though she didn’t know of any literature on soulmates, as it was such an utterly rare connection. Reuniting souls from a different lifetime was only heard of in ancient tales, not readily accessible for the curious mind.

The pull had returned to her. Settling itself deep within her diaphragm, with a clutch around her rapidly beating heart, where she used it like a compass to guide her body to him. Her soul desperately pulling her towards the right direction, where its mate was hidden from her.

The cobblestones beneath her feet graduated into crumbling stones and sand, becoming coarse shrubbery and long, green grass that licked along her calves as she walked, heading towards the man who pulled on her, easing her towards him.

Her heart held a steady rhythm, echoing how he felt at ease in whatever situation he was in, relaxing her as she wandered on through the nature, ignoring paths trodden by previous walkers in the area.

The hill was calm as she staggered through it, the forget-me-not blue skirt of her dress billowing in the soft breeze that surrounded her. She could see Marseille. She had a perfect view of the boats, and the beautiful city lives of muggles going about their everyday lives as she continued on, observing the mere specks that moved within the captivating city.

And she could see him. He was sitting in a steep part of the hill, a perfect point to adore the view before them. He had placed himself between the grass and shrubs, his platinum white hair standing out between the vibrant greenery. His expression was vacant as he stared out onto the city and its lively harbour. He seemed lost. Tired. Worn.

It seemed something was occupying his mind, guiding him away from reality and into an alternate place, one which had his full focus.

She stepped up next to him, yet there was no sign that he had noticed her. Her fingers rested atop his shoulder, giving him a squeeze to signal she was there.

“I don’t want to lie to you, Hermione.” Said his voice. It was missing something. A spark from his usual lightness. His usual mirth, easygoing and enjoyable was far gone, possibly lost in the same place that held his mind.

She swallowed thickly, feeling her own heart rate increase beyond measure. “You’ve lied to me?” The words that escaped her lips were barely louder than a whisper.

“Withheld the truth, I suppose.” He said with a sigh of defeat. He had yet to look at her.

“Well…” She moved in beside him, settling herself atop the grass on his left-hand side. Her shoulder was against his bicep, her thigh against his. “There’s no time better than the present.”  

His hand reached out, resting atop his knee with his palm facing the sky, an open invitation of honesty. She took it, her fingers entwining with his. “Whenever you’re ready, Draco.”

His fingers closed over hers, holding her tightly, safely within his grasp. His flawless alabaster against her sunkissed. “I just want to preface this by saying it’s not your fault.”

She sighed, her lips curling into a tight frown. “Which actually means, it is.” She felt saddened, her stomach churning with discomfort as she stared at him, trying, hoping to catch his eyes.

He complied to her wishes, his gaze shifting from staring vacantly at the harbour to focusing intently on her eyes. “I swear it, Hermione. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault, it’s no one’s fault… it’s just…” he looked away, regret lacing his features. “Please don’t laugh.”

“I won’t laugh.” She quickly promised, her thumb grazing lightly over his forefinger. “I promise you; I won’t laugh.”

Pale white locks of hair shifted in the wind, brushing over the bridge of his nose before he tucked it behind his ear, securing it in place. “It’s quite embarrassing, if I’m honest… But, well, there’s a part of my anatomy doesn’t… Quite work as intended at the moment. It’s not that I don’t want it to, because Merlin knows I would love nothing more than to crawl into bed with you…”

Her eyes remained focused on his, even though his did not remain set on hers. The pain and utter frustration in his eyes were ever so evident in the way he looked away, unable to meet her gaze as he showed her a side of himself that was painful for him to expose. The vulnerability in his expression, in the way he carried himself himself, with shoulders slouched in defeat and his jaw straining, was something else entirely.

It made sense. He had only had two glasses of whiskey the previous night, he was sober by the time they had made it back to the villa, yet he hadn’t wanted to sleep with her, saying he was inebriated. He had urged her to wait for the following day. That very day. Every time she had urged things further, pushing at their physical connection to consummate their soul bond, he had pulled back, without as much as a notion of a physical stirring.

“I’m so stupid…” the words left her lips in a whisper.

He shook his head. “Don’t say that. I should have told you sooner. I just… Like I said, it’s embarrassing.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she quickly said, allowing the realisation to wash over her.  “It can happen for men, after traumatic experiences.” She said into the soft breeze between them.

For she knew that Draco carried with him several demons. She had always believed he had not killed, though he had informed her time and time again, how she had been mistaken. She knew how he had been forced to do things he hated himself for. She knew he had seen things that would make any lesser person run for the hills, never to return.

She knew he had gone through extensive physical trauma as well. His own father, the man he had idolised for most of his life, having handed him over to be tortured. Cut with a blade and branded with cruel slashes that would never fade from existence.

Severe trauma could leave lingering effects on his body. She knew it could happen. She knew it was a possibility. Though she had never thought it might happen to him, despite the overwhelming hardships he had gone through. She had been foolish. People had worse side effects for much less than what he had been through.

“There are potions for it. And muggle pills, so I can get that.” A heavy sigh was released into the warm air, his shoulders falling to ease with the truth he had shared. “But I just and to be honest with you.”  His gaze finally latched onto hers, the apologetic look remaining evident on his face.

She released his hand, her arms reaching around his shoulders, pulling him close against herself, easing him into her warm embrace. His arms wound around her, holding her securely in place, willing her to not part from him as his nose buried into her billowing curls. “If you want to, we can try it. Use potions or pills, I mean. But if you’d rather wait until your body is ready, we can do that.” She spoke, her fingers brushing lightly against the nape of his neck.

“We could do that.” His voice was soft. Careful. “It’s not that it doesn’t work at all, because… Well, it’s partially up and running, but as it is right now, it wouldn’t be a good time for either of us. And… Just because that part of me is on partial leave, it doesn’t mean there aren’t other things I can offer you as well. I don’t need anything in return, other than seeing you…”

“Pleased?” She chuckled.

His shoulders shook lightly as he too, joined in on the easy humour that washed over them. “Yeah. Pleased.”

She eased away from the hug, her fingers combing his hair away from his face, which the light breeze only seemed to settle back to where it had been before, strands framing him like a canvas. “I’m not going to sit here and lie that I don’t want to take that next step with you, but I’m also not going to force you to do something you’re not ready for. It’s your body, and that means you decide what happens and how it happens.”

He nodded his head, his eyes drifting off momentarily as he thought about his options. “I think… I think I want to go see a mind healer when we return home, and then I want to wait until my body is ready. But I would also like to give you what you want. What we both want. You’ve been so patient with me. It’s the least I could do, to give back to you.”

She nodded her head slowly, feeling a smattering of butterflies toy with the lining of her stomach. “I won’t say no to that,”

“And who knows, it might just help things develop… Might help my body along.” She could feel the tension in his body ease away, his muscles releasing the pent-up feelings, the frustrations and unease he had carried with him from the conversation at hand.

“I’ll help you in any which way I can, Draco.” She said with utmost sincerity. “Is that why you left so early this morning?”

“I think so, yeah. I promised you the world last night, and I thought… I thought perhaps you’d like to go for it this morning. So, I left before you woke up. I needed some air, to get my mind form it, to agree with myself to tell you…” She knew the conversation must have been difficult for him. Knew it was a topic of which most men were very sensitive about. But having him tell her, having him come clean and reveal to her what was going on with him, made her heart swell with appreciation for him. “And besides, I miss nature. I miss our pond. I miss our willow tree and the swans. So, I wanted to sit here for a bit and just observe.”

She settled herself into him, her body feeling complete with his presence by her side. Her body feeling at complete and utter ease as she was embraced by his heat, by his affection towards her, his arms remained around her, seemingly not willing to let her go. “Then let’s just observe,” She spoke softly, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder.

A comfortable silence settled over them, as her mind was transported back to the first time they met as adults. The easy comfort of sitting by their pond, taking in the details of what made the nature around them so special. How a mere blade of grass was ever so amazing, mesmerising in its simplicity.

So, she let her eyes wander, allowing her to see the world from the perspective of a man who had lived eight years without the simplest of beauties. Seeing the world from his eyes.

She watched as the swells of the sea eased towards land. Large, easy formations in the water, carrying ripples, which reflected the sunlight up towards them. It made the entire water before them gleam and glitter with the bright sunlight. The swells slowly graduated into waves, where the glittering faded into white tops of elegant foam that washed between the boats that lay docked. The peace was settled through the sounds of water, brushing lightly against the large stones, having been placed there decades, perhaps even centuries prior.

Before her feet, stood a bed of wildflowers. The one particular flower that caught her eye immediately, was of a soft purple colour, with nine petals standing tall amongst the green grass which surrounded it, protecting the bright yellow pistils from the moving air. The soft breeze from the sea caressed the flower ever so gently, letting it sway ever so slightly within its surroundings.

She averted her gaze from nature, gladly settling her eyes upon the man by her side. A man she had known since he was eleven years old. She had watched him grow from a young boy, hellbent on being vicious, on spreading cruelty and hatred like his father before him. He had aged throughout their years at school, though his cruelty had remained. An ever constant of his teenage years. Then, his father had gone to prison, and his vicious nature had faded from existence. He had become a Death Eater. The sixteen-year-old boy had finally, fully stepped into his father’s shoes, and had hated his position entirely.

He had carried his depression, his anxiety and his fear quite evident on his sleeves, though the people around him chose to look away. They chose not to see it. They chose to not help him. She had never admitted to it before, but had seen it, and she too had looked the other way. Chosen to not notice how he sorely needed someone to rely on.

She stared at him with utter amazement, acknowledging to herself just how far he had come. How his hatred, the loathing he had spat when he had called her a Mudblood, had faded from his existence entirely. Was happily living his life, with said Mudblood on his arm. He was kind to her. He kissed her. He trusted her. He confided in her. He played with her hair and stared into her eyes, as though they were made of magical starlight that fuelled his very essence.

He had become so much more than he once had been. He was open with her. Honest and vulnerable. He revealed his true colours to her, time and time again surprising her with the vast changes of his being, of his mindset. She knew she was lucky to be able to see the changes that had happened in him. She would count her stars every evening, if it made sure she would continue to see him differ from the boy he once was.

And then, as though his mental growth and the beauty within wasn’t enough, there was his appearance. His nose had once been a slope, childlike and beautifully tiny once they met in their youth. It had elongated, the tip still slightly rounded and buttoned, but it had a more structured and aristocratic build. There had never been a freckle to see across the bridge, nor peppering his cheeks. His skin remained alabaster, perfectly cut from marble, maintaining the clarity of precious artwork. His lips were the perfect fullness for his face, not small and thin, nor were they plump beyond means. No, they were absolutely perfect. Soft, pink pillows that called for hers. His chin, as a child had been pointed, much like an arrow, sharper than the vile words he so often spoke. It had squared a bit with age. His jaw remained narrowed and pointed, but well defined and elegant in nature.

And then there was his hair. White-blonde and wavy, falling much longer than she had ever expected of him. It softened him. His hard lines and sharp angles of his graceful build, both of his face and his body were much sweeter, delicate with his hair at a bit of a length.

He must have felt her eyes on him, must have felt her stare appreciatively at her ever so handsome husband, because he turned his head to face her. Eyes of molten silver, with specks as vibrantly blue as the Mediterranean Sea before them, beautifully framed with long, black lashes. “What?”

She shook her head ever so slightly. “I was just thinking about school, actually”

“Of course you were,” he nodded his head, trying to restrain the grin that wished to spread across his cheeks. “Always a swot.”

“Not like that.” She defended quickly. “I was thinking about sixth year, in fact. The first class we had with Slughorn. When he presented us with the three dangerous potions.”

His eyes narrowed, though he nodded slowly, letting her know he was following along. “I just remember the Amortentia he had presented. And then Potter winning the Felix Felicis with the perfect Draught of Living Death.”

“That’s the potion I was thinking of. The Amortentia.” She bit back the smile that wished to present itself to him. “I don’t know if you recall, but I smelled in front of the whole class. I smelled fresh parchment, freshly mown grass and green apples.”

One of his brows quirked upwards. “You never mentioned smelling green apples in class. I know you didn’t. I would have remembered that.”

“No. I kept that particular smell to myself. Parchment and grass, I could pass off as an attraction towards anyone.” At that moment, she averted her eyes from him, if only for a moment. “Had I said, ‘green apples’ in front of our entire class, I could have just as easily professed my feelings towards you in front of the entire school.”

A small moment of hesitation rang through the air before he spoke. “You had feelings for me?”

“No… Not that I knew of. But that very class was when I realised, I was attracted to you in one way or another.” She admitted with a small smile, cast his way. “I mean, I always knew you were handsome. Attractive, even if you were a ponce. But that very moment was when I understood that it was more than just… Appreciating your appearance.”

A smirk spread over his lips, nodding his head “It took you until sixth year to realise it, huh?”

Her eyebrow elevated, sending him a judgemental look. “Not everyone has a spiritual awakening when getting hit in the face as a thirteen-year-old, you know.”

“And then again when you walked into the yule ball.” He chimed, leaning back on his arm in the grass, giving it his full weight. “You know, when I went and smelled the Amortentia, it smelled of you. It smelled of old books, vanilla and a blazing fireplace.”

“I smell like old books?” Amusement filled her voice as she turned her entire body to face him, tucking one leg below the other.

His knee nudged against hers. “No. But I always saw you in the library. Old books were all around us. I think your perfume has always had notes of vanilla. And your body soap did too. And I believe you used to sit by the fireplace a lot, up in Gryffindor, because the smell of it was always on your robes or in your hair.”

She stared at him, heat rising along the back of her neck. “You noticed… All that?”

“I noticed everything about you, Hermione. I noticed how you always preferred the purple sugar quills, and the orange ones were always left behind. I noticed how you preferred warm water with honey and lemon, whenever you had a cold. How you preferred to shower in the evenings, so sometimes when you came down for a late dinner, you smelled divine when you walked past me. You smelled of vanilla and a bit like cherries. I noticed how you ate best when they served chicken or turkey. I noticed how your favourite class was Arithmancy. I noticed how your magic affects your hair.”

“It does not.” She was quick to defend, though she had a feeling he was more than correct.

“It does. When you’re frustrated, or sad or angry, your hair grows. And when you calm down, it settles.” The words were said with a light tone and a kind smile. The mocking nature of their childhood was long gone. “But what about what you smelled in the Amortentia? Are you telling me that I smelled of grass?”

“You sometimes used to sit in the grounds outside, close by the fountain? It always used to smell freshly mown. As did the quidditch pitch, whenever I saw you there.  And then there was the day I hit you; the grass had just been mowed.”

She could have sworn she saw the corner of his couth tugging upwards by a fraction. “And then there was the parchment?”

“When we met in Flourish and Blotts before second year. We were surrounded by new books. Every time I smelled fresh parchment, my mind wandered back to that day.” She crossed her legs in the grass, running her ankle lightly against his denim clad calf. “And the green apple is quite obvious, isn’t it?”

His tongue rolled against the inside of his lip, silver eyes settled on hers as she could not stop herself but admire them. “So, you fancied me back in school?”

“No. I fancied Ronald.” She sighed as she recalled being upset about him snogging Lavender Brown. What a fool she had been.

“And how did that work out for you?” The man before her wore a smug smirk, much too familiar from their youth.

She could simply not let him win. “About as well as dating Pansy worked out for you.”

“Touché”

“But there was a part of me that knew you were…”

“Handsome? Delectable? Charming? Elegant? Fanciable? Delicious?”

“Cocky, arrogant and much too full of yourself,” Her brow arched at his nonsense, though she could not help the smile that crossed her lips. “But also, quite eye-catching and intelligent. I always found I enjoyed competing against you in our shared classes, besting you and getting higher marks. I enjoyed winning over you, because you always tested me. You always challenged me.”

“And Weasley didn’t challenge you?” She knew he knew the honest answer to that.

“Ron is very good with strategy. He’s quite smart, you know. But the only thing he tested, was my patience.”

“Finally, the Malfoys return,” Blaise announced triumphantly, just as Hermione and Draco stepped through the wrought iron door and made their way into the villa.

“See, Granger? I knew he hadn’t just wandered off and died out there.” Theo chimed from the sitting room, his tone light as it rang through the bottom level of the house.

“Sometimes we wish you would, though.” Muttered Blaise to Nott, walking the Malfoys into the sitting room. “So, Ginny and Giulia are upstairs, getting ready to go to into le Chemin des Lumières. Would you like to join us?”

“Actually,” Draco said lightly “We have decided I need to learn about muggle life, so I can eventually meet Hermione’s parents. So, we are going into muggle Marseille today.”

After their talk about the Amortentia experience of sixth year, Draco had asked about her parents and Australia, which had graduated into a conversation about returning to said country to introduce Draco to the Wilkins’. She had immediately agreed to bring him, to proudly display her husband to the people who gave her life, even if they didn’t know their shared history.

However, to bring Draco to Australia, she had a few criteria that needed to be met.

First, Draco needed to learn how to behave normally in common muggle situations, such as shopping, going to a café, paying with muggle currency and not being completely surprised that muggles use paper money, nor being confused when asked if he’d like a bag or the receipt at the end of a purchase.

Second, Draco would need to fly like a muggle would. Which meant no brooms, no Thestrals, no Hippogriffs nor Dragons. It meant going to the airport, presenting his muggle passport, finding his gate and boarding an airplane. It meant sitting in a cramped space, where his knees would be pressed against the seat before him, drinking flavourless tea and looking out the window, to see the formations of clouds as they passed by.

When this was presented, Draco had quickly asked if they needed to fly the entire way to Australia, seeing as he had never before stepped foot in an airplane, or as he called it, an aeroplane. She told him no. They could travel from London to Edinburgh, to Paris or anywhere else. She simply wished for him to know the experience before supposedly flying across the planet, where he would meet her parents.

Third, Draco would need to learn how to live like a muggle in a passable fashion. He would have to know what a television was, how to operate a mobile phone, as well as the most popular films and series. He’d have to learn to cook something other than bacon. He’d have to know how to operate basic muggle technology.

Fourth, Draco would have to learn to refer to the muggle deity ‘God’ or his alleged son, ‘Jesus’, instead of using Salazar, Marlin, Morgana or any other magical historic figure to curse.

He had replied to this statement, by uttering ‘Merlin’s beard’, which he then corrected to ‘Jesus’ beard’. Hermione had by that moment alone, deduced that her fourth criteria might be the one most difficult to meet.

“You’re going to learn how to be a muggle?” Theo snorted from the sofa. “I can’t wait to see how that goes.”

“Well, today she will be teaching me about handling muggle money and shopping like a so-called ‘normal person’.” Draco sauntered over to the sofa, sitting down on the opposite end of Theodore Nott, showing Hermione their stark contrasts, whilst simultaneously showing off how similar they were.

Both men were built lithely, with long, lean muscles and elegantly broad shoulders. Draco with soft waves of white-blonde hair, and Theodore with short hair of brown curls. Both bore sharp features, with high cheek bones and eyes that could spear one’s soul.

“As if you don’t know how to handle money, Dray-Dray.” Theo said with a grin, a dimple flashing along his cheek.

“I do, but I rarely handle muggle money, do I?” The blonde man offered in return. “One thing is going into Diagon Alley and saying they will get it from our vaults. It is another thing entirely, to stand in a queue and pay with…” His molten silver gaze landed on Hermione. “Kaj?”

“Cash.”

“Cash! Yes, cash, as the muggles call it.”

“But why would your parents care?” Theo asked, casting Hermione a narrow-eyed look. “They’re your parents, they already know you’re a witch, so they should respect that Draco doesn’t know much about the muggle world. He wasn’t raised in it, so shouldn’t they understand that?”

Draco sat forwards in his seat, his eyes locking onto those of his wife. He knew her parents and their obliviation was a difficult topic for her to discuss, and no doubt, he must have felt how uncomfortable she was by the topic. He reached for her. She allowed her body forwards, settling herself into his lap. His arms wrapped themselves securely around her, pulling her against his broad chest as his fragrance entered her nostrils. Smoky vanilla and citrus. She found herself wondering if he wore vanilla because she did. Seeing as he had taken note of it in their youth, in the noted scents from the Amortentia.

“The summer before seventh year, I obliviated my parents. They live in Australia now, as Monica and Wendell Wilkins.” A large hand soothed down the length of her spine, allowing the fine hairs beneath her dress to stand on end. “They only know me as an English orphan who moved into their street. They kind of took me in when they learned I didn’t have family. They fed me, we went on hikes together and they showed me their Australia; their lives there.”

Theodore looked between her and her husband; his brows puckered with intrigue. “You couldn’t have reverse the obliviation?”

Her heart fell, causing Dracos fingers to thread her brown curls calmly, relaxing her before she even knew she had needed it. “Had my spell not been as complicated as it was, I could have reversed it. But creating new identities for them, made the window of opportunity to get them back to normal so much smaller.”

She loathed to think about it. It was what haunted her the most after the war. There was, of course, nightmares of Bellatrix and the Battle of Hogwarts that lingered throughout the years, coming for her in the dark of the night. However, the thought of her parents, her only true family, being entirely lost to her, by the work of her magic and her own wand, was something that tore at her every single day. Thread by thread, she felt herself slipping apart, crumbling beneath the weight of what she had done to her very own parents.

There were so many things she wished to share with them. She wished they had both been there, when she found out she had been ever so fortunate to have married her soulmate. She wished she could call her mum and invite her to the manor for tea. Or to take her father for a walk through the hedge maze. She knew he’d love the pond that was hidden within. She wished for her parents to be a part of her life. To know who she was. To know what she was able to do. To love her.

Though, most of all, she yearned to speak about memories with them. Skiing together in France over the Christmas holiday. Travelling to Manchester together when she was eight, because her parents needed to attend a dental conference. Her father teaching her to ride a bike. Her mother braiding her hair into a thick plait, whilst sitting in front of the telly before bed.

She clutched at the teardrop shaped pearl between her clavicles, the necklace which hung delicately around her neck. The very last gift she had ever received from her mother.

It’s okay to be sad. I’m right here.

The voice of a certain blonde entered her mind. A echo of a memory of something he had said whilst comforting her, she was certain.

“So that’s why I’m learning how to be a muggle. So, I can meet them, and our worlds can somehow mix.” Draco told his friend, allowing Hermione a moment to collect herself, to not push her further into the abyss of horrid memories and the despair that clung to her.

“And what would your love story be?” Blaise asked from a chair across the coffee table. “Because childhood bully turned soulmate after a wizarding war sounds a bit intense for a set of muggles, wouldn’t you say?”

The breath of a chuckle escaped her. “I suppose that story isn’t exactly an option.” She could only picture her father, Wendell Wilkins, staring between the two with horrified, wide eyes. He would possibly only recall that Draco had bullied her, that he had been mean to her, and refuse to believe that there was ever such a thing as soulmates.

“I’ll own up to being your childhood bully, though.” Draco said, his voice laced with a soft understanding. “I was a complete idiot, and they should probably know that.”

“Okay, yeah.” Her hair bounced with her series of small nods. “I just think we should say we attended the same boarding school, our houses were rivals and you bullied me. And then we met again when I moved back to England, and the pieces just fell into place.”  

“And then you got married after three weeks?” Blaise urged, brows raised towards his hairline as he peered at the couple. “Cause that’s fast, even in the wizarding world. Giulia and I got married quite quickly as well, but not within weeks.”

“He’s got a point. And you can’t exactly tell them about the repopulation act either.” Added Theo, his arm resting over the back of the cream-coloured sofa.

Her eyes settled into the diamonds on her ring finger. Elegant. Beautifully crafted with amazing care. Chosen especially for her by the man who always chose her. By the man who had chosen to protect her and to look out for her, since long before she had ever noticed.

“We could always say it was arranged. It is common in some muggle cultures, and also within ancient families such as mine.” Draco offered. “You know, a last wish from my father before he died.”

Theo scoffed. “If little old Lucy had been alive, I think he’d have disinherited you in a heartbeat if he found out you’d married Granger.”

“Good thing little old Lucy is dead, and I got to marry the witch of my dreams.” She felt the warmth of his words sink into her bones, warming her from the inside as she sank into his body. “I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome.”

Silver eyes locked into gold. Not her gold, no. Not even gold from their Gringotts vaults. What gold he lay eyes on, were the 50 cent coin of the euro currency.

“Tell me again how much this is?” He asked, running the pad of his thumb over the front of the coin, feeling the pattern and the writing ever so gently.

“Just about one Sickle and eighteen Knuts.” She said, before handing him a note of twenty euros. “And you’ll need this if you’d want to order us drinks.”

“And how much is this?” He asked, plucking the blue note from her fingers. “Why do muggles use paper for money?”

“It’s not actual paper. Getting it wet won’t destroy it.” She said, watching as his gaze lifted to settle on hers. He seemed utterly bewildered by the mere thought of using muggle currency. “And it’s about three Galleons and seven Sickles.”

His brows pinched together, and he nodded his head slowly. “Okay. And what did you want to drink?”

“An iced tea with raspberries, please.” She reached towards him, resting her hand lightly atop his forearm. “Do you want me to come with you?”

A quick, dismissive shake of his head “Absolutely not. I’ll have to learn how to do this.” He said, though his body language showed a certain unease at the task at hand. “what did I want to drink again?”

Her brows raised with the inquiry and he quickly averted his gaze. “Okay, never mind. Never mind. Okay. I’ve got this.”

“Yes you do. Now go and order. I’ll be right here if you should need me for anything.” She urged, nodding her head towards the opened doors of the cafè they were visiting.

He stood from their table, clutching the blue euro note in his hand as he made his way through the opened glass doors of the quaint coffee shop, and stopped at the counter, waiting for his turn to order their drinks. There were two ladies in their 50’s before him, casting obvious glances his way, looking the tall blonde up and down with quite apparent appreciation.

She watched as one of the older women turned to Draco and asked him something. Her body language read to be that of a flirtatious cougar, if Hermione had ever seen one.

Dracos body stiffened at when she had said, his lips parting just slightly as he worked on something to tell them lady. He stared at her, then gave the woman a quick answer, and they both turned to Hermione. Draco gave her an apologetic smile, his brows puckered together across his forehead. The woman smiled at her, then turned back to Draco and touched his arm ever so gently as she said something more. He nodded, smiling awkwardly down at her.

Hermione quickly looked away, steering her gaze to the purse in her lap. She did not like the feeling that bubbled within her. The woman had obviously flirted with her husband. She had obviously wanted something with him. And then she had touched him.

Hermione wasn’t a jealous person. She had decided as much. She was competitive. She was stubborn. She was intelligent. She was logical. Women like her did not get jealous.

Especially not when her husband was Draco Malfoy. A perfect Slytherin in every way. He was a clever man, logical and analytical in his way of thinking. He was a great observer. He was prideful, not only of his own accomplishments, but also of her. He proudly displayed his affections for her in every which way he could. From holding her hand, to begging to order her drink for her, to kissing her or even walking the streets with his arm draped around her. Her Slytherin husband was fiercely loyal and utterly devoted, so he would not have flirted back with the woman.

She had no reason to be jealous. She had him, safely tucked into her side for the rest of her life. And all the lives that were to come. Soulmates, bound together for the rest of eternity.

“Your iced tea,” chimed his voice as the tall drink was placed before her, the glass was already dewy with condensation. She felt his lips pressing against the side of her head.

She lifted her gaze from her purse, and before he had the chance to move away, she lifted her hand to the side of his neck and pulled him in for a searing kiss. A kiss that reminded him of who his soul was meant for. A kiss to tell the flirtatious women he was, indeed, taken.

“Hermione,” his voice was soft as his lips parted from hers. She deduced she had possibly let the kiss last much longer than was ever deemed appropriate for a public space. “As much as you quench my thirst, love, I should also go collect my drink.”

“Please don’t let those women touch you, while you’re there.”

An amused huff of air escaped his nose. “I never expected you to be the jealous type,” the top of his nose brushed against hers, before standing fully. She got no time to answer before he left, going to collect his drink at the counter.

She watched as he walked away, biting her lip with appreciation as she adored the view of his backside. Broad shoulders highlighted by his leather jacket, his rear beautifully crafted by the way the dark blue denim fabric curved around the steadily increasing muscle.

She could also spot how other women appeared to notice him. Not only the women he had queued behind, but also other customers at the café.

Though Hermione could not blame them. He wore the new, black leather jacket she had gotten him, pairing it with a plain, white T-shirt, dark blue denims and his black dragonhide boots. Pairing that with the runes tattooed on the side of his neck and the striking, white-blonde hair, which he had not styled, apart from running his dampened fingers through his locks, he looked positively delectable.

He ended up exchanging a few more words with the woman behind the counter, before handing over some of the money that had been left over from ordering their drinks. He was then handed one plate with two croissants and a plastic container of fresh fruits.

He then picked up his drink from the counter and swiftly carried both over to the table, where his wife awaited him.

“So, what did the old hags want, anyway?” She asked, as he took his seat across the round table from her.

He looked at her with sharp eyes of amusement. “Well, one asked if I was single, because I was apparently her daughter’s type. She said Marielle was twenty-four and liked bad boys.”

“Marielle sounds like a slag.”

“Hermione!” He scolded her playfully, wagging his finger at her. “I then told her I’m not a bad boy, that I’m actually quite boring, and that my beautiful wife, sitting just outside, is a war hero, and thus much more badass than I ever could be.”  He slid the plate of croissants to the middle of the table. “Then they told me how pretty you were, and that I better treat you well.”

“Oh…” perhaps they weren’t as vicious old hags as she had assumed them to be

“And the girl at the counter asked how I get my hair this colour.” He added with a shrug of his shoulder.

“It is quite striking.”

A grin formed across his cheeks “It must be, to get you to lift your nose out of a book,”

“Oh shut up, Malfoy.” Her knee nudged against his beneath the table. She reached for the plate between them, picking up a croissant “So, what drink did you get for yourself?”

“A green apple lemonade.” She could see the grin he was forcing down. See how the mirth swam deep within his eyes, and the lightness that filled her chest was an echo of his joy from their previous conversation.

“Green apple, you say?” She reached for one of the croissants, tearing off a piece for herself. “You’re quite obvious, aren’t you?”

He picked up the other croissant, tearing a third from it, before sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery pastry. “You’ve called me much worse things, you know.”

Beneath the table, her leg brushed lightly against his. She had found herself with a constant need to have a physical connection with him. It had become so normal to her since they had reunited, that she did not think much if it. It was second nature to her. To feel whole, she needed his presence.

“I have been thinking about something.” She said after a while of comfortable, companionable silence. She noticed his eyes shoot to hers, the specks of blue fading within the molten metal that was his eyes. “It’s nothing bad. You don’t have to worry about everything, every time I think about something, you know.”

With his fingers swooping through his hair, he gave her a nod of his head. “Right. My apologies. What is it, love?”

She inhaled deeply, bracing herself for his reaction to what she wanted to say. “Once we return home, I think we need to go see your mother.”

She knew Draco had a hard time seeing his mother in the condition she was in. A fragile, stuttering woman, without the capacity to remember or communicate much. They had only visited Narcissa once since his release, and Hermione knew it wasn’t enough. Patients had a bigger chance of getting better by frequent stimulation and visitors. Draco would not be getting his mother back, unless they both stepped up and visited her more often.

“You know I’ll come with you. We’ll bring her flowers from the gardens and a few paintings for her walls.” She watched as he closed himself off, retreating from how he had leaned over the table. Only to sink back into his chair. All interest in his food and his drink was entirely lost.

 “Andromeda said she’d visit her…” his voice seemed hollow. Lost. Pained.

“Draco…” she sighed, reaching towards him to give his fingers a tentative squeeze. “Your mother won’t get better if we avoid her. Let’s focus on seeing her.”

“But Andromeda-”

“Your aunt, who is raising her own grandson. I think she had enough on her plate, if she doesn’t have to visit her estranged sister every day as well.” His eyes lifted, catching into her intense gaze.“I know it’s uncomfortable for you. It even was for me, but she needs you. And I’ll be there, by your side. I’ll join you on every visit.”

A small sigh escaped through his nose. “Okay… Okay. Come Monday, we’re going to visit mother.” He decided, confirming it with a firm nod of his head, his fingers entwining with hers. “And I think I should invite Edward for quidditch. Don’t you think?”

“Edw-” It soon dawned on her, exactly who he was talking about. The young boy whom he had talked to about quidditch on the evening of their wedding dinner. “Everyone calls him Teddy, you know. And I think he’d like that a lot. But the question is, are you ready to play Quidditch?”

“I think so… but… But only if you come and watch. I know you think it’s boring, but I don’t think my body can handle it without you.” She was happy to see him set limitations for himself. To know he was not yet strong enough to play quidditch on his own. To acknowledge the fact that he needed her to play, as to not force his body to heights he was not prepared for.

“Of course.” She said with a nod to her head. She had seen the way his body strained with overuse, from simply being used like a normal body. A body which was not dormant in a cell, but that functioned normally. She had seen his tremors the day prior, when he had used magic. She had felt him slump against her, heard his heavy breaths and felt how his body had heated significantly.

They had sat in the bistro for over two hours, whilst his body had worked hard to regain itself. His strength slowly increasing as he ate, drank and relaxed against her body.

“But don’t overwork yourself. I don’t want you to fall off your broom.”

“I won’t,” he hummed “we should probably invite Weasley and Potter as well.”

“Yes!” Hermione said with overwhelming excitement. “You know, they’ll probably ask you to join a match during family dinner on Sunday.” She felt the echoes of his happiness within her own body. “I think you’ll have fun with them.”

“You know,” he started, gazing deep into her eyes as he leaned forwards once more, one of his elbows resting atop the circular glass table between them. “I think you’re right.”

Chapter Text

Nothing could prepare Draco for Sunday dinner at The Burrow.  Nothing.

Though, of course, Hermione had tried, sharing with him the information that she could offer. She had told him there could be several people, most of them of the Weasley clan. She had informed him how there would be children, how there would be laughter, chatter and stories shared. There would be people running about, and he would have to keep his eyes low, as to not trample a child.

She had also informed him of how the furniture didn’t match and how The Burrow in itself, was tall and narrow yet filled with immense amounts of love. It sounded to Draco, as though the Weasley home was the polar opposite of the manor he shared with his wife. The one thing he was most sure both homes housed, was love.

Though, even with such warnings, depictions from her memories, he was not yet as prepared as he would have wished to have been.

The green floo flames deposited him and Hermione into a tall, beige brick hearth of the Weasley family home. The stonework was dusty and dirtied from its much frequent use and not polished in the slightest, though Draco did not find it appalling.

“There you are dears!” Chimed none other than Molly Weasley, arms extended wide as she collected the Malfoy pair from the hearth.

“Hello, Molly,” Hermione greeted the woman, stepping into her warm embrace.

“It’s so good to see you, Hermione,” Molly said into the hug, allowing the two women to sway lightly on the spot. Then, the hazel eyes of Molly Weasley landed upon him, as he was stepping out of the hearth and trying to find a route towards her youngest son, which he could hear somewhere in the vicinity.

“You’re not getting away without a hug.” Molly warned him, as she parted from Hermione. Three steps later, and her arms were stretched wide before Draco.

“You’d better not test her, mate.” Said a tall, redheaded man. He had long hair, a large earring and a viciously scarred face. He was grinning, leaned against the side of the hearth. Draco recognized him at once as the eldest of the Wealsey children.

“I didn’t see you there, Bill!” Said Hermione, giving the tall Weasley a hug.

Draco, on the other hand, had no intentions of testing the small woman. His arms wound around Mrs. Weasley, holding her close. Her embrace was familiar to him, her height and warmth ringing in to a true sensation of friendliness and informality which came to life after spending hours dancing with her, only weeks prior.

She was warm as summer, dressed in crocheted clothes and her hair messily pushed away from her face.  She had beautiful wrinkles on her face, both shallow and deep, which depicted a life of nothing but love and joy. Grey steaks in her hair that told of a grand life, well lived. “I’m so glad you came, Draco.” She said as she pulled away from their hug, her hands holding onto his arms.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Weasley.” He smiled back down at her, just as the plump woman adjusted his brown knit cardigan, straightening it perfectly to her liking. Her eyes caught his, her lips tightening as she awaited him to correct himself. “Molly.”

“Much better, love.” She beamed proudly. One pat on his cheek, and she turned to usher herself back through the arch from whence she came. Draco assumed it was the kitchen.

 “I was wondering if you’d show up,” a firm pat on Dracos shoulder told him it was his new friend, the youngest Weasley boy, who had come to greet him.

“Of course. I heard rumours there would be quidditch after dinner.” Draco replied with a grin, as Weasley started guiding him into the living room. Hermione had already made it inside, having placed herself at a long dining table which consisted of three separate tables. She was speaking with both Fleur Weasley and Pansy Potter.

“There always is. You looking to get humbled today?” Smirked the redheaded man, guiding him to take a seat at the table, just across from Hermione and her girlfriends.

“Just looking to join, really.” He retorted before he could think of a witty reply. “Haven’t flown since sixth year.”

“You look like you could play a decent keeper.” Said a shorter, apparently older Weasley brother, carrying a large plate of deliciously steaming roasted potatoes out from the kitchen. He must have noticed the confused gaze from the blonde man, because he grinned broadly as the plate met the wooden table. “I’m Charlie.”

“Oh! You’re the dragon tamer, right?” Draco asked, standing from his newly appointed seat to extend his hand to the man, who nodded with a rather large grin, taking his hand firmly with his own and shook it.

“Something along those lines.” Grinned the redhead. “I work at a sanctuary for Dragons. Used to be in Romania, but I moved back home with Kingleys new law and found a job in Wales.” Charlie said with a large, friendly grin. “I’m sorry we didn’t really get to chat at the wedding.”

“Well, your mum occupied me enough for that evening,” The mood between the newcomer and the second eldest Weasely was light. “And it’s an honour to properly meet you. I’m Draco”

“Pleasure’s mine, Draco.” He nudged Hermione lightly with his free hand. “You see, ‘Mione, I told you there was someone better out there for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. It all worked out in the end.”

“What am I missing from this conversation?” Asked Potter as he entered the room alongside the one and only George Weasley.

“Nothing.” Echoed Hermione and the dragon tamer.

“Other than the fact that Hermione has a type.” Pansy said with a wink in her husbands’ direction.

Potter looked from Charlie to Draco and back again. “Yeah, I don’t see it at all.”

“I think Pansy is hinting at what they both represent.” Hermione said with a look of appreciation shot at Draco.

“She likes riding dragons.” Pansy grinned

“Oh, come off it!” Groaned Weasley.

“Disgusting!” agreed Potter.

“Who’s riding dragons?” asked Mr. Weasley, rounding the corner with his only daughter, Ginevra. The littlest Weasley shot Draco and Hermione both stern looks, reminding them to keep quiet about her joining their week in Marseille, and to keep her blossoming situation with Theodore quiet whilst her family was nearby.

“I have only ridden the one,” Hermione smacked Pansy on the arm with the back of her fingers. “It was an Ironbelly and completely frightening.”

Mr. Weasley walked over to Draco, completely ignoring the insinuations of the conversation amongst those who had spoken. “Good to see you, Draco.”

“Good to see you too, Mr. Weasley.” He greeted with a smile, shaking the man’s hand whilst the conversation around them continued on.

“Please, call me Arthur.” Retorted the man with a kind smile, highlighting the fine lines that had formed around his eyes with the time. “You’ve married into the family now, so this is where the formalities stop.”

“Are you certain?” Draco asked, feeling the surprise wash over him. Had his own father been alive, he would not have given Hermione, nor anyone Draco would even consider bringing home, the same courtesy.

Arthur patted Draco’s arm, giving him a reassuring smile. “Yes. Just continue to treat my girl right, and you and I will have no problems.”

Draco nodded his head with appreciation. He had worried there might be bad blood between them, due to how his father had previously treated Mr. Weasley, Arthur, but he was glad to see the man willing to set aside the generational differences of the families and let the new generation pave a new path. “Thank you, Arthur.”

The eldest Weasley was almost tackled to the ground by a pair of children, quite obviously having belonged to Bill and Fleur, seeing as they both had Veela qualities about them.

From the kitchen, he heard the soft noises of shuffles, sounding as Molly preparing the meal. It was smelling up the house beautifully around them. The gentle aroma of freshly made food was amazing as it wafted through the home. He stepped around Arthur with a smile at the children, rounding the table and several kinds of mismatched chairs, before stepping in through the arch and entering the kitchen. “Hey Molly, can I help you with anything?”

“Oh, Draco, darling.” Molly waved her wand, easing a beautifully rich sauce from a pan and into three gravy boats of differing design. One was seemingly hand painted with flowers, another was a plain yellowed porcelain and the third was sage green with golden accents. “Could you carry these out? And then come back for the carrots in a minute?”

“Yes, of course.” Draco picked up two of the three gravy boats to carry out, not daring himself to lift the third, in case he should drop it. He met Daphne in the doorway as she, too, came to offer her help to the Weasley matriarch.

“I jus tout Winnie to sleep. What can I help out with, Molly?” Asked the blonde Mrs. Weasley as Draco slipped out of earshot.

Draco carried the two gravy boats to the table, setting them evenly spaced as Daphne then placed the third on the end closest to the kitchen. Once placing the second boat atop the table, Draco bent down towards his wife and pressed a kiss atop the crown of her head, hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She lifted her gaze, resting her hand on top of his but for a moment. She was gleaming gold, happy whilst surrounded by her closest friends and chosen family.

No words were shared between the two. The look they shared, said more than any words ever could.

He did not know if it was the echo of her heart within his chest, or if it was his own, but he felt the surge of affection, the deeply seated bond between the pair, tighten around his heart and lungs. A magical force that tugged at every fibre of his being. A force. which would have been able to undo him with a swift pull. Yet her soul was so kind to him, so utterly good, that he remained safe in her grasp.

“You’re both disgusting.” Pansy uttered towards the couple, though it could easily be deciphered from the tone of her voice that she adored them, at the very least a little bit.

“Better get used to it,” Draco told Pansy, without so much as tearing his eyes away from the honey brown orbs before him.

He gave her shoulder the lightest of squeezes before reluctantly tearing himself away and returning to the kitchen. Two platters of perfectly prepared and toasted carrots had been placed on the counter, which was just for Draco to carry out to the awaiting dining table.

“You don’t need to suck up to mum, you know.” Weasley said with a smirk, watching as Draco helped set the plates of food onto the table.

“I’m not sucking up.” Said Draco with a bite. “I’ve never gotten to set a table before. Just let me have this, will you?”

“She already loves you more than her own sons.”

“Stop being stupid, Ron!” Shouted Molly from the kitchen, earning several chuckles from the table.

Draco patted Weasley on the shoulder, much in the same fashion that Weasley did to him. “Maybe she’d love you more if you learned how to dance.”

“Maybe she’d love you more if you learned how to dance…!” Weasley mimicked hilariously, his voice high pitched and his eyes squinted tightly together.

“Complaining that you’ve never gotten to set a table before? Really?” George laughed from across the table, where he had joined Hermione, Pansy and Fleur.

“Not complaining,” Draco corrected quickly, earning a snicker from the French witch sitting by Pansy’s side.

“You better keep your eyes on him, ‘Ermione,” said the French witch with a lopsided grin. “Molly will zteal him from you if she gets ze opportunity.”

The hearth roared to life just around the corner from the dining tables, causing Molly Weasley to rush from the kitchen with little hops in her steps, her flour-dusted hands raised into the air by her head “Percy, Audrey!” She announced, before she even so much as saw the pair.

Draco stepped into the kitchen, picking up two freshly prepared plates of sliced roast, carrying them back to the table.

He recalled Audrey and Percy were expecting a baby at any day. It had been particularly obvious when he had laid eyes on them at the wedding, with Audrey having been more than ready to pop when they had come to celebrate with the new Malfoy couple.

Her stomach rounded the corner from the hearth first, closely followed by the rest of her, then followed both Percy and Molly. The room erupted in welcoming greetings for the pair, with Draco joining in with a small “Hey,” and an awkward smile of acknowledgement towards the couple, which was entirely triumphed by the salutations of the others around him, who all knew the pair much better than he did.

“Still nothing?” Daphne asked Audrey with a sympathetic sigh, her shoulders lowering just a hair.

Audrey shook her head, heavily falling into a chair next to Hermione, who turned her entire body to face her. “If this baby doesn’t come by next Sunday, I’ll be cutting it out myself.”

Pansy rubbed her hand lightly, absentmindedly, against the increasing swell of her own stomach. Draco recalled Weasley telling him she and Potter were expecting their first child sometime that coming winter. Though pansy had corrected it during their first dinner together, saying she was due in early November and to never trust that specific Weasley with the retelling of fine details.

Thoughts swam to mind of Hermione in a similar situation to the witches who surrounded her. Sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by her friends and family, her hand resting atop a rounded belly, which held the growing life created by their love for one another.

Her gaze lifted from Audrey, locking onto his for a mere moment, a small smile, as though of anticipation, was shared between the two. As though her mind was thinking the very same thoughts as his. Draco once more turned himself around, only to join Molly in the kitchen.

It took Draco, Percy and Molly just a couple of more rounds to have the table entirely set with a beautiful roast dinner and an abundance of side dishes, as well as sausages in elongated bread for the children, if they did not want to eat roast along with the adults.

“Bill!” Snarled Weasley, as he carried a blonde girl, about five years of age, intro the dining area. “This is the third time she’s tried waking Winnie.”

“I want to play with her!” Whined the little girl.

“Victorie,” sighed Fleur, getting up from her chair “Winnie is a baby, she needs to rest. You can play with ‘er when she wakes up.”

From across the table, Potter caught Dracos eye, then nodded his head towards the back of the room, where a door leading out to the open landscape that surrounded the Burrow stood. Draco gave him a nod, and the two men silently manoeuvred themselves through their opposite sides of the table.

Draco was the first to slip out through the door. Potter followed soon after.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked, easing his hands into his trouser pockets. He was feigning nonchalance as he looked over at the auror. He was, in fact, quite nervous about Potter asking him to join him in the garden. So nervous, he felt a tremor in his hands.

Not nervous for himself. Though, he found himself nervous for Hermione’s security, with her name having been carved into the back of Antonin Dolohov. He balled his pocketed hands into fists, waiting Potters answer.

The bespectacled man before him, pushed his lopsided glasses up along the bridge of his nose. “Over here,” he said, taking a few more steps from the house, just to make sure no ears were on them, allowing them a certain aura of privacy. “What do you know about Henry Abbott?”

His eyes narrowed beneath strained brows. He recalled a guard with that very name. He had appeared to be quite new to his job when Draco was being collected by Weasley on his birthday. The man had introduced himself to Draco. Abbott had seemed like a kind man. Perhaps a bit too kind to be an Azkaban guard, though Draco assumed he had not gone into the profession lightly. “Hanna’s brother?” Potter nodded. “I don’t know much about him. Azkaban guard. He said I helped him with potions once in a while, in the library. His patronus was a reptile of sorts.”

“Did you talk to him often?” Potter asked, staring out into the open. The slight breeze in the air around them, rustled the straws and weeds which surrounded them, having grown into several feet in height. Draco saw seedlings spread with the wind.

“Not at all. He wasn’t on my level, usually. He introduced himself the day I was released.” He looked down onto the trodden grass beneath his feet, spotting a circular, light grey rock. “Is he a suspect?”

“I don’t know. He’s involved somehow, I think, but I don’t know how deep.” Potter sighed. “He didn’t show up for his shift on Thursday. The same on Friday and then again yesterday. We were contacted to check it out, and there’s no sign of him anywhere.”

“He’s just vanished?”

“Yeah. Last he was seen by anyone was after his shift on Tuesday. He left Azkaban at 7 in the morning, and no one has heard from him since.” Potter rubbed a hand through his black hair, tousling it further than it’s already messed state.

“You think he’s the killer?” He questioned the auror, feeling the nerves in his hands calm drastically with the realisation it was not about Hermione’s life being at stake.

“I don’t know much about him, but he doesn’t seem the type.” Potter looked up to Draco. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think so either. He was too nice to be a guard, even.” He said with a shrug to his shoulder and a light shake to his head.

Potter pressed his lips into a hard line but for only a moment. “Well, if he didn’t kill anyone, it begs the question, was he taken because he knew something he wasn’t supposed to?”

Draco rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. Allowing his mind to wander freely with thoughts of the Azkaban guard and what his disappearance could mean. “People have been taken and killed for less. So, it could be.”

Potter heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “So, not only could our murderer be speeding up, but also escalating from criminals to Azkaban guards?”

The door at the house creaked open behind them. “Mum’s saying we’ll start without you in two minutes!” Called the familiar voice of Ginevra Weasley.

“We’ll be right in, Gin!” Called potter. Draco only turned his head to give her a small smile.

She looked between the two men and sighed “No talk about Death Eaters at the table! Either if you!”

“Calm down, Ginevra! I would prefer Nott to.” His lips curled into a smirk.

“There’s a bat bogey hex with your name on it, if you test your luck.” She shut the door behind her with a deadly glare in Draco’s direction. Though, he was not worried, as he saw the slightest pull on her lips.

After the disturbance, the two men locked eyes once more, both minds working hard to try to sort out what could be happening. “You’ll let me know if Henry is found, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Nodded Potter.  “We’ve already notified the muggle authorities too, should he show up somewhere.”

Draco cast his gaze back towards the house, where so many people were having a friendly, lighthearted, cozy and comfortable family dinner. He wondered what a normal Sunday dinner had been for Henry.

“Alright. Let’s head back inside before the finish without us.” Draco gestured to the house with an upwards nod of his chin.

Potter raised a brow at Draco and nodded “Alright, Malfoy.” He did not yet look at ease. As though there was something else mulling through his mind. “You remember your theory about someone living close to Tower Bridge? To be able to transport Dolohov without much issue?”

“Yes?” Draco immediately nodded his head, staring at the shorter man with worry lacing his eyes.

“Henry Abbott’s flat’s in Southwark. Just between London Bridge and Tower Bridge.” The Boy Who Lived shot Draco a meaningful stare. A stare, which told Draco exactly what Potter was thinking.

Abbott could have been involved in the murders. At the very least, the last murder. Or the killer could have blackmailed Abbott. The use of Henry and his flat could have been detrimental to the murderer. “I’m guessing that means you need to dig deeper into Abbott, doesn’t it?”

“Seems like it.” Said Potter with defeat. “I didn’t want to believe it was him.”

“It doesn’t have to be. He can be innocent, just a victim of coincidence. But it is worth looking into.” Draco pinched a nerve in his hand, hidden deep within the muscle between his thumb and forefinger. A habit from his time in Azkaban to ground himself in the present. To not let his mind wander.

Potter turned his head, gazing mournfully back towards the house. “You’re right. But let’s go inside before Bill eats all the roast. He’s been quite vicious since Greyback mauled him.”

“I’m all for roast over unsolved murders.” Agreed Draco, following as Potter started trekking back towards the house.

Potter, ever the skilled Auror, was clever enough to change the conversation to a lighter topic as they approached the door to the back of the Weasley family home. “You think you’re gonna go for being a seeker later, or what?”

“I’m not built to be a seeker anymore, Potter.” Draco said with a chuckle. The perfect build of a seeker was someone who was generally considered to be small. Shorter, narrow and light, easily moved through the air with the help of their broom. Draco was not small and narrow. He was not light and thin. He was broader. Longer. Not aerodynamically ideal for the position of a seeker. “A chaser maybe. Or a beater. Or I could be keeper.” All of which, were positions which required someone of a bit larger size than a seeker.

“I think you’d be a bloody good beater.” Potter pushed the door open to the dining area, and they slipped into the two remaining seats around the long table. Potter ended up lodged between Audrey and Arthur, whereas Draco sat perched on a dingy chair between Daphne and Charlie.

“Thank you for joining us, boys.” Molly said, cutting Draco and the Auror a sharp look from her position at the end closest to the kitchen. “Now that we’re all settled, I think it’s time we dig in.”

And with that, it was as though a mechanism went off. Chairs scraped lightly against the wooden floor. Plates and platters with food were lifted from where they were perched on the table and passed around. Draco had no time to think before Charlie had scooped several smaller roast potatoes onto his plate. Next thing he knew, Daphne handed him a platter of sliced roast. Someone levitated some caramelised carrots into his plate, then he passed the roast across the table, where Percy was waving for it.

“Dray-Dray!” Called Pansy from next to Daphne, handing him a gravy boat. He poured some over his roast, then handed it over to Charlie, who in turn handed him a basket of steaming hot dinner rolls, baked to absolute perfection. Draco took one and passed the basket to Daphne, who did the same, passing it down the length of the table.

It was an overwhelming two minutes, but before long, Draco found himself with a plate full of food and a watering mouth that couldn’t wait to feast upon it.

There was no need for their hosts to tell them to dig in, there was no formality about the dinner at all. There was only one fork and one knife per person, each of them also only having been given one plate. The fine dining experience he had grown accustomed to within his own house, was entirely dismissed in his current situation. And he absolutely loved it.

Conversations happened across the table, diagonally and over heads. Draco found himself in a conversation with Charlie, speaking about Dragons, when Percy joined in from further down the table, from the other side.

He heard Hermione’s laughter echo from the other diagonal, where she sat next to Bill, holding a blonde, blue-eyed child on her lap. One of the Delacour-Weasley children, whom Draco did not know the name.

The world around them faded for a moment. All he could see was her, holding that small child and casting her warm brown eyes over to him. It didn’t take much for him to imagine the warm blonde waves of the child, to be icy white, just like his, and curled into perfect ringlets, just like Hermione’s.

Golden brown eyes locked onto his, and he felt her warmth radiating towards him, her warm embrace reaching him from such a distance. Her smile was nothing but extravagant. She looked beautiful with the company of the little being, who was snuggled up against her auntie, lazily chewing on a piece of carrot.

He wished it was true. Wished the child with icy white curls existed. Wished for Hermione to be sitting with their child instead of a Weasley. His skin prickled with the sensation of willing said child into existence.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his daze, bringing him back to how Charlie, on his other side, was grinning at him with a menacing glint in his eye. “You’re done for, you know that right?”

“Oh, shut up.” Draco mumbled, shoving the entire last roasted potato into his mouth whilst the second oldest Weasley brother howled with laughter.

Though, only to make matters worse, Weasley himself wandered into the dining room, carrying his eight-month-old daughter, Winnie. Her blonde hair was paler than that of Fleur and Bill’s daughter, most assuredly having taken after her mother. Her eyes were as brightly blue as sapphires.

Without raising a question, Weasley placed the babe into Draco’s arms. “Here, Winnie, you should spend some time with Uncle Draco,”

“Wh- Uncle? I’m not?” His fingers clutched the little child tightly, making sure the child was well protected in his arms. He didn’t think he had ever held a child that young before. She was so small. So delicate. With skin as soft as the finest of silks. Her little fingers wound around his thumb, holding on securely as she settled her warm, sleep-ridden body back against his. 

“Yes, you are.” Said Daphne, turning to her friend with elevated brows “Now sit there like a good little ponce, and let your wife get her ovaries in a knot.”

“I’m not a ponce.” Draco defended quickly, adjusting the little girl on his lap, where she was settled in against his bicep and chest, her head resting against him as her entire face scrunched into a big yawn.

Daphne was anything but impressed as she shot him another look. Draco quickly looked away from her, and down to the little angel in his arms. “Your mummy can be really scary sometimes, Winnie.” Though that was not news to either of them, because Winnie flashed him a smile that could have landed her awards. He was certain the girl would earn house points, just from her charms alone. “You’re lucky, you look nothing like your father, you know.”

He pretended not to notice, but he did. He felt it. Her eyes on him. Intense and burning, setting his skin ablaze with the hormones that seemed to be wreaking havoc within her body. He inhaled deeply, settling his nose against the top of Winnie’s head.

“I heard that!” Weasley barked from inside the kitchen.

“Good!” Draco called back, bouncing little Winnefred on his knee, causing the little nugget to laugh happily with the gentle vibrations.

He glanced over at his wife for only a moment, and noticed she was still staring, her chest heaving in slow, deep, steadying breaths.

The green hues from the floo had not yet died down, before Hermione gripped the collar of his T-shirt and, rather abruptly. yanked him down to her level.

Lips crashed hungrily together with anticipated heat. His fingers sunk into her knit jumper, pulling her much smaller body against his, his body, his soul, needing her close to himself.

Nails against his scalp, grazing through the lengths of his white, blonde hair as his tongue found hers. Two steps, and she was pinned between him and the wall.

“Please, Draco.” Her voice was a breath between their lips, her hips crashing against his body with the utmost fevered need.

In one swift move, he bent down, arms hooking around her thighs to bring her up against himself, her legs wrapping themselves securely around his waist

“Bedroom?” He asked, his lips finding the side of her neck, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to the exposed skin. Her head leaned back, allowing him the freedom to explore her. To kiss her. To bite her.

She nodded, tugging at his hair. “Yes. Bedroom.” She agreed.

He stepped back towards the floo hearth, his lips still attached to her hot skin, which was flushed with need against his lips.

“Malfoy bedroom.” He muttered into the Hearth. The green flames of the floo licked up along their bodies, transporting them from the first level of the home, to the third.

They landed in what had been decided to be their bedroom. Darkened walls and ebony furniture were of no hindrance as he stepped out of the hearth, only to carry her to the bed. Their bed.

Tossing her lightly onto the grand mattress, she landed with a delighted squeal. He took a step towards her, his gaze set onto her like that of a hunter, coming for his prey. He quickly discarded himself of his knit cardigan, dropping it to the floor before he crawled in over her, his fingers immediately finding the hem of her purple, knit jumper. His hands met her skin, easing the fabric up with his wrists.

“Just take it off,” she panted expectantly, arching her back from the mattress to help his hands pull the jumper entirely off her body.

As his lips crashed against hers once more, the knitwear was tossed aside, landing somewhere in the floor where none of them cared for it anymore.

His rushed kisses trailed down along her body. Her light blue bra complimented her rich, glowing skin perfectly. The feeling of her was incredible, mesmerising, as he travelled south along her lightly freckled skin. He felt her fingers hooking into the back of his white T-shirt, tugging at the fabric as he descended her body. “Take it off,” she demanded.

Her wish was his command. Removing his lips from her ribs, he sat up on his knees, towering over the astounding beauty atop the bed. He sat his gaze intently on hers, his fingertips hooking into the cotton fabric of his collar. “Anything for you, love.” With one swift move, he pulled the garment off with one swift move, allowing it to fall to the floor over the foot of the bed, where it would not be in their way.

He saw as her eyes roved his body, taking in the details of him. Pale white scars with a metallic sheen, slashed in several diagonal lengths from his left shoulder, trailing towards his right hip. She reached out, closing the painful distance between them by laying her hand on his chest, just above a rather thick line in his skin.

No words needed to be spoken between them. Nothing needed to be said. Her gaze, the echo of her heart within his chest, the overwhelming magnetic pull between them said it all.

His hand reached for hers, still atop the mattress. Fingers entwining themselves between hers as he leaned in over her once more. Her fingers closed tightly around his, her other hand shifting from his chest, draping itself around his neck, where her fingers trailed his nape lightly, steering him back towards her lips and a kiss that shared their unspoken words of devotion for one another.

Feeling his own skin press against hers, butterflies crowded his stomach lining. Their lips were not as fevered as moments prior. Though eager and much expectant, Draco took his time to explore her. His tongue slipping against hers, drinking in the feeling of her muscle on his. The sweet taste of pudding and the one glass of red wine lingering on her taste buds.

Her back arched from the mattress, his fingers followed the intoxicating curve of her waist, feeling as the goose flesh rose along her golden skin. Parting from her lips was no easy task, though he found himself needing to venture on, his lips paving their way down along her neck, the path following along to her chest, his tongue teasing along the exposed skin of the valley between her breasts.

The arch of her waist led both of his hands up along her back, guiding him towards the clasp of her bra. The three hooks became undone with minimal effort. One after the other, until the band slackened around her chest, and he could ease the garment from her frame.

She allowed him to slip the straps down the elegant lengths of her arms before shying away behind them, pressing her forearms to her body to hide the freshly revealed side of herself from his sight.

“Could we turn down the lights?” Her voice was low and hesitant, catching him a little off guard with the way she seemed to be insecure.

Without hesitation, he nodded his head to her. “Of course.” His wand had remained within his trouser pocket and was quickly summoned. He pointed the Willow wand towards the lit sconces on the walls, putting them out entirely with one effective swish.

Her nerves eased with the dimmed light. The vibrant coral and lilac hues from the setting sun outside was the only light cast upon them, peering beautifully through the sheer curtains draped before the windows. The light cast warm shadows along her body, painting her skin with utmost magic. Her forearms relaxed atop her breasts, though they did not release their beautiful hostages.

His wand landed atop the duvet beneath them, and he lowered himself to press a small kiss to her wrist. “You don’t have to show me, if you don’t want to,” his fingertips trailed lightly up along her arm, following the gentle curve of the slight muscles of her shoulder. “But just know, my love, I have watched thousands of sunsets; I have seen the wonders of the world; and they all pale in the light of your beauty.”

A deep, shaking inhale was all she could muster, her arms easing from her chest to wrap around his bare torso, one of her fingers stroking against the raised tissue of the R on his back. “You’re just going to say that, and not kiss me?”

He felt one corner of his lips pull upwards ever so slightly, shaping his lips into a smirk. “Exactly.” He said with simplicity. His large fingers cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle around her nipple, the pad of his finger working the skin until it pebbled beneath his touch. He leaned in, closing the gap by taking the peak of her other breast into his mouth, his teeth grazing lightly across the sensitive skin but for a moment, before allowing his tongue over it. Finally tasting her sweet skin.

His lips soon diverted to her other breast, eyes lingering on hers as the crest of her breast got the much-deserved attention his tongue. She arched beneath him, her stomach reaching his chest, as though her body begging for his touch to deviate from her chest.

With a pop, he released her nipple, allowing the rays of the setting sun to glisten on her wettened skin. His lips continued their desired path downwards, stopping by the soft moles that had been peppered lightly across her skin.

The slope of her hips was divine, the fullness of her rear and her thighs alone making his mouth water as his teeth brushed ever so lightly at the skin below her navel. He could not find himself able to look away from her. Her hair was haloed around her in the warm light of the setting sun, her golden eyes gleaming with the desire that coursed through her veins.

His grazing teeth found the hem of her knickers, the soft elastic of her cotton undergarments responding kindly to being guided down the arch of her thighs by his teeth, fingers only gently easing it down over the muscles of her rear.

Removing himself for her for only a moment, he stepped out of the bed, trailing her underwear down her divine legs, before dropping them to the floor at his feet.

Before him, she lay stark naked. Her body perfectly exposed to him, where he could appreciate everything there was. She was surrounded by a down duvet clad in white, with the colour of the sunset painting her skin with the light of candied oranges and liquid gold. She appeared as beautiful as a painting, a true masterpiece created by fantasies, for there could not exist such beauty in the real world.

A perfect depiction of a Greek goddess, she was, gazing up at him with eyes of blazing fire. Her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as he took but only a moment to observe her. The curves, once gentle and subtle when he had adored them in their youth, had rounded and matured with time.

He saw silvery lines on her skin, where her body had stopped being that of a child and started becoming that of a woman. He saw her breasts, beautiful, soft handfuls that he had already found he loved to touch. To taste. He saw the slight scars on her knees, from spending time outdoors. He saw the fine hair on her stomach standing on end, slowly leaving a trail up towards her face. Where her eyes seemed to be giving him as much appreciation as he was giving her.

He wished he had the skills to paint. He wished he could put a brush to canvas, where he could spend a lifetime trying to recreate the breathtaking, the extraordinary and earth-shattering visual that lay before him, if only so he could only relive the moment once more in his life.

Her leg lifted from the mattress, a silent invitation to join her. He took her ankle in his hand, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of her calf. Then her knee. And thigh. He sunk back onto the mattress, settling his weight between her legs, as his lips trailed smaller kisses up the topmost part of her inner thigh.

The smell of vanilla filled the space, mixing with the scent of her slick desire for him. She was perfectly intoxicating. A thigh rested against his shoulder as he took in the view of her from below. Soft breaths raised her chest, her bottom lip bit down upon so hard that her lip had whitened.

A slight quirk from his brow. “Do you want me to stop?” He asked, knowing his breath was fanning against her most sensitive, delicate and private area.

Shaking her head, she opened her legs for him further, granting him much more access to her glistening heat. “Don’t you dare stop.” She warned him in a heated whisper of her own, which earned her a small chuckle of his amusement.

Though, as he already knew, her command was law, and thus he did not stop. With his arms around her thighs, pale alabaster gripping onto her supple muscles, he closed the gap between himself and his divine dessert. He slotted himself against her slit, allowing his tongue to sweep against her seam, his eyes falling shut for only a moment as he appreciated the taste of her.

His tongue trailed lightly along the length of her passage, spreading her slick juices with his tongue, before flicking his wet muscle against the most sensitive button at the apex of her desirable womanhood.

The sound of a gasp escaped her parted lips, though it was soon followed by the soft hum of approval as he allowed his tongue to familiarise itself with her clit, repeating a motion she appeared to approve of by the manner in which her nipples hardened into the warm air of the room, and her fingertips grazed a path in her skin, calming the goosebumps up along her stomach and the cleft between her breasts.

Her hips bucked lightly against his face, urging his tongue to continue. His mouth latched onto her, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked the little bundle of nerves between his lips, his tongue pressing its hardened tip against her, flicking at the button with vigour.

His name left her lips whilst her back arched from the white bedding. “Fingers… Fingers. P-Please.” Obeying her command, a hand unwound from her thigh, trailing light patterns over her skin as they slowly found their path to where she desired them most.

With his tongue still consumed by her clit, two of his fingers felt along her slit, wetting themselves with her slickness. The muscles of her thighs flexed, her hips rocking, pleasing herself against his face, urging him for more. Her body begging whilst her mouth had busied itself by gasping for air.

The two fingers eased into her, feeling the warmth of her quim accept his digits without hesitation. With gentle motions, Draco’s long fingers started against her front wall, stroking against a spot that made her thighs quiver at the sides of his head. Her head pushed backwards, her back arching from the mattress.

Her fingers found his, prying them from her thigh. His fingers slipped between hers, holding her hand steady. The breathy groans that left her throat were raw with her impending orgasm. Her chest shook with shallow breaths. Her hips jerked, her thighs straining.

Her inner muscles pulled and fluttered around his fingers, her clit pulsing against his tongue. She was falling apart, slowly becoming undone with the desperate cries of a woman on the verge of euphoria.

Fingers tightened around his, pulling at his hand and squeezing around his knuckles firmly. “D-Dra-…” His voice vanished from her lips as her body quivered beneath him, her orgasm washing over her like crashing waves of a thunderous sea.

Wet muscles clung to his fingers within her whilst his lips released her most sensitive button. She jerked with each gentle pass of his tongue, the muscles within her abdomen and her legs tightening with the welcome stimulation, where her fluids were lapped up and swallowed by her husband.

He eased from her quim, his fingers easing themselves from her hold. Lust-filled eyes of gold locked onto his, drinking him in as he licked his fingers clean, his tongue collecting a stray droplet that had found its way to his palm. Gold was set onto silver, watching him with keen curiosity as a hum of appreciation was released from his throat.

Every part of her was divine. She smelled that of a French bakery, with deep aromas of perfect freshness. She felt soft as silk against his fingers, her skin created by the most incredible materials. She tasted of the most decadent dessert, a taste he never wished to rid himself of. A taste he hoped he would continue to experience for the remainder of his years. She was intoxicating. She was heavenly. She was his. And she was absolute, utmost perfection.

He watched as she pushed herself to sit, supporting herself on straining, weakened arms. “And you’re certain you don’t want to try the blue pill?” She asked of the muggle medication that could aid him to a full salutation. The pill that might allow him to become one with her, that would let him slip into her warmth and drive her into the mattress beneath him.

The chuckle which left his chest, he found himself unable to contain. He dried his glistening chin with his hand before pressing a light kiss to her exposed neck. “Had we bought some, I believe I could have been persuaded.” He admitted.

Her fingertips trailed to the hem of his trousers, where she opened the button and toyed with his zipper. He could feel her touch against his clothed, semi-hardened length. “And you’re sure I can’t help you with anyth-”

The crack of apparition echoed through the room, causing them both to freeze entirely.

“Effie is not seeing anything, Mistress and Master.” Squeaked the house elf from across the bedroom. Draco lifted his gaze from Hermione’s, letting it land on Effie, who had placed herself by the hearth, her back facing the pair. “Effie has been waiting to come in until it was safe.”

Hermione looked mortified, her jaw and eyes opening wide with horror, just before she decided in hiding her face behind her hands.

“What can we help you with?” He asked, stepping up from the bed, closing the trousers which Hermione had only opened moments prior. He tried to remain calm. He tried to remain nonchalant. Though he found himself struggling to do so when his favourite witch, the ultimate masterpiece of creation was lying naked before him, a soft misting of dew collected between her breasts and just below her navel.

“Effie just came to tell Master and Mistress that Mistress Narcissa has returned home.”

“What?” The word was a loud whisper, his head turning sharply to look at the house elf once more. “She supposed to be in St. Mungo’s?”

“She’s home, Master Draco, sir. Mrs. Tonks took her home earlier this afternoon.” Effie wrung her hands around the fabric of her light orange dress. “Both Mrs. Tonks and Mistress Narcissa is in the dining room, waiting for you with tea and pudding, Master Draco, sir.”

It took the pair no more than minutes to dress themselves and deem themselves presentable, before trekking a much well-known path to the dining room, where his mother and aunt would be awaiting their company.

“Draco, Hermione,” Andromeda Tonks greeted the pair with a rather mirthful glint to her eyes. She lowered her blue and gold-rimmed teacup to her saucer, gazing knowingly at the pair. “So glad you could finally join us.”

Draco barely cast a glance at his mother’s sister. “Happy to be here.” He said absently, not quite catching her cheek.

His mother was sitting in a wing-backed chair by the window. Her blonde hair was pulled away from her face and twisted into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Icy blue eyes had focused on the pair as they entered the dining room. Her hands folded lightly together in her lap as she smiled at her son.

“D-Draayc-co.” She greeted him happily. “Mmmy Dra-aagon.” Her speech was unsteady and elongated, just as it had been last time he saw her.

He blinked rapidly, willing his desperate tears to leave him, to vanish back to whence they came. “Mother…” He strode towards her with hurried, long steps, his eyes not breaking contact from those of his only remaining family member. “What happened? Why are you home?” he cast a quick, questioning look towards Mrs. Tonks.

“I mmmisss’d you.” She replied with a smile, graceful and sweet in the manner of which she radiated.

He stopped before her, sitting to his knees on the floor in front of her. She reached for him, her cold fingers slipping gently through his fringe, stroking it all towards one side, which was how he had worn his hair in his youth. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you more…” He told her, staring up at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Are you moving back?”

“She’s not allowed to move home quite yet Draco.” Said Mrs. Tonks from his left. “But she was granted leave until tomorrow. To visit her son, whom she misses dearly, and her new daughter in law.”

“Yoour w-wiife.” His mother’s eyes moved from Dracos being before her, to the goddess who was standing behind him, a bit away from the Sisters Black and the remaining Malfoy man. Draco turned his head to face her. His favourite person on the planet. His most incredible wife.

Standing there, only a few steps behind him. She had hastily dressed herself in a yellow dress with bluebell flowers printed on it, which had been purchased in Marseille. Draco recalled picking it out for her, swearing she would look incredible whilst wearing it.

He had been correct.

She seemed unsure. Her shoulders were tense, her back arched unnaturally straight, though her lips wore a kind, tight-lipped smile. Draco did not hesitate to climb back to his feet, staggering back over to her. “Yes, mother. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It all happened rather quickly, if I’m being honest.” His hand found that of Hermione’s, taking it in his own. Her warmth immediately washed over him, a wave of her glow and her heart enveloping him with their simple touch.

Her fingers slipped between his, her smile easing from its forced and unsure nature, only moments prior, as the pair gazed at one another. He could feel his heart swell within his chest.

“P-Potter’s mmuudblood.”

Hermione’s eyes hardened as she continued to look into his. He stared at her for a moment, feeling the glee of introducing her properly to his mother fading from existence. A sting pierced his chest with her word. It cut him like a blade. Cut them both. Causing much more harm than he was certain she had intended.

Though, he could not let such commentary slide. Not even from the woman who gave him life.

He took a step closer to his wife, his arm swooping around her waist. “Mother,” he warned, slowly adjusting his gaze to look at the blonde in the wingback chair. “We do not use such words anymore. She is my wife.” He felt as she neared him, seeking the comfort only they could provide one another.

His mother’s eyebrows elevated slightly, her lips pursing with what Draco could only decipher to be exasperation. “Myy Draagonn… Sh-Shee’s diirtyy.”

“No, mother.” He quickly said. “She is a Goddess on this earth. The brightest witch of our age. Her name is Hermione. If you cannot find it in yourself to use her name, I urge you to return to St. Mungo’s. And when your time comes to be released, perhaps you should talk to your sister about housing with her.”

“He’s right, ‘Cissa…” muttered Mrs. Tonks, whom Draco had nearly forgotten. “The war is over. We don’t use words like that.”

Though, his mother could not keep her eyes from her son and new daughter in law. With her tight jaw and strained eyes, she looked appalled. Horrified that her one and only son had defied the nature of the home he had been raised within. Her blue eyes staring at them with sharp, piercing scrutiny. “Theere’s noo haarm to div-voorce.”

Disgust pounded through his veins at his mother’s words, and he shook his head hard, feeling a snarl crossing his own features. “Hermione and I are soulmates. Bound together in a different life, brought together through the stars, through fate.” His eyes locked on those of the Goddess he had spoken of. Golden. Beautiful. Amazing. “And even if we weren’t made for one another, I’d never divorce from her.” Their entwined fingers tightened around one another’s. 

“Draco, it’s fine.” Hermione said, her head shaking with defeat. “She doesn’t have to like me.”

He gazed regretfully at Hermione, observing her saddened eyes and the slack in her shoulders. “No one has to like each other, but if she wants to be my mother, if she wants an opportunity to get to know her future grandchildren, she will have to learn to respect you. And talking about you, or to you, like you’re vermin, doesn’t show any respect.”

Narcissa pushed herself to stand from her chair, the tremor visible in her hands before she hid them away, behind her back. “Yyouu lov-ve herr?”

There was no need to deny his feelings for her, the Deity at his side, any further. She had held his heart for longer than he cared to admit.

He had known he loved her when she wrapped her arms around him, lulling him to sleep as her little spoon. He had known he loved her when she stared into the window of animated baked goods. He had known he loved her, when he danced with her at their wedding. He had known he loved her, when they had shared their first kiss in the staircase.

He had known she meant a lot to him, from the day she climbed into his bed, announcing herself to be his Fiancée. He had known she meant a lot, when she had shredded the cheese in the most horrific manner. He had known she was special, when she had walked in through the hedge maze to find him for the very first time.

He had even known his heart belonged entirely to her whilst they were in school together. When he risked his life to tell her the Death Eaters were coming. When he urged her to stay away from the Death Eaters at the World Cup. When he fantasised about taking her to the Yule ball. When she had slapped him across the face, and he could not think of anything other than her utter beauty and how he wished to be slapped by her repeatedly before she end of his days.

He thought it trivial, telling her. They were soulmates. Their bodies, their hearts, their very essence had been created to harbour the other’s love. To love and protect each other above all else.

He knew he loved her. He was madly, unequivocally in love with her. And he had a strong inkling that her heart was in the same place as his.

He looked down to his wife. Silver locking onto gold as her hand squeezed his firmly. “You don’t have to answer her.” Her words were softly spoken.

A brow of his raised, his mother almost entirely forgotten as he gazed in awe down at his very own Goddess. He swallowed thickly, then pointed his nose towards his mother. “The short answer is yes, mother.” He shifted his gaze back to his most favourite person. “But the long answer, with declarations of how much I love every part of her, is for her ears only.”

He saw how Narcissa, his mother, the woman who had not only given him life, but also risked her own to protect him on countless occasions, stiffened. Her stature was that of a marble statue, merely painted and decorated to be that of a woman. “D-Draa-aco…”

Regret filled his chest. Not for telling his mother off, not for his decision to support his wife over her mother. Regret for the fact that he had also shared such bigotry. Regret for the fact that he had never stood up to his mother about the use of such words before. Regret that his world had changed so drastically, and he had believed his mothers had as well.

He lifted his gaze to that of his aunt. “I urge you to take her back to St. Mungo’s. She’s not welcome here, in my house, as long as she cannot respect Hermione.”

“Draco, she’s just weakened, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Andromeda Tonks said, sitting up fully in her chair.

“It doesn’t matter. The use of such words are unacceptable. Take her back right now and I’ll not have her removed from the wards.” He gave his aunt a stern look, one that told the woman he was not joking in the slightest.

He did not give his mother another look, before wrapping his arm around Hermione, stepping out through the grand double doors with her, leaving his mother and aunt behind in silent surprise.

Chapter Text

She had not seen his tremors quite as aggressive in a long time. His fingers were tensing, clenching themselves into hardened fists, before hurriedly stretching outwards, spreading them. He repeated the motion over and over, trying to regain control over his muscles as well as his boiling anger.

His strides were long, enraged and punctuated in the way the soles of his shoes slapped against the marble floors of the grand corridors. The aggressive sound echoed through the grand arches of the vaulted ceiling as he marched ahead into an area of the manor which was most unfamiliar to her.

“Draco.” She followed his long strides down the passages, the vaulted ceilings and long stretches of walls and floors caused her voice to echo softly around them. She had said his name repeatedly already, having rushed after him, willing his long strides to shorten. Wishing for his pace to lessen. Seeing him in such a state, she longed to touch him, to hug him. To embrace him tightly and run her fingers through his hair whilst she felt his body finally ease and relax against hers.

After meeting his mother for the first time, Hermione had never believed Narcissa Malfoy to be a cruel woman in any capacity. True, the Malfoy matriarch had made her mistakes throughout the years, but Hermione had needed to justify the fact that her mother-in-law had also been tortured, to the very point of hospitalisation.

Hermione found she truly believed Narcissa to be a good person. She believed her to be a witch worth saving, believed that just some parts of her mind might be switched off after such excessive torment. She knew Draco would understand once he calmed down. Once he allowed his mind to see the true reason rather than the rage he held onto on her behalf.

Of course, Hermione could be wrong. Immensely so. She could be willing herself to see the world through rose-coloured spectacles, only wishing the best of the woman who gave Draco, her amazing and understanding Draco, life, though she sincerely doubted it was the case.

She watched as he pushed through a set of large, double doors of the second floor, opening another section in the arching corridors, a new wing entirely. He seemed to be quite focused. Set on something she could not see. His body, despite the violent tremors of his hands, was calm and collected. His eyes steely and cold, almost vacant as he stared ahead. His shoulders were squared, his back straight, as though a soldier was making his way through the manor.

“Draco!” She raised her voice, trying to connect to the man before her. Trying to reach the part of him which seemed to have been locked away, deep beneath layers and layers of locks and hinges. “Draco, look at me!”

He turned, the move so sudden and swift, so startling, she almost collided with his broad body. Tall and surprisingly sturdy for his weakened condition, even if it was slowly improving. Healing. “What are you following me for, Granger?” His eyes appeared dark as onyx in the dimly lit hallway.

Hearing her surname on his lips hurt more than she had ever anticipated it to. The manner in which he sneered down at her, as though stepping back through time and into their youth, where a young Draco Malfoy would call her slurs and bully her for her muggle heritage.

And then there was his eyes. A familiar look of the way they were almost blackened. The reminder of his pain, the constant occlusion he had undergone in their sixth year was much too ominous.

She couldn’t help the way her hand raised, smacking him hard against the chest. He took one step backwards, the impact of her hand having actually moved him, if only slightly. “Let me give you your first lesson in mind healing, Malfoy.” She started, glaring up at the man who had captured her heart. The man she hated taking her eyes from. The man whom she loved above all else. Even if he had a moment of weakness. A moment where he needed to reign himself in. To keep his composure when his heart was aching. “Stop. Fucking. Occluding.”

His deep grey eyes stared blankly at her for one heartbeat. Then another. And yet another. Cold and unfazed for several seconds, feeling like minutes, until she was finally able to see him soften before her. Deep slate grey becoming the pliable, molten silver she found herself ever so easily able to drown in. His shoulders slackened, his jaw unclasping from their tight lock.

“How did yo-” He started to ask, the question quickly caught in his throat as she interrupted him.

“Know you were occluding? Your eyes give you away. And then there was the whole thing about calling me Granger.” She told him with a rather brisk pace, not willing herself to come to ease quite so quickly.

A deep inhale through the nose, she could tell he was letting the fact sink in. “I’m sorry… I’m really, verry sorry, Hermione.” Hearing her given name on his lips once more, caused her soul to relax, her heartbeat easing within her chest.

“Thank you, Draco…” She gave her husband a nod with her head, before continuing. “Though, I suppose, the second lesson with min healing is to talk. So, I urge you to do just that.” She took a tentative step closer to him, the gap formed between them minimising as he seemed to accept her presence once more. “Talk to me, Draco. Please”

“There is nothing to talk about.” His voice still bore traces of the cold she had witnessed just moments earlier. Though, it was not a chill he carried for her. It was one that had seeped throughout him because of their situation. The way his mother had spoken to him, urging him to leave her. The way he dismissed her with brute finality.

“Actually, there is. There are several things we need to talk about.” She urged, her eyes remaining focused on his, assuring herself that they stayed her much beloved silver.

“No. There’s not.” A sigh escaped his lips whilst he spoke. “I suggest we forget about this and go to bed.” The look of defeat was ever so prominent on his face. The slight furrow of his brows, pursed together above sterling silver. The manner in which his lips were pressed tight, the muscles in his jaw twitching with the pressure. His neck, long and delicate, tightening with the strained effort of remaining at ease.

She stepped closer against him, though that time it was not to hit him. Her arms wound around his waist, gaze maintaining its lock on his. Long, lithe arms draped around her body, bringing her closer against him. “I know that would be the easier option. I know it’s more appealing, but I think it’s best we talk about your mother before you let it drag you down further.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. She called you…” his face portrayed the disgust he felt, the ache of memories of using said vile words echoed within her own chest as he recalled them. “She said that word.”

“She called me a Mudblood.” She was not afraid of the word. For not only had he and his mother used such words against her before but so had countless others. It was a common enough slur, having frequently been tossed her way because of her parentage.

“It’s not okay. She can’t just say that and go on as if it’s normal. Her words, her actions, they… They must have consequences.” She felt his hands stroke lightly along the length of her back, seemingly wishing to soothe her, though he was the one who needed it most.

“Draco,” she unwound a hand from around his waist, reaching it up and ever so gently, tentatively stroking locks of his hair away from his magnificent face, tucking the soft strands behind his ear. “Look around you.”

“There’s nothing to see.” He shook his head with complete and utter defeat. “It’s just a corridor.”

“A corridor that was once filled with paintings of men and women, who all gladly used that slur.” She raised a brow at him, observing how his own brows furrowed just slightly. “A corridor that was once dark and gloomy, filled with negativity. And your mother removed it all. She plucked their portraits from the wall and replaced them with paintings made from muggles. She turned their spewing hatred into the beautiful home we have here today. Do you really think she could do that without having changed?”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers as he let her words sink into his mind and body. She relished in the feeling of his closeness, loving how his body, how his mind, appeared to calm down when they were close to one another.

“She was tortured. Just like you were. But unlike you, she has only had months to heal from it. You, on the other hand, you’ve had years.” Her hand felt up the slight muscle of his lower back, soothing the fabric of his shirt. “Please don’t be so quick to dismiss her progress, because it could just have been a bad day. Or even just a bad afternoon.”

He hesitated but for a moment, appearing to be worrying over his upcoming words. “So, what do you suggest I… We do from here on out?”

She couldn’t help herself, quickly lifting to her toes to press a small kiss to his lips. It was brief and sweet, a simple kiss to tell her husband she was there for him. “I suggest you and I visit her more often, and we learn what she is truly like. If she is still a bigot, you get to make whatever decision you’re comfortable with, but if it proves to have been a bad moment, and she’s lovely, you get to make a different decision if you wish. We just need to be educated on what is truly her and her beliefs.”

The tip of his nose rubbed lightly against hers. Soft circles of his skin against hers, leaving a slight sensation of warmth in its wake. “Fine… I’ll give her another chance. I’ll let her show her true colours. But if she continues to call you that… that word.”

“Mudblood.” She spoke into the air between them.

She could see how his jaw clenched at the mention of the slur. How his eyes hardened with the word he quite obviously did not approve of.

She had never given it much thought, how he had changed quite so drastically since their time as teenagers. How his eight years in incarceration had altered that part of him.

He had strutted about Hogwarts in their youth, thinking himself high and mighty because of his blood status. Because he came from a long line of wizards and witches, where their blood was pure as could be and their magic immensely powerful. He had spewed hatred towards those who were seen as less than himself. Half-bloods. Mudbloods. Blood Traitors.

And yet, he stood before her, a changed man in all his glory. He had become friendly with a family of famed blood-traitors. He had not spoken ill of her, her friends, nor any other people from their past.

He was incredibly kind. He was warm. He was apologetic. He was sorry for the sins of his past, wishing to better himself. Wishing to better the world around him by contributing to the betterment of their society.

And he had started it all by accepting her. He had not once called her a Mudblood. He had not once been negative about any aspect of her everyday life, nor the life or family she had come from. He had embraced their differences; he was eager to learn about muggles and the way they lived their lives. The Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts would never have been so inclined. He would never have spent time and energy to learn about a way of life that did not benefit him or his beliefs.

“I don’t want her in our life, Hermione. Not if she can’t change.” His voice was soft, yet the message behind them was firm. Strict.

“But we have to give her a chance. Remember when we visited her, she called you Lucius.” She saw it. She felt it. A pang of guilt echoing throughout his body. His eyes closed ever so briefly beneath furrowed brows. “There could be a part of her mind is trapped in another time. A time when Voldemort was still around. A time when she had to use words like that, to say the things she said, just to fit in. To not get hurt or killed.”

A set of small, agreeing nods happened against her nose as he saw reason. She noticed how his rage had deflated quite significantly. “Okay… Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”

She pressed another soft kiss to his lips, unable to help herself. She found herself always longing for his lips. Always longed to press hers to his, a want to devour him. It was an insatiable thirst that coursed within her veins. “And I also want to thank you. Because of how you were standing up for me earlier. I know it can’t have been easy for you.”

“It was easier than I ever thought it would be.” He admitted, his fingers tightening their hold on her body. Firm on her waist as he brought her closer against himself. “You know, I’m really sorry I told her before I told you.”

“Told her what?” Though, she knew what he was talking about quite well. His mother, in her scrutiny, had asked if he loved her. And he had, without a shadow of doubt, without a hint of hesitation, told his mother that yes, he loved the witch he had married.

She had known of it. Of course she had. It was so easily spotted in the ways in which he touched her. How he was so tender and attentive with her, how his heart poured out into every single mannerism and act he performed. From the way his fingers were often toying with her hair, to the way the pads of his thumbs grazed her cheek when he laid his lips on hers. It was in the way he had decided to call her Hermione. It was in the way she felt the echo of his heart burying in a hefty rhythm every time they locked eyes.

It was in the way he looked at her, the manner of which his lips seemed to constantly wear a smile when he was around her. The way his eyes brightened when they spoke. It was as though he could see only her. As if she was his entire world. She had always found herself adoring it, the open and vulnerable manner in which his eyes sparkled with starlight as they locked onto hers.

His love was shared with her in the manners of which he opened up to her. How he had once risked his life just to tell her that her parents weren’t safe. How he had risked his life to help the healers at St. Mungo’s treat her and heal her from Dolohovs curse. Which had all happened before she even taught herself to say his given name.

His love was portrayed in the way in which he spoke to her. How he so easily declared his heart to her, even without using words such as ‘I love you’, he had made his feelings for her abundantly clear.

He did not have to tell her he loved her, because he had proclaimed his feelings for her every day in the manner of which he cared for her so. Every day, every hour, every minute, every second, she felt it. How his heart beat for hers. How deeply rooted his feelings for her truly was.

It almost felt silly so have to tell one another how they felt. They were soulmates, after all. Their love for one another ran so deeply, they had bound their unyielding love for one another to their very cores, where they would meet and fall in love in every version of life and universe that there was.

Though, he had not yet said the words she found herself longing to hear. The three simple words. Three syllables shared over eight letters. He only smiled down at her. “Perhaps we should just go back to bed.” He released her body, though his hand connected with hers as he stepped back, his fingers slotting themselves effortlessly between hers. Their connection seamless.

She felt her heart sink within her chest, settling itself low with disappointment. Though she nodded her head with agreement as she felt the unsettling feeling spread throughout her limbs unwillingly. “I suppose going back to bed is better than standing around in the corridors for nothing…”

A chuckle could be heard, emanating from somewhere low within his throat. “You’re such an impatient witch.” His arm slung around her, turning them both to find the grand, winding staircase which would lead them upstairs, to their newly appointed, shared bedroom. 

“I’m not impatient!” She protested quickly, allowing herself to follow back the same path in which they had arrived.

“Yes, you are.” He said calmly, though she could hear the amusement in his tone. “You want me to share my feelings for you in some dark corridor, when I would rather do so by our pond, where I first met you again. Or on the balcony outside of our bedroom, where we might be lucky enough to see the last remaining minutes of the sunset, or at least be accompanied by the stars.”

“It doesn’t matter where you say it…” she took the first step upwards on the staircase, feeling the runner of fabric cushion beneath her feet. “This staircase was where we kissed for the first time. It didn’t matter that it was here, in some corridor, or by the pond or on the beach in France… the location doesn’t matter at all, because it was a special moment, nonetheless. A moment I’ll cherish forever.”

“Hermione,” he sighed, walking two steps below her up the lavish, winding staircase. “I know the location doesn’t mean anything. But I think hearing those words will be a big moment for you as well. One you will remember for years. I just don’t want it to be remembered as something said in passing in a dark hallway.”

“I know… I understand you. And I also know it’s stupid to be upset about something this relatively small and… Trivial.” She cast her eyes out through the grand stained-glass window. The branches of the golden tree made of glass, was darkened by the night, which was slowly enveloping the vast, seemingly endless nature of Wiltshire. Like the softest duvet tucking itself around the sleeping countryside. “I mean, in some other lifetime, we loved each other to the extent that we decided to bond our souls together for eternity. And I know the words themselves don’t really mean anything, because it is your actions and the way you talk to me and the way you behave and- And how you’ve just simply accepted me for me. It’s clear how you feel. It’s clear in every way imaginable… And yet…”

He was quiet, just for a moment too long. She didn’t know what she wanted him to say to that, she didn’t quite know what she had wanted to hear nor what she had expected, but she knew she didn’t want to be met with utter silence. Turning to face him, she was met with a mirthful smirk, his silver eyes focused intently on her.

“Well?” She urged, impatiently as he so had called her.

He shook his head lightly, the strands as white as snow barely moving with him. He then reached for her hand, giving her the sheer and complete comfort of his warm, caring touch. He inhaled deeply through the nose, his chest elevating as he took a moment to settle into the words he was choosing. “Well… I think a part of me has always known I loved you. Even as a boy, you stirred feelings in me that I couldn’t place.” He continued stepping up along the stairs, urging her to follow him up to the third level alongside him, his hand resting lightly on the back of her waist. “My parents were quite annoyed with me when I spoke about you. Father even brought it up in front of you, in Flourish and Blotts before second year. Said ‘oh, Draco’s told me all about you.’…”

“But that was because of my blood. Wasn’t it?” She couldn’t take her eyes from him. She couldn’t find it in her chest, nor in her soul, to separate any part of herself from the incredible man by her side.

“Your parents were mentioned, yes… But I mostly spoke about, well, everything else about you. How bloody clever you were. How your hand always shot into the air before the professors even finished asking their questions. And then there was your bushy hair and your stupid teeth-” she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as she watched him retrace his memories. How his long, aristocratic nose scrunched at the mention of her hair and how his eyes seemed to glitter as he recalled their childhood and how he had always seen her. “And don’t even get me started on your freckles or the way you swished your wand.”

“The way I swished my wand?” Her voice was laced with a trace of laughter. She wondered how he even noticed such things when they were still so young.

“It was obnoxious and always to perfection.” His head turned with a small roll of his eyes, but only so he could settle his gaze upon hers. The small smile that had spread across his lips were intoxicating. “Muggle born students weren’t supposed to be that good, that brilliant. They were supposed to be adequate at best. Perhaps earning A or sometimes E grades. Passing. Acceptable. And then you came along, obliterating any and every expectation there ever was for a witch born from muggles. So, every time I wrote a letter home, I told my parents about you. That stupid Granger girl and her stupid little brain and her perfect little buck teeth and the freckles on her nose. And the way her voice always distracted me from my work or the way she smelled obnoxiously like Vanilla.” He listed it off with a grin. “Because you were distracting in every way. You were everywhere I didn’t want you to be. You said everything I wanted to say. You did everything I wanted to do. You bested me because you were simply so… Perfect.”

The torch sconces in corridor, leading them towards their bedroom, lit his face perfectly. Warm shadows of soft flames dancing across his hard lines. He appeared to be like an angel, carved from marble and presented within museums. He was perfection in her eyes.

“And then, the summer before third year, we went to Marseille, and mother insisted on going to this one pastry shop. And I couldn’t even pick out a sweet I wanted to eat; I just stood there and smelled the air. It was so familiar, and it annoyed me that I didn’t know where I’d smelled it before. That was, until I passed behind you on the platform before school, and I thought ‘Of course it was fucking Granger, and her stupid, perfect smelling bushy hair that I’ve been thinking about all summer.”

“You did not!” She bumped her shoulder against his chest, not falling for that simple lie.

“I did too!” He grinned, opening the grand doors to their bedroom without much effort.

The sconces along the walls flicked to life as the pair entered their quarters. It was still dark, still carried an essence of wartimes, though it felt more like home to her than her previous bedroom at the manor. It felt more like home than the guest bedroom at Grimmauld Place. She knew it felt like home, the rooms quiet comfort settling within her, simply because it smelled of him. It smelled rich and deep, of smoky vanilla and a hint of citrus. He smelled fresh and clean, though the aroma, which was so uniquely Draco, the man that he was, lingered around the room. And it brought that deeply comforting feeling of belong. Of home.

“You were always on my mind, Hermione. I thought it was because I hated you. I thought it was normal to just notice the people you hate and have them be part of your everyday life, your everyday vocabulary.” He said, his eyes locked on the wall ahead, on the opening to the beautiful outside and the stars that awaited their company.

He guided her onwards and carefully opened the balcony door, stepping backwards onto the grand structure until his rear hit the balustrade made of white, solid flagstone. She followed him out into the fresh night, both of her hands holding onto his as she gave her husband her utmost attention. “But then I realised, a bit too late might I add, that I had never hated you a day in my life. I had always thought you were quite cute. I had always adored your freckles and wondered if you had them on your shoulders and your knees. Your teeth, even if they were a bit long, were beautiful and captivating in a way I don’t think you could ever understand. I adored your hair, and how large and untamed it was. Then the was the way you always knew everything. I cherished your laughter, and I always liked coming to the library to see the back of your head coming out of some large tome, that no one had touched in centuries. I couldn’t get enough of you, if it was only when you walked by me, and we made eye contact for just a moment. I cherished it when your cat came to get some scratches from me when you weren’t around. I worshipped you when you stood up for me, protected me even when I didn’t deserve it. I treasured you when you put me in my place and called me names, because no one else really did that.”

“You always were a right git.” She chuckled, earning her a big grin from the tall, handsome man before her. The one she could never tire of looking at. The one she would never tire of listening to.

“And now…” he shook his head in wonder, his gaze never leaving hers. His eyes were like the brightest of stars in the night sky. “Now I have learned what it is to love someone. I have learned what it’s like to be truly in love with you, Hermione, with my entire being.” She stepped closer to him, invading his space by wrapping her arms around his middle. His, in turn, draped around her, fitting her against him like the perfect, matching piece of a puzzle. Her other half. Her better half. Her soulmate. “Because every moment of my life, I am overwhelmed by the fact that you exist. You are half of my being. You’re the gravity holding me to the ground in a world that tries to spin me away. You are the air that I breathe. The water I need to survive. You wandered back into my life and made the world liveable again. You, alone gave the flowers colour. You made the water sparkle in the sunlight. You caused the birds to sing and the wind to blow. You’ve painted every sunset with your beauty. Your radiant smile lit the stars in the night sky. You, and you alone, make the world vivid.”

“I love you, Hermione.” His fingers were as soft as his words, ever so gentle as the slipped around the side of her neck, cradling her jaw in his palm. The pad of his thumb feeling lightly over the freckles on her cheeks. “I love you more than there are stars in the sky. I love you more than I ever thought imaginable. I am forever grateful for the fact that we are tied to one another, because it means I don’t have to face a day, for the rest of eternity, without you in it. My heart only beats, so I can spend more of our unending time by your side, where we are united as one.”

Awestruck. Speechless. All she managed to do was stare at him. The concept of even so much as breathing, blinking, was unfathomable to her after the way he had professed his feelings. “You’re just going to say that, and not kiss me?” She repeated her words from hours earlier, once spoken in a heated moment only paces away from their spot on the balcony.

He lowered himself, inching closer to her lips. “If I kissed you every time I thought of how much I loved you, there wouldn’t be time to breathe.” His voice was soft in the night. Spoken from one soulmate to the other, in a hushed manner, a mere inkling of a whisper, though it was all she could hear as his words gently caressed her.

The stars and the universe that had connected them through their lifetimes, could only wonder at what words of love were shared between the pair. The soft whispers, the intense gazes, the manner in which words needn’t be spoken between them, as their souls connected beneath the galaxies above.

“Then do it. Kiss me until our last breath.” Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers trailing gently into the strands as white as shooting stars. “If only so I get to fall in love with you all over again, in the next life.”

Chapter Text

A deep, somewhat shaky, inhale through the nose. Cleaning the path down towards his lungs. He knew the answer to her question quite well. He thought about the number whilst he kept the oxygen trapped within himself. One. Two. Three. Four. Exhale through the mouth. Long and relieving. “Forty-three and a half.”

Miss Griffith’s canary yellow quill fluttered excitedly as it jotted down his number. The parchment was floating in the air, slightly off to his right-hand side, where it wasn’t as distracting as it could have been.

“Forty-three and a half?” she questioned with apparent curiosity, leaning more of her weight onto her leftmost armrest. The worn, plush, moss green fabric dipping beneath her elbow.

“Yes.” A short enough answer. He did not wish to elaborate on it unless she actually asked the question, though he had a feeling he knew what was coming.

“And how, exactly, do you kill half a person?” Her head fell to a slight tilt, allowing her long, straight brown hair to drape like a curtain behind her. Her blue eyes were deeply focusing on him with careful scrutiny. Observing every which way his body moved. Every microscopic twitch of his lashes. Every time he wrung his hands together, easing his tremors and steadying his quaking muscles.

“I cast a killing curse at the same time as someone else.” He explained briefly, not wishing to go into much detail. Simply for the fact that he did not wish to relive the memory. Miss Griffith quirked a brow behind her overly large spectacles, urging him to continue, to give more detail and to delve into the pained memory and the feelings that came with it. “I don’t know who’s curse hit her first. It might have been mine, and it might have been my fathers. So, instead of taking the entire blame for her death, or freeing myself of the burden of her death, I bear it. I take it upon myself to carry her name on my list, to remember she would have died in that very moment either way, even if it wasn’t by my wand.”

“Do you remember her name?” Asked the brunette before him. Not to judge him, but to learn who he was. How he functioned.

“I do.” A sharp nod of his head was given, confirming the message. “Her name was Diane Ellwood. She was forty-two when she died. She worked at the ministry, at the Muggle Liaison Office. She didn’t have any children, but had two dogs, who she loved dearly. Darla and Donner.”

She nodded thoughtfully, casting a glance over at her quill as it eagerly wrote away, noting down everything Draco had said, and possibly also how he had done so. Draco did not know, he had never seen the notes from the Quick-Quotes-Quill.

Miss Griffith was a witch in her late thirties, she had long, straight hair. It was fine and brown, chopped off quite bluntly at her waist. She was a small witch, petite one might say, and she hid behind overly large eyewear, making her appear somewhat like a fly. Draco often thought she resembled his old teacher from school, Professor Trelawney, if only his professor wasn’t quite as eccentric. Miss Griffith was Dracos mind healer. She was a kind woman, who showed him compassion and understanding, rather than the hatred and anger that countless others seemed to spew towards him. Though, he knew he deserved the latter, the hatred, rather than her seemingly endless sympathy and warmth.

“When you think back on your time as a Death Eater, what emotions come to you the fastest?” He found she often asked questions in such a manner. Always wishing him to delve deeper, into both her meanings and his memories. His emotions.

The question could be observed as her wishing him to think back, to relive the emotions and reactions he once had about his time working for the Dark Lord. Though, the question could also have been asked to look back on his time behind the silver mask and depict to her how he felt about it in hindsight.

“If you mean to ask how I felt then, I was always scared. I occluded a lot because I was just terrified to feel, because I knew I’d break down and cry because I was absolutely, horrifyingly frightened.”  The answer was simple enough. He had only been a child, after all. Forced to partake in something, a war, he didn’t believe in. Forced to do things he loathed himself for, under the orders of a madman.

“And when you think back, using retrospect, what do you feel about that time, as of right now, at this very moment?”

“I feel…” a lengthy sigh escaped him as his brows creased. “Exasperated.” She gave her hand a circular motion forwards, encouraging him to continue, to elaborate. “I’m tired because I carry all this guilt around. I’m worn because most people look at me and see nothing but a supremacist arse who followed every command by the Dark Lord.”

Her quill flurried furiously across the parchment, writing so efficiently and vigorously that Draco couldn’t help but turn his head to look at it.

She pushed the glasses up towards the bridge of her nose with the pad of her forefinger, her eyes still focused on him as he turned back to face her. “Do you wish to not carry the guilt with you?”

“No, I do.” He was quick to answer. Another easy question answered. However, she did not seem quite so satisfied, as she angled her head ever so slightly, urging him to continue once more. “I always want to remember the bad I’ve done. I want to recall every name. I want to know every history. I want their lives and the losses that they were to be significant. Because they were important to several people, and I took their lives, simply because I received orders to do so.”

She turned her head to face her side table, considering her closed notebook but for only a moment, then allowed her gaze to shift back to him calmly. “But you still find yourself exasperated? Why do you think that is?”

“I think… I think that’s because…” he looked down at his hands. He had been picking at a loose piece of skin by the edge of his thumb nail- He couldn’t quite get a hold of it as it was very short, but still quite annoying. “I think it’s because the only place I feel safe, where I’m not judged for merely existing, is when I venture into a world which I’m not a part of.”

“And how is that?” She asked tentatively. Draco could her the springs in her worn chair groan as she shifted her weight.

“The muggle world, I mean. People in it, don’t know who I am. They look at me and see any other random person on the street. In the wizarding world, everyone looks at me and sees nothing but a monster. They see the Death Eater. They see my family’s history of dark arts and bad decisions…” He finally got the nail of his middle finger under the annoyance on his thumb and tore it off, then lifted his head to meet her eyes once more.

She nodded thoughtfully, her eyes focusing on his. “I see… Have you ever considered that people are busy in their own lives, to the point where they might not truly care about you?”

His shoulders sank significantly, though he felt his eyebrows furrow and his lips press into a line. “That might be, in some cases… Though, I can assure you, it is not the case all the time.”

“It might not be, but you should consider it. A look could simply be a look. If it’s ugly or mean, it could be because of what is happening inside of their head. You shouldn’t opt out of the world you grew up in, simply because of the way people look at you.”

He sank back in the plush green sofa. The upholstery, only lavish and luxurious, had thinned over time and with much wear. He felt as the threading stretched to accommodate him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Now, to another topic…” The quill in the air shifted, starting to take noted much lower on the parchment than before. “I notice you call him ‘the Dark Lord’. Why do you do that?”

He set his vision onto the window towards the outside world, just to his left. He was in the third level of St. Mungo’s hospital, and he had a near perfect view of the muggle neighbourhood the hospital was situated in. Paddington. “I was always raised to say it. We did not call him ‘He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named’ nor ‘You-Know-Who’ because those names were filled with fear. And I was raised to believe that Malfoys did not fear him…”

“But you did fear him, didn’t you?” She urged gently. They had spoken about it before, in his previous sessions with Miss Griffith. How he had been housemates with the dark wizard. How his life had been tainted because of the one man and his macabre needs and yearnings. He couldn’t do more than give her one firm nod, not wishing to delve back into it. “And he also had another name, did he not?”

“I was told never to say it.” He said honestly. He had said the name starting with a V just the one time when he was eight years old. Then his father’s walking stick had met his wrist so hard, his bones had broken. Fortunately, it only took his father three days before he decided to heal his son and give him a pain relief potion. “And so, I never did.”

“And if I say that calling him ‘the Dark Lord’ tells the wizarding community that you somehow respect him, perhaps even look up to him… Agree with his views, what would you say then?”

His brows furrowed. He knew the moniker was one of respect, but again it was the only name he knew to use for the monster. He nodded his head slowly, allowing his mind to wander, to think about the names and what he could say instead. “Then what do you recommend I call him?”

“What do you think would be a good name for him? You lived with him. You saw him for who he truly was. What do you want to call him?” She answered him, folding her fingers loosely together in her lap.

He lowered his gaze once more, settling it back on where the annoyance on his thumb had been only minutes prior. He wished he had another to pick at. His skin had softened significantly from the rough texture it bore as he finally left Azkaban prison behind. The unique patterns in his skin had been carved in white, with how the salty air from the North Sea had hardened the textures of his body. And then, Hermione had brought him some body lotions and hand creams. She had improved his life to such an extent. His magnificent witch. And yet, he found himself upset that he couldn’t pick at his skin, to relay his attention somewhere where he didn’t have to focus on his horrid memories. “I don’t know.” He said with a small sigh escaping through his nose.

“What feelings do you feel when you think about him? How he used you to his advantage?” She continued to push, wanting a proper answer. Wanting him to sink into the deepest, the most pained abyss of his mind.

And so, he did. He took his time, letting his focus drift slowly back into the time when he had his rituals every single day.

He would wake with dawn, when the vaguest hint of sunlight would flitter in through the porthole on their walls, casting soft, green hued lines along the floorboard, where he was safely sowed away in his dormitory. His sanctuary. The darkened walls of the underground bedchamber, the dark, wooden furnishings and the constant rumble of the Black Lake beyond the walls, made him feel unimaginably safe. The darkness in his surroundings warmed him. Enveloped him. Gave him the hug he so wished he would get from a tender and loving embrace. Though, the only embrace he got, was one of his down duvet; cold and unfriendly once he climbed into his four-poster bed at the end of every day.

He would rise before his dorm-mates. He collected his school uniform. Black trousers. A crisp, white oxford. A green and silver tie made of the most decadent silk. His school robes with his house crest on it. A constant reminder of the serpentine monstrosity that had taken residence in his ancestral home.

He showered, keeping his eyes away from his ever changing body. It was obvious to himself how he wasn’t eating. How he wasn’t playing quidditch. The lean muscles that had once defined several aspects of his body seemed to have vanished since the Dark Lord had marked him. He was lean, there was some tone of definition in his calves still, though there was not much more. How no one had seemed to notice his changes, was beyond his comprehension.

He stepped out of the water, combed his hair, styled it with his usual potions and creams and then he dressed himself. Never looking anything but crisp and pristine to peers. Even if he felt anything but. His oxford fit more loosely around him. The garment had once been filled in nicely with his broad chest and shoulders, the defined muscles in his arms and back. Though, the garment in his reflection was hanging loosely around him. The trousers had been buckled with a belt, fitting him around the hips, though the fabric that had once been tailored to the thighs of an enthusiastic quidditch player, had loosened over the course of the school year.

Then, there was the Dark Mark. His mark. The mark of a Death Eater. A stark and constant reminder of the fact that his father had been imprisoned. A constant reminder of what waited him within the Room of Requirement. A cruel poke at the fact of what was to come. A war. And he, Draco, would be the one to start it all.

He would raise his wand to his headmaster. He would stare at the man with hatred and wish him dead with every fibre of his being. Defying how he truly felt within his heart. Then, he would utter two words, casting an unforgivable curse for the very first time. A curse that could, that would land him a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

His feet carried him up from the dungeons. The grand staircase was always deserted at that time of day. In the early mornings, he was alone. The sound of his dragonhide boots slapping against the cold, worn flagstone steps echoed off the walls in the tall tower. The paintings on the walls slept soundly in their frames. His eyes always lingered on them. Wondering who some of the depicted people had once been. How their lives had been. Perhaps happy and filled with love, living in a small cottage in a glen.

He always considered the portraits to be lucky. For they only lived in paintings instead of the world. The hardships. The heartaches. The loneliness and horrible solitude were not something they felt in the same manner as a lonesome soul. One day, if not maintained, the magic would fade from the canvas, and they would be but a stationary painting yet again.

The several portraits did not have to battle the people they considered their peers. They did not have to lie to maintain peace. They did not have to raise their wands and kill a person they honestly, truly liked and respected. But Draco did.

The grand staircase took him high into the castle. Closer and closer to the Astronomy Tower, which was where the Room of Requirement resided. Just across a tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy and his horribly idiotic attempt at teaching eight trolls to dance for the ballet.

He knew what awaited him inside. He knew exactly how many paces there would be until he reached the Vanishing Cabinet. He knew exactly where he needed to turn. He knew exactly where the piles of chairs stood, and which pile held his very own old copy of The Monster Book of Monsters by Edwardus Lima. He could close his eyes and let his body work from muscle memory, taking him to the piece of furniture, which was mated with the one remaining piece inside Borgin and Burkes.

Though, he could turn to his right and follow the stone staircase upwards. He could easily continue the path up into the Astronomy Tower. He did not know how many steps it would be, though he knew he could figure it out. One step onwards was all it would take, to guide him further upwards, where he could easily slip his lean body over the rails and let go.

Let go of the pain. Let go of the heartache. Let go of his sorrow. His loneliness. His fright. He could simply just let go. Be free.

That way, he would not start the war. That way, his pain might fade away to nothing as he ceased to exist. His wand would be stored in Vault twenty-three in Gringotts, where no black magic, where no unforgivable curse had ever been cast from it. It would be pure. It would be crisp and pristine. Just as the rest of his belongings. Just as he had always been.

One step to the right, and he could do it. Just one simple step and he’d be free of it all.

Vanilla. The scent of vanilla. Clean and simple in its manner. Elegant. Beautiful. Just like the witch he associated with the smell. He had picked out his own fragrance because he adored it so when she walked by him. When the scent of her perfume fluttered through the air behind her like butterflies, just like the ones that tickled his stomach lining every time they accidentally locked eyes.

He could not die without knowing she was safe. He could not die without having smelled her perfume just once more. He could not leave the life of the living behind and go into the unknown without having spoken to her just one last time. He could hope for a civilized conversation. He could try for an insult. He would pray for another smack to his face. Perhaps her fingers might dishevel his hair.

With such scenarios coming true, his life would be, could be, complete.

So, instead of going right, instead of letting his pain and fright swallow him whole, he stepped forwards, into the Room of Requirement, whilst promising himself to tell her that she had to get her parents away. For, come summer, she and her family would be on the Dark Lord’s hit list.

He had always found it odd, how he had thought of the Gryffindor princess instead of his mother. Instead of his father. Instead of his friends. He had thought of the girl who had smacked him across the face.

Then, he thought of what else happened within that school. Albus Dumbledore had always had his favourite student. Potter. The other professors seemed to be quite taken by him as well. Professor Slughorn had only just returned to teaching that very year, and he had his little club and his little sacred favourites.

But Draco was never a favourite. Not to his Potions Professor. Not professor Vector, who taught Arithmancy, his most favourite subject. Not even his godfather, teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts liked him much. He didn’t care enough to be a favourite, that was fine. But when none of his teachers, nor his peers looked twice at him, it hurt. Because no one seemed to notice him. No one seemed to care for him, nor his struggles.

It was as though everyone within the school, as though everyone in the world, had muted him whilst he was in the middle of it all, screaming until his throat went raw. All for nothing.

He felt the smallest, vaguest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he slipped out from the memory of late April 1997. “I feel… Disappointed, I think.”

“In yourself?” She asked with obvious curiosity.

“No.” He inhaled deeply, allowing the same air to filter out through him in a hefty and hearty sigh. “Disappointment in my professors. In my parents. In every single adult in my life that chose not to see that something was quite wrong.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs, before scrunching his fingers into fists. He hated it when Hermione wasn’t nearby. He hated how his tremors returned when he didn’t have her. He hated feeling sick and ill and weak. “You know, I had just turned sixteen when I was forced to be marked. I was sixteen years old and was told to kill my headmaster, to basically start the second wizarding war. If I didn’t listen, if I didn’t do what they asked of me, my mother would be murdered. And then I would be, as well.”

She glanced to her quill, which was dancing excitedly across the parchment that hung to their side. “Why do you think people looked away and chose not help you?” She asked, whilst shifting her gaze back to him.

He looked at her, considering his word for a mere moment. “You of all people would know what depression looks like. Before all this, I was the boy who made fun of people. Who made a show of things. I put effort into my schoolwork and was always near the top of my class. I played quidditch, I went to Hogsmeade, I joked, and I partied, and I laughed. And then came sixth year. I stopped playing quidditch altogether. I stopped talking to my friends. I kept to myself. I barely spoke to anyone about anything. I lost weight. I barely slept. I went from having mostly O grades and a few E’s and suddenly I got P’s and D’s…”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. “Obvious signs of depression. You’d be right.”

“And no one, not a single person, came to me to ask me how I was doing. No professors. Neither of my parents. No peers. I was entirely alone in that misery.”

“What did you think about that, back then?” she sat slightly forwards, the springs of her chair sighing beneath her.

“I mostly thought of how I wanted to drown myself in the Black Lake. Just jump from a cliff and let the water take me. Or the Astronomy tower. I was quite close to it most nights. I often considered just going up there and have my leave.”

“Do you think you would have?” He could see the worry that had started to line around her eyes.

He shook his head, giving her a small, though reassuring smile to ease her concern. “No. I was too much of a coward to do it. Actually, I was also quite in love with this witch, and I often thought I couldn’t leave the world without having seen her one last time. Of perhaps even better, being insulted by her a final time. And every day I considered going somewhere other than the Room of Requirement, I thought just that. And so, I didn’t go further. And I’m really happy I didn’t, don’t get me wrong. But I think, if I wasn’t a coward and if I didn’t fancy Hermione, I would have done it. I would have refused to raise my wand first and start the war, by killing myself off instead.”

She took her time to observe him. “I don’t know if it’s worth anything to you, Draco, but I’m also very glad you didn’t do it. As much as the war was awful, it could have been much, much worse, had you not done your part. And it is quite obvious that you’re not the person you have been raised to be. You’re so much better than all of that.” She said with sincerity. “And I am quite certain Hermione feels the exact same way.”

With a slight dip of his chin in acknowledgement, he smiled weakly towards the mind healer before looking away, back to the window to his left as a small hint of unease settled upon him. Not for any other reason than speaking so honestly and bluntly about a topic that was, and always would be, difficult to navigate. “Thank you for saying that.”

“Do you still have suicidal thoughts?” she asked, her voice careful and soft. He felt her eyes on him. Intent and worried.

“Not really. Sometimes, I suppose they come and go. I think the world would be a better place without me in it, but… But then I think of Hermione.” His head shook ever so slightly. “I would never, ever, in a million lifetimes, voluntarily leave her. The soulmate connection is odd in a way, I can’t stand the thought of being away from her. An eight-hour workday is excruciating enough as it is, not to mention willingly leaving her behind in this lifetime. I couldn’t do it. Never.”

“Do you ever go to visit her during work hours?” He heard the quill flurry.

“She won’t allow me.” He felt a genuine grin cover his face as he spoke. He envisioned her. His witch. Beautiful as could be, as always. His golden Goddess, bathed in sunlight and warmth. He was so proud of her for going to work. For pushing forwards and wishing to make the world a better place for everyone. “Says she would be too distracted by my company; it would be difficult for her to not join me when I went home.” He turned his eyes back to her.

She smiled as her quill continued to write quickly. “I know you’re not comfortable venturing into the wizarding world, but have you perhaps taken her on a date to Muggle London?”

“No.” He gave but one shake of his head. “Last time we went to do anything muggle, she helped me get my passport. But before then, was when we visited Marseille, and we went to a muggle café…”

“Perhaps you should consider taking her out on a proper date?” she encouraged light-heartedly, the tone shifting from the gloomy nature of their previous topic with comfortable ease. “It could be a positive learning experience about muggle life for yourself, as well as a nice surprise for her.”

He agreed with her. He hadn’t taken her out to celebrate her new job. He hadn’t taken her out to dinner just because he could. He hadn’t done anything like that for her, when he had all the resources and money to do so. “You’re right. I think I’ll do that. She deserves the world, Hermione, and I should give her what part of it that I can.”

She lifted her notebook from the table by her right-hand side and opened it to the page, marked by a golden coloured silken string. “Have you seen your mother since the last time we spoke?”

“Yes. I went to visit her after our last session. And I will again today.” He admitted to it a nod. Seeing his mother was quite the difficult topic to him. He loved her. She had given him life. She had protected him. Encouraged him. Comforted him. And then, she spewed hatred towards the only other person in his life that he had ever loved.

“How did your last meeting go?” Miss Griffith closed the book over her thumb, the pages draped over one another, jangling slightly open, though not to the extent that Draco could see any words on any page.

“She insisted I made a mistake in marrying a… Muggleborn.” He said with pained nods to his head. His foot started to shake slightly from how it was hanging in the air, crossed over his other knee. “Though, that was not the word she used, of course.”

She nodded, crossing her ankles beneath the chair in which she sat. “How does her reaction to your relationship make you feel?”

“It makes me feel like I… like I don’t want to bother anymore.” It was the first time he touched his hair. Of course, it would be, when he was talking about his mother. He ran his hand through the lengths, feeling himself spiteful of his hair for the first time in a long while. “I know she’s my mother and I know she’s not well, but I don’t… I don’t know if I can continue to see her and always hear that she doesn’t like what I’ve done, that she doesn’t like how my life panned out. That she doesn’t approve of my wife, that she’s upset with what a disappointment I am to her simply because I couldn’t do what the Dark- what Vol- what He asked of me, and then because I love who I love.”

“Are the flowers for her?” She asked, nodding to a bouquet of hand-picked roses that Draco had put on the side table by the sofa in church he sat. His mother’s favourite colour was red, and she particularly loved the red roses with black edges. So, what was what he had brought for her.

“They are. They’re from her own rose garden.”

She closed her book entirely and leaned slightly forwards, her eyes locked onto his as she clasped her notebook between both of her hands. “Then tell me, Draco, why do you make an effort for her, when she, despite her mental state at the moment, doesn’t do the same for you?”

Taken quite aback, he stared at her in complete and utter astonishment. “She’s… She’s ill. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

“Was she ill back in your sixth year? When you were obviously depressed, and she turned to look the other way?” She urged, still keeping her eyes locked onto his with icy seriousness. “Despite the unbreakable vow, she didn’t step up to help you. To save you from yourself, to let you know you weren’t alone. You had no one, not even your own mother.”

Draco felt his heart clench within his chest. It strained him in a manner he had not expected. How true must the mind healer be to strike a nerve within him.

“She says you’re the disappointment, but I believe she is the one who disappoints the most. And I also think you should do what feels right for you.”

He looked down onto his quaking hand, stilling it by squeezing it tightly into a fist. He watched as the tendons came to life beneath his pale skin. Watched as the blue veins settled atop the straining strings within his hand. “She’s still my mother…”

“That she is.” Her voice was soft, but still carried an aura with it, that she did not entirely agree with where his mind was going. “But she is also an adult. An adult who remembers her life as an adult. She is sane enough to know you  are her son. She is sane enough to know you’re married to a witch you love. So, she should also be sane enough to make an effort towards you and your life, instead of only accepting what you give her.”

He kept his gaze on his hand. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. All he knew was that he needed time to dwell in it. Time to mull things over and settle with the feeling that his mother was given equal opportunity to accept his life and his decisions, as he was given to accept her condition and her struggles.

“Take your time to think about it.” She said, looking over at him with mournful eyes. “But don’t do it for me, remember. Don’t do it for Hermione. Nor for your mother. Do it for yourself. Make the right decisions for you. For your future.”

He envisioned it. His future.

The swan pond at the centre of the hedge maze was glistening with sunlight. The water rippled as the toes of children were dipped into the shallows. A blonde girl sat in Dracos lap, with the curled hair and golden eyes of her mother. She had Dracos pointed chin and alabaster skin, Hermione’s soft, button nose and the freckles that peppered its bridge.

Hermione sat by his side, a young boy gripping her extended fingers tightly as he stood semi-steadily in the water, which only covered his tubby little feet. He had brown, wavy hair, with Draco’s silver eyes and Hermione’s sun kissed skin.

It was only the four of them. For no one else mattered. His mother certainly wasn’t there, nor were any of the ghosts that had haunted Draco for years of his life. It was only Hermione, their children and him. Their little family, in their own little slice of heaven by the swan pond. Sunlight. Nature. Serene peace. Virent Irides’ opalescent shimmering flowers peppering the walls of the hedge maze.

The leaves of the weeping willow rustled as the girl stood from the safety of her father’s lap and stepped into the shallow water. The sun caught the ripples around her feet, reflecting into his eyes.

And as quickly as they had appeared, the vision of his children, his beautiful and perfect little family extinguished. He was back with miss Griffith. He was back in reality, where his heart ached for a family. Where his entire being longed to create children with Hermione, with whom they could share their immense amounts of unconditional love.

With a thick swallow, he nodded his head “For my future…”

She uncrossed her ankles as she straightened herself, her notebook resting atop her thighs as she looked over at him. “Good. Now, I believe that’s it for our session today.” She said, looking over at him with a polite smile. “Same time next week?”

“Yes please. I’d like that very much.” He said with a nod of his head. He had a lot to think about. He had a lot to figure out.

But first, came a meeting with his mother.

Roses in hand, he entered the Janus Thickey ward a few floors up from his appointment. The ward itself was filled with music. Someone was playing the piano. He could hear soft off-beat claps of weakened hands and the soft shuffles of house slippers against the linoleum floors. Tentatively, he followed the long corridor of private rooms until he finally stopped at the common area.

There she was. Fully in control of herself as she played the white and black keys. Several of her peers had gathered around the common area, dancing, each patient in their own little musical world of harmony and happiness as his mother played.

He sank into the sofa, watching her. He felt his heart sinking. He felt quite odd seeing her like that. In one manner, he was hopeful. She looked alive. She looked happy. She looked like the woman who had welcomed him home for Christmas in his third year. She looked normal. Herself.

Which, for some reason, saddened him. If she was well enough to look so much like herself, why was she not well enough to see reason? Why was she not willing to understand him. Why did she seem him as a disappointment, when it was her who was disappointing him at every turn?

The minutes stretched on as he watched her. He did not recognise what she played, but he could tell she was reading the sheet music before her, as she turned the pages, her blue eyes scanning each and every line as she played with vigour.

She had dressed normally. Formal, yet functional dress robes. Her makeup was done. Neutral eyeshadow, rose red lipstick and a subtle rouge. Her blonde hair perfectly manicured, draping over the back of her shoulders. Her fingernails had been shaped like daggers and painted red, just as the roses he had brought her.

Tears welled in his eyes as the piece finished. The music on the piano vibrated slowly into silence as the strings within relaxed. She turned and landed her eyes upon her son.

“Mmmy Drag-gon!” She exclaimed, getting to her feet. She crossed the makeshift dance floor, dodging away from Frank Longbottom as he continued to dance to a tune that had died out.

“Hello Mother,” he greeted her, just as she sat down next to him. The tremors in her hands were nearly gone. He felt her ease and her natural aura be a part of her as both of her hands cupped his face, turning him so she could examine him.

Of course, he knew it could be a good day for her. A good moment. But his hope was still harshly overshadowed by the pain he prepared himself for.

Her fingers found his long hair, raking her talon-like ringers through his white strands. “Mmy beauuutiful Dra-agon.” She cooed with much-apparent glee, her thumbs soothing down along his cheekbones, following his sharp structures towards his nose.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, collecting one of her hands from his face, placing it lightly atop the paper-wrapped stems of the roses he had picked her that very morning. “These are for you.”

Her brilliantly blue eyes shifted from their set focus on his, to the flowers. They were passed over to her, and his face and hair was left alone. “Foor m-mee?” she asked. He noticed he could barely hear the quiver in her tone. She was seemingly much healthier, undoubtedly steadier and more normal than she had been in a very long time.

“Of course. To decorate your room.” He told her. He had carefully plucked off every thorn on every stem, not allowing any pain to come to her.

“Thaaank y-yoou.” She lifted her gaze once more, smiling happily up at him. “Is iit g-good n-neeews?”

With her query, his head fell to the slightest of tilts. He felt his hair shift, the white-blonde stands untucking themselves from behind his ear. “Is what good news?” She elevated the bouquet from her lap, gesturing to them. “If the roses are here for good news?”

“Aare you l-leeeaving her?”

And so, his heart sank. Plummeted. It felt as though it landed like a boulder within his stomach, just behind his navel. He tore his eyes away from her, looking up towards Frank and Alice Longbottom.

The two had but one child together, before they had been tortured into unmeasurable insanity. Even twenty and some odd years later, they were still together. Dancing in their own little worlds, whilst glancing at one another. The looks they shared, spoke more than words ever could. They shared moments of love, even if they might not carry with them the understanding for what they were feeling.

Despite their mental state, despite their fragile minds and the horrors they had endured, they still understood that they loved one another. That they cared for one another. He watched as their hands touched, if only so for a moment. Their love was evident. Their love crowded the room, even if it was only a spark that lasted for no more than a brief heartbeat.

He allowed his eyes to tear away from Alice, who was very obviously Neville’s mother. He bore a striking resemblance to her, despite having his father’s ears and nose. He had her warmth. He had her eyes. He had her aura. A calming presence that was so uniquely Neville Longbottom, he never had expected to see it anywhere else.

So, he looked at his mother once more. Narcissa Black Malfoy. The youngest sister of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The sister who had urged towards the end of the war, by lying to the Dark Lord about Harry Potter’s death. The sister who had threaded the line between light and dark, just where the shadow swallows the sunlight, and the beaming light overpowers the darkness.

His mother. A rare case of a grey character. Married to a Death Eater, yet she fought for the side of the Order of the Phoenix at the battleground of Hogwarts. She struck her familiars with curses and hexes alike, in the hope for a better future. A strong witch, who had certainly chosen light and good over dark and evil. She had chosen her family, she had chosen the future, she had chosen love.

“Mother…” he said with a sigh. “Hermione is my soulmate. She and I have been bound from another life. We will be bound to each other for the rest of eternity. Once this earth ceases to exist, she and I will dance together among the stars until the very end of time and existence. We will always find each other. We will always have each other.” He watched as her happiness, as her joy, faded from her eyes. The gleam that had caused her blue eyes to shimmer like the Mediterranean Sea became a simple nothing, dull and hard as he watched her. “I’m not leaving her. I never will”

She pushed the flowers back into his arms. “Sh-heee’s a muudblood…”

“And I am proud to be a blood traitor. I don’t know if you remember it, but father had his little Death Eater friends carve that into me. Blood Traitor. Simply for the fact that I did what was right.” He took the flowers by the stem and placed them between himself and his mother. It was a barrier, separating mother and son, just as the topic at hand. “You fought by my side. You fought for my future. To save me, to save my peers. To save the wizarding world from Him…”

“I… I didn’t fiiight for yoou to do thiiiss…” Her posture stiffened, looking at him with piercing eyes of disgust. He could see her top lip pull slightly, urging itself into a visible sneer of disgust. “Yyoou c-can do bet-ter…”

“You fought for my future, did you not?” He felt his blood boil as his quickened pulse gushed it through his veins. It felt like his limbs, like the very fibre of his being was set ablaze with rage, which hie tried his hardest to contain. She gave him one short, stiff nod. “Hermione is my future. She is my past. I’ve loved her since I was thirteen. I am so proud to have married her. You are asking me to choose between the two of you. You are asking me to choose you. But I will not. I will always choose her. One day, Hermione and I will have children. Your grandchildren, the only ones you will ever have. They will not be pure-blooded. They will not be sacred. But they will be made and raised with love. And I can easily keep them away from you, I probably should, because I don’t trust that you could love them in the same manner you love your bigoted ways.”

She reeled herself away from him, creating a much larger gap as she stared at her one and only son with horror. “Y-Y… Yoou would-dn’t daaree…”

“I would. Because having no grandmother, is better than having one that hates their mother.” He stood from the sofa, leaving their barrier, the bouquet of red roses with black edges, where it had been placed between them on the sofa. “Now, I’ll be going home, where you are not welcome until you prove yourself worthy of it. I’ll be dining with my wife, and I’ll profess my undying love for her when we go to sleep in our shared bed.”

She reached for him. Her long claws managed to only graze the skin atop the back of his hand as he pushed forwards, leaving his mother behind to think about her own future, whether it would be with her remaining family and future grandchildren or not.

CONFIRMED!

Dead body washed ashore in Dundalk, Ireland has been confirmed to be missing Azkaban guard, Henry Desmond Abbott. Muggle authorities have yet to find cause of death and refuse to hand him over to Wizarding Authorities until they do.

More on page 12

So read the front page of the Daily Prophet, dated to be Thursday, the 20^th of July, 2006. Draco tossed The Prophet aside on the dining room table after rereading the article for the twelfth time that very afternoon.

Henry Abbot had been found dead on the morning of July 13^th by an old couple, going on their morning walk with their Labradoodle, a type of hybrid canine that muggles seemed to approve of. The muggle Police had taken Abbott’s body to do what Potter had described to be an autopsy, which was where they cut the poor man open and looked at his organs to determine his cause of death.

Draco leaned back in his chair, staring at the food on the table. It was all steaming, placed under a stasis charm, if only so Hermione would get hot food when she would eventually arrive home.

It was the third time that week that she was late for dinner. Fortunately, it was Thursday, which meant it was almost time for the weekend and some much-deserved time alone with her. He could feel his entire body tingle with the utmost excitement of holding her close and spending the entire two days by her side. No interruptions.

Perhaps only when visiting the Burrow for Weasley Sunday dinner, where the two were more often than not, separated. She often slipped into conversations with the ladies, siding with Ginevra, Pansy, Fleur and Audrey. The latter of whom, had given birth not two days after his first dinner at the Burrow, to a beautiful baby girl named Molly, after her grandmother.

Draco, however, was mostly huddled with the men. Arthur, George, Charlie, Bill, Weasley and Potter. Though everyone talked amongst each other, over each other and there was never a dull moment along the lengthy set of three tables, they were not seated together for more than mere minutes. So, apart from that dinner, she was to remain at his side.

He could feel her before he could hear her. Life a rush of flames, he felt her warmth wash over him. He felt her energy, her beautiful vibrance of gold and nectar to slip over him like a healing blanket og enchanted flames, which could not hurt him. His tremors subsided at once. The aching muscles finally relaxing with her mere presence. His headache, present ever since he had marched from his mother, faded into absolutely nothing. Then, he could hear her heels on the floor. The slap of her soles against the marble was hasty as she rushed towards the dining room. Finally, she was home. Finally she was safe from the harrows of the Ministry and their lengthy meetings and their complete and utter need for her brilliance.

Though, he could also feel the echo of her heart in his chest. He could so easily tell that something was wrong. Something had upset her, and it was not just the fact that she was running late. He stood from his chair and swiftly turned towards the doorway, awaiting her arrival.

Her steps drew nearer. He counted the seconds until he would finally see her for the first time since their farewell kiss at the floo that very morning. Eight. Seven. Six. He stared at the opening of the double doors. He knew exactly where to look to let his eyes land on hers. He knew exactly how tall she was in her new heels, and where their eyes would meet for the first time in hours.

Five. Four. He rubbed his fingers lightly together. The pads of his thumb still felt raw after how he had picked the thorns from the roses earlier that day. A reminder of his conversation with his mother. A reminder of how he needed to put his future before the woman who gave him life, no matter how hard it may be.

Three. She was so close, her could practically feel her warmth. He longed to touch her. Longed to hug her. To kiss her. He felt desperate. As though he had been crawling through a desert for days, and she was his oasis.

Two. He could smell her perfume. Right and decadent vanilla. Not too overpowering, not too sweet. Slightly smoky. A mature and feminine fragrance, mixing perfectly with the natural scent of her skin.

One. She was just outside. The greatest gift the universe could ever have given him. The goddess whom he would worship until the end of his very existence. He would crawl across the universe for her, bloodying his hands and knees, if only to please her. And yet, there she was, rushing towards him.

She rounded the door. Her golden eyes were sparkling, gleaming with beautiful and radiant sunlight as she looked up at him. “Draco…” Her voice was near breathless. She continued rushing forwards, and he took two long strides, meeting her at the halfway point between the doors and the table, where their dinner was awaiting them. “I’m so sorry,” her arms wound around his waist, just as his found their way around her body, bringing her against him. “The lifts didn’t stop at the right floors.”

“They’re still not fixed?” He asked, feeling a smile tug over his lips. He didn’t care about the lifts. He didn’t care about anything. All was right in the world, as long as she was home. As long as she was there. With him. In the place where he always yearned to have her. In his arms.

She sighed, her body swaying slightly against his. “No… Shacklebolt’s said maintenance is on it, but it’s only getting worse. And I can’t take the stairs all the time, because there’s just no time for it.” He nodded with understanding, his eyes never leaving hers. He could not believe his luck.

The pained moments of the day that had been, simply vanished as soon as she had entered his presence. She outshone every single bad moment. She healed his heart. She healed his body. It was incredible, how she was truly human, how she was truly a witch and not a deity. Not a Goddess from another plane of existence entirely. For she truly was one of a kind. She was magnificent. She was radiant. She was everything he could ever dream of, and even then, she was so much more.

“You don’t have to apologise to me.” He said softly. His eyes briefly broke contact with her eyes, casting a quick glance to her lips, asking her for permission to cease their conversation about the lifts and finally proceed to kiss her.

He noticed how her eyebrow quirked with slight amusement, though she gave him the smallest, most miniscule of nods. Eagerly, Draco descended upon her, his lips crashing into her with such vigour, with such fever, he was certain to leave even the house elves breathless in their wake.

His fingers found. Their way into her hair, curling into her wild ringlets as he poured his emotions for her into their moment. Allowing her to feel how he had missed her. How he had longed for her. How he absolutely, unyieldingly loved her, and would continue to do so no matter their setbacks.

He could feel her fingers treading through the lengthy hairs of his nape, her arms draped over his broad shoulders. The feeling was unsettling in a manner of understanding, causing him to break their kiss. Parting them by mere inches as his brow rested against hers.

“What is it?” Her eyes searched his. She could feel his feelings, feel his anger and his pain, his disappointment. She could feel it in her echo of his heart as the emotions came flooding back to him, of his mother touching his hair.

He shook his head lightly, careful not to disturb her presence as he did so. “I went to see mother today…” he started, then found himself needing a deep breath, which he released as a sigh. “Nothing has improved… No, actually, her body appears to be doing quite a lot better. She was playing the piano, reading sheet music. Her tremors were nearly gone, and she spoke a lot better. A lot cleaner… But she is still awful. Still asked if I was leaving you.”

“I’m so sorry…” her fingers traced a mindless pattern at the delicate and sensitive skin of his nape.

His own fingertips grazed lightly along her scalp as he focused on not drowning in the honey that was her eyes. “I’ll be fine… But from here on, I think… I think I’m done. I might check in on her. I might give her some chances. But I’m not putting effort into her, if she’s not doing the same for me. For us.”

“It’s your decision, Draco.” Her voice was but a whisper that filled the space between them. “You’ll always have my support, no matter what you decide.”

“I know. Thank you.” He carefully released the handful of her curls, making sure his wristwatch didn’t catch in the glossed strands. “Now, are you ready for dinner my love?”

“Yes!” She groaned with sheer excitement. “I have hardly eaten all day. I was about to run out for some food when Cormac came into my office and decided to have a chat about work…” she said as she untangled herself from him. His elbow was extended to her, and she wrapped her hand around his forearm.

“Cormac? As in… McLaggen?” He asked, trying to withhold the groan that usually was accompanied by the spoken surname. Stepping around the table, guiding her to her seat, Draco watched as she nodded her head. “Why the hell was that tossed in your office?”

“Unfortunately, he works for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and my office has some dealings with his.” She said, just as he pulled out her cherry wood chair for her. Her fingers slipped lightly against the fabric of his Oxford as she sat down.

“That daft, predatory bastard has a ministry job?” He asked, rounding the table once more, going back to his own seat, just across from her. “And one where he gets to see you a lot?”

“You know I’d never do anything with him.” She said, not taking her eyes from her husband as he sat down.

“I know you wouldn’t.” He said with a small smile. “It’s him I don’t trust. He’s slimier than a Bubotuber, that McLaggen…”

Planting her elbow on the table, she leaned slightly forwards, setting a scrutinising set of eyes into him. “What made you have such strong opinions on McLaggen?”

“I snuck into your little Slug-Club party, remember. I saw that slimy little worm have his hands all over you.” He said, lifting his wand from the table. His thumb rested against the rune of protection as he lifted the stasis charm off their food.

The perfectly grilled chicken breast was beautifully marinated with mango and chilli. There were roasted vegetables, scorched and speared peppers, bacon wrapped bundles of asparagus, focaccia bread and rice. And it all smelled absolutely divine.

He noticed how she bit her lip, her eyes flitting over the food with apparent hunger and longing, her hands were mindlessly, automatically preparing the proper utensils by picking up the correct fork and knife for her dinner meal. “May I?” After receiving a confirming nod from him, she started loading her plate, sampling as she went, needing to fill her stomach as she worked on her plate. “I honestly forgot you gatecrashed our party.” She mumbled before slipping a pepper past her lips.

“Well, of course you did. You were busy having McLaggens tongue down your throat.” He said with venom as he, too, started filling his plate with the food that had watered his mouth for what seemed like eons, as he had awaited her arrival home.

A sudden bark of a laugh left her lips at his commentary. “Are you seriously jealous?” She mused, her eyes glittering with mirth as she cut into her chicken.

“I’m not jealous.” He quickly defended himself from her preposterous accusation. “I simply hate the little git and how he obviously accosted you.” He let his aggression out on the poor bouquet of bacon-wrapped asparagus on his plate. “I think he’s the foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach…”

He felt her foot tap lightly against his ankle. She had already toed off her shoes, leaving her feet only clad in her tanned nylon stockings. “Look at me?”

He did so. His gaze shifting from his fork of slaughtered asparagus to view the beauty across from him. “Yes, love?”

“I love you.” Her words washed over him like a grand wave of complete and utter warmth. “He’s unfortunately part of my past, but he seems harmless now. He’s not predatory around me, he’s surprisingly fine. And I won’t see him too much anyways.”

“Are you saying I can’t bribe Shacklebolt into sacking him?” He questioned her, his eyes focused in the manner of which she was cutting vegetables and preparing her perfect, first mouthful of food.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Her voice clipped as she looked over at him with her stern eyes. “You can’t have him sacked because he was annoying your wife, who you had no relationship with, a decade ago.”

“Fine.” He said with a small sigh. Part of him would always loathe McLaggen, though he would always choose her and his own unending feelings for her, than his anger and loathing for a man he hardly remembered speaking to. “I’ll relax, but only because I love you too. Not because I respect him or believe him to have bettered himself.”

She shook her head, though her face was still adorned with a smile of her evident amusement. “Sounds good enough for me.” She said, before popping a rather large forkful of food into her mouth.

His brow quirked upwards as the rather familiar sound of a pleased groan escaped her throat, her head toppling slightly backwards as she chewed.

“If you continue making those noises at dinner, I’ll make sure to take you to bed to have my dessert there.” Their eyes locked once more. Gold settling itself into silver. Melting him from deep within the very centre of his being.

“Let me finish my meal, and we can do whatever you want. As long as I get to try on you as well.” Her foot travelled further up against his calf, her lips tugging into a smirk and whatever reaction she seemed to like from him.

“Anything you’d like, milady.” He lifted his wine glass in salutations to the goddess before him. “I am nothing, if not your little plaything.”

With that lingering in the air, the two of them settled into an expectant and eager silence as they both ate their food, slightly hastened from their normal pace.

“May I pick you up from work tomorrow?” He asked after a few minutes, lowering his silver fork atop his plate. “Potter’s asked me to come in at the end of the workday, so I’ll be at the Ministry anyways… And I would really like to take you on a date, if you’ll allow it.”

“A date?” It caught her attention quite fast, setting her attention onto him whilst she sunk her teeth into a piece of carrot. “Really?”

“Yes, a date. An actual date between just us. I was thinking we could go somewhere in muggle London, if you’d be up for it?” He offered, resting some of his weight onto his elbow, atop the upholstered patch of his armrest.

“I would love to.” She lowered her empty fork to skewer a piece of bacon, having unravelled from the asparagus. He could feel the echo of her hearts elation, allowing her joy to pulse through his own body with awed excitement.

He took a moment to observe her. He always knew she was pretty. Even with slightly creased makeup around her lips and her eyes. Even with har hair having been redone several times over, creating thin slivers of her curls to stray from the manicured ringlets of that early morning.

She wore a light blue blouse of satin, which he knew was tucked into her high waisted trousers, which in turn hugged her hips and her rounded rear to the utmost perfection. She looked beautiful in blue. Her favourite shade of Periwinkle, which was her favourite to see her in. She glowed, radiated from within as she wore it. Her beauty was ethereal in the most amazing and awe-striking manner, for not only was she a brilliant vision, she was also the most incredible, the most fantastic, deep and wonderful witch he had ever come across.

Her beautiful mind, and the mysterious yet incredible manner in which it worked. Her love for her friends, for her chosen family. Her heart, and the way in which she chose to see the good in everyone. How she wanted equality, not only for her own kind, but for house elves, werewolves, centaurs and several other creatures alike. And then, there was her accepting nature. How she knew of his terrible, horrendous misdeeds and chose to help him, chose to better him, to heal him, rather than hold it against him. Rather than insult him and call him names. She was proud to be by his side. She was proud to support him.

And he was truly, unbelievably blessed, lucky beyond his means, just to be a part of her world. To be a part of her life. He continued to be awed by her anew, every single day. For there was truly no person on their entire planet, who was in any war near perfection as she.

“So, how was your session today? With Miss Griffith?” She asked, pulling him back to reality, where his dinner was growing cold beneath his nose.

His eyes focused onto her once more, where she was haloed by the warmth of the slowly setting sun behind her. He was once more conquered by the sight before him. “Mh?” He blinked. “My session. Right… it was… The session itself was fine. She made me realise that Mother is well enough to make an effort as well. Not just me.”

She lowered her fork to her plate, resting the prongs atop the minor piece of chicken breast that remained in her plate. “That might be true, yeah.” She said thoughtfully, allowing her head to fall to a tilt as she rested it on her knuckles.

“So, I went to see mother, and she was doing great… And then I told her you were my future. You were my past. I told her I would always choose you over her.” Her hand crossed the table, extended towards him. He reached back to her, his fingers wrapping securely around her petite hand, enveloping it with a simple move. He needed it, her touch. He needed her. For he had not lied. Not to her. Not to his mother. Not to his healer. Hermione was his all. She was an anchor. A lifeline. “And then I just left her there. In St. Mungo’s… I told her that when you and I have children, I will probably keep them away from her, because I doubt she will love them as much as she loves her pureblooded beliefs…”

She remained quiet for a moment. Draco could feel the pad of her thumb rubbing against his knuckles. “Look at me, please?” He allowed his gaze to shift from their clasped hands to the soft gold of her brilliant eyes. “My parents are both gone. They may be alive, but they’re not my parents anymore… I have lost them both. And it hurts more than I care to admit.” His fingers tightened further around hers. “Your father is dead… There is no getting any part of him back. Do you really want to disown your mother as well? She is the last parent either of us have. Don’t get me wrong, if you truly want to cut ties with her, I’ll always support you. But I want to encourage you to give her time. Because I truly doubt she’s truly as hateful as she seems at the moment.”

He nodded slowly; his eyes entirely focused on hers. “Why are you so insistent on giving her more time?”

She inhaled deeply, considering her words but for only a moment. “When you and I have children, they will be without three of four grandparents. If we don’t wait for your mother to change her mind, her beliefs, our children will have no grandparents.”

He considered her for a moment. Her mind was such a beautiful place. She watched out for everything, for everyone apart from herself. She considered their future, wanting to give their unborn, fictional children the opportunity to have a biological grandparent. “You want me to give my mother hundreds of chances, only so our children can have a poor excuse for a grandmother?”

“I… I suppose so.” Her eyes showed evidence of her disappointment in his chosen words. She did not know his mother the way he did. She had not seen the years of evidence of a mother who was distant, who believed galleons and sweets could mend his heart for the attention he sorely wished he had gotten.

He let his thumb over the back of her forefinger. “My mother will never be one to invite us for Sunday dinners. My mum will never be the one to welcome us or our future children with warm hugs. She will not take her grandchildren to the kitchen to teach them to bake. She will not show them patience. She will not insist on her grandbabies staying the weekend, if only so we can have some time for ourselves. She will not play with them. She will not take them to the quidditch pitch with their practice brooms…” he observed as the crease between her brows deepened. As her lips pressed harder against one another. “My mother will be a grandmother just like the one I had. She will pay for etiquette classes and take our children to ballroom events. They will study calligraphy and ancient history. If she has a say, they will learn Latin by the time they’re seven and… Be exactly like me. Spoiled and not know anything outside of high society Wizarding Britain.”

“And… Do you not want our children to be like you?” She asked, her eyes set in his, locked in to look for, to feel, to observe every possible shift in his demeanour.

“Of course I want them to have some aspects of my childhood. But most of all, most importantly, I want our future children to be actual children whilst they’re young. I don’t want them to lose their childhoods and miss out on fun because their fucking grandmother wants them to learn proper etiquette. I want them to spend time playing. I want them to experience having scraped knees, I want them to climb trees, to chase the birds and explore the world they live in and learn for that rather than reading about it in some book. I want them to know what actual love is. And I don’t want them to grow up with a grandmother like my mother will be. Because she will teach them to be rude and cruel. I want them to have a grandmother like… Like Molly.”

“Molly?” Surprise caused Hermione’s brows to elevate. “But she’s a Weasley? We aren’t related to her in any way?”

“At our wedding, Arthur and Molly welcomed me into the family.” Draco reminded her with an easy feeling sinking over his being. “Arthur did the same when we went for Sunday dinner together, my first time going. They think of you as their second daughter, Hermione. They love you, as though you are their own. Giving them the opportunity, I believe they will gladly be the grandparents our children will deserve. They will treat our children right.”

“But they’re not… They’re not our real family.” She said, shifting in her chair. “I thought you were raised to believe in the importance of blood relatives?”

“Who cares about biology and blood? Who cares about giving my mother one hundred chances, when we have someone around us who honestly cares? A chosen family. A family that involves us.” He felt himself smile, and she mirrored it. A hopeful and happy, seemingly somewhat relieved smile.

“I agree…” and she did, he felt the elation in her heart. He could see how her shoulders sank, and her eyes softened as the pair and their future seemed to fall into place. “But let’s not forget that you owe Teddy to fly on our pitch.”

“I will always choose to be his family, Hermione.” He assured her. He lifted her hand and bent himself forwards, to where he could kiss her knuckles softly.

She smiled demurely; her lips slightly pursed as she laid down her hint. “Now, all we need are the actual children…”

“All you have to do, is say when you’re ready.” He told her, there was not a second of hesitation. With how their bodies, their bond, had reacted after each and every time they had been around children or those who were expecting, it was clear that something within them both wanted to start a family. Sooner, rather than later.

Her foot played lightly against his ankle. Her breathing appeared to be heavier, just ever so slightly laboured “I think… I think I am ready. But I believe we need your body to be so, as well.”

He rolled his tongue over his sharp canine tooth, leaning back in his chair as he kept her gaze. He could see the goose flesh on the side of her neck. The way she wet her bottom lip. “Well, should we go upstairs, have our dessert in bed and find out?”

Her bottom lip was released from between her teeth as an excited grin spread across her cheeks. “Let’s!”

Chapter Text

The dark of the night had enveloped the vast landscape of Wiltshire when Draco awoke out of nowhere. Something was very wrong, indeed. He could feel startling vibrations of negativity down the length of his spine, causing goose flesh to stand along his bare skin. He could feel it like ice settling within his stomach. Like a whip of cold air settling over him. Sitting upright, he allowed his eyes to scan their shared bedroom, just as his hand reached for his wand atop the nightstand.

Two of the sconces flickered to life on the wall, softly illuminating their freshly done, homely suite. Apart from the new furnishings and fresh coat of paint on the walls, nothing stood out. The pine green coloured walls, the soft browns of the plush furniture, the lilac and pink toned decorative pillows and gold-coloured ornaments on the coffee table showed that the Malfoy pair were, in fact, alone in their bedroom.

“You feel it too?” Hermione’s sleep ridden voice broke the eerie silence that filled their shared space. She turned towards him beneath the duvet, looking up at him with wide blown eyes of worry. “What do you think it is?”

“It’s the wards.” He said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “Get yourself dressed, love. I’ll check it out.” He plucked his sleep clothes from the floor, where his wife had tossed them aside only hours prior, and put them back on before venturing towards the grand double doors.

Whoever was trying to get into the house had so far been unsuccessful, though they were seemingly trying their hardest. The centuries worth of powerful wards on the esteemed manor could not be broken by mere magic alone. Wands and their owners could not undo what ancient powers had cast to protect the Malfoy property from harm. Wards set in place by relics. By ancient artefacts buried beneath the borders of the grounds. By blood. By sacrifices, grand and minor alike.

He could hear Hermione slipping out of their bed and dressing herself with haste behind him, just as he opened one of the doors, to step out into the corridor. His bare feet padded down the floors, heading towards their main entrance, where the wards were triggered.

He heard her running up behind him, bare feet on the cushioning runner that held the corridor. Her left hand slipped into his right, their fingers entwining with ease, slipping between one another like second nature as they continued their path down the grand staircases.

“Who do you think it could be?” She sounded worried, her voice giving off only a hint of uncertainty. He would be worried too, if he hadn’t experienced the same feeling numerous times before.

“I have a hunch…” he admitted, rubbing his left thumb over the willow wood in his hand. The runes which were carved into his wand had become quite familiar beneath his touch,

The topmost was the rune of Algiz. The Elk, symbolising protection, instinct and guardianship.

The second rune was Thurisaz. The Thorn, which was the symbol for reaction, defence and regeneration.

Third, came the rune Jera. The Year. It symbolised luck, rewards and changes. Draco had this rune tattooed onto his neck, as part of his Azkaban prisoner identification.

At the very bottom, was the rune named Dagaz. Dawn. It symbolised awakening, completion, hope and illumination.

“A hunch?” He could feel her fingers squeezing his hand tightly, as though needing to know he was truly there, and that he wasn’t going anywhere. “What does your hunch say, then?”

A shake to his head as he thought of how ridiculous it truly was. “A raid, perhaps.” He offered her with a sigh. “Last time someone showed at our door in the middle of the night, was for a raid. Checking for illegal antiquities and artefacts and whatnot.”

“So, you think it’s the ministry?” Her body came closer against his own as they continued downwards, towards whoever was at their front door.

“I don’t know. But last time something like this happened, it was a raid.” He shook his head lightly. “Our friends can come through the floo, we never lock it, they can come without warning and just be here. Whoever is at our front door, is not our friend.”

That was when they heard it. Fists pounding on the door. Hard and unrelenting. The sound echoed upwards along the stair chamber, climbing the walls with its hurried, eager beats. He gripped her hand tighter, urging her to step behind behind his larger frame as they rounded the steps from the staircase and came into view from the grand front doors.

Through the stained-glass windows in both panes of antique wood, he could see seven people, at the very least. Though, the one in front was the most unnerving.

Even in the unending darkness of the land beyond, he was easily discernible. He was of lightly taller build, with a healthily round body. He bore sever layers of deep purple shades, with intricate designs of a culture quite unfamiliar to Draco. Chains of gold were layered upon his dress robes, which were all in great contrast to his deep brown skin.

Kingsley Shacklebolt.

With his wand clutched tightly in his left hand, he used his right to open the door, if only to a small gap where he could comfortably talk with the men who had come to their property. “What is this about, minister?”

“Good evening, Draco. We have received worries about illegal dark artefacts on this property.” Said the minister, extending his hand, to pass Draco a scroll of parchment, tied together with a purple, silken band and stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Magic in the same deep purple as the fabric that held it together. “So, we have come to search your home for anything nefarious.”

“Couldn’t you have done this in the daytime?” He queried with evident annoyance, one brow arching at the foul man before him. “I’m certain that what dark artefacts are here, are only here because your men missed them on your eleven previous raids. So, I truly believe this could have waited until morning.”

Shacklebolt only smirked in return, knowing full well he had the power to charge them at any hour he so pleased. Showing off the power he had over them with vibrant glee. “And I can assure you, we do not operate in what times comes most convenient to you. I suggest you let us in, boy.”

Unimpressed, Draco quirked one of his brows upwards, just as his top lip curled ever so slightly with disgust. “And I suggest you call me Mr. Malfoy,” his cold eyes flitted down the lengths of the purple dress robes of the vile figure before him, before once more settling onto his large, black eyes. “Old man.”

He did not know that eyes as dark as the night could harden, darken in a manner as intensely as it did in the man before him, though it happened nevertheless as he kept his gaze on Shacklebolt. “Let us in, then, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco did not open the door for the Minister, nor his men. He did not step aside to allow the entry into his home. He only glared at the Minister for Magic, allowing the man to stand outside, only centimetres from his desired target, the inside of the Malfoy Manor. “Say please.”

He noticed the men that flanked the Minister, looked away from the standoff, trying their best to hide their evident amusement of the situation. A cough, disguising a snicker, sounded from somewhere to Shacklebolt’s left.

He felt Hermione’s elbow nudging at his back, telling him to not push his luck much further. “Draco…” She hissed his name with apparent annoyance, though he knew she found it amusing as he did.

“Please. Let. Us. In… Mr. Malfoy” said the foul man through gritted teeth. Oh, how Draco wanted to push it further. He wanted the man to beg. Preferably on his knees, kissing the floor before Dracos feet. But he knew not to. He knew he had already gone too far, just by making the volatile creature before him say a word in which Draco dared presume was not in his usual vocabulary.

Taking a step back, he opened the grand, arching wooden doors further for the raiders, presumably Cursebreakers by the look of them, allowing them entrance into his ancestral home. “Well, by all means, come on in sir. And may I suggest, next time, you knock first. These wards are over eight centuries old. You cannot break through them, no matter how hard you may try. Nor can your parade of goons.”

Without acknowledging his words, Shacklebolt marched through the grand door, allowing his nine men, his trusted raiders, to follow him into the esteemed Malfoy Manor. No one met the eyes of the Malfoy couple as they entered. 

“I suggest the two of you leave my men alone, as they conduct their work.” Said Shacklebolt, his eyes scanning the foyer as his men dispersed themselves, charging up the grand staircases to enter the various levels of the home.

“That’s fine. We won’t be in anyone’s way.” He draped his arm around Hermione, feeling how his body yearned to return to their easy slumber. Weary and worn after a long day and equally tiring evening with his wife, where they had been entwined together in bed, testing his body, as well as bringing Hermione to completion on his tongue twice over.

“Are we free to go to our bedroom to sleep?” Hermione asked the Minister for Magic, whilst stepping into Dracos heat. Her arm around his waist. He could tell she was equally as exhausted as him, with how her eyelids drooped with heavy weight, and the manner in which she stood, relaxed and at ease by his side, using his body for support.

The minister’s brow raised ever so slightly. He was amused, evident in the manner of which his shoulders relaxed and his eyes narrowed by mere fractions. “I would prefer it if you didn’t. We need you accessible, should a cursed object be found and should our men need either of you.”

“You can’t be serious…” she sighed, turning her head to press her forehead against Draco’s shoulder. “We will be just as accessible in our bedroom as we will be in the sitting room.”

“She has work in the morning, Minister.” Draco reminded the man, his hand soothing up along the delicate slope of her spine, feeling how it sent barely noticeable shivers up along her body. “Let her sleep, and I’ll be accessible for you all night.”

“I suggest the two of you listen to the orders I give you.” Said Shacklebolt, his amusement gone as he spoke ever so coldly towards the pair.

“At the moment, we are civilians. Even if you are our Minister, we do not have to listen to your orders.” Draco said with a clear snarl and curl to his lip, displaying his displeasure towards the Minister for Magic with every fibre of his being.

Hermione’s fingers tugged lightly at his sleep shirt, reminding him of her presence. Calming him with a simple move. “It’s fine, Draco… Let’s just go to the solarium.”

Shacklebolt eyes the two with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance “And where, exactly, would that be?”

“By Merlin’s beard, your men won’t be conducting a proper search if they can’t find an entire room.” He knew his irritation was quite clear to the man as he snapped towards him. He wound his arm protectively around his wife, holding her body close to his own, shielding her from the idiocy of the Minister for Magic “Fucking follow us and find out, if you’re so bloody worried.”

He didn’t give the man another look before turning with Hermione and walked her up the entry stairs. The pair then took to the right, the path leading them down the familiar corridor where their much beloved solarium was awaiting their company. Shacklebolt had chosen not to follow them.

The fireplace roared to life without either of them needing to flick their wands. As though their most frequented room knew exactly what comfort they needed at the dead of night. They both settled onto their sofa, the violet velvet welcoming them with a warm embrace of familiarity. She leaned against him, her nose against his neck.

“So, why do you think they’re really here?” She asked in a low whisper, only for Dracos ears.

His head shook with uncertainty. “No one has been to visit us in a while. No one has really looked around. For our wedding, we were all gathered outside, no one seemed to go missing during the evening or even have any interest to explore…” he thought aloud, burying his nose into her magnificent curls. “And suddenly the ministry shows up, ready to raid us? In the dead of night as well?”

Her fingers laced between his as they sat before the fireplace. “There’s nothing here, is there?”

“Not that I know of.” Draco told her with honesty. “I haven’t explored every room since I returned. I don’t know what my mother kept. Though, if anything is found, they get to take it and keep it. I can assure you, I don’t want anything dark in this house…” he sighed, leaning his worn body against the backrest of the sofa, sinking into the tufted plush. “What bothers me, is why are they here at this hour in the morning? And why is Shacklebolt here?”

She adjusted herself on the sofa, to the point where his nose was no longer buried in chocolate ringlets, and he got to gaze into her brilliant eyes once more. Her eyes flicked between his, her mind spinning even in her drowsiness. “He’s not supposed to be here?”

“I’ve never heard of a raid led by the actual Minister for Magic.” He told her, his hand taking hold of hers. “Scrimgeour set the manor to be raided after father’s arrest, and the raid was massive. It took over twenty Aurors and Cursebreakers several days to get through every room and catalogue and remove every dark or illegal artefact. And even then, the Minister did not show.”

She took a deep breath through the nose, her eyes set on him with intent focus. “Interesting…”

He knew she had a thought. He could see it in her eyes. The glitter of an idea swam to life in her golden flecked irises. He wanted to ask her. He wanted to know. He also knew, better than to ask her. At that very moment, nothing was private. Their home was being searched. There could have been charms placed upon them or the room in which they sat, allowing people to listen in on their conversation. “Would you like to lie down, love?”

“I would, yeah. Do you think you could read for me?” She asked with a small smile, bordering on shyness. “I like it when you read. Your voice soothes me so. And it makes the story come to life in my head when you do.”

“Anything for you, my love.” He laid himself down, resting into the lightly softened tufted velvet and a stack of pillows to support his shoulders and head. A well-rehearsed position for him, whenever she wished for him to read to her. His arm draped over her as she settled herself into his warmth, bringing their favourite tweed blanket with her. Her head rested atop his chest, arm around his waist as she nuzzled herself into the familiar position.

A long, alabaster arm reached towards the coffee table, where his fingers tugged at the first book he could find.

“Is this your vampire book?” He asked, settling his eyes onto a paperback cover, black, with two pale hands holding onto a blood red apple.

“Oh, no. No, no, could you read the other one instead?” She reached forwards, allowing the blanket to slip from her shoulder as she grabbed hold of another book. “Here.”

He put the book on muggle depictions of vampires back onto the coffee table, his eyes lingering slightly on the piece of literature. He knew he would have to open it one day, is only so he would know what muggles thought Vampires might be like.

“The Fellowship of the Ring…” He read the title aloud. It was familiar to him. She had read it before. He was certain he had opened it at some point as well, reading a few passages when she had been busy reading other things. He used both hands to open the book, though he held it open with only one, whilst his other arm draped around her once more, and started to read.

“Three Rings for the Elven-Kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne…”

It only took minutes for Hermione’s breath to even out. Her lips parted just the slightest bit, allowing her breath to pass through her lips with even, peaceful pace. Her long lashes rested lightly atop the highest freckles on her cheeks. Her curls, thirty minutes prior being large and untamed, seemed to settle against the sofa as she drifted off into peaceful sleep. The burning wood within the fireplace crackled and popped in the peaceful room.

Draco continued to read the book, even after she had drifted off into the land of dreams. He had never taken the time to familiarise himself much with Muggle literature. The classics, such as the literary masterpieces of Willaim Shakespeare, William Faulkner, Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë. However, he found himself to be quite invested in how the book in his grasp would turn out.

She slept soundly against his chest, well protected by him as he listened to every little sound of the ministry workers and the manner in which they paved their way through the manor. The sounds of men talking together in low voices. The sounds of furniture being dragged across the wooden floors.

A crack of apparition happened upon the silence, causing Hermione to stir in her sleep, as Effie apparated into the solarium in her nightgown. “Effie was told to leave her rooms, sir.” She squeaked sleepily, wringing the silken fabric of her sleepwear between her bony hands.

Draco nodded his head, frowning. He had forgotten to alert her and Pikes. Forgotten that their rooms, their private spaces would also be invaded along with the rest of the manor. “You can stay here with us if you’d like. Or you can go to an inn or hotel if your choice and have them put it on me.” He offered with a hushed voice and a smile towards the elf, hoping to not rouse his wife from sleep as he spoke to Effie.

She shook her head, her dropping ears slapping lightly against her shoulders. “Effie will stay here, master Draco. But she will take master up on his offer some other time.”

“Take your hotel night at any time you’d like, Effie.” He agreed, lowering the worn book onto his chest. He reached for his wand on the coffee table, and rather efficiently transfigured one of the decorative pillows into a plush mattress for the house elf. He summoned a blanket from the woven basket in the corner, which she caught before climbing atop the mattress he had placed for her.

With another few waves of his wand, and carefully muttered incantations, he prepared another lush mattress, blanket and pillow for Pikes, should he wish to join them when his room was next on the raiders’ agenda. He placed his wand back atop the table, and once more settled himself to rest below Hermione’s comforting weight and luxurious warmth.

“Effie picked up and cleaned Mistresses clothes this evening.” She said as she climbed in under her covers, her small body melting into the cushioning mattress. “And Masters dress shirt, too…” Their eyes locked on one another’s, with Effie pressing her lips together and angling her head to tell him she knew exactly what the pair had been up to.

“Thank you, Effie.” He said, lowering The Fellowship of the Ring onto his stomach, just above where Hermione’s arm lay so perfectly against him. “I appreciate it.”

“Does master wish to know what Effie would appreciate?” Her tone was slightly sharper than normal. She sat up on her makeshift bed, her hands resting atop the frilly edges of the blanket.

With his hand wandering mindlessly through the brown curls, which lay over his shoulder, he looked at the elf. “What would that be?”

“Babies to look after.” She said sternly, her hazel gaze never shifting from that of her employer’s. “Master’s and Mistresses babies.”

“Give it time, Effie.” Draco whispered, his fingers continuously threading Hermione’s hair, easing the curled lengths away from her face, so when he looked away from Effie, he could see her little nose. The definition of her cheekbones. How she looked so entirely at peace, sleeping heavily. “It will all happen eventually.” He promised the elf, just before pressing a kiss to the head of his wife.

“If master says so.” She said whilst laying back down into her bed, swiftly turning her back to the pair to settle herself to a position of sleep and rest, comfortable for the little being.

It did not take long for the elf to fall asleep, and for Draco to return to the book he had been reading for Hermione. His darling’s breathing fuelled him. The sounds of her so blissfully asleep, so peaceful in her existence atop him made his eyes scan the lines, absorbing the words before him with much vigour.

Although it was not a crack of apparition, Draco could hear Pikes arriving, if only by the sounds of his feet slapping against the wooden floor of the solarium. Then, he heard the familiar voice. Gruff. Surprisingly deep and rough for a house elf of his hunched stature. “Blasted, filthy, grubby little prats…” muttered the elf sourly as he padded further into the solarium, his large, down pillow dragging on the floor behind him.

He was an older elf, one Draco had known for most of his life. He had short, sharp ears, protruding from the sides of his head like the clawed sides of a hammer, with drooping, black eyes and a large downturned nose, that seemed to slump as low as the ever-consistent frown upon his mouth.

“Evening, Pikes.” Draco said, trying his best to hide his amusement from the elf. “I made you a bed if you’d like to stay here. Though, you are welcome to a hotel if you’d prefer?” he made sure to give him the same offer as he had given Effie, seeing as Pikes had a rather abundant preference for solitude.

“Master could have warned pikes, he knows.” He uttered, wearing one of Draco’s old sleep shirts from when he had been a child. It was still much too large for him. And Draco was completely certain that baby blue was not Pikes’ best colour.

“Well, you never come when I call for you.” Draco mused over at the elf, who climbed into the bed without much more than wordless grumbling noises of annoyance. “Sleep well.” He told the elf, who in turn slammed his own pillow atop his head, to block out the world in which he seemed to loathe.

The book had fallen to the floor sometime during the night. Pages crumbled together, still opened to the page where Dracos thumb had once been. The elves had left, their makeshift cots empty on the floor, just before the fireplace. Hermione was stirring against his chest, her delicious thighs squeezing around his as she awoke from the ruckus. There was an obvious stampede of raiders coming towards the solarium, with heavy boots slapping agains the floor as they marched towards the room where the Malfoys had taken residence.

He felt her leg pulling up between his, beneath their shared blanket, her toes curling beneath his calf. Her arm squeezed around his chest, her nose buried against the side of his neck, where he felt her soft breaths. The flutters of wispy lashes on his jawbone.

“Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy?” Boomed Shacklebolts deep voice from the corridor, from whence he entered the solarium. “There you are.”

“Here we are.” Groaned Draco, not caring to lift his head, nor turn to look at the man. He knew what the Minister for Magic looked like, and surely did not need much of a reminder.

Draco had, up until his release, never had a bad thought about Kingsley Shacklebolt. He knew he had been the Minister for Magic for a long time. He knew he got decent results in the wizarding world, improving what society he was leading. He knew he was respected by the wizarding world as a whole, not only for his easy charms and thunderous voice, but for the manner in which he acted, the way he led their part of the country. Secret and hidden yet amazingly driven to the point where no witch or wizard had to fear being detected, discovered by muggles – for Shacklebolt would protect them.

Yet, Draco felt something was a bit off about him. Not just from how Hermione had described him as a fool who hunted for the most striking headlines on the front pages of every news source, but also from the energy the man held. There was something in which the Malfoy man did not like. Something he could not understand about the elder of the two. Something that simply wasn’t right.

Seeing Shacklebolt, hearing his voice or even locking eyes with him, gave Draco a horrid, foul taste in his mouth. He had not often trusted his instincts about people, knowing he was raised to be heavily devoted to one of the darkest wizards of all time, though he knew he could not put his feelings of Shacklebolt aside.

“Well?” Draco urged, rather impatiently. His voice gruff and low with the few hours of sleep he had gotten. “Did you find any mysterious artefacts, containers for dark magic, mysterious relics or any other supposedly illegal effects?”

With a wave of Shacklebolt’s hand, the oncoming parade of ministry workers halted within the corridor. Apparently only beaters away from the solarium. “No. Nothing nefarious this time, Mr. Malfoy.”

“And do you wish to inspect our plants before you leave?” He waved a hand lightly through the air, indicating to the various lush greenery and potted flowers that had been placed about the room.

The other man did not let his eyes wander, keeping them locked the pair of Malfoys that remained on the violet sofa. “No need. I think our work here is done.”

Draco allowed his eyes to linger on the man, his eyes burning into him with a searing hatred he could not for the life of him understand. “Well, by all means, sod off then.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to those of her husbands, her brows furrowing with disbelief at how he had spoken to none other than the Minister for Magic.

“How dare you speak to me like that, boy?” Thundered Shacklebolt, no doubt to try elevating himself before his minions.

“Oh, my apologies. Sod off minister.” He made a gesture of overdone salutations, coming from years of pompous etiquette classes. “I trust you and I won’t see each other for a very long time now?” 

“That would be my most sincere pleasure, Mr. Malfoy…” said the horrid man with his eyes narrowed at the couple who was still resting on the sofa. His eyes flicked over to Hermione, who was still resting on her husband’s body. “Just one more hour until your workday starts, Miss Granger.”

With that, Draco sat up with one swift move, his arm helping ease Hermione up into a sitting position on the lounge. He had his steely gaze locked onto the intruder of their home, the one who had led the intrusion. “I know you think you can do as you wish, Minster…” he had far too little sleep to be a positive light of energy that very morning. Hermione slipped herself from his lap, clutching the tweed blanket to her body, which in turn allowed the annoyed Malfoy man to stand from the sofa and step slowly closer to the man he disliked above all else.

Standing close enough to the man, where they were most assuredly within each other’s personal boundaries, Dracos lips quirked into the slightest hint of a smirk.  His voice deadly, cold and menacing as he spoke, just low enough to be out of earshot for the herd of goons and his own darling wife. “But if you dare disrespect my wife one more time, I can assure you of one thing; there will be hell to pay.”

“Empty threats won’t sway me any which direction, Malfoy.” Shacklebolt’s low voice vibrated through their close proximity.

“You dare assume I’m not capable of wounding you?” he mused with a mirthful tune to his voice. He knew of the files his father had collected during the war. Stowed away safely in Lucius’ old study on the second floor of their home. With copies scattered around in the various Malfoy properties, vaults and copious hidden locations used for safekeeping, which dated back several generations of Malfoy noblemen. Draco had seen the folder marked with the Minister’s name. Felt the immense weight of the documentation that had been meticulously collected by a man, his very father, who had left no stone unturned. “I have more dirt on your name, than I have in my entire gardens. So, don’t you test me.”

Potter had acquired them a conference room. The table itself was long, slightly widened at the middle, and could seat no less than twenty-six people. Thirty or more could fit, if only people huddled together.

So of course, the three men, that was The-Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, the Royal Weasley and Draco, had seated themselves at the very end, occupying a complete few percent of the entire availability of the room.

Potter had brought the files. The stacks of folders, papers, sheets, notes, notebooks and scribbles he had collected through the entire duration of his time assigned on the murder case.

Draco had spent two hours sorting all of the notes and paper in chronological order as well as having sorted each stack with specific topics. All of which, he had required the entire length of the table for. He knew he could have used magic to do it, though he could not as easily have familiarised himself with the mindsets of the two aurors, as well as the work they had both put in over their time, had he done so.

Weasley had brought along food and drinks. Something Draco had never before eaten, called Pizza. He was familiar with the name, having tasted something somewhat similar on a visit to Italy in his youth, though it was not even remotely similar to the greasy, cheesy, sausage-covered pie that had been brought into the room in a flat, oil-stained cardboard box. The drinks were called Coca-Cola, Sprite and Fanta. So, of course, Draco chose to drink water.

“Hollings, Ferrington and Ahmad have all been at Azkaban when the disappearances happened.” Weasley said, just as he finished the outer end of his piece of the cheesy triangle, which appeared to be dripping in grease.

“But it could be that no guards were connected to the murders at all.” Draco reminded, leaning back into his swivelling chair, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles beneath the conference table.

“After what happened to Abbott, do you really think that no guards are connected to this?” Potter croaked from across the table, having just taken a sip of his Coca-Cola. “A guard, someone who probably knew too much, was killed.”

“Allegedly.” Weasley said, pointing a red-greased finger at his oldest friend. “No one really knows if he was murdered or not.”

“The muggle police have held him for too long for it to be natural causes. And need I remind you both, that they can’t find cause of death if he was murdered with magic.” Potter reminded the two others, who both knew very little of the ways of most muggles. “They can’t see if it’s a killing curse or a dementors kiss. They just see a dead person, in the prime of his life, who dropped dead without cause. And there would no sign of any heart attack on him or anything if he was magically killed.”

Draco mulled his over, whilst his fingers were reluctantly holding onto a piece of the so-called pizza, which he had yet to taste. He held it angularly, so the grease slowly dripped from the tip and onto the plate below. He had not been tempted for a bite, even after the aurors had already devoured two pieces each. “Okay, so let’s say he was killed by a killing curse. There should be signs of that when weighing the wands of whoever killed him.”

“And we have weighed the wands of every Azkaban guard without a trace of dark magic.” Potter resigned, flopping back against the backrest of his chair, causing it to turn to Dracos left, away from Weasley, though facing the stacks. He saw how Potter cast his eyes over the timeline of events, having been laid meticulously out atop the table by Dracos hand and his mind for fine details. “We also did interviews under Veritaserum with them all, and nothing came to light.”

“But Veritaserum only works if you ask the correct questions.” Draco said, finally having an excuse to drop the greasy monstrosity of food onto the plate he had been given, only to stand from his seat and walk over to pile twelve, where the questions and answers to all guard interrogations had been placed. He lifted one page after the other

Have you ever opened a cell without reason or orders to?
- No.

Have you been the reason why an inmate was murdered?
- No.

“Of course they can slither themselves away from these questions, even under Veritaserum.” Draco said, handing Potter the sheet of paper he was holding between his fingers.

“Well? What’s wrong then?” Asked Weasley, standing from his chair and looking over Potters shoulder. “These are good questions… Right?”

“Not right.” Groaned Potter with newfound frustration, dropping the sheet of paper to the table before himself.

“They’re too open.” Draco said with a shrug of his shoulder. “They could have easily had a reason to open the cells – to let out an inmate. They could have been ordered to open a cell, though not from a superior.”

“But what about when asked if they’re linked to the murders?” Weasley rested a hand down onto the tabletop in front of himself, allowing the dark stained, polished wood to support his weight.

“They could easily interpret that question as having physical involvement with the murders themselves. As in having been in the room and participated when flaying the victims.” Draco said, his fingers grazing the top of pile sixteen. He couldn’t even call it a pile. It was a mere three sheets of parchment, all containing the complete and utter lack of witnesses to the captures. All other Azkaban inmates had said they saw nothing. Heard nothing. No one had walked by a cell. No one had felt another presence. Heard talking, nor seen a patronus they weren’t familiar with. For all intents and purposes, it appeared that whoever had taken the victims from their cell, was a ghost. A non-entity. Popping into existence at will, though he knew, fully and heartily, what apparition was not accessible within the prison.

He furrowed his brows, having a slight idea. “Is it legal to interrogate with Veritaserum one more time?” He asked curiously, lifting one of the sheets of parchment, scanning it with eager and curious eyes.

“What?” Potter asked breathily. “You’ve got an idea?”

“What’s got you so riled up?” He heard the grin that had formed on Weasleys lips as the redhead rounded the table and came up beside Draco.

“No inmates saw anything. No one heard anything. The guards have all said they didn’t open any cell, and during the weighing of the wands, there were no spells out of the ordinary on their histories, correct?” Draco lowered the parchment back to pile sixteen, before lifting another from the simple torn notes from pile twenty-one. He looked up, meeting both green and blue eyes that were intently focused on his very own. “How do you get into Azkaban?”

“Floo or apparition.” Potter said quickly. “Floo is easier, and you end up inside. Apparition is only allowed on the outside, just beside the cemetery.”

“What about portkey?” Asked Draco, quirking a brow towards the raven-haired man who was still sitting comfortable in his chair. Though his interest seemed to have been piqued by the query.

Potter’s eyes narrowed, his head falling to the slightest of tilts “Portkeys are illegal as means in or out of Azkaban.”

“Come off it, Harry. I don’t think a murderer will care if Porkeys are illegal or not.” Weasley said with a rather large grin. He turned to Draco with nearly glittering eyes “You think this could be it?”

“I don’t know. But it could be a possibility.” Draco confessed to his friend, feeling a spark of glee within his body, as he felt he had finally helped the aurors, if only a little. He watched as Potter got to his feet, stepping slowly down the length of the table, his eyes on the stacks “Couldn’t it?”

“Everyone is checked at entry” Potter stated hesitantly, his eyes hidden beneath ushered brows as he allowed his gaze over the stacks of parchment.

Weasley, however, learned against the table and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his eyes fixed on Potter. “Not the guards.”

“So, what if a guard brought in the portkey at the start of their shift, then, at final rounds, handed it off to an inmate and they vanished upon touching it.” Draco locked eyes with Weasley, as Potter walked along the length of the table, his brows pressed together as he focused on something the other men could not see.

“I’ll ask Robards if we can use Veritaserum on the guards again.” He said thoughtfully, grimly, his eyes flicking as he appeared to be thinking ten paces ahead of his companions. “But if we can’t, how do we intercept this without raising suspicion?”

“Can’t just go barging in and search them every day…” Weasley concurred with a thoughtful mutter.

“Is there any way to get an auror in there, undercover?” Draco offered with a raised brow in Weasleys direction.

“Probably will be too late now, after Abbott’s got himself killed.” Weasley sat down atop the tables surface, looking out on the stacks of notes.

Of course, any big change within the prison would cause suspicion and possibly even uproar amongst the guards, particularly those who found themselves involved in the murders somehow.

Henry Abbott would have known something. His murder was already suspicious enough as it was, without the need for ministry interference within the prison itself.

Particularly with placing aurors inside the prison. Undercover as inmates or guards, they would be easily spotted and thus the effort would have no effect. The guards that knew anything about the murders, would have enough reason to be cautious around the aurors.

“You’d be right.” Potter agreed, then lifted his gaze to meet Malfoy’s, rolling his jaw as he pondered further. “But if Abbott was killed by a killing curse, who did it if not the guards?”

“The actual killer, I suppose?” Draco said with a thoughtful frown of his own.

The aurors both nodded solemnly. “Which means we have at least two criminals to catch.” Weasley sighed, running a freckled hand through his strawberry hair. “How do we get a look inside without causing suspicion?” He asked, turning to Potter, who already had his sight set on Draco.

He felt how his heart sank within his chest as he saw the emerald eyes of his childhood enemy soften with a silent plea of desperation. A quiet, wordless question if Draco would be willing to put himself in harm’s way for the greater good.

“You can’t be asking this of me, Potter.” His voice, although a mere whisper, tore through the quiet room with the severity of what the dark-haired auror was truly asking of him.

“No more than a week, Malfoy… I swear it.” Potter pleaded, his brows expressing just how desperate the man truly was to get answers. To get further into the case, closer to an end.

Weasley whipped his head around, facing his oldest friend with an unhinged jaw of complete and utter horror. “Harry!”

“Are you mental?” Dracos lips pressed tightly together as he stared at Potter. . “No. Absolutely not.”

Draco had just gotten out. He had just been released. He had started getting his life back together. He had Hermione. He had his friends. He was happy, making truly positive memories for the first time in his life. And they wanted him to give it all up, only so he could step back into Azkaban and take one for the team.

A team he wasn’t even truly a part of. He was a civilian, working on the murder case only because he might be a future victim. Because the case intrigued him. Because it gave him a reason, a purpose. A way to give back to a society, which him and his side had once taken so much from. He was no auror. He would never be an auror. He would never be a part of their team. No matter how hard he tried.

The only team he would ever be part of, the only person he belonged with, the only person he would ever belong with, in any capacity, was Hermione.

“We could arrest you on some bogus charges, you’ll get a few days because of your probation, and we can have an inside man.” The scarred auror was quick to suggest, voicing his hopes before Draco could protest further. “Just to see if you catch anything suspicious. The guards would never believe you, of all people, to work alongside the authorities anyways.”

“Why wouldn’t they believe it? He’s married to Hermione.” Weasley was quick to interject.

“Only because of the repopulation act.” Potter rounded upon Weasley, quirking his brows upwards. “No one knows they’re madly in love.”

Draco shook his head, needing to put Potters ideas out of his head. “The Prophet said it’s because of a soul bond. People already know.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to like her friends.” He was quick to point out, emerald eyes seeming to lose their spark as Dracos returning rejections seemed to settle into him.

“I know I agreed to help, Potter, but I did not agree to go back to Azkaban.” Draco protested one final time. Digging his heels into the wooden floors beneath his boots “Not for you. Not for Weasley. Not for anyone. I simply refuse.”

“Please? Oh, it will only be for a little while.” The auror placed both hands on the table that parted the two, as though begging on his hands and knees. “You’re the only one who can do it, Malfoy… You’re the only one I trust enough to do this.”

Draco rolled his jaw, his tongue sucking on his teeth. He knew the killer was coming for him, no matter what. He knew he had promised to help. He knew he needed to do his part to make the world a better place. He knew, even though he wished it to not be so, that he needed to take one for the team. “And what if they take me?” He asked. His stubborn and cold protests had softened. Weakened. He kept his eyes on Potters, watching as the spark, ever so softly, returned to his eyes. “What if they kill me?”

“We’ll put a tracker on you.” Weasley said with a hard nod to his head. His cold gaze set ferociously onto his oldest friend, as though the two needed to have a very private chat about boundaries after Draco had left them. “That way, we won’t lose you.”

“A killing curse can’t be stopped by a blasted tracking spell.” Draco was quick to tell Weasley, turning his entire body to look at his friend. “What do you reckon will happen to Hermione, should I die next week?”

“You won’t die. Just keep your eyes and ears peeled and you’ll be fine.” Potter saw his opportunity, his way in, and took it.

“Don’t touch any Portkeys, I suppose.” Weasley said, looking away from the other auror. “And don’t let them throw one on you, should they single you out.”

A silence fell between the three men. A silence that carried more weight than any of them wished it to. A silence that spoke more than their words could. Dracos eyes settled onto stack two. The top page was the front cover of the file. Lucius Malfoy. His father’s murder. Brutal and heartless. A little girl had found him, on the side of the road in the muggle town Pontypridd.

“We can’t tell Hermione, can we?” He looked away from the one of his father, allowing his eyes to roam the stacks in hopes of anything else. Anything that could depict hope. The rolls and sheets of parchment littered with names and happenings. He searched them for an answer, though he landed upon one stack that made his mind fall into a conclusion. 

“It’s not safe if she knows about this plan.” Potter insisted, his tone was softer. Still pleading in a manner. Carefully threading, not knowing that Draco had made up his mind.

For, what Draco was looking at, was an image of Hermione’s name. Carved into the back of a slaughtered Antonin Dolohov.

“Fine.” He lifted his gaze, settling it back onto that of Harry Potter. “Arrest me by the end of the day, don’t give me a chance to back out by waiting any longer.” He watched as Weasley turned to him with quite apparent shock and disappointment. “I can agree to no more than seven days in Azkaban. I will be home, with my wife, by the end of next Friday. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, mate.” Weasley agreed, without much gusto to his voice. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of Draco’s decision.

Potter nodded, swallowing a heavy lump in his throat. “Anything you say. You control this, Malfoy.”

“Place a tracker on me that can’t be removed. Put something under my skin, where it won’t be found and easily taken.” He told the aurors. It was not up for discussion.

“Anything. Anywhere you’d like.” The-Boy-Who-Lived agreed with a vigorous nod.

“And don’t tell Shacklebolt of the plan.” He said, feeling his heartbeat pounding rapidly in his chest at the request. He knew the aurors might not like it, but he needed their word, nonetheless. “He is kind of… On me, at all times. He doesn’t like me. You know, he was there personally for the raid of the manor last night.”

“What?” Weasley barked, struck with awe. “The minister for magic? Oversaw a simple raid?”

“Yeah. He spent the entire night at our manor. They arrived at half one at night and left at 7:30 this morning.” Draco told the men, tucking his hands into his pockets, steadying their vigorous tremors. “I don’t trust him. I don’t want him to know anything other than you having arrested me for a few days. And only because of my probation.”

“Sounds fair enough.” Potter agreed. “No one but the three of us – and Robards – will know of our plan.”

Weasley kept his eyes on Draco. Sizing him up. “What do you suggest we use to track you?”

A shoulder of his shrugged, a small tug at the corner of his lips as his fingers felt a single Silver Sickle in his pocket. “Anything goes. We could size down a coin and put it in my back?”

“In your back?” He asked, raising his brows “won’t a coin be seen on such a large surface?”

“Remember when I told I had scars like those Dolohov got when he died?” Draco said, sliding his blazer down from his shoulders. “I guess you’ll get to see them now.”

A shrunken Silver Sickle had become his tracker. Placed deep beneath his skin, where the rough edge of the scarred A on his back met his muscle.

Both Weasley and Potter had the opportunity to track it, to place his location on a map of their choosing with an incantation.

Draco looked down at the flowers he had brought for Hermione. Flowers he had wanted to bring her when he came to pick her up from work. He hated that he couldn’t take her on a date, as he had promised her. He hated the thought that he would simply have to disappoint her. He hated the idea of being away from her for several days, perhaps even a full week, depending on how Weasley and Potter could swing whatever bogus charges they were planning on bringing up.

The opalescent sheen of the flower petals seemed to glitter next to the fountain in the atrium, as he awaited her arrival. They had agreed he wouldn’t enter her department, as she needed to finish up for the weekend without any distractions. Potter and Weasley had left Draco, though they were still in the Atrium as well, keeping their eyes on him, in hopes to be able to make the arrest in quite a public setting, allowing the happening to hit the press, just to make sure the killer would see and perhaps take the bait.

He sat at the edge of the fountain, waiting. Staring at the bouquet. Regretting the hastily made decision to help the aurors, by getting himself locked up in Azkaban once more.

The pads of his thumb felt over one of the petals. The splotches of sheen only made him think of her.

How he would miss her. How he would go to bed every night without her company. Without having kissed her good night. Without having touched her for an entire day.

How she would feel equally as lonely as him. Returning to an empty manor every day. The solarium showing no sign of him. Climbing into an empty, cold bed at the end of the day and go to sleep alone. Without her soulmate.

The thought of both of their emptiness, their loneliness, sent shivers up along the length of his spine.

The tremors in his fingers worsened, for not only was his damage prominent without her company. He was also anxious. Ridden with horrid imagery of what could happen within Azkaban. A guard might toss something into his cell, transporting him to the killer. He could join his father in a brutal and horrendous death, whilst his other half had to live the rest of her years without him.

He wondered, if he was murdered, if he died, would she meet someone else? Marry them? Have their children? Would she make herself as happy as possible, meandering through her life in a satisfactory relationship? Would she remain alone? Refusing to be with anyone but him?

If Hermione had ever done something quite as foolish as what he had, he knew exactly how angry he would be. The entire world would quake and crumble beneath his wrath, had she ever crossed a line and put her own life in danger. If even for the greater good.

His fingers calmed, if only ever so slightly. The echo of her heart beating rhythmically within his chest. She was getting closer. He lifted the bouquet from the tiled edge of the fountain, exhaling harshly as he straightened the parchment, which he had wrapped around them, securing it with brown twine and a small, handwritten note tucked into the twine.

Then, he felt it. A strong surge of discomfort. Hermione’s heartbeat increasing rapidly. The pit of his stomach gave way, just as her discomfort deepened. Anger. Fright. Horror.

On nothing but instinct, his long strides guided him towards the lifts, the parchment around the stems of flowers crumbled between his fingers as he charged forwards.

One of the lifts had stopped. The gate bore a red light, telling Draco it was out of order. Though it had been the one where his instincts, the gravity of her pull, had led him. It was her lift.

STOP!

The word rang through his mind as though someone, a witch, had screamed it at him. Clear as day, though it seemed no one else had heard it. No one else had looked around. No one else had reacted. It was only in his mind. It was not real.

The reflection of her heart within his chest was continuously thumping, hard and rapid against the back of his ribcage. A thunderous, speeding rhythm of horror and dread. And he knew, he was quite well aware, that the lift stopping was not the only thing making her scared.

With the minutes passing, her dread only appeared to increase. He shot Weasley a look, wordlessly telling his new friend that something was, in fact, horribly wrong. The freckled man began stepping closer, through the masses of people that had finished their workday, when the red light above the lift gates shifted to green, and it came barrelling towards the atrium at top speed.

Brown eyes, reflections of molten gold, swam into sight. As did the wet lashes that framed them, and the streaks of tears that had evidently slipped from her lash lines.

Though the worst of all, what he knew with clear certainty the moment he saw her, was that it was her voice that had echoed in his mind. It was Hermione who had screamed for someone to stop.

Because the lipstick the had applied just earlier that day, the lipstick that Draco had tasted upon their parting at the floo parlour, the lipstick which complimented her sun kissed skin, her beautiful freckles so perfectly, had been smeared. Her lips swollen with another man’s kisses.

And the only other person in the shared lift? A tall man, broad and wire-haired. A smug, pleased look upon his face, witch lips bore the same colour of Hermione’s makeup.

Cormac McLaggen.

As the gates opened, Draco did not hesitate to charge into it. “Hermione,” he said, pulling her swiftly away from her previous Hogwarts housemate with one arm, whilst the other grabbed hold of McLaggens shoulder, making sure the self-satisfied man remained in place. “Go find Weasley.”

“Draco, please, I didn-”

“I know.” He pressed a brief kiss to her lips “I love you.” Their interaction lasted not all of ten seconds. He eased the flowers, the proof of their unending love for one another, into her hands as she left the lift.

Any hint of understanding left the lift at the very moment she did. He turned to McLaggen, setting his eyes on the former Gryffindor with an urge to slaughter him, to flay him.

“You believe her?” A cocky grin spread over his features. His voice more slippery than than an eel. “She wanted it, I tell y-” his sentence was cut short as Dracos hardened fist connected with the vile beast’s nose, sending his head whipping against the wall with a thunderous clang of metal and loud groan from the humanoid.

Before his wife’s assailant had the possibility to react, Draco had his fingers curled into his shirt collar, pressing the other man hard against the back wall of the lift, speaking with deadly, ice-cold gravity “If you ever so much as look at my wife again, I will have your head on a stake. Do you hear me?”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? You can’t talk to me that way!” McLaggens eyes settled onto those of Draco, and the Malfoy man watched with pleasure as the colour drained from the vile man’s face. “You can’t kill me.”

“I can’t?” He asked, feeling a small smirk tug over his own lips as he sized up the whimpering man in his clutches. “I’ve killed numerous people before, McLaggen. And I can assure you, nothing will bring me greater joy, than taking the life of a man who forced himself onto a woman who doesn’t want him. Especially, when that woman is my wife.”

“It was a forced marriage.” The man hissed behind gritted teeth.

Draco quirked a brow upwards. “She and I are soul bonded, you know. Which means that I felt how scared she was. I felt how angry she was. I heard her telling you to stop.” McLaggens eyes widened slightly, his lips pressing together as though he regretted ever speaking. “Therefore, I remind you, touch her, and I shall slaughter you. In this life and the next.”

Before the man had the opportunity to respond, Draco felt two sets of hands on himself, his shoulders pulled at with great force before his arms were the next to be seized. He kept his eyes locked in McLaggen, a vicious warning in his hardened gaze as he was pulled out of the lift.

“Well Malfoy…” an unfamiliar auror sighed from behind Draco, on his left-hand side. “You are under arrest. For the assault of a ministry employee. For threatening said ministry employee with their life. For doing so within the ministry of magic. This is all in violation of your two-year parole time.”

“What?!” Shrieked Hermione from somewhere to Dracos right, hidden behind a head of an onlooker he did not recognise. “You can’t take him!”

“He knew that violating his parole would have him sent back to Azkaban.” Said the man on Dracos right, with a thick, Scottish accent, just as Draco finally got a look at Hermione. She was standing with both Weasley and Potter clutching onto her, holding her steady in their grip as through to save her from an Azkaban sentencing of her own.

Their eyes connected. Her pain. Her anguish. Her heartbreak. All evident within her eyes and the manner in which her heart ached.

“I’m sorry…” he managed to say, before the aurors turned him around and whisked him away, only to return him to the place that haunted his nightmares. To return to the place that had already stolen eight years of his life. That he expected would steal even more from him.

He carried a feeling he would end up staying a lot longer than one simple week.

All the while, he thought about the handwritten note in Hermione’s bouquet of Flowers.

My dearest,

Another first of plenty to come.
This to say, I cannot wait to spend a lifetime at your side.

I love you.

- Yours

Chapter Text

It hadn’t been long since she had reconnected with Draco, meeting him for the first time since his release from Azkaban. And she had next to no idea how to feel about him. About them. What may be sparking between them.

On the one hand, he had always been a bully. A ponce. Too rich and too egotistical to function as a normal human being. He had always flaunted his wealth. Always thought he was better than his peers, simply because of his name. Introduced himself with his surname first, because his title, his ancestry, the line of his noble and ancient house of Malfoy was more important to him than his own worth. His own name.

He had always, without fail, called her a Mudblood. He had always looked down on her. Hated her. Spat her name and eyed her with distain as she passed him in the corridors.

He had been a Death Eater. He had been on the verge to murder Dumbledore, all after letting Death Eaters into the school, where so many students’ lives were disrupted.

On the other hand, he appeared to have grown quite significantly from the mistakes of his youth. As a teenager, he had given her notice that her parents would be taken by Death Eaters. He had stood trial without standing up for himself. Without taking credit for his good deeds.

Since his release back into freedom, he was nothing but kind to her. He made her smile, and even made it feel as though it was what he intended to do. He had changed. Grown. Reflected. He communicated his thoughts without much hesitation and acted as though she was a human, a witch, rather than some stain on his pristine dragonhide dress shoes.

She had promised to visit him. She had vowed it to him. He had been so hopeful when he asked her. Timid, in the manner of which his body stood, his gaze shifting from one place to the next.

How could she ever deny him company? He had been alone for far too long. He was so heavily damaged that she wished to help him. Take his tremors away. Ease the unsteady legs he stood upon. Hold him as he stumbled and give him the support he needed to get back into the world, where he would hopefully not revert back to the narcissistic bully he once was.

She stood before the hearth of number twelve Grimmauld Place, holding a fistful of silvery dust. Floo Powder. All she had to do was throw the ash-like substance to the bottom of the hearth and call out his place of residence. Malfoy Manor. She would be transported, and pop up in a flash of green sparks, deposited at his estate, just as she had been the two days prior.

The charcoal watch face on the wall read two minutes until noon. She had said she’d be there at twelve o’clock. He told her he’d be there, awaiting her company.

With a deep inhale through the nose, she tossed the powder into the hearth. “Malfoy manor!” She called, loud enough for Pansy to hear it from the bedroom where she lay, unwell with nausea.

“Tell him I said hi!” Pansy called back, just in the brink of time, as Hermione stepped into the green flames that took her away with a loud woosh.

The same emerald tongues of heatless fire deposited her in the exquisite and pristine manor in Wiltshire.

He had, indeed, been waiting for her.

A flower, white, with splotches of iridescent shimmer, glistening like a gemstone was held lightly between his quaking fingertips. Virent Irides.

The flowers had started to carry meaning for her. She had a vase on her nightstand, where the dahlia-like blossoms had been placed under stasis charms and saved. She awoke to their beauty every morning, and she appreciated their serenity every evening.

The flowers invaded her sleep. Either the smell of the light floral magnificence that they cast, or the shimmering petals that effortlessly reflected the sunlight with soft hues of the rainbow. They were often accompanied by the tall blonde man, whose eyes gleamed of silver, whose smile showed the brilliant radiance of sunlight reflecting from ripples in the water.

It was the very same man that stood before her. Tall. Skeletal. Obviously ill. But better. He was smiling at her, though it seemed he tried to suppress it, forcing it to not be the brilliant grin she had seen several times before. A smile that he seemed to keep hidden, only for her to see. The one before her was stretched slightly to his left, crooked in its perfection. His eyes, even in the dim light of the floo parlour, seemed to sparkle.

“Good morning.” He greeted her. His voice held a comfortable baritone she could never have expected from him in their youth.

“Good morning.” She greeted back, stepping out of the hearth. One long step brought him forwards, his hand, ever so trembling, extended to her. Giving her the flower, just as he had the morning prior.

There was a silence between them. Prominent, though not uncomfortable. She took the flower from his quivering fingers, allowing her eyes to take in the rare beauty of the flower he had given her. The tips of her fingers brushed ever so gently against his, feeling the faintest tingle stretching from where their skin had connected, reaching out into her body, where it settled into her tissue and nerves. The flowers he had noticed she liked, even after only meeting her one time.

His lips parted, though he swiftly closed them again. Then, they opened once more. And promptly shut them, pressing his lips tightly together as he seemed to worry about speaking.

She observed him with intense scrutiny, allowing her eyes to take over his appearance. He still looked peaky. A light smattering of sweat had collected in small, nearly unnoticeable droplets atop his cheekbones. His skin, always having been pale, appeared to be almost grey. There was no healthy glow to him, only the sickly semblance of a human.

Below his eyes, the skin was heavily discoloured. Purple, as though bruised throughout the night that had been. An obvious sign of his lack of sleep.

“When did you wake this morning?” She asked with worry, allowing her eyes to linger on the tall, broken man before her.

His shoulders were curled inwards, protective of his own heart. Shielding himself from the world by hunching, if only slightly. 

Trembling hands were slowly stowed away in his trouser pockets. He tried to make the motion appear effortless and smooth, though she noticed his he struggled to find the slit of fabric, which his fingers pushed into and subsequently vanished within.

His back arched slightly, where he squared his shoulders and stood taller, as though worried his posture was what made him appear tired and worn. “Quite early. What about you?”

“Quite late.” She confessed, having only rolled out of bed an hour before her arrival at the manor.

Silence fell between them once more. A new, slowly building friendship was difficult to manoeuvre without a third, without a person who could steer them in directions where they both might find common ground.

“It’s raining today.” Draco spoke after a bit. He was right. It wasn’t raining particularly hard, though she could see small, quiet droplets streaking down the panes of coloured glass.

Hermione loved the rain. She always had. It was the perfect weather for cuddling up in a comfortable chair, draping a blanket over her legs, cracking a window for the tranquil sounds of rain landing onto leaves and whilst she sat within the comfort of a quiet room and read.

She nodded her head slowly, envisioning spending the day with him in the famed and esteemed Malfoy library. She hoped luck would be on her side, allowing the fates to be in her favour with the promise he had made of showing her the library.

“So what do you suggest we do?”

He inhaled deeply, his breath sounding raspy as his shoulders lifted with the filling of his lungs. “I was wondering…” he exhaled sharply through his lips, a small smile tugging over his lips. Shoulders slumped inwards once more. “Would you… Perhaps you could teach me to cook? Or bake?”

The man before her, once a boy who called her names, a boy who bullied her, a boy who always seemed to loathe her, stood nervous. Scared to ask her if she would teach him something as simple as baking or cooking.

She wanted to reach for him. To touch his hand, soothing her fingers over his rough skin and protruding knuckles. However, his hands were both hidden, tucked away within the safety of his pockets, so she chose not to touch him at all. Instead, she smiled up at him, hoping it would reassure him. Calm him. Ease him.

“What would you like to bake?” The question was easy enough. Simple and open. It allowed him to decided if he wanted savoury or sweet. If he wanted something that took time to make or if he wished to make something quick and simple.

Something behind his eyes ignited, a spark set to life by her simple question. His eyes left hers, his brows furrowing ever so slightly as his gaze flitted over the polished hearths behind her, his mind wandering to the baked delicacies he might be familiar with.

A smile, ever so soft, spread across his lips, lifting his cheeks whilst his silvery eyes refocused on hers. “I quite like cinnamon rolls.”

She knew the recipe for the sweetened dough by heart. Knew exactly how to make it. “We can do that.” She agreed. “It will take some time, especially since we don’t have electricity, but I will gladly teach you to make cinnamon rolls.”

So, he walked her to the kitchens once more. The familiar path, once trodden during the middle of the night, when the pair of them had gone to prepare a late night snack together. Where Draco had cooked the diced bacon and Hermione had shredded cheese.

His steps were shortened as he walked alongside her, making sure she needn’t rush for him. She took note of how he sometimes reached for the wall, supporting himself whilst his knees buckled beneath his weight.

Breaths, once even and naturally paced, quickened slightly as his face paled. She wound her arm around his waist, feeling the oversized fabric drape around her forearm as she held onto him, supporting him. His arm found a home around her shoulders, with pale fingers clutching desperately at her bicep.

“I’m assuming you also haven’t eaten today?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” He retorted quickly, turning his head to meet her piercing gaze. “Half of a soft-boiled egg.”

“And…?”

“And a cup of tea?” His brows pinched over his eyes, looking down at her with confusion.

A sigh escaped her lips. “I thought you’d be tired of eggs by now…”

“Not the soft-boiled ones. They’re delicious.” He muttered, just as Hermione pushed the grand door to the kitchens open, allowing them passage into the empty room.

She looked around the vast open space of the kitchen, surprised there was no house elf in sight. It was neat and tidy, with the jar of olives having been returned to the window ledge, once more turned upside down. She counted five olives.

“I thought Pikes would be here.”

“He’s probably in the greenhouse with Edgar.” Draco said, stepping into the aromatic room with her. His fingers reached for one of the high-backed bar stools and slipped his weight, his full body, onto it. His elbows and forearms pressed into the top of the marble counter before him, steadying himself with deep breaths beneath stiff shoulders.

“Who is Edgar?” she queried, allowing herself to start looking through the vast amount of cupboards, shelves and drawers to find him something to eat.

“Edgar is the manor’s gardener. He’s an old elf, and he’s quite set in his ways. He trims the hedges, mows the grass, tends to mother’s roses and grows most of the vegetables and herbs that Pikes needs for his cooking.” A glass container filled with sliced, pickled cucumbers appeared before her, sitting in the back of a shelf she could barely reach. She hopped, allowing her fingers to seize the lid and bring it forwards.

“That’s nice,” She popped the lid open, found a fork that was long and slender and placed the gherkin and the utensil before him. “Eat. I won’t allow you to bake without having eaten first.”

“Gherkin?” a chuckle escaped him, though he did not protest. Trembling fingers collected the fork from the countertop of the island and aimed it into the open mouth of the jar, where he pierced a slice and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, Granger.”

“No worries,” She found herself smiling at him. She took her wand from her cardigan’s inner pocket and started casting summoning spells. Butter. Flour. Milk. Cardamom. Sugar. Yeast. Cinnamon. The ingredients soared through the air, before being hastily collected and placed on the island countertop, just between herself and the man who was eating pickles, with amused look on his face.

She glanced at him once, then started rummaging through the cupboards for a bowl that would be large enough for their dough. With her back bent, her arms reaching into a lower cupboard to withdraw the largest baking bowl she had found, she felt her skin prickle.

It didn’t feel bad. Just new. A sensation similar to that of warm water travelling up from the small of her back, following the curve of her spine before spreading over her shoulder blades and travelling up along the sides of her neck and into her hair. She felt flushed. She felt appreciated. She felt watched.

She turned her head just slightly, allowing herself to sneak a peek at the man by the counter. The fork was hanging loosely from between his forefinger and thumb, the prongs of the trident barely skimming the surface of the brine.

His head was resting against his knuckles, his defined cheekbone pressed against the backs of his bent fingers. His eyes, silvery and deep, gazed at her. Entirely transfixed on something about herself which she could not see.

There was something in his eyes, something she could not remember having seen many times before. There were many things about him that were quite new to her. Many sides of him she had yet to see. Though, from what she could spot from her bent state, he appeared to be appreciative. Humoured. Almost amazed.

She cleared her throat and finally pulled the bowl from the deep cupboard and shut it with her knee. She walked over to the counter, placing it before herself before looking up at Draco.

He had lowered his arm to the marble countertop, his eyes were not as entirely focused on her as they had been. They had shifted, gazing at the gherkins before him. “You’re not quite familiar with fine dining etiquette, are you?”

“No?” She found herself asking, leaning forwards over the counter. Her fingers folded loosely over themselves as she kept his gaze. It appeared he struggled not to look away from her eyes.

“Is that a common Gryffindor trait?” Amused curiosity flicked through the grey eyes before her, a slight quirk to the corners of his lips.

“Not many Gryffindors have been raised in the same way you have.”  She informed him kindly. “But why do you ask?”

“Well.” He withdrew the fork from the jar before him. A slice of the pickled vegetable had been pierced on the prongs that hung in the air between the two. “This is an oyster fork.” There was still the same hint of amusement and wonder that glinted in his eyes. “Your friend, Weasley, prefers to eat his dinners with a salad fork and steak knife. And he prefers a soda spoon to eat his eggs.”

“You and I both know that Ronald Weasley cares more about the food going into his mouth, than the utensils that deliver them.” She mused, watching as his pristinely white and straight teeth plucked the vegetable from the oyster fork. The warmth returned to the back of her neck, sending waves of gooseflesh into the back of her hair.

“I suppose you’re right.” He conceded, his eyes flicking between hers. She had not yet noticed their close proximity. How her hips had pressed flush against the countertop on her side, her body leaned so far across it, her fingers nearly skimmed his. All he had to do, was extend one finger, and their skin would touch. Just as it had done when they washed dishes together. Just as it had done when they shared a blanket on the sofa in the solarium. Just as it had done when he handed her the flower that very morning.

She wanted to touch him. Wished it into existence. It appeared he heard her thoughts, as his hand shifted, pushing forwards by a mere inch, to where the backs of his bony, quivering fingers touched the pads of her own.

His hand was cold against her skin. Lacking circulation. Lacking body fat. The man before her was somehow miraculously surviving, though it was evident how much he was struggling to do so. The chilled fingers and the quivers were only a few signs of what was truly happening inside of him.

At his touch, she felt the same tingling sensation from before. How only their touch seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its very own. It settled into her skin, travelling upwards along the lengths of her fingers before sinking into the muscle and the tendons of her hands. Warmth sunk into her veins as sparks flew into the nerves, sending crackles of electricity into her body.

How a simple touch could be so intoxicating, so inviting and yet so overwhelming and overpowering all at once, she did not know. It only took moments, a handful of quivering breaths and a mere flutter of eyelashes until she pulled her hand away, pushing herself to stand against the counter once more. The loss of his touch was brutal on her heart.

“Are you ready to bake?” The question came out in a breathy voice, as she tried to collect herself from the experience of his mere touch. A simple enough endeavour in theory. Though, in practice, she found herself struggling.

Draco draped his fingers around the glass jar before him, lifting it from the counter as he stood. “I am. I trust you’ve found all ingredients we’ll need?” He asked, carrying the jar back to the shelf whence it came, tightening the lid onto the lip before setting it back into place. He turned to face her.

Tall. Crisp white oxford. Black trousers, belted with sturdy, black leather. Silver accents on the belt. A stitched in, silver detail on both cuffs of his shirt, catching her eye for only a moment. “I- I did. Yeah.” She could not fathom why she was so suddenly nervous around him. She didn’t understand it. How he had taken her breath away by merely existing in the very same room as her. Breathing the same air as her. “Cinnamon rolls, yeah? Better fold up your sleeves then.”

There were several ways in which Hermione had never expected to see her childhood bully. On his knees in the dirt, his face muddied with brown streaks of soil was one of them. Another was with long hair. With half of it pulled back into a bun, safely secured away from his eyes.

Then there was another thing she had never expected to see; Draco Malfoy, his shirtsleeves rolled up towards his elbows. the faded Dark Mark on full display for her as he was reaching into the bowl with freshly cleaned hands, folding the dough in on itself, kneading it as best he could, to incorporate all of the flour.

She stood by his side, watching him with keen interest. She could see the muscles and tendons in his forearms stretch and pull along with the fluid motions of his movements. “So, Granger…” He started, causing her to quickly adjust her gaze from his forearms, refocusing on his face. His eyes, which had already been focused on her. Observing her. “You’re wearing muggle clothing, correct?”

“Yes?” She asked, a bit surprised by his inquiry. She rested her hip against the cupboard door beneath the counter. “There are several witches and wizards who wear clothes like mine, but I suppose they are more common in half-bloods and those who spend more time around muggles.”

Judging from the amusement in his eyes, he had simply asked it for the conversation, not for a full lesson on the topic of muggle clothing in the wizarding world. “It looks comfortable.” He said, pushing down upon the dough with the weight of his entire upper body. She could see the shift of his shoulder blade beneath his shirt, the way his upper arms were engaged in the exercise at hand.

She glanced down at herself, her clothes. A white V-neck T-shirt, a beige and white striped knitted cardigan. High waisted jeans. Red converse.

“What are your trousers called, exactly?”

“Skinny jeans.” She said, reaching for the fabric on her thighs to tug at it, showing off the stretch before it snapped back against her skin, hugging her curves with ferocity. “They’re quite comfortable, you know. A lot of muggle clothes are.”

“I bet you’re right.” His head nodded just as his gaze shifted from the dough and back towards her. She could see a curl of his lips, one he tried to fight, tried to suppress. Though, he was unsuccessful. “Your skinny jeans, they have decently sized back pockets. That’s quite nice.”

“Yeah, they’re really quite useful too. I sometimes store my wand in there.” His eyes shut tightly, inhaling sharply through the nose, though the smile remained on his lips as he continued kneading the dough. “And I don’t really need to carry a purse because I can put most of my important things in them.” He nodded hid head, the muscles in his neck straining. “And they have nice design.”

“That, they do.” He agreed, his eyes opening once more, though focusing on the dough before him.

“You can put the dough on the counter now.” She said, gesturing to the lightly floured surface before him. He tipped the baking bowl over and watched as the fluffed dough rolled onto the marble, landing atop it with a beautiful little jiggle.

He put the bowl in the sink by the window, just behind his back, and returned to the workstation, where the dough was awaiting him. Large hands, the shade of alabaster, with beautifully highlighted veins and tendons and bones roving like rivers beneath the skin, gripped the dough. Working it with both treasured, calculated and symmetrical movements and care, as well as a firmness that sent shivers up along her spine.

She tucked a hand into her back pocket, then snapped her head to the left, looking up at him with wide eyes and a slackening jaw. “You’re filthy!” She laughed, taking a pinch of flour to flick at him.

It laned on his face, dusting his nose and long, black eyelashes with white powder. “What did I do?” he asked with a surprised laugh.

“You checked out my arse!”

“I did!” He nodded, the grin only spreading across his face, lifting his cheeks to where his eyes crinkled in the corners. Another pinch of flour went flying his way, landing over the front of his oxford and his collar bones, peeking out beneath the opened shirt collar. “It was right there, just in my face. How could I not look?”

“Well, you could have looked away.” She laughed, pushing a flour clad hand into her brown next of curls.

“I have barely seen anything but a grey sea for eight years, and so, if you think I’ll just look away when a nice, rounded, jiggling arse is presented to me, you are sorely mistaken, Granger.” He put his body weight into the kneading once more, his eyes entirely focused on hers.

She felt flushed. Heat radiating over the sides of her neck, trailing towards her face with ferocious speeds. “You’re a dog, Draco Malfoy.”

Fingers pulled away from the dough, leaving it behind with a firm slap from tremoring hands. The dough jiggled on the counter, swaying tauntingly as he turned his entire body to face her, the side of his hip pressed against the marble countertop. He leaned forwards ever so slightly, the familiar, teasing, playful smirk adorned his face. He was closer to her level, their eyes connected, with hued of silver staring deeply into those of honeyed gold. “Woof.”

The grass was soft as the green blades  of the ground beneath them licked against her calves. She was sitting in the depth of the gardens with Draco, hidden away from the muggle world as they enjoyed the ever so peaceful sunset in the vast distance of Wiltshire.

His fingers were gently entangled with hers as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon. The rustling of leaves within the forested area behind them, sounded throughout the garden peacefully, accompanied by birds signing somewhere in the distance.

“You like periwinkle.” He said absently. It appeared his mind had been lost, somewhere deep within the mixing hues of the beautiful, vibrant sunset before them, though the thought of periwinkle had brought him back to her, if only for a moment.

She turned her head to her right, looking up at him whilst she felt her lips stretch across her face. “I do. How did you know?”

“You told me once. The morning when you visited my mother before I did.” He said, his thumb stroking lightly against the back of her hand. The knuckle beneath her pinky finger appeared to be properly cared for. “And then there was the dress you wore at the Yule ball…” he shook his head lightly, as though in amazed disbelief.

“I still can’t believe you remember me from the Yule ball.” Her words were barely louder than a whisper, almost overshadowed by the light breeze that rippled passed them.

He only smiled, though his smile was pointed towards the sunset, not to her. “I dream of that night sometimes. I dream I took you there, walking you out onto the dance floor. I dream that you danced with me instead of Krum.” He heaved a sigh, deep and laced with regret as his eyes closed tightly. Lips pressed together in what could only have been described as mourning.

“Draco…?”

He shook his head further, finally allowing his silver gaze to land on hers. “Oh, uh, no. It’s- It’s nothing.”

Though, she could tell there was a definite something going on inside his head. Something halting, which he did not wish to speak of. She knew that if it was of importance, he would tell her. She trusted that he did not keep large secrets from her, she trusted that he always chose to share his thoughts with her. That he knew she would always be there, always supporting him.

“I recall you and Pansy danced a lot that night. She looked very happy, if I remember correctly.” She shifted the subject from herself, of how Draco had dreamed to take her to the biggest party of her Hogwarts careers, to dance with her and show her off in front of their school, pinning the topic at hand back onto him and his date for the evening.

Draco shrugged a shoulder ever so lightly into the air, his head wobbling just a bit with the movement. “I suppose she was…” he carefully lifted her hand into his lap, both of his large hands enveloping hers with incredible ease. “It was a… A good evening.”

She could see it in his eyes. He was exceptionally distant in the moment. Lost in a time of something that happened years prior. Over a decade before they became the couple that they were. His fingers played absently over hers, as though they were the gleaming white keys of a piano.

His eyes were a deep slate grey, staring off into a patch of land where there was nothing but grass and open fields. Nothing seemed to catch his attention more than the swaying blades in the distance, where the light of the sunset caught the nature in slight glimpses.

His heart was pained. She could feel it in the heavy echoes within her own chest. The manner of which it felt strained and forced. As though each pump of blood was made with the utmost effort by his body.

“So, my favourite colour is periwinkle. We know this… but what is yours?” She asked curiously, her fingers squeezing his hand tightly, with hoped of bringing him back to her. Back to them. A joyous moment where the only thing obstructing the horizon, was a large Rowan tee, hued in black beneath the tapestry of the shifting sky above them.

Back from wherever his mind may have wandered off to. Back from the distantly swaying grass. Back to her. Back to them. Their reality. Their lives. Once so separate, though they had formed a unit. Entwined by ancient history, with souls that belonged together. A harmonious existence between the pair.

He blinked, his eyes lightening as he arrived back to her presence. Where he was safe and secure, sitting in an open field of wildflowers and grass that had not been mowed, where they could hear the nest of Puffskeins, safely tucked away within the tree line behind them.

“You probably think it’s green, don’t you?” He glanced at her, and she could see the faintest tug of a smile on his lips. The glint in his eyes having returned, with hues of blue dancing between the fibres of his irises. He then turned to the sky, searching it.

The sunset before them, painted his skin. Once a pale canvas had been cast in hues of orange. Violet. Pinks. Yellows. He looked that of an ethereal work of art, where his eyes flicked across the vibrant sky, his lips ever so slightly parted.

“Well, seeing as you were the Slytherin Prince of our generation, I wouldn’t put it past you.” She felt his hand tighten around hers. His long, elegant fingers pressing against the back of her knuckles with an ever so caring touch.

“Do you see that patch, near the small cloud right there?” He gestured towards the sky, where the colours were graduating from a deep canary yellow, shifting effortlessly into soft hues of peach, coral and finally orange, which in turn hued towards the pink that was further above them in the evening sky. A small cloud drifted below, where the sun did not reach the front, making it appear to be a greying indigo, contrasting against the brights behind it.

“The pinks?” She asked softly, allowing her body to scoot closer against his.

“That specific kind of peachy, kind of coral, warm-toned, orange-yellow-pink…” he gazed longingly at the sky, taking time to appreciate the seamless shift between the hues and tones of the magical vibrancy of the sky above. “Yeah… I think that’s my favourite colour.”

She couldn’t help but admire him and their vast differences. How the two contrasted one another so effortlessly with their entire beings and what they favoured.

Where he was made up of hard lines and sharp angles. He was tall, with long, enticing limbs. Elegant in every which way he moved, the way he merely existed. Silver eyes, molten whenever their gazes settled upon one another. Ice white hair. Pale complexion. Striking and awe-inspiring in every manner of his very being.

People, wizards and muggles alike, all turned to view him, how the man simply walked and moved, the sway of his broad shoulders, the long strides of his legs. The natural confidence he appeared to carry, even though he might not feel it.

His soul was as wounded as his body. Riddled with deep scars after exceptionally difficult times. He needed to heal. Physically. Psychologically. Most of his scars would never heal. The marks on his marble skin, which Harry had inflicted upon him, were large and horrid, though Draco bore them with such confidence and pride she almost thought of them as a natural part of him.

The scars on his back were terrible. The message behind it was not. It had proven that he had, in fact, switched sides and bettered himself, even when it wasn’t safe for him to do so. Thus, he had been caught and tortured for the crimes cast upon those he had betrayed.

Then, there was the shackles that were once around his ankles. The way the heavy metal had weighted into the bone, permanently eroding divots into his very skeleton. She knew the skin on his ankles was red and glossed, with permanent markings of what had been forced upon him in Azkaban. Not to mention how he had lost two toes due to frostbite, during one particularly cold winter in the wizarding prison.

She, on the other hand, was rounder, softer, made of curls and swaying, curved lines. Curly, brown hair. Her skin bore a soft tan. Her eyes were brown, warm, with specks of gold. She was short, with small hands and a long torso. She was not built with the effortless grace and elegance of her husband beside her.

She did not strike anyone, anywhere she went. She blended into the masses. Even her most cherished features did not inspire awe within anyone she passed. She was simple. Normal. Average.

There was hardly a mark left on her body throughout the war. A mere inch of a shimmering white line against her neck, where Bellatrix’s blade had pierced her skin. Her scars had been psychological. On the run for a year. Scared for her life. Having needed to Obliviate her parents, her only family, and send them away. They had been urged entirely across the planet, where it was for them to be hidden from the wizarding war. She had nearly died at the age of fifteen, due to Antonin Dolohov’s curse, though her body was not marred from it. Only her mind had been.

She had seen a mind healer. Spent years building her psyche back to the strength she had needed to live a normal life. Strength she could use to understand her new husband. Strength, she could hopefully inspire him to get as well. Though, she knew it couldn’t be forced upon him.

Scars, mental and physical alike, needed time and effort to heal. There would always be residue, nothing could vanish entirely from the world, though one could always try their best to make their problems and their hardships smaller. Though, she found it easier to expand.

So, much like the beaded bag she had carried with her on her year on the run, she had allowed her mind to expand. To accommodate the hardships of her struggles with open arms, allowing them to take the space they needed to within the expanded part of her. They bonded together. Merged with one another. Allowing what was once a heavy burden to become a part of who she was, and the weight of it to sink away.

From boulders, weighing her entire being, her very existence into the ground, until the finally became small vials of sand, safely tucked away into her pockets. Readily awaiting the times in which she would have to pull them out, to examine them. Feel them by running the granules between her fingers, then safely returning them to their containers. Not noticing how some specks of the sand vanished, falling away, each time she allowed herself to feel it.

She had time to accept her life. Her hardships. Her terrors and her pain. She had allowed herself time to heal. She knew it was his turn. And she would do everything within her might to help him accommodate the weight he was carrying, if only so she could spend several more years adoring the man by her side. If only so she could watch thousands of sunsets with him, where his features were painted with the colours of magic serenity and her heart felt entirely at peace.

She took a deep breath, feeling her ever longing heart pounding heavily within her chest as something dawned on her. Something she knew was coming. Something she happily accepted, though did not know she was ready for. She was falling in love with him. Undoubtedly, undeniably, her heart was entirely his. And if he would only hold her heart and protect it in the same manner in which he did her hand, she knew she was to live a long and happy life with him by her side.

“So, I like the periwinkle of the morning sky, and you like the peachy pinks of the sunset.” Another contrast. Perfectly complimenting one another with their opposing sides. Perhaps opposites did, indeed, attract.

She awoke in the dead of night, completely and utterly alone. The bed beside her was empty, which was strange to her, because she knew she fell asleep draped over his figure. His arms around her, her weight pinning him into the comfort of the mattress beneath him. Their legs had been entangled. His heartbeat sounding ever so peacefully in her ear.

She saw the door to their private bathroom was still ajar, the lights put out, which meant he had not been using the lavatory. Otherwise, the room was pitch black, giving no sign of life at all. All that had changed, was how his body, his entire being, had vanished from the bed. There was no indent of his form in the mattress. There was no heat on his side of the bed. Wherever he was, he had left her quite some time prior.

She crawled over his side of the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress of the four-poster, before she swung her legs over the edge and headed for the door.

She did not know where she was going. All she knew, was to follow her heart. The pull. The magnetic force that guided her legs wherever she was needed, when they were apart. And she could feel it. His heart was heavy in her chest. Saddened by something. Struck by something. Bearing a heavy burden that had kept him awake, that had urged him to leave their bed in the dead of night.

Bare feet sounded lightly against the runner of the stairwell. Soft and light as she walked, her fingertips only grazing the banister, as she hurried down one level to find him.

The second level of the home was where the pull tugged her into the grand corridors, which she had yet to fully explore. She hadn’t spent much time in the second level of the manor, because it was mostly unused rooms and storage. She knew there was a family tapestry hiding within one of the rooms, showing off the entire line of her husband’s ancestors, dating back an entire millennium, and even further beyond.

She did not need to listen to the ache within her muscles, to the tug of his soul, where it called out to hers. No. She could see what door had been opened. She understood why she had awoken in the dead of night. It was his remorse. His pain. His anguish. The regret he felt for not doing the right thing so many years earlier.

She stopped before the doors to the drawing room, gazing inside. The walls were entirely bare. A light colour, almost appearing entirely white, which contrasted against the dark wooden floor.

Draco sat on the floor, his body resting against the wall by the fireplace. His knees were bent, with his arms hanging over them, slackened wrists that allowed his long fingers to hang loosely in the air. His head hung low, hiding his face behind a curtain of long, wavy hair that bore the colour of snow.

Standing at the threshold of the room, the doors blown wide open on either side of her, she took a moment to observe the room as a whole. The details, or lack thereof.

There was a fine smattering of dust on the floor, as well as the hearth. She could see layered footsteps, where bare feet had entered through the grand doors, pacing the length of the room, stopping at one of the stained-glass windows which faced the gardens, and promptly left whence they came. Those footsteps were not fresh. They had been dusted over, ever so finely, with time left alone.

The paces from that night, however, were pacing the width of the room, from window to window, back towards the door a couple of times, before he had fallen to the wood beneath his feet and crawled on his hands and knees to sit by the wall.

There was absolutely no furniture in the room. No carpets. No paintings. The floor was as bare as the walls. She saw the lack of shadows, where she knew that grand frames of Malfoy’s had once hung, and deciphered that the walls had been painted over since her last visit to the place she often returned to in her nightmares. She also noted the lack of lighting. No chandeliers from the tall, vaulted ceilings. No sconces or torches on the walls. The room hadn’t been used since the war, and it was made painstakingly obvious in every manner.

“Go back to bed.” His voice was low. Raspy and coarse as he spoke into the night. He did not lift his head. He did not make an effort towards her. He only sat there, seemingly gazing at the floor.

She didn’t move either. She only stood there, watching him. Watching how his shoulders moved with his heavy breaths. Watched how his fingers, usually steady within her presence, were trembling and twitching. She heard the sharp intakes of breaths through his nose. She thought they might have been sniffles.

“Can I come inside?” The question slipped her lips before she had even pondered if she wished to enter, if she could enter. She wondered if her mental capacity could handle going into the room of which she had been tortured. The room that had altered so much of the war for her. The room that had made her truly realise the severity of what her blood status alone could do to someone.

A blonde head shook from side to side. “I said, go back to bed, Hermione.” The use of her given name told her he was present in the moment. He was not occluding. He was not shutting her, nor the world, out. He was feeling what he needed to feel, to process what had once happened within the four walls.

“Not without you.” She didn’t dare step forwards. Didn’t dare set foot in the room. For she knew what demons resided in there. A room haunted by ghosts of their past. A room where she was afraid a crazed Death Eater might seep out of the walls and floors, like smoke, before forming into a body, one that was ready to fight. To take lives. To spread horror through her manic laughter. The body of the dreaded and loathed Bellatrix Lestrange.

He shook his head once more. She had always known he was stubborn. Set in his ways. Though she also knew that staying the entire night in the drawing room, could not be good for his mental health. That he needed to part from it “Draco, come with me. I need you to join me upstairs.”

“Just go!” She did not believe he meant to raise his voice as loud as he did, because he seemed to flinch from his own tone and the volume at which it reached her. It seemed to ricochet of the walls, booming all around them in a crashing echo.

She stood her ground, looking at him. She did not move. She did not argue. She just stood there, waiting for him to look at her. To acknowledge her. To say something. Anything.

The silence stretched between them for several long minutes. It was heavy, with vibrations going through the air like a constant electric current. Until his head lifted, and she could finally see his face.

His jaw was locked and squared, lips pressed tightly, and his eyes appeared to be tormented. A light silver in colour, though pained. Severely pained.

“I should have killed her.” He told her, his voice but a whisper in the dead of night. The room around them as quiet as the grave, allowed his voice to reach her without fail. “Bellatrix. I should have killed her when she had you.”

“You would have been killed for even raising your wand in her direction.” She informed him, her voice barely louder than his own. “Besides, I couldn’t have broken into her vault if she was dead.”

“So many lives could have been spared, had I done it.” His gaze did not tear away from hers. He simply watched her. Observed her. As though he expected her to speak.

“In one way, yeah… you might be right.” She nodded her head with acknowledgment. “But then, like I said, we couldn’t have broken into her vaults. We couldn’t have gotten the Horcrux to destroy it. Which means, the war might not have ended when it did. More people could have ended up dying. Including you. You would have died and… And the would would have been a much worse place without you in it.”

“Please… You wouldn’t have even known about our soul bond, and we’d just reunite in the next life. You wouldn’t miss me.”

“I wouldn’t?” She pressed her hip against the side of the doorframe, arms crossing her chest with defiance. “Do you really think so little of yourself? I would have noticed your death. I would have cried for you. I would have mourned you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” She smiled at him. “I’m telling you the truth. So, get yourself off the dirty floor, take my hand and come back to bed with me.”

He took a moment to observe her. His eyes trailing along her body, looking for signs of her unease. Of deceit. The only thing she was uneasy about, was the room, which he appeared to understand, as he pushed himself from the wall and slowly clambered to his feet, using the hearth to stabilise himself.

She reached out her hand, allowing it to float in over the threshold and into the room, stretched out towards the love of her life. She heard his sigh, soft, yet it sounded through the emptiness of the drawing room which surrounded him.

“We can’t go back and change what could have been. The war happened. We lost those we lost, and we cherish those who remain.” She said, watching as he stepped closer to her. His fingers entwining with hers as he finally came close enough for her to tug him out of the clutches of the horrid room. “In the future, I think we should make this room into something positive.”

He turned, looking into the room over the side of his shoulder. Forlorn. Saddened. “Like what?”

“Perhaps a play room? For our children?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Draco said with sarcasm dripping form every syllable. The hurt boy she recalled from their time as young teenagers slipped into existence before her. “Kids, this patch of floor right here, is where mumsy was tortured to the brink of insanity. And over in the south-western corner, daddy pained the walls red with the blood and brain-matter of a boy he had to murder on cold blood.” 

“Draco!” She scolded, smacking his chest lightly with the backs of her fingers. “If you look at it like that, this entire manor wouldn’t be liveable. Voldemort was everywhere within these walls. Death and destruction was everywhere… I know it was.”

“Not everywhere.” He told her, his fingers fanning out at her waist, spreading his familiar warmth so it settled into the sleep shirt she had stolen from his side of the dressing room. “The solarium… Our bedroom. Those are the two safest places in the manor, because he never stepped foot in them.”

“Then, we will simply have to do our best to make good memories everywhere else as well, so he won’t be as big a part of our future as he has been in our past.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, stepping into him to embrace him with all the love she bore for the man.

He, in turn, draped his arms around her small frame, holding her against his sturdy body. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be stupid.” The fabric of his sleep shirt was soft against her nose. Warm. Smelling so perfectly of the uniqueness that was him. “I believe you and I were made for each other, were we not?”

A soft rumble quaked through his chest, a hum of amusement escaping him as he seemed to agree with her words. “I suppose you might be right.”

Chapter Text

She left number twelve Grimmauld Place early the night of Dracos arrest. Moments after he had vanished into the masses, taken by aurors, she had been whisked away by Harry and Ron, as to not be alone after having watched her soulmate get sent off to Azkaban.

However, all she wished, was to be alone. As much as she appreciated the comforting words of Pansy, her warming hugs and the gentle caress of her fingers in her hair, she found that her body simply craved loneliness. It yearned to go home. It ached to stew on its own, where she was given the opportunity to think. To process what had happened.

With her head on Pansy’s shoulder, she heaved a sigh. She had been at the Potters residence for hours. She had barely touched her dinner when it had been presented to her, only pushing a few carrots beneath each other to have her plate appear less full.

“I think it’s time I went home.” She said, her voice absent as it filled the air, halting all other conversations around her.

Pansy’s fingers drifted from her hair, allowing her to lift her head from the other woman’s shoulder. “Are you sure? We can set up your old bedroom for you.”

“Thanks for the offer.” Hermione spoke whilst collecting her purse and heels from the floor by the sofa. “But I would much rather be at home.”

Harry rolled his jaw, his brows furrowed as he looked at her. A quick glance was sent towards Ronald before he stood from his chair. “Let me take you home.”

“Absolutely not.” She dismissed him at once, leaving Pansy alone on the settee as she stood. The bouquet in which Draco had given her had lay on the coffee table, placed under a stasis charm to preserve the beautiful, opalescent blossoms. She picked it up, resting it atop her forearm. “I can get through the floo on my own. I may be sad but I’m not entirely useless, you know.” She said, allowing her nylon-clad feet to take her towards the hearth.

“Our floo will be unlocked tonight, in case you change your mind.” He promised her.

She did not turn to look at him, just nodded her head, eyes focused on the floo powder in her hand. “Malfoy Manor,” she spoke, depositing the silvery, ash-like powder to the hearth, and stepped through. The sparkle and crackle of green flames, transporting her to her empty marital home.

He had so often stood in the floo parlour, holding a shimmering flower for her, awaiting her company. He had always stood in the same spot, always wearing a smile as she appeared before him.

The spot, Draco’s spot, was empty. Where his shoes had stood on the tiled marble, there was no mark. No sign that he had ever been there. No sign if he’d ever return.

The bouquet of Virent Irides tucked safely in the crook of her elbow, as though it meant the world to her. Protected, safely stowed in Hermione’s arms, much like a babe, as she walked through the empty, echoing corridors of the manor.

Each step forwards felt immensely wrong.

His presence within their home was clearly missing, making the endeavour of existing with the towering walls, beneath the decorated, vaulted ceilings much more difficult than she could have expected.

She turned her head, gazing over her shoulder, casting a longing look towards the floo hearths whence she came.

The memory of that very morning springing to life before her eyes.

The tall man with icy blonde hair leaned down towards her, his fingers lying lightly atop her hip, warming her through the fabric of her trousers. “I can’t wait to pick you up.” He had told her, just a moment before pressing his lips to hers.

She had smiled against his mouth, though she chased them when he pulled back from her. “I can’t wait to show you off.” Another kiss, a physical depiction of how she yearned to spend the afternoon with him. The strands of his hair flowing ever so gently through her fingers.

Green flames parted them, taking her to her place of work, the ministry atrium, whilst he remained at home, allowed a few hours of rest before he needed to depart for the ministry as well, where he would help Harry and Ronald. Where he would wait for her in the atrium. Where he would defend her. Where he would get arrested.

When marching up the staircases of the ministry, she had felt the memory of his hand on her hip. The warmth of his nose against hers. The soft caress of his hair against her brow.

She wondered when the next time for such an occasion would take place.

Turning around yet again, she continued down the corridor. Her legs stepping slowly up the stairs, her body seeming to drag behind. As though Draco had taken all of her energy, her entire life spark with him to Azkaban. Everything was heavy. Everything was wrong.

She dropped her shoes sometime whilst climbing the stairs. The sleek dragon hide slipping from her fingers and landing on the protective runner beneath her feet. She did not care to pick them up.

It took her much longer than anticipated to get to the third level of the manor. She left the door of their bedroom ajar, not giving it the effort to close it fully, then she crawled into the bed she had shared with the love of her life. Although, instead of settling at her side, which was the closest to the windows, she settled onto his. The leftmost side, closer to the doorway, where the slight gap allowed warm torchlight to flicker into the vast, empty darkness of her solitude.

Her nose buried into his pillow, she inhaled a lungful of his rich, unique and inviting scent. It smelled like he did every morning. Ridden with sleep, when his entire body was soft and warm next to hers. With a slight hint of his chosen fragrance, a smoky, rich vanilla with slight hints of bergamot, mixed with a little sweat and his natural musk.

She longed to hug him. Longed to feel his warmth to her body. Yearned to run her fingers along the line of exposed skin above his sleep trousers, just beneath the hem of his shirt, always accessible to her whenever he crawled into bed. She used to tangle her body against his. Listening to his heartbeat whilst his secure arms protected her from her night terrors.

His pillow, no matter how soft, no matter how warm with her own heat nor how good it smelled, could compare to him. The real man. She felt at a complete loss without him. The vibrancy of the world, the beautiful colours and the minor details he had taught her to cherish, had seemingly vanished the moment he had been taken away from her.

A once pristine sheet of crisp, white paper, she had been. Yet, she lay against her husbands pillow, a crumbled, tattered mess of unending, silent tears and unyielding, relentless pain

She had not bothered to  undress. She had not removed her makeup. She had barely taken the time to look around herself before climbing into the grand four-poster, which would be much too large for only one person. For only one lonesome Malfoy.

Sleep was swift as it claimed her. She dreamed she was with him. Dreamed the pillow was his chest, which she rested on as he read to her. Hogwarts: A History sounder magnificent on his lips. The words were the utmost perfection as they rolled off his tongue.

In her dream, nothing was amiss. It was all normal. Complete and utter perfection in the way she got to feel him again. Touch him, observe him. Hear him.

In the dream, everything was fine. He was there with her. His fingers entangled in her hair. His heart beating below the hand that rested atop his chest. The glint of his smile. It was all real.

And she relished in it. For even though it was only one nights worth of sleep and dreams, everything was better than the lonesome reality she faced without him.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” She greeted her best friend with a fake smile plastered upon her face, just as she walked onto the sunny patio in the back garden of number twelve Grimmauld Place. The sun was gleaming down at them from the nearly cloudless sky. A perfect day for a celebration.

He stepped up to her with a bright smile of his own, on the way to outshining the beaming sun in the early afternoon sky, and hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Hermione.”

Her arms wound tightly around his shoulders. Enjoying the comfort of his embrace far more than she should. Her sudden loneliness in the world and the lack of Dracos touches at their home, had her starved for any kind of simple physical contact. Even though she knew hugging her best friend, a man who was so much like the brother she never got, was most assuredly not the same as crawling into her husbands arms.

His arms eased away from her, and she watched as his green gaze sized her up, carefully taking her in. Even with makeup on, she knew he could see the discolouration beneath her eyes. She knew her smile was not nearly the same, knew it did not reach her eyes, nor did it cause her cheeks to pull upwards in the same manner it always had, where it would crease the skin beside her eyes and cause her nose to scrunch ever so slightly.

She had tried to dress nice for the occasion, though she had no inspiration to do so, making her overall appearance quite lacklustre. A comfortable linen sundress, periwinkle in colour, with short, ruffled sleeves that draped around her upper arms, as they were not intended for her shoulders. She had slipped into beige ballerina flats and draped a beige and white cardigan over her arm, bringing it with her to Harry’s twenty-sixth birthday celebration. Her hair had been braided and pinned up into a twisted bun at her nape. Nothing elegant. Nothing amazing. Just plain old, simple Hermione.

“Here,” Hermione reached into her purse, swiftly pulling out a rectangular shape wrapped in brown parchment, with a shimmering golden ribbon carefully tied around it in a large, symmetrical bow. “Your gift,”

“A book,” Harry observed with a grateful chuckle and he took it from her hands. “Thanks. I’ll open it later.” He seemed to be quite a lot happier, much more at ease than he had been for the several weeks leading up to his special day. She thought it might have been the most relaxed she had seen him for months, even.

He set her gift down onto a table, where several other gifts had already been opened. All of them, in fact. Every box had been been discarded. All wrapping paper had been removed. Replaced instead by greeting cards and notes telling the birthday boy who had given him what. Her gift did not earn the respect of being opened alongside the others.

Her heart sank.

Of course he would appreciate other gifts more than hers. Of course her so-called book would be set aside and forgotten, yet teacups and saucers, tickets to quidditch matches and a pair of trousers from other friends and chosen family had been eagerly opened and displayed to all of his guests.

However, Hermione had not bought Harry a book. She had sat at home, in the lonesome Malfoy Manor for several hours each day for a week. She had shed tears of melancholy and gratitude whilst she’d been searching through photo albums, handwritten notes and her very own memories to create a new photo album, a memory book, just for him.

A photo album with pictures of their little trio from school. Pictures of Dumbledore’s Army, standing proud and united. Harry with his comrades, several of whom had lost their lives to the war. Fred. Colin. Remus. Sirius.

She had saved passed notes from their school days, crumbled parchments and hurried scribbles that had been left at the bottom of her book bag, attaching them to the pages inside.

There was a picture of his parents, once having been found, crushed and crumbled in a drawer within Grimmauld Place. She had saved it. All through the war. All through the aftermath. Next to it, Hermione had written him a note, where she told him how proud she was of him. Where she told him how he, despite his tormented upbringing with the Dursley’s, Harry would be an incredible father when his and Pansys little one was born. She told him how much she loved him. How excited she was for him to start a new journey in his life and to have the family he had always wished for.

But it all lay wrapped in parchment, tucked away between several other gifts and promptly forgotten by her best friend.

The crowd of people wasn’t too large. Ronald, Daphne and Winnie were there, playing with the little one in the grass. Molly and Arthur were there, talking to Ginny by the sunlit fence. Pansy patted the seat next to herself on the lounge, inviting Hermione to join her. She could spot Teddy racing on a practice broom in the furthest reaches of the garden, where he was chasing circles around Andromeda, George and Charlie, who were all cheering for him.

Hermione joined Pansy on the lounge, a perfect place for just the two of them, as she adored the sight of the young boy, soaring through the air, only a metre from the freshly mown grass.

Draco had once promised he would take Teddy flying on their quidditch pitch.

“You’re looking better than i anticipated,” greeted Pansy with a small smile, her arm draping around Hermione’s shoulder to bring her into a sideways hug, which was promptly returned by the brunette.

“I still feel like complete garbage.” She confessed with a hefty sigh, leaning against Pansy to relax. She discarded of her cardigan over the armrest of the settee, where she had also draped her purse.

Pansy nodded against the top of Hermione’s head, her lips pressed tightly together as she observed her friend. “Still pisses me off that the arrested Draco and not McLaggen. He’s the one that deserves to be locked up.”

“Shacklebolt gave him paid leave for a month.” Another sigh escaped Hermione. The smile she had once carried had long since faded, both riddled with disappointment that her efforts in Harry’s gift had not been appreciated, and for the fact that everyone and their partners were there. Everyone who had someone to love, had them by their side. Yet she remained alone.

Long, slender fingers, belonging to the newest member of the Potter family, pulled Hermione into another hug, one of which she could not escape. She wrapped her own arms around the witch, allowing her eyes to fall shut. “Harry doesn’t know when he might be released. He just says I can’t visit him.”

“I’ll have a talk with him, don’t you worry.” Pansy vowed in their embrace, allowing Hermione the small amount of comfort she so desperately needed.

A series of small nods. She didn’t wish to speak more. She was tired of words. She wanted action to be taken. She had spent ten days without him by her side. Ten days of loneliness. Ten days without her best friend. Without her husband. Without her wizard.  

Her soul felt as through it had been torn apart. Their two halves, which once made a whole had been ripped from one another. The contrasting sides of a vivid tapestry having been torn apart, leaving nothing but an incomplete weft of magic with frayed edges, where lonesome, desperate threads reached out for one another. Though the distance was much too great, not allowing the edges to entwine, not allowing their souls to connect. Leaving nothing but a hollow, aching, all encapsulating sorrow to fester and grow in the parts of her body where Draco had once resided.

Ginny came to sit on the chair to Hermione’s left. “Mum and dad are hounding me.” She spoke with a groan, falling back against the plush cushions. “Telling me I need to find a wizard before I get handed a mentally unstable one.”

Hermione only raised a brow in Ginny’s direction, pursing her lips knowingly, though she did not say anything. Not a word.

“He’s not mentally unstable. He’s cute.” She hurriedly defended.

“Wait, you’re dating someone?” Pansy grinned, sitting up from her position on the sofa, her arm bringing Hermione into their more huddled group. “Who?”

“An old classmate of yours.” Ginny looked over her shoulder, making sure her parents were not in the vicinity. “It’s Theo.”

“Nott?” Pansy gasped, a grin spreading over her sharp features. “For how long?”

Ginny glanced at Hermione. “Since we joined the blasted soulmates and and the Zabini’s in Marseille.”

“You knew and didn’t tell me?” Pansy bumped the brunette, looking at her with a sly smirk. “How very Slytherin of you, Granger.”

“Malfoy.” Hermione and Ginny both chorused in unison.

“I told her not to tell anyone.”

“And so I didn’t.” Hermione spoke, crossing one of her legs over the other. “But Draco and I discussed the two of you quite a lot.”  

“I imagine they’re good together, yeah?” Pansy asked, her eyes fixated on Hermione, who in turn nodded vigorously.

“It’s just a fling.” Ginny interjected.

“You should see the looks they give each other.” Hermione told pansy, completely ignoring Ginny.

“How bad was it?” Pansy grinned eagerly, her chest heaving with the new information.

“We had to inform them that silencing charms works on noises, but not on the bed banging against the wall.” Hermione felt lighter than she had in ten days.

“And then we had to inform you, it wasn’t the bed banging against the wall.” Ginny said with a proud grimace, her brows raised high into her red hairline. “But really, it’s just a fling.”

“No, if you’ve been fucking since you went to Marseille, I can guarantee you, he considers you his girlfriend.” Pansy quirked her brows in the redheads direction. “Talk to him about it. And then, you marry him before someone else does it.”

“And who would marry him?” Gin asked, crossing her arms across her chest in utter defiance.

“Loads of witches.” Hermione quickly said.

“Wizards too.” Pansy agreed.

“He’s tall, he’s handsome, well dressed, charming, funny… And best of all, have you seen how gorgeous his eyes are?” Hermione raised her brows at Ginny, who appeared to agree with both witches before her.

Before the youngest Weasley had time to open her mouth to speak, Pansy pointed her long finger towards the back door of her marital home. “Go see him right now. Talk to him. And bring him to Weasley family dinner soon.”

With defiance, though her lips giving evidence of how she wanted to grin towards her friends, Ginny stood from her seat. “I guess I’ll be seeing you then.”

“Have fun!” Hermione grinned at her as she turned to walk back into the house, and the floo hearth inside.

“Don’t break down all the walls of his estate!” Pansy called after her, causing Hermione to fall into her with a big grin. “I can’t wait to see Ron throw a fit about this.”

“I can’t wait for the day when he lets some of his stories slip in front of Molly.” Hermione cooed happily, having truly needed the moment of laughter with her friends.

Pansy Petronella Parkinson-Potter had very quickly become one of Hermione’s closest friends. A person who was always incredibly comfortable to be around. A person who understood her and was honest with her.

A person who Hermione felt a certain calling to. A good friend, once they both set their pasts and differences aside.

“Or when he eye-fucks Charlie at the dinner table.” Pansy pushed her fingers through her raven bob. “Not that I can ever blame him.”

“Oh no, that would be completely understandable.” She agreed, just as Pansys arm draped over Hermione’s shoulder, and silence settled between the two women, just as the birthday happened around them. People mingling. Eating. Looking through the gifts.

Hermione had been lost in watching Teddy. Seeing the young boy soar through the air with the brightest grin on his face. His hair was bright pink, reminiscent of the vibrant bubblegum colour his mother often sported.

He was a fair flyer. His grip on the broom handle was tight and firm, with his body pressed against the length of his flying vessel, causing it to pick up speed as he circled hurriedly around the three people cheering him on.

She wondered if she would someday have a son. Wondered if he’d have blonde hair like his father or brown curls like her. Perhaps even a mixture of the two, with curls as white as snow. She pondered the colour his eyes would be, brown with specks of honey, like hers, or brilliantly, expressive silver, like him.

She wondered what they would name him. Perhaps they would opt for a normal name, like James. Perhaps they would fall for a galactic name, of a constellation, like his father. Orion, perhaps?

Or perhaps they would have a girl first? She wondered what names they might choose for a girl. She had always adored the names of flowers for girls. Rose. Poppy. Dahlia. Iris.

“Would you like some cake?” Pansys voice was careful and tentative as it eventually broke through their lengthy, yet comfortable silence, allowing Hermione to slip from her focus of the boy in the distance. “I made the carrot cake you like.”

“Yeah… Yeah. I’ll go get a piece for myself. You just relax.” She nodded towards Pansy’s growing belly, knowing full well that the pregnancy had not been kind to the woman thus far. Bouts of light-headedness and an unsettled stomach no matter what she did or did not do. “Carrot cake for you too?”

“Chocolate, actually. I’d love chocolate today.” Replied the other witch, sinking into the settee once more, her hand resting on the beautiful swell of her belly, where the first born Parkinson-Potter was growing.

Hermione took towards the shadowed table where the cakes and treats had all been placed under stasis charms. She collected a piece of carrot cake for herself. And then a piece of chocolate cake for Pansy, each on their own plates. She plucked a handful of berries, placing them on Pansy’s plate, knowing the witch always loved sinking her teeth into a strawberry, or chewing on a blackberry.

Her eyes wandered to Harry, who was chatting with Arthur and George at the table where the gifts had been placed. The men were all standing over a small crate with the Weasley Wizard Wheezes logo on the front. The top was open and George was proudly informing Harry of new products, which he of course was given for free. A bonus of being their first investor.

The so-called book he had received from her, remained untouched. Hidden safely behind a broom repair kit, where it lay untouched. Unopened.

Unappreciated.

It crashed over her like a wave, the disappointment. The feeling of failure. The loneliness. The returning feeling of not being good enough. Not even for her longest standing friendship.

She left the carrot cake on its own plate by the rest of the delectable desserts, which had all been brought for the birthday man finally turning twenty-six years old. She had no desire to eat cake. She had no desire to celebrate. She simply wished to return to her home, dress herself in Dracos shirt and sit in silence whilst she smelled what remained of his scent on his clothes.

Returning to Pansy, she handed her the plate and cake fork over the back of the settee. “I should be going home.”

“What?” Daphne had just sat down on the other sofa with Winnie. “You just got here.” She complained, her arms controlling Winnie’s perfectly chubby little arms, to the point where they stretched towards her. “Winnie wants Auntie ‘Mione cuddles. You can’t go.”

She smiles weakly at the confused baby in her mothers arms. “I’m sorry Winnie. I’m just a little tired today. I haven’t seen this many people for quite some time now, and my brain needs the break. So, I need to go home and rest.”

She felt the comforting squeeze of Pansys fingers wrapping around her own. “Thank you for coming, Hermione. Really.”

She only smiled in return, her fingers allowing themselves a firm squeeze back onto her fingers. “Thank you for having me.” She then looked at Daphne and the beautiful child in her arms. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat. I’ll see you later.”

Collecting her cardigan and her purse, Hermione left, not telling Harry goodbye before she vanished behind a wall of green flames.

The moments of torment, of solitude, ever so slowly coiled away. The minutes floated into hours, which graduated into days. Which in turn became weeks.

It was her fourth Saturday alone. The fourth weekend without her soulmate, she decided to explore. She had always been entirely content, fine without having explored the Malfoy library, because their shared bedrooms had a series of long bookcases, filled to the brim with books of both magical and muggle origins.

Though, without Draco there, nothing was stopping her. She wanted to explore the esteemed and famed library, which he had wished to be the one to show her. He had not yet done so, as he had his own qualms about the room.

A library had always been a sanctuary to her. A safe haven like no other. A place where she found peace. Where her mind slowed and she could sit in silence for hours upon hours, simply reading, breathing and existing as she lost herself in a world of either fiction or facts. It was a place where she loved to exist. To smell the parchment of old tomes, not opened for decades. Perhaps centuries. Where she opened the covers of hidden gems, hearing the spines crackle and groan with the lack of opening. It was where she went to leave the miserable reality of life behind and step into a world of her dreams.

She did not know what Draco had experienced in the Malfoy library. The room that dated back nearly a millennium. The room where, according to legend, certain works from the library of Alexandria somehow remained unscathed.

She stood in the grand, arching corridor of the second level, gazing longingly at the gilded door handles of the grand double doors. Spread wings. As though from an angel, where she could step through the pearly gates and be in heaven. If only she dared open the doors.

A part of her heart wished to wait for Dracos return. She knew how he wanted to be by her side as she stepped through the gates of Heaven, a place she could call her sanctuary for years to come. For the remainder of her life.

Though, she did not know how long she would have to wait for his return. Harry and Ronald had not let on anything. Only telling her he’d have to stay a little longer. Though, she doubted it. Doubted them. For he had already been in Azkaban for far too long.

She allowed her fingers to touch the outlines of each brass feather, stretched to their grandest potential. She longed to step inside, her insides set ablaze at the thought of what treasures stood in the room beyond the gates of heaven.

She let hand hand drop to her side, not allowing herself to step through. Draco would be so disappointed in her, if she took the moment away from him. He wanted to see how her eyes lit. He wanted to see how excited she was to see the size of the library and the incredible scriptures and tomes held within.

He would be out soon enough. Then they would have the rest of their lives together, where she had the freedom to rove the rows upon rows of sacred texts.

She took a step back, her eyes lingering on the doors, before she forced herself to turn away, leaving the hallowed room behind, to wait for a day where she wasn’t alone.

The mirror had not become much of a closer friend for her after Draco had vanished. She had gained weight, eating irregular meals, and requesting food that gave more comfort than it did nutrients.

Standing before the full-length mirror in hers and Dracos dressing room, she could see everything from her toes, to the very top of her head.

Everything was different.

Her hair was frizzy. An unending, grand, bushy nest. The neatly manicured ringlets of her adulthood had vanished, replaced with the crazed curls of her youth.

Her eyes, once glittering golden as she had stood next to Draco in the very same mirror, sparkling with sunlight because of the happiness she felt in her life. Though, as she watched her reflection, her eyes had darkened. Deep brown, depicting dark chocolate. The shade was flat, without differing hues of gleaming joy.

Her lips, slightly parted in her reflection, were lonesome. Ever since the pair had shared their first kiss, they had been joyously stung, slightly fuller with the manner of which their lips had so often connected to one another.

She had not felt his lips to hers in nearly two months. She could wear lipstick without it being smeared only moments after being applied. She never had to double check her pocket mirror to clean up the corners of her lips. She was miserable in how her usually red lipstick was always in pristine condition.

Her chest, never having been known to be quite large, had increased in size. Not by much, though she had needed to buy new brassieres since she had moved into the manor. Soft coral lace, with stems of wildflowers embroidered into the cups. His favourite colour. Bought in the hopes that he might someday see it, when released from Azkaban. Her knickers were the exact same.

Her waist, her stomach, was softer than it had become softer than in had in her youth. Still relatively flat, but there was more of it. And it was softer. Her slightly tanned complexion was painted with silvery stripes, showing where her skin had stretched to accommodate a maturing body. Ever so softly marbled. Like when sunlight struck the surface of water, and painted the sand beneath it with mesmerising patterns.

Her hips were wider. Draco had always expressed how he enjoyed her hind part, with how often his fingers carelessly grazed over the slope of her back and hips whenever he held her. He had expressed to her, time and time again how he loved walking behind her, because of the spectacular view she gave when all she did was merely walk, with how her back end, her so-called glorious thighs jiggled slightly with each step.

She observed herself, the changes in her body, and couldn’t help but letting her mind wander. Imagining the tall blonde coming up behind her. Long arms draping around her body, his warm touch embracing her as he stepped up against her body. His cologne of smoky vanilla and bergamot enveloping her with its gentle caress. His sturdy broad chest, his strong clavicles against the back of her head. His fingers trailing mindless patterns in her soft skin. The rumble within his chest as he spoke, his voice soft and deep as he told her he loved her.

However, it was only fantasy. It was only a wish. Her soul yearning for his. Her heart aching to connect with the man who was much too far away.

Her fingers found the spot where she had fantasised of his, where his long fingers had grazed he path of skin just below her ribs. Where her waist started to curve and her belly became softer to the touch.

Seven weeks without him. Seven weeks alone. Seven weeks where all she had done was to miss him. Seven weeks where her fingers had done everything in their capacity to replicate the sensation of touching him. Of holding him.

All to no avail.

July 21^st was but a distant memory.

On the morning of September 19^th, a Wednesday, her birthday, she slipped out of his side of the bed, wearing nothing but a large, white Oxford shirt of his and underwear.

The shirt smelled vaguely of him after sleep. Every evening, she sprayed his cologne onto the fabric of her chosen shirt, allowing the familiar scent to envelop her as she awaited for sleep to claim her.

She had taken the week off from her job. The office didn’t need her. She had worked far too long and far too much since her husbands arrest, to the point where she, as her entire department, lay months ahead of their schedules.

Her bare feet carried her throughout the manor. She felt like a ghost, a spirit left behind in the mortal realm, aimlessly roaming the halls in search for her one true love.

She collected a case of wine from the cellar, allowing twelve bottles to be levitated together, whilst she also uncorked another bottle and walked upstairs.

Her lips to the greened glass, she drank her birthday breakfast heartily, her wand barely pointed ahead to continue the levitation as she continued on. Swaying lightly as her bare feet allowed her up the echoing, vacant staircases.

The second level of the manor was as cold and deserted as the rest of the building.

She was supposed to wake by his side. She was supposed to turn in his arms, to feel his soft, warm body against hers as she pressed her lips to his in the early morning hours. She was supposed to hear his raspy, deep morning voice tell her “Good morning, Hermione.” Whilst his fingers threaded her hair.

She was supposed to go into the hedge maze with him, where the flowers of Virent Irides would be in full bloom along the green walls. They would sit by their willow tree, reading in the sunlight if the early autumn. She would allow her gaze to flick over at him every time she saw his beautifully carved fingers flip the page of whichever book he’d be reading.

She would feel the gentle caress of his fingers atop her knee, a reminder to her that he would never leave her side. He was always there. A constant structure in the ever-changing world.

At night, she would crawl into bed with him. Arms round his torso as she peppered kissed to his lips. Telling him she loved him. Telling him how her day had been perfect, because she got to spend it at his side.

The tip of his nose would brush against hers before it slipped along the cartilage of her nostril and settled against her cheek. His lips, soft and pillowed, warm and flawless, pressed to hers. He would taste of perfection. Of a day well spent with one another. There would be lingering aromas of Welsh cakes and black tea on his lips, slightly overpowered my spearmint toothpaste.

Though, the only kiss she got, was that of the wine bottle. The hard edge of the mouth pressed to her lips as the contents within were poured freely into her mouth.

The doors to the drawing room were already open. The dust which had once been sprinkled over the floors, had been disturbed. Pieces of parchment lay scattered on the floor. Torn. Shredded. Crumbled. Destroyed. A letter from Shacklebolt, telling her that Draco was set to be released on January 21^st. A full six months after having been torn from her at the ministry atrium.

Which meant there would be four more months without seeing him. She would celebrate Christmas without him.

The bottle felt excessively heavy in her hand, it was half full, with its contents swishing about inside. The deep red wine hidden somewhere beneath the decorated label and glass of deep emerald colour.

Settling her eyes upon the bottle in her hand, she felt the weight of reality settling into her body. Through the bottles opening, she could see she reflective surface of the liquid. The colour so deep within the bottle in the shadowed room, it appeared to be black.

Her hand quaked. Fingers tightening around the next of the bottle, to the point where she thought it might shatter in her hands. The wax seal of the bottle, having dripped tastefully down along the sides of the curved glass, crumbled within her palm.

It was supposed to be bright red. It was supposed to be vibrant and beautiful. Though, to her, it appeared in hues of grey. Just as most of her life.

“You, and you alone, make the world vivid.”

The words, once spoken by her most favourite person, rang through her mind. The words appeared to pierce the air around her, echoing off the tall, bare walls. White as snow. Tauntingly reminding her of the curtains of white waves that belonged to him.

Without thinking, she raised the bottle into the air and threw it with all her might against the bare, white wall before her. Painting the white wallpaper with deep red wine, which appeared nearly purple as it seeped into the woven fabric of the wall.

Shards of glass littered the floor. Green. Glittering with remnants of the contents it once held.

She didn’t think. She didn’t breathe. She only stared, allowing herself to feel the slightest hint of joy as she watched the destruction before herself.

Drops of wine hitting the wooden floor sounded along with her footsteps as she hurried towards the case of wine. She had expected herself to drink the lot, all thirteen bottles, to free herself from the pain of her incomplete soul and shattered heart.

She plucked a bottle from the case, holding the unopened, expensive bottle by the neck. The label read Domaine du Comte Ligel-Belair La Romanée. She weighed it in her hand, the wave of oxytocin crash over her body with incredible, maniacal currents. With a grin, a proper grin, the first sign of true joy in nearly two months, she threw the bottle against the wall.

The shattering of glass was ear-splitting and delicious. The wallpaper was cut where she had hit it, and the fibres of the threads had split. Soaked in wine.

Another bottle soon followed the first two. The spray of wine splattered over the crisp shirt, appearing like droplets of blood on her shirtsleeves. She didn’t care about the damage. The carnage. The broken bottles, worth thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of pounds.

It felt too good to take note of the glistening pieces of fragmented glass at her feet. It felt too good to care about the walls being destroyed, soaked in riches beyond measure, which would hopefully settle into the wood, allowing the manor to carry signs of her torn soul and immense heartache for decades, perhaps centuries to come.

Yet another bottle crashed into what once was a pristinely white surface, and the spray of wine was exhilarating. She felt droplets mist over her face, painting her skin in purple hued freckles.

A fifth bottle soon followed. The explosion of glass echoed around her as the miniature shards flew into the air around her, dancing and twinkling throughout the air, gleaming, shimmering and sparkling as they fanned downwards, amongst the delectable rain of ruby red.

Bottles six and seven succeeded each other with haste, slamming against he wall with such force that glass and corks ricocheted from the walls. Liquid poured over her, spilling to the wooden floors as though from a waterfall.

She turned to the case once more, feeling her feet slip on the wine beneath her soles. Red liquid filling the gaps between her toes. Small, green shards, evidence of the explosions that had danced through the room, pressed into her soles.

She grabbed another bottle, raising it as far above her head as she could, before sanding it off at a high velocity. Her joy, her glee and utmost happiness had faded from her body.

In its stead, she felt angry. Angry because her world had been torn asunder, her soul ripped apart. Her body torn limb from limb, with blood spilling onto the floor beneath her.

And no one around her seemed to care.

They left her to her own devices after the first weekend. They did not come to visit her in the grand Wiltshire manor. They did not invite her out. They didn’t appear to notice her.

She had attended a few Weasley dinners, through the three Sundays she had visited, she sat on her chair whilst the world happened around her. She was not part of any conversation. She was not part of anything other than pitying glances and tight-lipped smiles. So, she had pushed the carrots and broccoli around on her plate for thirty minutes, subsequently leaving the Burrow when everyone dispersed from the table, only bidding her hosts farewell.  

She had tried reaching out. Tried inviting her friends to meals or restaurants. Tried engaging with them. Yet somehow, everyone appeared to be busy.

She had lost herself.

She had lost everyone round her.

Her fingers prickled with the sensation of uncontrolled anger. Frenzied magic coarser through her body, festering itself onto the unending loneliness that pulsed within her. Each drum of her heartbeat only spreading the anguish and hollow ache to settle into her bones. Into her very essence.

A scream pierced the all-encompassing silence of the horrid room. Loud and pained in its nature. The panes of windows rattled in their frames. Shards of glass on the floor vibrated with the ferocity of the sound that tore from her throat.

Frantic, shaking fingers reached for the wooden case by her side, pulling out another bottle. Without aim, without effort, she threw it to the wall. Alongside the sound of shards clattering atop the dark floors, a sob escaped her throat.

“He’s back in Azkaban, ‘Mione. He’s not doing great.” Ronald had said.

The neck of another bottle was wrapped up in her hand, it had been dipped in blue wax to seal the cork. Taking a deep, shaking breath, she threw the bottle to the wall, watching as a large, diagonal gash appeared in the threads. The fibres stretched outwards, fingers grasping and clinging to the wine that had exploded against the once white surface.

Glass rained to the floor. Deep green shades of the curved vessel landing with soft clatters. Along with it, Hermione too, crumbled beneath her own weight. Knees landing on the soaked hardwood, with pieces of class embedding themselves into her skin.

“He doesn’t want to see you, Hermione. Hasn’t added you on his list.” Harry once told her.

Salted tears mixed with the misting of wine on her cheeks, creating rivers of pain and heartache as it slithered down the curve of her freckled skin.

Bottle number eleven was seized from the case. The soaked fabric of the shirt clung to her shoulders and chest as she raised her hand, the bottle secured tightly between her fingers before she swung it forwards with all her might.

Mr. McLaggen has decided not to press charges on the threats to his life and assault. Thus, there will be no trial.

Draco L. Malfoy is set to be released from Azkaban prison on January 21^st at 08:00.

So read the letter from the minister for magic, having been torn, with pieces scattered atop the floor. Once dry and crumbled, with evidence of Shacklebolt’s curved penmanship, lay soaked in wine, reddened and purpled, with the liquid causing the previously pristine ink to bleed and dissipate.

The second to last bottle was grabbed from the case. The liquid inside sloshing tauntingly. The label read Château Margaux. She remembered Draco having requested it during one of their shared dinners. It was good. It complimented the food beautifully. It complimented the taste of his kiss even better. His red-painted lips contrasted his alabaster skin with enchanting energy. How he had pressed his lips to her neck, his fingers gripping the fabric of her dress.

She cradled the bottle to her chest, hugging the emerald glass to herself as though a lifeline. Something to bring her closer to him. Something to unite their souls through endless time and space. Something to complete her, if only for a moment.

She did not know how her body could hold onto such vast amounts of pain, to the point where her body felt numb. She knew, she had seen, the gashes of broken skin on her hands and arms. She had felt the crunch of shard beneath her knees. The did not feel the pain on her exterior.

All pain she felt, was within her heart. Within her soul. Within the vast, empty space where her soulmate had been torn from her grasp.

“I know. I love you.” He had told her, just moments before he had been seized. He had pressed his lips to hers, knowing his upcoming acts would have him taken from her.

With the bottle against her body, cradled like a newborn in her arm, she crawled towards the fireplace, slotting herself against the white columns of the hearth and the wall. Her knees pulled upwards, shoulders rounded inwards, she protected herself from the desperation and hopelessness of the room. Allowing herself a cocoon of treasured memories.

His arms draping around her frame, pulling her close. The tip of her nose grazing lightly against the soft, rich fabric of his shirt. Smoked vanilla and bergamot slipping her nostrils.

“You’ve murdered it!” He had laughed as she presented her bowl of shredded cheese for their plates of cheesy chips.

“Hermione.” Her given name slipping his lips for the very first time had caused her heart to skip within her chest. “Granger was the annoying girl from school. Always with her nose in a book and her hand in the air.” His voice had been warm, encompassing her in his tender care. “Hermione, on the other hand… She is captivating. She is a woman created with vivid colours. She is a woman who has made a greater difference in the world, than she will ever know.”

His hand resting atop her back, fingers swirling mindless patterns over the cotton as he read to her. The deep rumble of his baritone voice vibrated beautifully through his chest, allowing her to slip into a world of fantasy. A world where he slayed the mighty beast and saved her. Time and time again.

Despite the warmth of her memories, despite the unending heat of the gaze she envisioned. The touch of his hands. The fire that radiated through their bodies, where two halves made a whole, she remained in a cold, empty room. A void. A place where she was utterly and entirely alone, with nothing but a bottle of red wine and her aching memories to keep her company.

With the help of a little magic, the cork popped, landing somewhere amongst the fragmented, glistening emerald glass on the floor. She brought it to her lips, tasting the familiar drink with hearty mouthfuls.

It tasted of his lips. It tasted of his tongue. I tasted of a restate whisper of “I love you” against her skin, where his breath fanned her skin like flutters from a butterfly. Leaving invisible lines of his devotion to her painted on the very surface of her being.

Just as the empty bottle slipped her fingers, as did the world around her. The red and white room, cold and unpleasant, faded to black as reality became but a distant memory, replaced by fields of wildflowers and a tall man with the most radiant smile, welcoming her with open arms.

She did not wake when the bottle rolled to the floor.

She did not wake when a man shouted her name.

She did not wake as she was lifted into strong arms and carried from the room that had been painted in her misery.

Chapter Text

The floo of the Azkaban arrival halls was violent. Spitting Draco out of the green flames with a heavy and crude jolt to his body. Granted, the jolt itself could have come from the aurors that had arrested him.

Brute force gripped at his arms, another unfriendly hand placed atop his shoulder, with fingers pressed hard against his clavicle. He was pushed forwards, guided through a heavy metal door, one which he had gone through only twice before. Once upon his very first entry, being processed and registered as a prisoner at the tender age of eighteen. The other, had been upon his release from the horrid place where nightmares were made, only one and a half month prior to his current situation.

“S’pose Connel owes me five galleons!” Grinned guard Ferrington tauntingly as he saw the familiar man step through the door, once more returned to Azkaban. “Good to see ya again, Malfoy.”

Ferrington was a big man. He was quite tall and broad, wearing a burly build to his body. Big and muscular, though on the rounder side than someone who built muscles for show. He had brown hair and a brown, trimmed beard. He looked like a kind man. With smile lines around his deep brown eyes and an aura to him that spoke of sympathy and warmth. Though, he had never been too fond of Draco. Nor had Draco been of him.

“Ferrington.” Draco greeted in return, with only a curt nod in the guard’s direction. He did not wish to speak much. Did not wish to potentially anger or upset himself or those in his vicinity by a mighty amount of words.

The aurors who had arrested him and subsequently brought him to Azkaban, were named Daniels and Unglop. They pressed Draco’s weakened body into a wooden chair, which creaked and groaned beneath the sudden appearance of his weight, and the brute, violent hands that brought him there.

“You take him from here.” Said Unglop to the guard. Draco felt their forcefully tight and restrictive grips ease from his body. He knew he could have purple markings of where each guard had pressed the pads of their digits roughly into his skin. Branding him with their harshness.

“Yeah, I’ve got him.” Said Ferrington, his brown eyes never leaving Dracos being. He reached into one of the topmost drawers of the desk within the room, withdrawing a chained set of cuffs, which would entirely restrict magic of any sort, which might be pulsing through the prisoner’s body.

“Good. He deserves that after what he did.” Unglop jerked his chin towards the cuffs with a toothy grimace.

“We’ll leave his arrest docs on the desk outside.” Added Daniels, just before the two aurors slipped out the door, which promptly shut behind them with a heavy, metallic clang that appeared to echo inside the small, confined room which held the guard and the prisoner alike.

Fortunately, Ferrington did not put the cuffs on him. He placed them atop the desk surface and sat down on the corner of the polished wood, just next to them. “So, Malfoy, it’s just you and me again, then.”

“Seems so.” Draco said, not allowing himself the pleasure of meeting Ferrington’s eyes. His gaze was flitting about the room. He was scared. He was nervous. He saw the uncontrollable quiver in his hands and fingers, which were tucked in between his thighs. “Lucky me.”

The other man rolled his jaw, sizing Draco up with harsh, scrutinising eyes. “So, what did you do, then? Did you kill your little muggle-born witch perhaps?”

Draco scoffed in return. He would never, could never, lay a hand on Hermione. Not with malice. Not with ill-intent. If he was to tough her, his fingers would be no more than tender and gentle. Never to bruise. Never to harm. Only to show how much, how deeply, he truly felt for her.

“No.” He spoke through barred teeth, straining himself to keep calm from the despicable insinuation.

“Then what happened? Cause they don’t arrive with two aurors for just anyone, you know.” The man’s voice drawled with keen interest. He leaned back in his arm, allowing himself to be open to what answer may come his way.

“I just missed you so.” Draco felt the corner of his lips pull into a smirk, just as he finally allowed his eyes to focus on those of Ferrington.

It didn’t last long. Only seconds passed between the light comment, until the brute was on his feet, standing before Draco. The back of his knuckles and fingers slapped hard against his cheek and jaw, whipping his head to the side by the force. The sound settled in the small room like a loud whip.

“Don’t get cheeky with me, Malfoy.” Ferrington grunted in a low voice. “Remember what hands feed you in here.”

“If you can even call that food?”

Another slap to the face. Harder that time. Immensely so.

“Alright! Fine…” Draco pressed his thighs together, hindering the quake of his limbs. “I punched and threatened a ministry employee. And I only did it, because he laid hands on my wife. He assaulted her.” His eyes shifted, meeting the gaze of the guard yet again. His eyes seemed to glitter in the dim torchlight. “And so, because of my probation, I’m all yours for the time being…”

“We will have so much fun until your release.” Said Ferrington, a menacing ring happening through his words

“I bet we will.” Draco bit back, tightening his jaw around nothing.

Ferrington withdrew his wand from his uniform holster, a leather strap which had been draped around his torso. He raised his wand slightly, summoning a quick-quotes quill to take note of everything Draco said and did.

Every minute detail was jotted down on the parchment, floating in the air off to the right-hand side be tween Draco and the desk.

“July 21^st, 2006. The time is 7:48 PM. I am guard 14 - 5, Lucas Emilian Ferrington” the man started. The black quill scribbled quickly, jotting down every word spoken into the room. “I am here with prisoner Draco Lucius Malfoy. Branded with runes Jera and Dagaz 5 – 7.” He looked at the prisoner with hard eyes, his eyes flitting over the tattooed runes on his neck. Draco thought he might see a small twinge of something else. Perhaps pity. “Does the prisoner have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Does the prisoner have mental health issues?”

Draco could not remember that particular question from his last incarceration “yes.”

“List them.”

Draco took a deep breath, allowing himself to think back to what Miss Griffith had quickly deduced from his first few sessions of mind healing. “Anxiety. Depression. Post-traumatic stress disorder.”

A flick of brown eyes, partially hidden beneath furrowed brows. “Does the prisoner have physical health issues?”

“Yes.”

“List them.”

“Weakened muscles. Extensive nerve damage causing tremors.”

“Cause of nerve damage?”

“Excessive use of the cruciatus curse. Torture”

Another pause sounded the air as the guard kept his gaze fixed on the prisoner. “Who does the prisoner wish to have on his visitation list?”

“Hermione Jean Malfoy. Theodore Octavius Nott and aurors Ronald Bilius Weasley and Harry James Potter.” Draco remembered the length of his previous list. It had been but one person. The one and only person who cared if he was incarcerated. Narcissa Black Malfoy. She was not to be on his new list. She was not allowed a visit to see her one and only son. Not with her most recent behaviour.

They continued the entry process of Ferrington asking a grand series of questions. Draco answered every single one. Somewhat defiantly.

Ferrington rolled his jaw, taking a look at the Malfoy man before him. The quill had long since returned whence it came, leaving only the two old friends. “Well, Malfoy. You’re coming with me. Need to pass you through the showers and I’ll have to document your scars and markings.”

Dracos body sank with defeat, though he did not protest. He knew it was coming. Knew the guard was not doing it for his own pleasure. It was his job, no matter how much of a humiliation it was.

“Get up and strip.”

It was said Dementors only allowed people, their victims, to relive their worst memories. It was said it was the only manner in which the horrid being inflicted pain.

Whoever had said such things, were wrong. Horrendously wrong, indeed.

In what Draco had once assumed to be hours, could have easily become days, months or even years by the time that he had come to after the shock of entering the closely confined space of the Dementors.

He had been incarcerated, locked up in a small cell in the fourth level of Azkaban, and he had unfortunate enough to once more learn the powerful force that was the Dementors energy.

For what had once been horrifying, painful memories, had escalated. They became worse. Much worse. To the point where he feared closing his eyes. And it felt as though it was only the first few hours of his stay.

He curled up in the safest corner of his cell, his hands wrapped protectively around his long limbs, hiding himself from the painful world he had been placed into.

The ominous cold of dementors slipping by his very own purgatory. Their cold sank under his skin like clawed talons, tearing at his muscles and ripping him apart. Fibre by fibre. Blood vessel by blood vessel.

He had taught himself not to blink. For blinking hurt. Blinking caused his memories to come to life. For flashes of horror had been caught behind his lids. Vivid memories morphed into terrors beyond his wildest imagination.

A deep rattling breath could be heard from the gates of his cell.

He pressed his lids together, his heart stuttering with fright at what might appear to him.

The quidditch World Cup, leading into his fourth year at Hogwarts. He was no more than fourteen. Death Eaters had paraded muggles around. Levitating them from the ground and laughing as they revealed their undergarments by turning them over.

“They’re after muggles, Granger.” He’d told her. Trying not to convey the urgency of the matter. Trying not to let on he was actually, honestly, worried for her safety. “Keep your bushy head down.” He had insisted.

Though the memory, the scene he so effortlessly recalled from the depths within his mind, had shifted.

Hermione. His Hermione. Floating through the air in no more than her nightgown. A masked Death Eater laughed mercilessly as he flipped her body, her white, cotton knickers coming on full display before the masses of onlookers, who all cheered and laughed.

“Mudblood! Mudblood! Mudblood!” Was chanted through the horrid scene, by people Draco had never before seen. All were adults. All were cheering for the levitating witch.

Though, she did not protest.  She did not yell. She did not scream. She did not try hiding what parts of her body which had been revealed.

Her once vibrant, lively, brilliantly honeyed brown eyes with shimmering, golden specks stared sightlessly off into the distant horizon. Her lips ever so slightly parted in surprise.

The bust of her nightdress had been soaked in thick crimson, spewing a vicious trail from her throat. Her beautiful, bouncing, brown curls were dripping, misted with the blood that had once resided within her. It was dripping into the grass below.

As pure as her heart. As beautifully vibrant as her smile, her blood was wasted. Lost to nature. Her life source gone. Her soul having parted from the plane of existence, never to be reunited with his in their shared lifetime.

His eyes closed yet again. Another memory turned nightmare slipped under his eyelids.

She writhed on the drawing room floor. Her back arching from the wooden floor as a vibrating, soul crushing scream tore from the depths of her being.

A black wand, owned by a Black sister, pointed towards her, casting torturous curse after torturous curse. Unforgivable and vile in every aspect of its nature.

Shrill laughs filled the room, tearing at the very fibres of Dracos being. He could not act. He could not move. Only stood idly by, feeling the haunting memories of torture ripple throughout his own body as he watched the girl with the perfect freckles and bushy brown hair writhe and contort in unnatural manners. Her neck and shoulders arched off the floor, her body toppling to the side as another loud scream of immeasurable pain tore from her essence.

Lucius, his father, stood across the room, his steely gaze trained on Draco. He knew with certainty that his very own son had lied to him. Knew is son had recognised the girl who was at that moment writhing between them. Knew the girl in question was, indeed, Hermione Granger. The Mudblood.

He felt his fingers twitch for his wand. He wanted to seize it. To extend his arm and cast a curse towards his aunt. To stop her with a green-lit curse of his own. Allowing her to stop. Permanently. To where she could never injure or torment another soul again. Particularly one that did not deserve it. Such as Hermione.

Though, he knew his father wouldn’t allow it. Knew his father would stop him, and place him on the floor, just to watch him writhe alongside the captured witch.

Silver eyes locked on steel. A piercing scream caused the windowpanes to vibrate and clatter against one another as the Malfoy men stared each other down. Where one vowed to seek vengeance for the pain that had been caused within their shared room. Where the other vowed to murder his son if he ever did.

The floor had become a great friend of his. The immense cold of the grand stone slabs was ever so different than the permanent chill that pierced the air when the Dementors slipped by his cell.

He lay on it. Curled onto his side as he listened to the crashing waves against the rocks of Azkaban Island.

He blinked.

A flash of Hermione’s lifeless eyes.

He forces his eyes open. Terrified of the horrors which would be presented next time.

He blinked once more

Hermione’s panicked face as he was led away by aurors.

A hollow series of breaths sounded by the wrought iron of his cell.

Breathing hurt. The humid, salty air sinking into his lungs, and the cold do the dementors freezing it to shards of painful ice crystals within his being.

He buried his nose against the fabric of his sleeve. Feeling the coarseness of the threads against his skin.  

He blinked again. A tear escaping g the corner of his right eye, collecting within the bridge of his nose. It froze. Every droplet froze. Either sliding down the side of his temple or collecting in a pool or frozen tears.

Behind his lids, appeared the accusatory Hermione from a previous nightmare. Dressed in her periwinkle gown from the Yule ball, her finger jabbing against his sternum as she spat ‘Your fault!’ for every life lost at Hogwarts. Every life lost during the war.

His fault.

“Can you tell if he’s breathing?” Sounded a voice from somewhere to Dracos right. Hushed, yet just loud enough for it to carry over the sounds of crashing waves.

“Can’t see from this angle.” Muttered another. “We need to find a guard to let us in.”

“There are no guards on the fourth floor.” The first voice spoke. Draco thought he might recognise it. “Only dementors.”

“I know that.” Barked the second voice with evident annoyance. “We can go fetch one from another level. We- I need to see him.” Another familiar voice once it had softened.

Familiar from a world that Draco had not been part of for years. Familiar from a distant land, far beyond the reaches of his weakened hands. A land of distant memories, willing somewhere beyond the great horizon.

He didn’t hear the mutters between the two men. Only heard something incoherent. Something angered. Then, one walked away. Footsteps echoing down the corridor.

He was about to close his eyes once more, allowing his nightmares to welcoming him with open arms yet again, when the appearance of warmth crept closer.

Like a cup of tea, the heat sank into his muscles, warming his skin from within. In a weakened haze, Draco allowed his head to roll to the side, where he was greeted by a glowing patronus. A Jack Russell terrier was sniffing the shackles on his ankles.

Sniffing the blood that had frozen from yet another opened gash beat h the weight of his metal bearings.

“So, you are alive.” Came the voice from the wrought iron door. Dracos gaze shifted from the glowing dog to the redheaded man on the outside of his cell.

“Weasley.” Dracos mouth was dry as a desert. He did not know when his last sip of water had been. Did not know when his least meal had been.

“Hey…” Weasley looked defeated. Blue eye nearly hidden beneath furrowed brows. “Good to see you mate.”

“You too.” Breathed Draco into existence, looking at the friendly face with much appreciation. “Why you here?”

“Wanted to see you… Things are pretty shit right now.” He pressed his arms between the wrought iron, resting his elbows on a horizontal bar. “Kingsley has demanded you stay locked up for five more months.”

With the information, Draco rolled his head back to the position it was in before. Back when he had been embraced by terrifying visuals and echoing screams within his very mind. Where his night terrors had become a permanent fixture upon his life.

“We are trying to get you transferred to another floor, y’know, one without dementors bu-”

“Hermione?” With the name spoken aloud, Weasleys sentence was cut short. Exchanging one form of disappointment for another. The tall ginger remained quiet, either waiting for further query or allowing his silence to speak the words he so desperately wanted to voice.

Of course, Hermione would not be coming. She had refused to see him, to visit him ever since his arrest. She had said time and time again that she did not wish to see him. Didn’t want to spend time or energy coming to him when he had chosen to ruin what they had, their relationship and the beautiful future they could have had, by getting locked up in Azkaban yet again. By leaving her behind. All alone at Malfoy Manor.

Dracos head lulled back against the comfortable patch of slightly warmed flagstone. Eyes fell shut, allowing him a glimpse of Hermione’s corpse. That time, she was floating in their much beloved pond. Pale. Eyes closed as through asleep. “You can go.”

“Malfoy…”

“I’m tired.” And so he was. He was tired of being alone. Tired of being cold. Tired of life, if he could not live it alongside his witch. And tired of knowing she hated him. That she did not want to see him. Tired of the pain that filled every fibre of his being, knowing full well he would never be complete again. Not without her. “Go.”

“It’s not what it seems, you know.” Weasley spoke into the cold cell. Draco could heard the desperation in his voice. Could hear how there were things left unsaid. Things he could not say in the moment. Vulnerable to other ears.

“I’ll see you in five months.” Draco spoke towards his quivering hands, his knees pulling them closer to his face as he sank into himself. He did not know how long five more months would be. He did not know if he had been imprisoned for only hours or several years. All he knew, was the pain. All he knew was the cold. All he knew was the aching solitude.

The warmth of the patronus slipped away, fading as the rustles of Weasleys clothes happened against the wrought iron door. The soft sound of shoes against slabs of stone as he retreated. Leaving Draco to know he was all alone.

Rattling sounded at the gate of his cell. The sound of cold, hard metal against metal. Keys or small trinkets bumping against one another, as well as the wrought iron door that was keeping him locked in. Safely stowed away, where the masses of wizarding society did not have to endure his presence.

Draco forced his eyes open. He refused to blink. For he knew what awaited him behind his closed lids, no matter how brief the glimpses may be. It had tormented him for what felt like decades. He only allowed his eyes to shut if he was in ever so desperate need of it, or if he was to return to the nightmares that accompanied him.

The sights behind his lids would haunt him for the remainder of his life. He knew it. There was no doubt in his mind that once he managed to toss his bony body out of the window in his cell, the last he would ever see was a horrifying sight of his one true love in pain. Or dead. Or shouting his way. Shouting that she hated him. That she wished him dead.

So, he simply did not allow his lids to close. He did not allow himself the horrors that awaited behind them.

Hermione. Her face struck in horror as she bled out before him. Brown eyes fixed on his in complete terror as her life, her beautiful existence, came to a close.

Lucius. A sly smirk pulled over his lips as he watched his only son, the blood traitor, get dragged away by their shared Death Eater comrades. Where Draco would be tortured. Marked.

Hermione. Laying motionless on the drawing room floor, her legs and arms bent and contorted with signs of obvious torture. Her eyes gazing towards the world beyond life, where her soul was awaiting his.

His mother. Spewing vile insults about a magic-stealing muggle. Spitting commands that Draco divorce his very soulmate. Hatred for Hermione filling her very being.

Hermione. With how her eyes rippled with endless anger and loathing, only moments before she slapped him.

Theo. Forefinger pushing against Draco’s chest, yelling at him to tell the truth. Shouting, because Draco was such an utter disappointment.

Hermione. Dancing with Viktor Krum. Both as adults. Krum wore a black tuxedo. Hermione wore a white dress. A different set of rings on her finger. Their wedding to one another.

Potter. Commanding that Draco step up. Commanding the man to take the hit for the greater good. Pleading green eyes whilst he was biting back a smirk.

Hermione. Slipping from his arms and out the opened lift gate. Her eyes focused on his. Brown and gold and scared. Scared for what he might do to her assailant once she turned her back.

Molly. Telling him he was no longer welcome. Her teeth gritted tightly together as she spat of how vile of a death eater he was. How disgusting he was. How she hated him for her son’s death.

Hermione. Holding what had once been a white flower with opalescent shine. A flower that only bloomed where soulmates resided. It had wilted in her hands.

Appearing before him every time he dared blink.  He loathed every flash. He was terrified of them.

The rattles that had startled him from his slumber seized. A hollow clink of the door unlocking was next to sound through the barren room.

As per his usual, he had placed himself in the safest corner. He had removed the mattress from the rickety, rusted bed frame, folding the thin sheet of foam against the wall and the slab of stone he found himself most comfortable in. Most shielded from both the elements without and the dementors within.

With his head against the slab of flagstone on the wall, he rolled it to the side, allowing himself a chance to watch as guard Ahmad stepped into his cell, through the newly opened wrought iron door.

Guard Rohaan Ahmad was a surprisingly kind man for an Azkaban guard, though he was quite new to the job and had not yet been hardened by his chosen profession. He was a slightly shorter man, though he was quite well trained, with a mighty, black beard. Beside him, walked his patronus. A bull terrier.

In his hands, Draco spotted handcuffs. The very same ones they would completely drain him of magic, once they were locked around his wrists.

“You’ve got visitors, Malfoy.” Said the bearded man with a small, tight-lipped smile. “They’re upstairs waiting for you.”

The sound of the chain between the cuffs echoed throughout the room. The sound of the metal chiming lightly as the guard looked over at the captive.

The sea outside was calm and friendly on that particular day. The waves did not crash hard against the rock upon which the prison stood. The spray of salted water did not reach through the vertical gap in his wall, ever so generously described as a window. The sea foam had not yet chilled Dracos skin that day, as it did most days.

Visitors, plural, meant Weasley and Potter had come to see him. Back to tell him how Hermione didn’t want to accompany them to the prison. Back to tell him how much he wasn’t wanted back in society. How he was bound to his stay in Azkaban for years to come. To finish the remainder of his seven years within the prison, as per his original sentence.

Quivering fingers clutched at the bed frame before him, he used all the might in his body to pushed himself forwards, hoping to stand. His legs staggering as he nearly collapsed over the slightly rusted metal frame before him.

Ahmad stepped further into the cell, collecting the Malfoy man’s arms before him. “I’m sorry about this.” He said, closing the first cuff around his wrist. It was cold against his skin. Heavy as it caused his magic to fade from his being.

He already felt hollow and cold. Had felt it since the first moment after he was returned to Azkaban. He had ever since.

For not only did the Dementors destroy what they were near. Not only did they wreck his psyche and cause his memories to turn into horrendous nightmares and terrors beyond his imagination.

He also had been torn in half. He felt as though he had no right to complain about his suffering, because it was his very own fault. However, the full feeling of Hermione’s soul spending time alongside his own, the fullness and completeness that came with her presence had completely vanished from him. Cut from him.

The echo of her heart within his own chest had disappeared without a trace. Leaving nothing but a hollow ache, where his body tried to fill the vastness of her heart by what little he had left of his own. Her warmth, ever present within the blood pumping through his veins, had vanished. Only to be replaced by the endless cold of the dementors. Ice cold as it pumped throughout his body.

But worst of all, was her soul. Her soul, her presence within him was entirely gone. He had only stepped through the floo to Azkaban, when their immeasurable distance from one another had cut them from each others grasp.

His soul had parted itself in two. Allowing hers to slip into his body, becoming his other half. And his recently cut soul, had sought out her soul and her body. Accompanying her through life. Completing her, just as hers completed him.

And as they had gotten to know each other, as he had fallen ever so deeply in love with her, their souls had not remained halved. They had mingled. Blended. Instead of being their own individual colours, they had become one entirely new one, together. Where her periwinkle of dawn and his sunset peach had together become but a soft whisper of amethyst. Thus, having her ripped from him had hurt more than he could have ever anticipated.

With both the shackles on his feet, weighing him to the floors of the prison, and the cuffs tightly secured around his wrist, his magic and physical energy had been but entirely depleted. Removed. Feeling as though it would never show itself again. His world, his life, his very existence felt ever so hopeless. Forlorn and left to wilt. Just as the opalescent flower he often saw when he shut his eyes.

“You never told me who was visiting.” Draco said absently, forcing himself to walk the several stairs to the eighth floor, where the visitation rooms were. Guard Ahmad and his panther patronus accompanied him on his journey. 

He expected it to be Potter and Weasley. Expected them to have updates on his releases he wondered if perhaps five more months had passed since they had last stopped by.

Or perhaps they came to ask for updates about the murder case. Draco had often found himself wondering if they had caught the killer. He found he must have been incarcerated for years at that point, which meant the killer had to have been caught. Perhaps arrested or executed.

“An auror.” Ahmad said. His grip on Dracos arm loosening ever so slightly as they reached the sixth level landing.

Draco nodded. He should have known it wouldn’t be her. It only made sense. With one knitted fist and a few enraged words, Draco had assured them both that they would not have time together for months, perhaps years. He did not know.  

He wondered if she, too, felt the unyielding heartache. The tear in their union, from their souls having been left apart for far too long. He wondered if she might have waited for him. If she had grown into her thirties in the lonesome Malfoy manor. Perhaps she had remarried. Happily spending her life with someone who might suit her better. Someone like Krum.

He wondered if he would ever be able to go outside. If he would ever be able to see colours again. If he should ever be so lucky as to leave the prison island behind.

His his breathing was heavy and laboured as his unsteady legs carried him forwards. Upwards. Further away from the horrid dementors that had guarded him since his return to Azkaban. He followed the trail of the bull terrier patronus, which was walking ahead of them. Leaving a whisper of heat in its wake.

Ahmad steered him through the seventh-floor landing. “Almost there now, Malfoy.” He reminded the inmate. Draco only gave a grunt of recognition.

He hated the cuffs on his wrists. Hated the weight of the shackles on his feet. There was a trail of blood left behind on the flagstone steps, from where the shackles had worn to the bone, where it had created permanent etchings in his very skeleton.

The visitation corridor appeared to him. It was usually abandoned. Usually deserted. No people stood around and waited, no one ever did, save the guards. Though Draco found himself recognising two men who stood in it. Occupying it with their looming presences and the intense, angry atmosphere that seemed to radiate from the two men, settling within the already cold corridor of flagstone and dimmed torchlight. Theodore Nott and Ronald Weasley.

They both stood by the door of visitation room four, hands in their pockets, hardened gazes taking in the Malfoy man as he approached alongside Ahmad. Neither spoke to one another. Neither looked at one another.

Theo withdrew his hand from his pocket, running it through his brown curls in one swift move, his lips pressed hard against one another in a thin line as his jaw squared.

“Undo his cuffs.” Weasley told the guard, glancing between Theo, then Ahmad and subsequently the floor. Avoiding Draco’s eyes entirely.

“I’m not allowed to.” Ahmad told him. Draco could hear the guard shake his head, the sound of his beard scraping against his cotton shirt collar.

“Then give me the keys and I’ll do it.” Theo jerked his hand towards the guard in a rather aggressive manner. Surprising, as Theodore was mostly kind and easy-going. A pleasure to be around, even when he was in a rather raunchy mood and talked of his conquests, or who he’d like to make a conquest.

“When out of his cell, he needs to wear them. It’s the rules.” Ahmad kept himself calm and collected in the situation at hand.

Theo rolled his shoulders back, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, calming breath. “I’ll have a thousand galleons in your vault by the end of tomorrow, should you release his cuffs.”

“It’s fine.” Draco spoke to his friend for the first time in only Merlin knew how long. His voice was hoarse and rough. Lacking hydration and use. “Why are you-”

“It’s not fine!” Theo’s loud voice echoed off the walls, ringing throughout the corridor with his rage. “Of course it’s not fine! Nothing is fine, Draco!” The tall brunette stepped towards him with a finger pointed to his chest “How dare you say it’s fucking fine when you ended up locked in Azkaban? When you did what you did despite your wife being right fucking there!”

Ahmad pulled on Dracos hand, releasing one cuff.

“Weasley told me, you know. He told me everything. Every. Fucking. Detail. He told Hermione everything.” As Theo spoke, Dracos eyes flashed over to Weasley, who had his eyes trained on the flagstone beneath his feet. “Don’t look at him, Dray. Look at me.”

Ahmad rounded behind Dracos back, about to collect the other cuff from his wrist. Soon to return his magic to him.

Dracos eyes went back to the familiar hazel eyes of his longest standing friendship. Cold. Hard. Ruthless.

“She’s in there, you know. Today is her birthday and you, despicable little rat, chose not to put her on your visitation list! But I’m on it?! Fucking me?!”

Dracos jaw slackened, staring at his friend with wide eyes. “What? W-wh-… No! I added her to my list. I told Ferrington to add her. Twice! Every time I’ve been visited by Potter and Weasley, I’ve asked for her!” His eyes flitted over to the redheaded wizard, who was looking down in shame. “You told me she didn’t want to see me!”

“Actually.” Theo spoke before Weasley had to chance to stop wincing. “Potter did. Potter told Hermione you didn’t want her there. Potter planned this whole thing.”

It all happened in one second.

It was as though he had been unknowingly placed atop a railway line, where he had felt calm and blissfully unaware of his surroundings. But as the cuff was eased off his wrist, losing contact with his skin, her presence washed over him as gently and as delicately as a train hitting him at top speed.

His breath was punched out of his chest in a loud exhale. His knees bucked with the onslaught of overwhelming fullness and feeling of completion, causing them to collapse beneath him. The weight of her soul finally connecting with his once more. The threads of their tapestry finally weaving together, leaving the beautiful imagery of their entwined lives whole yet again.

His sunset peach finally simmered back to a whispering amethyst as her sunrise periwinkle settled into his very essence.

A rush of adrenaline tore through his being as he felt her presence present itself to him once more. How the echo of her pained heart was pumping within his chest. How her anger and unending despair was coursing through his veins.

He felt as though he wanted to scream. To shout. To curse and yell at everyone and everything for allowing her to feel the pain she had been harbouring.

He could not, for the life of him, fathom how a human, though not just any human, his wife, could carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. How she had been left to feel the emotions she had and not had him to help her.

“She knows?” He asked hoarsely. Eyes fixed on the flagstone in disbelief.

“She knows.” Weasley said. “Absolutely everything. I couldn’t stand going to see her because I knew I couldn’t look her in the eye. Harry made me swear-”

“Shut up.” Draco said, grabbing onto Theo’s and Ahmad’s outstretched hands, which helped his weakened body stagger to its feet. “I was supposed to be in here for a week, Weasley. One. Fucking. Week. If today really is her birthday, I’ve been here for two months.” He rolled his shoulders back, allowing his height to stretch to its fullest potential. “I was willing to sacrifice one week for your cause. One week and no more. I know I could have done a week. I know she could have done a week. But two fucking months, Weasley?!”

“It wasn’t like I di-”

“You don’t get to make fucking excuses!” The anguish in his heart sounded through his words, ricocheting off the walls with gargantuan sound waves. “You promised! You and Potter both did. You both… Promised.” He turned his head, allowing his gaze to fall to the door on his right-hand side. “I don’t get to go home with her today either, do I?”

“I-… No.” came Weasleys defeated voice. “It’s hard going behind Harry’s back to get you released. I’m trying but… It’s proving ti be rather difficult.”

“You’re going behind Potters back?” Silver eyes met the blue of his newest friend. “Why?”

“Cause Harry’s all about seeing this as the best for the greater good… I know you’re not doing well; I have to try getting you out. And I don’t give a single Nargles shit about his greater good.” Weasley inhaled deeply. “He’s been talking to Kingsley, to keep you in here. You could have left after three weeks, had they only followed the laws…”

“Now go see your wife, you idiot. She needs you now, more than ever.” Theo’s hand lightly pushed his shoulder, easing him towards the room where Hermione awaited him.

With his heart pounding in his chest, he allowed his shackled feet forwards. The metal chain rattling against the stone floor as his hand reached for the handle. Brass. Plain. It was the only obstacle between him and Hermione. His Hermione.

He felt the handle push downwards beneath his hand, swinging inward. His hand was left hanging in the same spot it had been before the door opened.

She was there.

Her hair was a nest of beautiful wild curls. As wild as they appeared to be every morning, when they lay tossed over her her shoulders. The same wild curls he loved to bury his nose into. It was streaked in purple tones of a liquid, which had dried within the beautiful ringlets. There were small cuts on her face, damaging her sunkissed complexion, they mingled with the mist of wine that had dried atop her skin. Her clothes were not her own. A crisp set of brown trousers and a man’s white oxford, much too large to the point where the cuffs had been neatly sectioned and folded. Revealing more cuts, larger and deeper, and dried droplets of wine that had painted her skin.

Though, most important, were her eyes.

The skin around them were red and showed signs of swelling, having been rubbed dry from a river of pained tears. Her long lashes were disheveled, some clumped together from the moisture that lingered on her lash line.

Though, in the middle of it all, there was a ray of golden light, encompassed by chocolate, gleaming up at him. The most beautiful, radiant light he had ever seen. They were large and tearful, though she was smiling, her chin wobbling with the overwhelming emotions she, too, had felt.

It took all his might as to not collapse before her and hug her waist. He hadn’t noticed his muscles move, reacting in instinct the moment she appeared before him. He hadn’t noticed how his weakened legs had carried him closer to her, his arms slipping ever so gently around her waist. To bring her forwards. To bring her back to where she belonged. Back into his arms, where he would do everything within his power to shield her from the vicious world she lived in.

She stepped into him. It did not appear she cared if he was dirtied or smelled of two months worth of grime and misery. Her arms coiled around his torso as she pressed her nose into his stripe-clad chest, her forehead against his collarbone. He lowered himself, his nose pressing into her wild ringlets of uncontrollable curls.

She was real.

Fingers fanned out over the curve of her waist, allowing him to feel some of the subtle changes in her body. Changes he would love and cherish however long she allowed it. Changes he wished he had been there to see take shape.

She was there.

“You smell like wine” he whispered into her hair. A smile, a real, genuine smile spreading over his lips.

“And you smell like… Like Draco.” Her voice was small against his chest. Though she felt her fingers grip into the threadbare fabric of his uniform, tugging him impossibly closer against herself.

“Technically they’re not allowed to touch…” He heard Ahmad’s voice.

“I’ll throw in another five hundred galleons if you just shut up and let them have their moment.” Theo hissed.

Nothing mattered. The world did not matter. Azkaban did not matter. As long as Hermione was safe. As long as Hermione was happy, nothing else mattered.

“I’m so cross with you…” she breathed against him. Her hold tightening around his body, which made him only hold her tighter to himself in return.

“You have every right to be.” And she did. He knew she did. “I agreed to go in and help for a week. But I was placed with Dementors, and I couldn’t-… I am of no use here.”

“And you didn’t let me visit.” Her voice quivered against him. He felt the sting of her pain, her sorrow within her chest. “Didn’t want me here? Really?”

Draco could not help it, he pulled back ever so slightly, his hand collecting her cheek from the coarse fabric of his prisoner uniform. “I asked for you all the time. I put you on my list. I wanted to see you every day, but was told you didn’t want to see me…”

“I’m going to fucking murder that Potter.” Chined Theo’s voice, from where he shared space with an auror and an Azkaban guard. “Cut his throat and hang him to dry. I fucking swear it.”

“Don’t do it.” Draco shook his head, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s. “Azkaban is really awful…”

“Besides, I won’t let you kill him without my help.” Hermione said, indicating towards Theodore, whilst her eyes remained fixed in Draco’s. “Because he took you from me.”

“I’ve missed you for longer than I’ve had you…” he whispered, just for her ears. Just their little secret.

“I’ll get you home. I promise.” She whispered back, her fingers releasing his shirt, only to thread his hair moments later. “I won’t rest until you’re back in my arms.”

There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to tell her. He wanted to express his sorrow and heartache. He wanted to tell her of his unending love for her. He wanted to cry and hug her for the remainder of the day, happy to see that there was life behind her eyes. He wanted to explain his terrors and his horrors to her.

All he wanted, was for her to know it all. But all he was able to do, all he found his mind and his muscles able to conjure, was to lean forwards and press his lips to hers.

Finally complete in her presence. Feeling her body melt into his as their kiss lingered, and the world faded to nothing around them. Their own little bubble of perfection. A cocoon of serenity, where her presence, her touch and her kiss would fuel him for whichever terrors may come his way.

Chapter Text

“For an auror, he’s pretty shit at keeping lookout for himself.” Said Theodore Nott as he sauntered into the Drawing Room, just behind the floating, unconscious body of none other than the auror, Harry Potter himself. Harry’s head bumped the door frame, hard, earning a lighthearted shrug of Theo’s shoulder, who obviously didn’t care one way or the other. “Capturing him only took me three minutes. He’s so fucking oblivious to his surroundings, this one.”

Hermione could only watch in horror as Harry floated in. Blood on his upper lip told her that Theodore had not been kind to her oldest standing friend. Her brother, if she was to compare him to something of familial significance.

“You didn’t have to render him unconscious. All I asked was that you brought him here. And honestly, Theo, you don’t have to be mean to him. He is innocent until proven guilty, you know.” She cautioned her accomplice, watching with puckered brows as Theodore placed the auror into a chair she had summoned from the dining room for the occasion. Although, she had not intended for her friend to be stupefied when brought into her home for a mere conversation.

Theo swished his wand effortlessly through the air, casting sticking charms to Harry’s slackened limbs. Attaching his shoulders to the upholstered back of the cherry wood chair. His wrists were joined to the curves of the armrests. Ankles fused to the two front feet of the chair.

“He looks far too comfortable like that, don’t you agree?” Theo pondered aloud to himself, taking a step back to admire the handiwork of the battered auror stuck to her dining chair. Harry’s head hung forwards; his body appeared to be somewhat awkwardly slumped into the high-backed seat. His lower back not supported. His knees sticking out quite too far. Slouched in a chair that was not meant for relaxation of such a manner.

“I think he looks fine.” She said with a sigh, turning her head to look up at the tall, lanky brunette by her side. The very same man who had so effortlessly stepped into her life two days prior, vowing to be by her side. He was fiercely protective and downright maniacal, though she found his presence oddly comforting and warm. “Why? What are you thinking of doing to him?”

“A ball gag maybe?” He suggested absently, his eyes flitting over their captive. “Rope and a ball gag!” He affirmed with a hard nod to his head and a straightening back. “I’ll just go home and get it. Be right back!”

And with that, Theodore Nott, accompanied by his lengthy legs, strode out of the room and left Hermione alone with an unconscious Harry. Together, the two existed in the aftermath of her birthday morning.

The once white walls were painted with differing shades of red and purple. Fibres of the luxurious wallpapers had been torn apart from the several impacts of shattering bottles. Fingers of reddened weaved fabric reached for her, as if coaxing her in, to remind her of the pain she had felt. Of the pain she still felt.

She allowed her eyes to wander. From the wine-made tapestry of misery, helplessness and heartache on the wall, they drifted to the floor. The differing hues and shapes of green bottles dipped in sealant wax. Labels, pressed on parchment decades, perhaps even centuries prior, had been torn asunder. Stained by the contents they had harboured for so long.

The case of wine she had collected the morning of her birthday, stood in the middle of the floor. One lone bottle remained. Surprisingly unscathed after her massacre.

Slivers of sunlight peered in through the windows. The stained-glass panes painting the sticky floor with beautiful hues of blooming nature. Hermione thought a stained-glass depiction of vibrant tulips did not belong in a room which only existed to inflict such vast amounts of misery and pain.

The shards of glass, both minor and major in size, lit before her eyes.

It reminded her of him. Draco. It reminded her of the day she first came to the manor. When she was led into the hedge maze and sat by his side. Feet dipped into the water. The swans causing soft ripples in the pond. The fish longing for a dragonfly that teased at the surface. It had been then, that he taught her to see the beauty in the world around her.

For there was so much beauty in the world, if she only allowed herself to see it. If only her vision was not so hopelessly clouded by despair.

Closing her eyes whilst she inhaled deeply through the nose, she centred herself. Allowing her mind to go to a place where the pond sparkled like diamonds. Where Dracos broken and battered feet were dipped into the water alongside her own. Where a blade of grass held magic, in which she had never before seen. Where the leaves of the weeping willow had veins that stretched like lime green bolts of lightning throughout its very fibres, leaving a trail of wonder in its wake.

With an extended exhale, her eyes fluttered open once more, allowing herself the pleasure of experiencing life in the way Draco had always spoken so fondly of.

For there was beauty in her destruction. There was appeal in the manner in which the smallest of shards glittered in the sunlight, painted in colours of red and yellow from the tulips on the window. There was charm in the arching sprays of wine, that had painted the walls around her, much like even-coloured sparks of confetti. Or showing similarities to fireworks, creating awe and wonder and amazement in its wake.

She could see where she had crawled on her hands and knees, desperately clinging to a bottle she knew would taste of his kisses. A bottle she knew would feel like his arms held around her. The trail she left behind, revealed streaks in the stained floor, where glass had cut into the wood and damaged it. Her legs had pushed the wine away, creating a large gap between two lakes of reddened liquid.

A handprint on the wall. Stained by wine and blood from the fine cuts through her skin. It showed her exactly where her fingers had clawed at the surface, in a desperate act of trying to feel. To feel the vague imitation of the hardness of his chest, once so familiar beneath her fingers. To feel the minor ridges of the luxuriously woven fabric. To feel her fingernails catch on the threads. To feel anything other than the overwhelming sorrow she harboured, only so obvious without him by her side.

Dragonhide boots sounded against the floors of the corridor outside. Coming closer to her and the destroyed room at top speed.

“I never thanked you.” She said, hearing Theo’s long strides enter through the double doors. Her eyes remained fixed on her handprint on the wall.

“Oh, stop it, Hermi-”

“You found me in the worst moment of my life.” She interrupted him, not allowing him the comfort of sidestepping her gratitude. “I’ve had more than enough heartaches through my years. More than enough pain. But this? Losing him like that?” Putting words to it was difficult. Immensely so. So, instead of explaining it to him, instead of forcing herself to put words to her depths of despair, she simply shook her head, allowing what he had seen when he found her, to be explanation enough.

He stepped closer to her. Small, tentative steps. Glass crushed beneath the soles of his boots. She heard the shift in his body, just before the soft thump of rope being placed atop the floor filled their shared space. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. You don’t have to justify yourself.”

“I- I know. I just…” she inhaled deeply through the nose, yet again. The smell of wine lingered in the room. Rich and decadent, both in flavour and in fragrance. “I have a handful of my own friends. By I never expected anyone of them to come visit for my birthday. And least of all, you.”

“You and I might not have established much of a friendship yet, Hermione, but you are my best friend’s soulmate. Which means you automatically become someone I care for. And I knew your birthday would be hard without him.” He stepped up by her side. His nose pointed towards the spot where she had been crawled up, clutching the wine that tasted almost exactly as her true love. “Finding you like that… In this mess. I couldn’t just leave you. I couldn’t allow you to continue feeling like that.”

“You’re the first person to actually reach out for me. To help me, when I needed it the very most.” She couldn’t help herself but seek him out. Turning her body to his for comfort. He welcomed her embrace by wrapping his own arms securely around her. “Thank you, Theo. Truly. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you.”

“I had a feeling Draco would have wanted me to check up on you...” He told her. His voice was softer than she believed she had ever heard it. Barely a fraction above a whisper. “But from now on, just know, you don’t have to thank me for doing the bare minimum. You don’t have to thank me for being your friend.”

A familiar sting of forming tears, felt throughout the back of her nose. Her sinuses burning as her eyes welled with lightly salted droplets. “You know… I have been alone most days since Draco was taken from me. Ginny has been busy with practice and matches and spending the rest of her time with you. Pansy, as we know, has practically been bedridden since she became pregnant. Daphne has had enough to deal with, with Winnie rushing through the house at top speeds…” her eyes fell shut, allowing a heavy drop to plummet from her lash line. A pang of grief rang through her as the drop only grazed her cheek and landed on the crisp, white oxford, which she had stolen from Dracos side of the dressing room. “I don’t think they truly noticed how hard it was on me… I don’t even know if they really even cared.”

“I can’t really speak for anyone, though, I know Ginny was worried for you. And I’m guessing Pansy and Daphne were too. They just have a harder time reaching out like that.” He told her with honesty and kindness. “But what about Weasley? What do you think of his excuse in all of this mess?” Theo’s voice was harder. Lower. Angrier.

Ronald had explained it, after Theodore had carried a broken Hermione through the Greengrass-Weasley floo on her birthday. Had explained that he had struggled with trusting Harry’s true intentions. He said he felt awful about an auror of high rank, talking an ex-convict into going back to prison, all for the so-called greater good.

Thus, because he had been unable to stop it, he felt absolutely dreadful. He couldn’t look her in the eye. Couldn’t do more than try to help Draco’s release by working behind the scenes, which had proven to be a fruitless endeavour.

She could understand where Theodore’s anger came from. She would never judge him for the anger he carried or the frustration of what he deemed to be nothing but an excuse.

However, the most noticeable difference between herself and Theo, was that Hermione found herself able to see things from another person’s perspective. Which was not Theodore’s strongest attribute.

Had she been in Ronald’s shoes, she would probably have acted somewhat similarly. She would have had a difficult time reconnecting with someone she felt she had hurt, though had no intentions of doing so. She didn’t approve much of his decision. But she understood it, nevertheless.

“I don’t think I can call it an excuse.” She pulled herself back just enough to look up at the comforting presence of the Nott man. “I think he has enough reason to act the way he did… He cares for Draco, you know. But Harry…”

Theo cast his hazel eyes towards the aforementioned man, awkwardly slumped and stuck against the chair. “He better have good fucking reason for what he’s done.”

Hermione nodded her head, although she knew he did not see it. She hesitated for a moment, allowing the thought, the words, to sit atop her tongue for only a bit. “And what if he doesn’t?”

“These lands are so large, Hermione, that no one will find his body. Worst case, we just chuck him in the mausoleum. Perhaps he could board with Lucius or Abraxas.” Theo spoke without a moment of thought or hesitation. Though she could tell it was not a quip. It was not sarcasm. Theodore Nott was lethal. Willing to slaughter an auror, someone much like her brother, should the true intentions of his deceit not be worthy.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” This caused him turn to look at her, his lips pressed tightly together as he quirked one eyebrow slightly upwards, questioning her reasoning. “Because Pansy would kill you and then Ginny would hex Pansy. Something would happen and the baby would be an orphan and… Then it’s just Harry Potters life all over again.”

“Okay fine!” The taller agreed with a heavy sigh as he released her from his embrace. “Now, I’ll get to tying him up and all, and you, you should go change your clothes.”

“I don’t need to change my clothes.” She wore normal clothes for a Friday afternoon. Dracos Oxford and her loose fit, black yoga trousers. Theo only raised a brow inquisitively, hazel eyes scanning her up and down with blatant, unimpressed scrutiny. “Fine! Then what do I wear?”

“Black. Sleek and clean and intimidating.” He said with a smirk. “And paint your lips red. Like blood.”

“Not like wine?” She asked mirthfully, stepping backwards, allowing her towards the open double doors of the room.

Theodore scoffed, withdrawing a thick, black leather strap from his trouser pocket. In the middle of it, the leather disconnected, making room for a large, black ball. “I think there is enough wine in this room already. Now go. Hurry. Before I start torturing the guy without you.” Another smirk adorned his lips. “I’ll gag him. Though I think Ginny will miss this.”

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re a bit…” she used her hands, gesturing to the entirety of the man before her. A roll of rope at his feet. A so-called ball gag in hand, only two paces away from the unconscious author, whom he had managed to capture on his very own. “Insane?”

“Darling.” Theo whipped the gag around his forefinger playfully, his eyes never leaving hers as his smirk broadened into a menacing grin. “I put the ‘hot’ in ‘psychotic’.”

Black dress. Tastefully form fitting. Long sleeves. The fabric ending at her knees. Black pumps. Where the heels themselves, were made to depict daggers. The soles painted blood red, with a swirling, black pattern. Her hair was sleeked back into a high braid, which she had twisted into a bun at the crown of her head. And of course, she had painted her lips the very same shade of the blood that was pumping through her veins.

She looked ready for business. Whilst her associate, Theodore, looked ready for murder.

His entire ensemble was black. His cuff links were gleaming, silver daggers. His collar pin was a silver chain. Barely concealed in his inner pocket, was a blade of sorts. Silver. Decorated with intricate designs around the handle. His wand was just next to it. Easy to summon. His eyes were cold and deadly, telling both Hermione and their captive alike, that he was not to be joked with.

Harry, however, looked terrified. He had been awakened whilst Hermione was away. The rope had been tightly tied around his shoulders and arms. His wrists were heavily bound. Though, there was no rope around his ankles. Pity. Then, there was the gag, where the back silicone ball was secured within his mouth. A line of dribble hung from his bottom lip.

The dining chair had been turned, evident in how the feet had dragged markings on the floor, where it parted shards of glass and made slight scratches in the wood. Theodore had made Harry face the carnage of Hermione’s break, a mere two days prior. The wine-stained walls. The masses of broken glass littering the red-glossed floors.

Her heels clacked hard against the wooden floor, making her way towards the two men. She felt utterly ridiculous, dressed to the nines for a man who probably still hadn’t opened his birthday gift from her. Who had pushed her husband to going back to Azkaban. Who had forcefully withheld them from one another. She didn’t understand why she had to dress so nicely when Harry did not appear to deserve it.

Harry’s head turned, eyeing her with horrified, emerald eyes as she marched towards the two men.

“Let me start off first, Potter.” Theo spat the name with distain, much in the fashion her husband had done in school. “You see… Two days ago, I decided to go check up on my best friend’s wife. I know she is parted from her soulmate and it’s her twenty-seventh birthday. She lives in a big house, all alone and it has me worried for her.”

He slowly rounded on Harry, his long, elegant fingers picking seemingly imaginary lint off his black jacket. As he circled the auror with slowed, calculated pace, he stepped on broken glass. The shards crackling ominously beneath his weight. It gained Harry’s attention. She stopped, allowing the taller man the spotlight. “I came to the manor and something immediately felt… Off. Effie told me Hermione was in the drawing room. You know. Where she was tortured for hours by Bellatrix Lestrange.” He allowed his hands to open skywards, gesturing to the mostly empty room, where destruction surrounded them. “This room.”

Harry’s head whipped to the side, tearing his gaze from Nott, to finally refocus on Hermione. Gears turning in his head. She forced herself to remain focused on the brunette, not allowing herself the comfort of meeting her friends gaze.

“This was your first time returning to this room since the war, was it not?” Theo asked her with a lightness to his tone. Haughty and with feigned nonchalance, just like the rest of his monologue.

A single, small nod to her head. “It was.”

“It was.” He repeated with a nod, just as his body stopped moving, placing himself between Harry and Hermione. He adjusted his trousers ever so slightly, before crouching in front of the auror. Light hazel eyes locking themselves onto Emerald. “She was entirely alone, Potter. None of her friends had been to see her on her birthday. None of her friends had written her. Sent her flowers. Given her any sign that they cared for her. No. When I found her, she had created this masterpiece on the walls. Breaking thousands of galleons worth of wine bottles. When I found her, she was huddled against the wall. She’d been crying. She’d been crawling on her hands and knees through broken glass. She was bleeding. She was cold. She was in pain. Her heart was so broken, she barely felt the shards that stuck out of her knees.”

He reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing a white handkerchief with a green embroidered emblem of Nott house, which he used to wipe the dribble which had collected on Harry’s bottom lip. “And can you guess why she was in such pain? Why has she destroyed this room? Why her heartache was stronger than any physical pain she could ensure that day?” His tone had slowly grown harder and harsher, even though he appeared to be tending to Harry in a gentle fashion. “Can you guess why, Potter?”

However, Hermione did not allow him to mumble into the ball gag. She did not allow the auror to fear Theo more than he needed to. “Because of you, Harry.” Her voice chimed from behind Theo’s back. Her eyes focused on the terror-stricken face of the captive. “Because you convinced Draco to enter Azkaban again. Because you have talked Kingsley into extending his stay there. Because you, someone I thought I could trust, someone I’ve thought of as a brother since I was eleven years old, removed me from his visitation list and kept telling us both that the other didn’t want to see them! When all we have ever done is beg to see each other.” It took all her might to not shed tears. To not allow herself to feel the stinging in the back of her nose. To not release a sob that was awaiting her, residing deep within her lungs.

She had to be strong.

If not for herself, then for Draco.

She would allow herself to feel pain. To feel anger and hatred. Unfiltered resentment and loathing. Though, she would not allow Harry to see her cry. He had done enough damage. He had caused her to shed such vast amounts of tears, she could not give in, and allow his horrid behaviour to hold more power over her.

She straightened her back, her shoulders squared as she kept her eyes trained on Harry’s. She understood the aspect of the clothes. She understood why Theo had wanted her to dress in black and red. To intimidate. To feel confident. To have a sense of control and stability whilst standing up against the man who had taken her control and her stability from her.

Hurt flashed across the face of the auror. Something else flashed within his eyes, which Hermione could not understand. Something she could not recognise.

“Ron explained everything to us. Then he took us to see Draco. To you, he might just be the means to an end. A helping hand whenever you need him. But to Ronald, he is an actual friend. To me? To me, he is not only my husband, but also is he not only my very best friend and closest ally. He is my soulmate, Harry. And so far, today actually, you have had him stolen away from me for two whole months.” She could not look away from him. She could not let him see her be the weaker of the two. “I know you had a plan. I know you want to catch you killer. I know you, Harry… But you also know exactly how you manipulated him. You know exactly what strings you pulled to get him to agree. And you know how incredibly wrong it was of you, to ask him to make such a sacrifice for your cause.”

She watched as Theo stood to his feet, straightening his body to its fullest potential. He was tall. His light hazel eyes, beautifully framed behind long lashes, shadowed beneath thick, expressive eyebrows, seemed to ignite with a fire. His gaze was intense. Powered by loathing and attention to the finest of details. It was lethal.

She felt her heart pounding in her chest. Anger filled the void left behind where Draco’s heartbeat usually echoed in her body. The emptiness of his soul not being entwined with hers. The hollow ache that never seemed to let her go. That never wanted to part from her. The ever-persistent grief that filled her veins with the utmost misery and agony. She couldn’t believe how Harry had treated him. A vulnerable soul, only wishing to help out. To do good. His willingness to contribute to society abused and taken advantage of by someone who had gained his trust.

“He was just healing… He was just getting better. He had started to gain weight. He’d started gaining back his confidence and his energy. He was eating. Smiling. He was laughing and finally getting excited about a future he never thought he could have!” Her voice raised along with the boiling anger within her body. “You took it from him. You took everything from him. All of his progress. All we’ve worked so hard towards. You just didn’t fucking care about anyone other than yourself in this. You, Harry! You and your stupid cause! You decided to ruin his life just because it has the potential to make your job a little bit easier!”

Theo’s shoes crushed against the glass as he stepped up beside her. His aura radiated a strong and powerful energy. Ready to protect. Fiercely so. Though, he also allowed her her space. Allowing her to use her own voice and her own heartbreak, to release her wrath upon Harry.

“You’ve hurt him so much, all for your own gain. And by hurting him, you’ve hurt me. By destroying him, you destroyed me.” Her voice eased to something barely audible. Just a fraction louder than a whisper. The empty drawing room allowing her voice to reach him. The man who had, up until his wrong turn, been as important to her as a brother. The man who had, for the longest time, been her best friend.

Theodore and Hermione both locked eyes. The dribbling auror before them would get his time to shine, to speak. To share his side of the story. To hopefully share aspects of the case which she had not considered.

Her accomplice withdrew the blade from his inner pocket. It was made of gleaming silver and had a long, thin, needle point blade, inscribed with Latin. The hilt was defined, and was ornately decorated in black swirls, which oddly reminded Hermione of droplets of blood in water.

He circled the blade about ominously, spinning it by the hilt with long, deft fingers. Evidently practiced moves, perfectly displayed as he moved towards the horrified auror, who almost appeared to fear for his life. Almost.

Hermione felt only a twinge of guilt at the horror in his eyes. Though she had to remind herself of why she was there. She had to remind herself that she was angry. That she wanted answers. That she wanted Harry to explain himself.

The blade was pressed against Harry’s jaw, slowly trailing up along the slight curve of his stubbled cheek, where the pointed silver was eased beneath the leather strap. The point of the blade hovered just before Harry’s lashes, taunting him for a lengthy moment, before Theo jerked the blade forwards, cutting the thick leather strap in half with ease.

The ball fell from Harry’s mouth, landing atop the floor with a dull thud and the soft rattle of the metal clasp. There was a red line on Harry’s cheek, a light cut, having barely drawn blood as the blade had nestled its way beneath the strap.

“What in the world, Hermione?!” Harry gasped, finally free to speak. “Why do you have me tied up like this? Why am I bound and gagged? You could have just come for a chat!”

“Actually,” Theodore swayed the gleaming blade between himself and the auror, one of the corners of his lips raised into a haughty smirk. “It was my idea. Hermione wanted me to bring you over. I just chose to do so when you were… Incapacitated. And then I tied you up and gagged you because otherwise, leaving would have been too easy. And I wanted you to experience the horrors you put your so-called best friend through. You know, the fact that you practically stole her life source from her? Traumatised Draco even further?” Theo’s nose scrunched slightly as he put on a fake smile. “Anyways. I suggest you speak your case. So, I can learn if I should castrate you or not.”

Hurt and confused eyes flitted between the two. They were shimmering of green, just like the broken bottles of wine, glittering before Harry’s feet. “I still think this is a bit much, don’t you?”

“Speak, Harry.” She crossed her arms over her chest, letting her hardened eyes focus entirely on his. “Now!”

He blinked. Then he blinked again. Looking between Hermione and Theo for several long moments before he nodded his head but once. “You- You honestly think I’m the bad guy here, don’t you?” Neither Theo, nor Hermione answered. They only awaited Harry’s continued words.

He took a deep breath, his eyes finally settling on her. “I knew it was a lot to ask of him. I knew it was even a reach if they would put him in a normal cell… But I had to ask. I had to try. He was just such a good help and getting him on the inside could be exactly what the case needed. And then he gave in… He agreed he’d go in for one week. And one week only.” He looked down to the floor, either thinking or not wishing to hold Hermione’s gaze.

She forced herself to remain quiet. To only stand before him in her black ensemble, judging every single word that came from him.

“I agreed. One week. We would arrest him on some utter shit charges or suspicion or something, he’d be locked in there for a week, and he’d be back with you before you’d know it. Then… Then he punched McLaggen. And threatened to kill him. That’s assault, you know. We couldn’t have gotten him a week even if we wanted to. Because assault and threats plus his probation, means a lengthier stay in Azkaban, no matter what. With Robard’s help though, we got him down to three weeks.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders lifted and sunk greatly.

“I arrived home to a letter, just two days before his three weeks was up. Pansy seemed on edge about it, said something didn’t sit right with her about it… So, I opened it. And it was from our killer. Or at least someone who knows them or works with them. An accomplice perhaps…” he met Hermione’s eyes once more. A droplet of blood had slipped from the cut on his cheek, rounding over the shadowed curve of his jaw. “They said Draco would be next. Once he was out, they’d come for him.”

The dagger stopped swaying through the air. Theo’s hardened gaze fixed entirely on Harry’s, who was still intently focused on Hermione. She almost felt as though the world slipped from her fingers. As though reality was but an illusion around her. It became harder to breathe. Her lungs seemed to shiver within her as the reality of his words settled into her. “No.”  The word slipped her lips in a whisper. She refused to believe it.

“I knew Ron was already judging me for everything. He was barely speaking to me. Always annoyed, always on edge. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell you. I just… I went to Kingsley, and I begged him to extend Dracos stay. Begged him on my knees to at least give me some time to figure it out before his release. So, he was extended to six months. But Kingsley refused to move him. Said it would be too suspicious to do so on short notice… If a guard was working with the killer, he could be set off. Inclined to speed things up. Take Draco from Azkaban instead of waiting for his release.” He fell quiet after the confession. Pain and hurt evident on his face. She wanted to rush to him. To hug him. To tell him he had her to help, if he would allow it.

However, Theodore had other plans. “And why was she removed from his list? Why did you take away their possibility to see each other?”

Harry shifted his gaze to the other man in the room. The brunette’s jaw was clamped tightly shut. His shoulders squared. The dagger was still eased through his fingers as though it was a toy.

He returned his focus on the witch. “You have to understand… He was talking to himself. About murder. And death. I heard him mumble about your corpse, ‘Mione. Slashing your throat.”

She shook her head “He did that to someone else. Cut her throat. Watched her bleed to death. His mind just changed the faces, because the Dementors are ruining him, Harry. They’re destroying his mind and making him see death where there was none. He’s imagining the worst things, and he’s growing more and more damaged from it.”

“Soulmates, Potter.” Theo’s long fingers wrapped around the handle of the dagger in his hand, intense eyes focused on Harry as though waiting for his opportunity to pounce into action. “Even you couldn’t be that stupid. You’ve seen them together. You know he’d never hurt her. So that, right there, is a shit excuse.”

“He… He was…” Harry sighed. “I just didn’t think it would be a good idea if you saw each other. I thought you’d get too hurt from it and it would only damage you even more. So, I removed you from his list.”

She didn’t know what to feel. It had only been moments since her oldest friend had revealed to her that Draco was in danger, starting the moment of his release. Though, she also knew he was in danger within the prison as well. In danger of being taken, murdered, by whoever was slaughtering those branded with the Dark Mark. Then, he had taken it upon himself to decide her husband’s fate. Forcing his stay within the prison to be extended, without as much as talking to anyone about it first. Harry had taken Dracos life into his own hands, where he had crushed and crumbled the delicate and wounded being he had vowed to keep safe.

“Why didn’t you arrest McLaggen for assault?” Theo asked, allowing Hermione the moments, perhaps minutes she needed to collect her mind. To form coherent sentences.

“Because it was hearsay. They were entirely alone when it happened.”

“Not with Veritaserum. Not with Hermione’s memories. You easily could have gotten him fired. Not make your best friend come in to work and seeing the man who- who…”

“The man who stopped the lift when it stalled, pushed me against the wall and shoved his tongue so far down my throat, I thought it was Devil’s Snare…” her voice was as distant as could be. Much like her eyes, which had found solace to focus on one shard on the floor. It was curved, with a river of wine having stilled within. Her mind was racing. Speeding as fast as it could whilst she laid a plan. How to get Draco out. How to get him freed from Azkaban and away from the horrors that awaited him, should the murderer come for him.

“Memories aren’t reliable. You can alter them.”

“After time, yes. But not minutes. Not hours. You could have protected her, you filthy swine. Could have made some aspect of her life easier and better! Especially after taking her safest person from her!”

“I couldn’t jus-”

“Couldn’t?! Fucking couldn’t?!” Theodore’s voice echoed off the walls. Hermione barely registered how the sunshine seemed to have faded from the drawing room. As though it was casting her back to the fateful day in 1998. “It’s not that you couldn’t. No. You just wouldn’t.”

“And you…” Hermione finally allowed her eyes to fall upon Harry. “You took it upon yourself to decide Dracos fate. To decide about his mental state and what he should have to endure. You took it upon yourself, rather than asking him. Rather than asking me. We are in a position where we can leave the country if we so desire. We can leave, travel to a place where the killer won’t find Draco. We could have left over a month ago…” she felt her rational voice graduate into one of repulsion and loathing. “But instead, you took it upon yourself to tear his mind apart and destroy what little normality he and I had built together?!”

“I really didn’t mean to!”

“I don’t care if you meant to or not! I don’t care if your intentions were good and pure! I don’t care if you only want to things for the greater good! It is not your life to make a decision about! It is not your future or your sanity! It is Dracos! And Draco does not deserve what you have put him through!” If only she had something to hit him with. If only she had something, where she could force some semblance of sanity into his egoistic mind. “And just as always, just as every single time you touch anything, I am left to clean up your mess!”

Theo rolled his jaw, looking down at the auror with eyes glittering with contempt. “Can I castrate him now, Hermione?”

“No. You can let him go.” She said coldly, glaring at the man before her. Her former brother. Her former friend. “I don’t wish to see Mr. Potter in my house ever again.”

“As you wish, Milady.” Theodore inclined his head in her direction, before stepping closer to Harry with his blade ready to strike.

“Though… Potter.” Harry winced at hearing his name spat in such a manner from his most important friend. “When you get home, you tell your wife what you have done. What a mess you’ve created. Should she wish to leave you, she is more than welcome here. I also want you to owl me the letter, or at the very least, a copy of it.”

“Hermione, I can’t do that… It’s confidential.”

“Just as the rest of your case is confidential enough to get help from my husband?!” She snapped, watching as the blade cut into the rope. Carving through it with ease. Harry winced as the blade marked him through his clothes. “Owl me the letter, Potter.” She spoke through gritted teeth. With a nod to Theodore, she turned.

Leaving the men behind.

Hermione had timed her arrival perfectly. On Mondays, Miss Franks usually went to lunch at 11:50, allowing herself ten extra minutes to her break. Which in turn meant that Kingsley Shacklebolt had ten minutes of his day, where his office, nor he himself, was not guarded by the witch.

With her heels clacking against the floors, Hermione aimed for his office. She had the courtesy to tap her knuckle to the door twice, announcing herself throughout the light knock, before pulling the door handle and stepping inside.

“Miss Granger.” The Minister for Magic greeted her.

“Mr. Shacklebolt.” She greeted in return. Her words chosen wisely. He quirked a greying brow slightly, then cast a glance towards a chair before his desk, indicating for the witch to sit.

She wore the same ensemble she had during her Friday evening meeting with an acquainted auror. Though, she had donned a blazer and a simple necklace and earrings to complete the look. She could easily feign confidence whilst wearing it.

Pansy had arrived at Malfoy Manor on Friday night. They had spent all of Saturday rehearsing for her impromptu meeting with the highest-ranking wizard in Britain. Theo had arrived sometime that very evening, giving the witches his insight into the show they had so beautifully prepared for the Minister.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Shacklebolt.” Hermione said, just as she sat herself into the chair, directly across from him. Where his line of vision and hers collided with intensity.

Kingsley steepled his fingers before the lower half of his face, elbows propped on his neatly cleaned desk. “And what might your offer be, Miss Granger?”

She knew he was looking for a rise out of her, using her maiden name. Degrading her. Allowing her to think she was less than. She did not bite onto the bait handed to her.

Leaning back in the uncomfortable chair before him, she rested her forearms on the armrests and settled herself against the back of the stiff, padded backrest. “You see, I have two hundred thousand galleons to spare in my vaults. And I have nowhere to put them.”

One million pound, all put on the line for her cause.

He weighed his words carefully. Budding his time to see if she would squirm. She did not. “Do you want suggestions on where to put them?”

“Actually, I was thinking of donating them to someone who can make proper use of them.” She said, slowly elevating one brow.  

“Would you like suggestions on what unions might benefit the most from your galleons, Miss Granger?”

“Honestly.” She crossed her right leg over her left, allowing the rich, Egyptian fabric to shimmer in the torchlight of his office. A peek of her thighs appeared as the fabric rode up ever so slightly from her knees. “I was thinking I might just donate the money directly to you personally. I only trust a man with your mind and excellence to know exactly where the money could be of best use.”

His deep brown eyes settled onto hers, seeking what she truly desired. “And is there anything I can do for you in return? Besides helping you tidy your vaults, that is.”

Her moment had come. “There is but one little thing you could do for me.”

“Which would be…?”

“I would prefer it if you could expedite my husband’s release from Azkaban.” She knew her request was grand. She knew it might get rejected. She would have to try, nonetheless.

“Miss Granger-”

“Mrs. Malfoy.” She finally corrected. Her red painted lips slipping her new name and title with ease.

“Mrs. Malfoy.” Shacklebolt conceded respectfully. “He was set to be in Azkaban for six months. As per his probation.”

She allowed her tongue over the peak of her canine tooth. “Then make it three.”

“Six”

“Two hundred thousand galleons, Kingsley.” She reminded him with a slow pace. Emphasising each syllable, to the point where he could possibly feel the weight of the golden coins in his hand. “Directly in your pocket.”

He truly considered it. The offer caressed his mind, just as his tongue slipped his teeth. She knew she had more to offer, should he decline. Much more. The stacks upon stacks of gleaming, glistening golden galleons, gallantly gathered within Gringotts vault number three had more to offer than only two hundred thousand golden coins, one million pounds. Much, much more.

“Five.”

“Three.” She insisted, fighting the urge to bounce her foot. Fighting the urge to remain calm. “Or I shall have my solicitors contacted about the assault, the sexual harassment I experienced from one of my colleagues, the very same day my husband was arrested?”

She noticed the inner corners of his eyes twitch as he sized her up. She remained entirely calm. Collected. Though her pulse was pounding inside her chest. Her mind racing faster than a tweaked firebolt.

“Four. I can’t expedite it to three.” Hearing the words, Hermione picked up her purse, making to stand up from her chair. Wordlessly. “Mrs. Malfoy.” Kingsley stood first. “I swear it. The paperwork takes time. I will try my best to speed it up further, but I cannot guarantee it to happen any sooner than that.”

She pushed herself to her feet, her blade-sharp heels sinking into the purple carpet below her. “Then, for that, I will grant you fifty thousand galleons today, as a sign of good faith, and the remainder when he is released.”

The checked the time on his wall. She still had time for a decent lunch break after leaving his office. She might even consider taking a short day. She had next to no work to be done.

“Should you make it much longer than three, I suppose I could find room for some of my galleons elsewhere… Should you hurry, I believe I could find more coins that needs relocation.” She allowed herself to meet his eyes but for only a moment. A small twitch to her reddened lips once she coyly offered him more money to speed up the process. “Good day, Mr. Shacklebolt.”

“And good day to you too, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

As Hermione stepped in through the open archway to the kitchen, she heard the floor creak and groan beneath her feet. There was a slight pocket of air, where the floorboards lifted from the concrete beneath, causing them to creak, and the surface to give in beneath her. It was her final straw.

The flat was not at all what was advertised. It was much too small for her and Draco. Even with illegal, untraceable extension charms, she could not make it work, no matter how hard she may wish it. One would enter the hallway, which housed a row of hooks and a rack for one’s shoes, as well as a mirror and small end table to hold one’s keys.

There were two doors and an archway. Through the first door, on the northern most wall, one entered the bedroom. It could comfortably fit a large bed, easily accommodating the couple, though it would be very crowded with a dresser and a wardrobe. From the entryway, in through the door facing the east, was a washroom. The shower was small, and she found herself worrying that Draco would not fit beneath the shower head. Otherwise, it was entirely fine. Even with the bright red tile on the walls and silver hooks, having been screwed so tightly into the walls, it had cracked several of the tiles. Not to mention the black vinyl floor.

Through the arch pointing south, one would find the sitting room. It was only large enough for a settee and telly, perhaps a small table and two chairs, if one found themselves willing to sacrifice the sideboard space for a dining area. From the sitting room, one could enter through another open arch to the west, where one would find the kitchen. It was high-gloss, navy blue, with bronze door handles. And that was the entirety of the flat. It was small enough to fit into their Wiltshire solarium three times over.

“No.” said Theodore from the kitchen, only paces away from her. He appeared to be rather unimpressed by what little there was of the kitchen he stood. It was L-shaped, with no window and hardly appeared to have any surface space. The third wall was mostly bare, though the owner, Mr. Singh, had placed the recycling units along the wall, which were large boxes that could not be stacked.

“I agree with Nott.” Said Ronald from the lone window in the sitting room, just next to the settee that already stood there. “One bedroom. No fl- fireplace.” He shot Mr. Singh a look, hoping not to have raised any suspicion. “The sitting room hardly has room for me in here. Much less you and Draco and all your books and plants and stuff.”

“The floor creaks… And don’t even get me started on the washroom.” Theo continued, leaning his rear against the white laminate kitchen counter. “It was horrendous. Draco will never wash himself in there. And he’s been washed in Azkaban. That should tell you something.”

“Hey, boy, it’s not all bad.” Said Singh loudly, from where he stood in the small entryway.

“It’s a nice enough place, Mr. Singh.” Hermione quickly said, dousing the fire her friends had started, with much haste. “It’s just… My husband is...”

“Quite tall.” Ron chimed in; his arms stretched wide as through to measure the length of the room with his arms. Indicating that it was, indeed, quite too small for a home. Even in a case of emergency housing.

“Someone with standards.” Said Theo with clear distain and a rather big curl to his top lip. Hermione found herself thankful that Mr. Singh could not see him through the single wall that separated the entryway from the kitchen nook.

“Someone who has grown up in a manor. So, we will unfortunately need more space than this flat has to offer.” She wanted to grab the listing sheet and hit her newest friend over the head with it, though she only shot him a clear glare of annoyance.

Theo crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his shoulder pressing a back against the reflective, navy blue kitchen cupboard. “Why do you always have to be so nice to people?”

“Because being nice never hurt anyone, Theodore.” She reached her hand out, grabbing him by the rich fabric of his blazer, just at the elbow. “Now come on. We should leave, so Mr. Singh can show this place to others. Or just get on with his day.”

“You should honestly just buy the place you liked yesterday.” Theo said, following her out of her kitchen. “You know. The place just outside of Oxford. It was so beautiful! And I don’t think Draco will have anything bad to say about it at all.”

“It was a villa!” Ron said quickly, hurrying after the witch and wizard into the entryway, to leave. They were in the third level of a narrow building in southern London, Somewhere in Brixton to be exact, which meant everything was small. Everything was tight. Which in turn meant that they had to walk down the steps one after the other.

“It was a stand-alone home with a garden. Not everything bigger than the rickety garden shed you grew up in, is a villa.” Theodore said, and Hermione could practically hear the smirk on his lips as he walked down the stairs

She had sent them out first, before turning to thank Mr. Singh for his time. Then, she followed the men out. Down the many sets of tight stairs and out into the busy street outside.

“Okay. I’m done looking at listings for flats for let.” She announced to them as they gathered on the pavement outside. “I just wanted to see if we could find anything worthy, but I think I’ll need to buy.”

“Wise decision. Though, you have now checked out Limerick, Welshpool, Falmouth, Oxford, London and… What am I missing here, Weasley?” Theo turned his head to look at Ronald, who had counted the list on his fingers.

“Scarborough and Fort William.” Ronald counted off on his fingers, looked down at them and nodded his head firmly, finally pleased with what they had concluded; he had, indeed, counted correctly.

“And which place did you like the most?” Theo crossed his arms over his chest, one thick, expressive eyebrow quirking over his eye. “And be honest. We both know you have lists. Either physical or in your head.”

Ronald looked at the newest addition to their group with narrowed eyes. “You really shouldn’t know her that well already. It’s a bit weird, mate.”

The tall brunette turned towards the red-headed man with questioning surprise written over his features. “Do you forget who her husband is? Do you forget that he’s my best mate, and I literally heard him ramble on about her for hours on end, each and every day.”

“It can’t have been hours.” Hermione easily cut in.

“It sure felt like it. Granger this and Granger that. I probably know her better than most, just from hearing how Draco spoke about her for several years. Even when he was dating Pansy.”

Ronald grimaced, staring at the other man with complete, unbridled surprise. “Blimey… Was he really that obsessed?”

“If he wasn’t talking about ‘Granger and her stupid hair.’ Or ‘Smells like Granger’s been here’ whenever he smelled a baked good, or ‘Granger took the book I wanted.’, it was always about ‘That flat-faced cat of hers.’… Anyways, Granger! List! Off you pop.”

“R-right…” She gave a nod, trying not to let the men know how much just one comment affected her. How he had really spoken of her fragrance, even to his friends who weren’t supposed to know of his fascination with her. “The list. So, seeing as I work in London, Fort William, Scarborough, Limerick are off the list. When I’m at work, our connection will be broken due to the distance, and I can’t risk that, should he be taken by the killer.”

“That’s a list of seven turned into four. It’s certainly progress.” Theodore said, guiding both of his hands into his trouser pockets. “Do go on.”

“As for Falmouth and Welshpool, I really liked both places. However,” She noticed his Ron inhaled deeply through the nose, preparing himself for the storm of information to come. “Well, Falmouth obviously has the Falcons. Draco loves the Falcons, though I’m afraid that might mean we go to Quidditch matches every other day if he should so decide.”

“Sounds about right.” Theodore agreed in a low murmur.

“I know I would.” Ronald concurred with a shrug of his shoulder, his lips turning slightly downwards in obvious agreement with his new friend.

“And seeing as I don’t much like Quidditch, that puts Falmouth off the list. Welshpool was nice, but I think Draco would stand out too much there.” She glanced around them, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the thought that struck her. Though, she knew it would not mean anything to the men before her. “And I also saw the way the elderly ladies eyed the two of you. Like they wanted to take you home and show you… A very good time. Which means, I’m not letting Draco near them, and Welshpool is off the list as well.”

“Leaving Oxford and London.” Ronald said, before Theo could shape his lips around the words, warning himself a sharp hazel glare.

“London is simply too crowded for Draco at the moment, I fear. He’s dealing a lot with his anxiety, which I think might be a much larger issue when he’s released next.” She quickly tossed her favourite city, her very own childhood home, off the list. “Which leaves Oxford.”

“So, you need to get the house in Oxford, then.” Theo shot Ronald a sharp look, telling the freckled man that he had won that particular round of fast commentary.

“I think you mean villa.” The redheaded man muttered, just loud enough over the traffic that the two others could easily catch his words.

“It’s not a villa.” Snapped Theodore.

She found herself quite adoring the two men together. Granted, they were not the best of friends, though they were very much comfortable enough with one another to bicker. It could prove it might, indeed, be a budding friendship. Uniting another serpent with the red-headed lion.

Little did Ronald know, Ginny was trying to talk Theo into joining dinner at the Burrow once Draco was out. Seeing as he was, in fact, her boyfriend. Though, no one in the Weasley family knew a man with such a title existed in Ginny’s life.

“It’s a nice enough house… But wouldn’t it be too obvious for Draco and I to buy a grand place, just like that? Stand alone, in the countryside, with a large garden and twelve bedrooms?” She asked, her eyes lingering on her newest friend. “Because I think we should get a flat. It doesn’t have to be the size of a broom closet, like this one, but just a normal flat. With two or three bedrooms and a decent enough sitting room that can fit the two of us, and perhaps also a couple of friends.”

“Don’t forget you’ll need a floo.” Ronald reminded her with a friendly shrug to his shoulders and a grimace to match. “Can’t have people apparating in or out, sometime in the middle of the night. Neighbours won’t like it.”

“Wards won’t allow it either, Weasley.” Theodore’s lips pulled into the slightest of smirks, his shoulders broadening with the jolt of glee he appeared to feel. “At least not proper wards, like the ones a Malfoy or a Nott might have. You know, superior wards.”

“Stop making everything a bloody competition, mate. I’m just saying she needs a floo. Not that she won’t have good wards. Get a grip, you blasted tosser.” Ron turned his shoulder towards Nott, giving Hermione his entire, undivided attention. “So, are we going back to Oxford then?”

She smiled up at her ex-boyfriend. She found herself lucky to have him. He cared a lot for her as his imprisoned friend. He wanted her to be safe. To feel safe. To find her and Draco a place where the lurking murderer might not find them. Where they could spend their time together, waiting out the time until the killer was caught. They could travel. They could go anywhere. But they also needed to feel safe in their home. And at the point of Draco’s release, Malfoy Manor would unfortunately not be a safe space. Not for long.

She let her eyes linger on his for only a moment. Vibrantly blue. Honest and open as always. He was eager to go. Eager to get her to a location that would be safe for her and her husband. She turned her gaze, setting it upon the inquisitive hazel of Theodore Nott. “We can wait until tomorrow, if you’d rather not go today.”

Theo shrugged a shoulder light-heartedly, pulling his hands out of his trouser pockets. He checked the watch on his right wrist. Black leather straps on a simple, white, watch face with gleaming, emerald roman numerals. “It’s only one in the afternoon. So, let’s go to Oxford, get lunch and then find you and Draco a flat.”

Pansy Petronella Parkinson-Potter had been staying in Hermione’s old bedroom at the manor, ever since she decided she needed distance from her husband, eleven days prior. The two witches had been sharing a wall, which meant that more often than not, they shared a bed. Usually Pansy’s. Both witches often found themselves lonesome in the darkest hours of the day and thus allowed the other to keep them company. If only so their solitude wouldn’t be quite so overwhelming.

Hermione entered the dining room, meeting quite the selection of food. Food she had never before laid eyes upon. Food that smelled ever so delicious. “What on earth is this?” she asked with a light chuckle, stepping up to her usual dining chair, her hand resting atop the beautifully carved top of the backrest.

“Evidence of the fact that Pikes needs to learn to relax, is what this is!” Pansy sighed, her eyes scanning the vast amounts of dishes, beautifully spread along the table. “I simply told him I wanted Asian food but said that I couldn’t have sushi or other kinds or raw food.”

“So, Pikes made you all of the food available in the Asian continent?” She mused as she pushed the chair back and slid into it, taking her place at the table. “I guess we eat what we can, and send the rest to those in need?”

“Of course that’s what we do.” Pansy agreed, already reaching for a dish that appeared to be a sort of egg-soup, served in a sort of black, almost cast-iron bowl which Hermione had not seen the likes of before.

Hermione’s eyes scanned the table, eventually landing on something cylindrical, layered in bright red sauce. It was new to her. Completely strange, though it looked quite intriguing. She plucked a cylinder from the plate, popping it into her mouth with ease. The sauce was spicy, created with varieties of chilli peppers and other divinities. The cylinders themselves were chewy and not too flavourful, creating a nice completeness in her mouth.

“How did your day with Ron and Theo go?” Asked Pansy from across the table, her spoon ladled with egg and broth. Exactly what the witch might need in her usually nauseated state.

“It went well. I actually ended up buying a house.” She said, glancing up at the witch on the opposite side of the table from herself. “I mean- okay, so, I found a place I like, that Theo and Ron both approve of, and so I made an offer on it, and the owners agreed to it right away. Apparently it’s been for sale for a while. And standing vacant for a bit, too. The owners moved to Manchester before Christmas last year.”

“Doesn’t that usually mean it’s shit? Like there’s something bad about it?” Pansy asked, scooping up another spoonful of egg and broth. Seeing her friend eat without struggle eased Hermione’s heart tenfold.

“Muggles might think of it as bad. But I’m not a muggle. I can fix things. And I also have the money to pay muggle professionals for their services, wherever they would be needed.” She said, popping another chewy cylinder into her mouth.

“But didn’t you want a flat?” Asked the other witch. Hermione could see her eyebrow quirking beneath her softened fringe, emphasising her query. “What happened to that?”

“I would have preferred a flat over a semi-detached home, but… Well most flats didn’t have any place for a floo, and those that did, well, they were either much too small for Draco and I or they were in absolutely horrendous shape.” She confessed, leaning one elbow on the table before herself. “Only houses met our criteria. And so… I suppose I bought one. And you can of course come and stay there with me, with us, if you’d like. However long you’d wish. You and your little one will always be welcome.”

Pansys spoon halted in the air for a moment, then she nodded her head, and lowered the utensil carefully back into the broth. She had already devoured the egg. “I should probably talk to Harry again, shouldn’t I?”

After Hermione’s encounter with Harry in the drawing room, where she told the auror to inform his wife of what he had done, Pansy had soon shown up at the manors floo parlour. She was livid. Angry to the point that her entire body appeared to vibrate, all whilst tears streaked her face and her fists were tightened at her side.

She had told her one she would be staying for a while, and had Effie show her to her rooms. Hermione had given the other witch some time to breathe, before she had knocked on her door and entered.

Pansy had rubbed her eyes raw from drying the rivers of her tears. She had been crying her heart out. Screaming. She hated what Harry had done. Hated how he had been ever so awful, how he had acted as such a menacing, vicious beast with no regard to any life, apart from his very own. 

She had not spoken to him since. He had sent her owls. Daily. Sometimes several times each day. Every letter was opened in silence, red with the scrutinising gaze of the raven-haired witch, then tossed aside. She never responded to him. She never allowed herself to take a moment and write him. Because she was scared to give in to his pleading words much too early. She willed herself to give Harry exactly what he deserved, which was silence and space. A cold shoulder, no matter how much it pained her.

“He is your husband… I’ll never tell you to not talk to him, because I know what pain you’re in, being away from one another.” She said honestly, lowering her own utensils to the table before her. “Has she owled you again today?”

“Twice” the witch nodded, leaning back in her chair with a deep sigh, one she had seemingly held for far too long. “I don’t know what to do. He’s been vile. He’s destroyed so much, and he’s… He’s just…” her face contorted, as though suppressing a wince of physical pain. Eyebrows pulled together over watering eyes and lips pressed tight.

“Pans… It’s entirely understandable that you still love him. Even if what he did was wrong, he’s still Harry.” The food between them forgotten, Hermione rose to her feet and rounded the table with haste. She crouched next to her friend and pulled her into a tight embrace, one of which she knew was much needed.

A small series of soft sobs echoed through the dining room. All Hermione could do, was hold her friend and give her the unconditional support she needed. She knew it must be difficult, loving someone with her whole heart and hating what he had so easily, voluntarily, done.

She, too, had experienced moments of great heartache, when she thought of her own husband’s history. The horrid slurs he had let slip his lips with such ease, all throughout their time in school. How he had taken the dark mark. How he had taken so many lives. Though, she knew his heart. She knew his soul. She loved him, no matter his history and his flaws. That would never change.

“Perhaps you should go back to Grimmauld Place tonight? Just to talk to him?” She suggested, combing her fingers lightly through Pansy’s straight, black strands of hair. “I’m not saying you should go back to him if you’re not ready, not move back in if your heart isn’t in it, but I think the two of you might need to talk things out. Don’t you agree?”

Pansy hesitated for a moment, letting the words settle into her mind, then she nodded her head, reaching a hand to her own face to wipe at the wet trails that had left her eye. “Do you think it’s been enough time to see him again? Perhaps I should bring some food back to him? Make sure he eats… He often forgets to, when he’s stressed.”

Pulling back from the embrace, Hermione smiled to her friend. “I think it’s been more than enough time, where he’s had time to sit on his own and reflect on his actions. To see how it didn’t just affect Draco, but oh, so many others… So, yeah. I believe that might be a good idea. Talking and bringing food, I mean.” She had a feeling Pansy would only be returning to collect her things, though she would probably not be staying another night at the manor after returning to her husband. It would be lonely without the witch, though she knew Pansy and her unborn child would need stability and familiarity. Her home. Her husband.

“You don’t want to come, do you?” Pansy asked with furrowed brows, looking to the brunette. “Hear him out?”

“You know I’ve already heard what he had to say. And so, I don’t want to see him. Not for a while, at least.” She looked into the eyes of her friend. Soft green. Forlorn. “One day I’ll be able to give him another chance, but that day is not today. And most certainly not tomorrow.”

The weeping willow swayed beautifully with the cool autumn breeze. October had come, and Wiltshire was painted in vibrant hues of yellow and amber. The three swans waddled happily throughout the scattered leaves by the pond, their feet slapping lightly against the pebbled surface where she had once sat with Draco. Where she had lay her eyes upon a broken man and known he needed a friend, far more than he needed a reminder of his misdeeds.

The first swan lay its body into the water, setting itself off into the pond. The water rippled softly with the movements, with faint waves diminishing into nothing as the swan continued on. Its elegant neck curved into a beautiful arch.

The second swan was soon to follow. Then the third. Together, the trio set off into the water, allowing it to carry them to the furthest reaches of the pond and around the bend, where Hermione knew there was food awaiting them.

Winter would soon be upon them, and thus, they would need shelter from the blistering cold that could do more damage than good. Somewhere they were safe. Somewhere they would be warm.

“Effie?” She called softly into the crisp air of autumn. She barely had time to blink, before the sound of apparition rang through the air.

As always, the elf was dressed beautifully. With a floor length wool gown, red like matured terracotta,  and a tweed coat of brown hues to warm her. “Mistress,” she greeted with a smile. “What can Effie help with?”

“I was wondering if the swans have a place to stay in the winter?” She asked, allowing her eyes to drift to the bend, just where the swans had vanished behind. “They need more heat than this pond can give them, don’t they? Should I build them something, perhaps? Or- or raise a tent for them?”

“Mistress doesn’t have to worry. Edgar places the swans in the forest every winter, Mistress, where the wards keep all creatures warm.” The elf told her kindly. “It is where the Puffskeins and Forest Nymphs live, Miss.”

“Oh.” She said distantly. She should have figured the elves might have plans for the wildlife on the property, taking such good care of them. All she wanted was to lend a helping hand. To make any sort of impact on the lands she loved so much, the lands of her home, before she vacated it for an undisclosed amount of time. There was no telling when she and Draco would return. Or even if they would ever return.

They had the entire world at their feet. They could move about, experience all kinds of different cultures and people that the world had to offer. She had lists of places she yearned to visit, places she would only love to experience and explore with Draco by her side.

“Thank you, Effie. I’m glad they’ll be safe, come winter.” Her eyes followed the movements of the breeze that came upon the lands. The leaves rustling in succession and perfect harmony with one another. Dancing amongst each other over the open space of surprising size, well hidden within the hedge maze.

“Can Effie help Mistress with anything else?” Squeaked the smaller being whilst tucking her hands in beneath her coat to shield them from the chill of autumn.

“No, Effie. Thank you. You can go back inside if you wish.” She smiled down at her, and watched as Effie nodded her head with vigour, her tucked ears nearly hopping with the sharp movements. Then she vanished into thin air with the sound of a crack, echoing across the nearby water.

She almost could not believe how much her life had truly changed since the first time she had entered the hedge maze. Since the first time she lay eyes upon the pond. When she had felt her life was falling apart, when she was terrified of her future to come, she was brought there. To the centuries old, magical property. To the pond. Sitting before the sturdy and majestic willow tree, she learned to appreciate the world again. Learned to see the beauty of her surroundings. Learned to appreciate every minute detail of her life.

And there she stood, yet again, before the willow tree. She was calmer in her own life, feeling the uncertainties of what was to come had faltered from her mind. She knew with certainty that her husband would be freed from Azkaban within the next month and a half. She knew he would always be by her side. Apart from that, she did not bother worry much about life’s uncertainties. For unexpected happenings were part of life.

However, she needed Draco more than she needed her heart. For he was an anchor in her life. He grounded her, rooted her to normality. For without him, life was nothing but chaos and fear. With him, she had it all. She had peace of heart and of mind. She could see the world for what it was, and with him by her side, it was nothing but beautiful. It carried wonder and splendour she had never before known. Not until she truly knew him.

He had once told her that she, and she alone, made the world vivid. She had found it in herself, that she couldn’t disagree with him more. She might bring some colour to his life, she might brighten it, she might be what allowed the contrasts to appear more perfectly before his eyes. But without him, her life was nothing but dead and grey. He didn’t just make the world vivid; he gave the world around them the very colours, which were needed to be beautiful. He gave it unmistakable life.

Only together, did they make the world vivid.

She sat down in the grass. It had grown long, with each and every blade having yellowed and curved at the very top. Fingertips felt the dulled grass, massaging the crusted tip between her fingers. It crunched lightly between her pads as it broke from the remaining stand. Pulverised by a light smearing of her thumb.

The sky was glowing with the setting sun. The misting of clouds was beautifully painted of bright red and deep indigo. Though, closest to the sun, where the clouds evaded the horizon, the sky was the colour of peach and salmon. Soft and rich as it filled the sky with its beauty.

It was the peach that her Draco loved so very much. She wondered, hoped, even though he was sitting in his cell, if he might be enjoying the sunset alongside her.

The house was about a century old, and located in Summertown, Oxford, which was an area in the northern part of the town. It was roughly a twenty-minute walk to the university of the same city. The house itself was stowed beautifully in a quiet neighbourhood, where most houses were built of reddened bricks, and were tastefully hidden from view behind half-tall, masoned fences and tastefully draped trees.

There was a gravel driveway in the front of the house on the corner, where there was enough room for two cars Perhaps even three. Not that they even had one, though at least they had the option to obtain one, should they so desire.

On the bottom floor, was a rather large entryway with a large in-wall wardrobe. The hallway was large, with a carpeted staircase tucked against the wall. There were mostly rooms for storage, laundry and a washroom, though there was also a rather large room, having once been used as a ‘man-cave’ or football-room.

On the first level, was the kitchen. It was large, though was to be considered small in comparison to the kitchen within the manor. The cupboards and drawers were made of dark stained wood, golden handles, with a white granite countertop. She had softened it by adding hanging plants and a row of herbs in the windowsill, as well as hanging dish towels from the handle of the stove. The kitchen was large enough for a small table and chairs, though Hermione had not yet bothered purchasing them.

The dining room and sitting room were combined with three sections. The dining table was a long rectangle, created of black-stained wood, standing on two sturdy, solid columns beneath the tabletop. It could sit ten in total, though she had only decorated it with eight chairs. Black tufted velvet on black wooden legs. Four chairs were placed on either side, and the table was decorated with a beige velvet table runner and a simple vase, full of Virent Irides. The very same ones that Draco had given her throughout their relationship.

The fireplace was of red bricks, much like the outside of the home. Before it, she had placed a low, black coffee table and the violet velvet sofa from their most favourite room in the manor. The mantle atop the hearth had been littered with photographs. One from the Daily Prophet, where the two soulmates gazed at each other, as though finally realizing the immense depths of their feelings for one another. Just moments after she had told him she was a Malfoy. Not Granger. Another photograph was one Effie had taken of the pair. Sitting in the hedge maze, his head in her lap whilst he read for them, and she was leaning back on one arm, enjoying the sunlight on her face, whilst the other hand threaded his hair.

Further along, through a slight narrowing, just around a wall, was the sofa nook. Shielded from the rest of the sitting room. She had only bought what was available at the shop, which, in case of the sofa, was a large, L-shaped lounge of beige-toned grey fabric, she had made sure to pepper it with soft coloured throw pillows of various peach tones. The coffee table was black, just as the TV stand and the flat-screen telly on top of it.

On the same level of the home, was the library and the washroom. Only the washroom was of simplistic and modern design, fitted out with white tiles on the walls and deep grey on the floor. She had not decorated it. Only made sure there was enough toilet paper and a hand towel to get them settled into the home. The library was cleaned, though entirely untouched otherwise. The deep stained wooden shelves lined the walls, reaching the very much towering height of the ceiling. Her fingers itched to fill them. Itched to acquire comfortable furniture. Itched to light the fireplace and enjoy an evening with Draco, whilst rain or snow happened upon the streets of Oxford, and she lived within her very own paradise, with her husband by her side.

The second level of the home housed five bedrooms and another washroom. She had simply chosen the one which felt most like their bedroom in Wiltshire. She had painted the walls with the same pine green, and had bedside tables and dressers of deep brown, allowing the comforting familiarity to follow them from Wiltshire to Oxfordshire. The bed was beige, just as the curtains, and of the largest size available in any furniture shop in London. It was not quite as grand as the one they were used to, though it would be more than large enough to accommodate the two of them.

The time on the front of the stove read 3:14 PM. She stepped out of the kitchen, through a side door as she opened the post. An owl had delivered it to the manor in Wiltshire, and Effie had gladly delivered it to Oxford. The letter itself was sealed with the familiar purple wax of the ministry, and carried the familiar thin, swirly penmanship of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Her feet carried her up the masoned steps, mindlessly taking her from the safety of her new home to the lavish, green gardens in the back of the house. The garden was big enough for a dog, a solarium and a small house in the very back, possibly built for grilling in the beautiful, late summer evenings of the peaceful neighbourhood.

Tearing the wax seal apart, the took a deep breath and allowed her eyes over the script. Her heart thundered in her chest, with lashes fluttering helplessly, willing her tears to slip away. Urging them to vanish before they overwhelmed her.

Though, without warning, a heavy, salted droplet fell to the parchment in her hand. Then another. And another. If the sun had not been shining down above her, warming her hair and shoulders, she would have believed it to be the start of a thunderstorm. Her tears mixed with the ink, raising it from the thick surface it had been scribed upon.

The handwritten letter fell to the grass, just as she turned on her heel and rushed back into the house, barely managing to shut the kitchen door behind her in her haste, leaving the parchment behind, sunbathing in the freshly mown grass.

October 20^th, 2006

Mrs. H. Malfoy.

Draco L. Malfoy is set to be released today. Friday October 20^th, 2006 at 16:00.
He will need to be collected at Azkaban Prison. Should you not appear to collect him, he shall be reimprisoned until the end of his original sentence is over.
This would be January 21^st, 2007.

Sincerely,
Minister for Magic
Kingsley Shacklebolt

Her skin tingled and prickles with nothing but excitement and anticipation as the time slowly crawled forwards. Slowly growing nearer and nearer to sunset. There were no seats available in Azkaban. Not where she needed them to be. She had paced the lengths of the room time and time again as she awaited him.

She could feel him. Her body and his had connected hours prior, when she had arrived to collect him. She had felt how at ease he was. She had felt it in her body how relaxed and gleeful he was. How the echo of his heart, beating ever so beautifully within her own chest, was nothing but excited. Excited for his release. Excited to go home. Excited to reunite with his normal life. Excited to reunite with her.

The clock on the wall showed her how long she had been. Three and a half hours of waiting. Three and a half hours of pacing back and forth along the room, possibly wearing a trail into the flagstone floors from where the soles of her shoes had slapped with every step, from where the rubber had rubbed whenever she had turned at the base of the wall. Three and a half hours of sheer annoyance. For he was so close, she could almost smell him in her vicinity, yet she could not unite with him until he walked out through the metal door in the northern corner of the room.

She ran her fingers along the flagstone walls, feeling how the rivers of cement held the stones in place. Sturdy. Unfaltering. She felt how the large slabs of stones had been carved and cut, uneven and somewhat sharp in places, though never sharp enough to cut. Her nails scraped lightly at the surface, taming their unease with the slight twinges of discomfort as they snagged on the stones beneath her fingertips.

All she wanted to do, all she yearned for, was to sink her body against his. To wrap her arms around him, her fingers gripping his clothes as she was finally allowed near him once more. To wrap her arms around him. To bring him closely against her body.

Yet, after three and a half hours of waiting, it almost felt impossible. Reuniting with him felt so far out of her reach that she had no feasible way of obtaining it. She wished to reach beyond the wall and collect him from whatever may be taking so long.

She stopped, leaning her back against the chilled flagstone. She heard the rush of the waves outside. Heard how it crashed hard against the rocks outside. How the water slapped against the stone structure of Azkaban prison.

The door in the corner opened, and a man stepped through, looking at her whilst holding a paper form between his hands. “Here to collect?”

“Yes!” She eagerly swung her body from the flagstone behind her. “My husband. Draco Malfoy.” Her legs carried her forwards, hurriedly stepping up to the guard. “He was set to be released at four. Is he back there?” She nodded her head towards the door, which had swung shut behind the man with a hard, metallic clang.

“Just fill out these forms. He’s getting dressed right now, so you’ll get to take him home soon.” He handed her the two sheets of thin paper and a self-inking quill. She nodded her head with vigour, feeling her breath quiver as she inhaled deeply. “I’ll be out with him in a few minutes.”

As soon as he turned his back to her, she hurried to fill out the forms. Giving her name, birthday, magical identity number, home address and the same information about her husband, including the runes that were permanently branded onto his neck, in stark black ink.

Her fingers trembled as she stood by the door, clutching the quill to the point she feared it might break in half within the force of her grip. She gazed hopefully at the door, hoping to see the worn brass handle turn at any moment.

She hadn’t seen him since Theodore and Ronald had brought her to see him. She hadn’t held him since they shared their last goodbye, almost a full month before. She had not been allowed to return for a visit, unless bribery would be included. She was not on his list, and after the ordeal with Kingsley Shacklebolt, she did not wish to spend more money than she needed to. And transferring copious amounts of galleons to most Azkaban guards did not appear to be a great idea.

She heard something on the other side of the door. Mumblings. Mutterings. Voices speaking to one another. She felt the echo of his heart beating with elated relief. Then, she observed it. The handle pushed downwards. The scratches and divots of the brass shimmering in the torchlight. She took one step back, just as the door swung outwards, and she once more was faced with the guard from before.

Though, behind the bearded brunette, stood her husband. Tall and thin. His skin was hued of grey, with evident, purple bruising beneath his eyes. He had lost a lot of weight in the three months since his incarceration, returning to the weakened and skeletal form she recalled from their first meeting at the pond.

She didn’t even look at the guard as she ushered the quill and paper back into his hands. She couldn’t get to Draco soon enough. Couldn’t fathom how she could possibly be apart from him for even a second longer. He appeared to have the same thoughts as her, with his slender body slipping around the burly build of the guard and colliding with hers.

The tingling in her skin topped the very moment her body connected with his. The buzzing in her ears stilled entirely, once her arms were wrapped tightly around his middle. She allowed her fingers to grip onto the jacket he had worn when he got arrested, feeling the fibres of the fabric with the pads of her fingers. She had felt his other blazers and jackets in their dressing room, though nothing could compare to how the fabric felt when it had been warmed by his body.

Only minutes prior, she had envisioned how it would feel like to return to him. How it would feel to be back in his arms. Though nothing could compare to the reality of the situation. Nothing could compare to the feeling of her body pressed against his. With layers of clothes separating them, she still felt as though they were connected deeper than ever. Their souls finally finding ease with the couple reuniting against a lengthy time apart.

His nose was pressed into the top of her head. His lips peppering longing kisses into her unruly curls. She could feel his chest rising and falling with each simple breath. A telltale sign he was, in fact, alive. He was, in fact, there. Her nose was buried against his oxford shirt, feeling the beat of his heart vibrating at her cheekbone.

Long, bony fingers clawed at the back of her knit jumper, fingertips digging lightly into the masks of Molly’s creation, as though he wanted every part of them to melt into the other.

Holding him, having him, knowing he was truly coming back to her, it all felt amazing. It filled her being with glee and wonder, knowing she did not have to release him until he asked her to. She did not care that he was dirty. She did not care if he had not bathed for months. She did not care if his hair was not combed. All she cared for, was that he was coming home with her. All she cared for, was that he was safe.

With her heart and soul completed, with her nose sated of finally returning to the scent she loved so much, she lifted her head to look at him. Locking her eyes onto the molten silver she had longed to gaze into for far too long. “Let’s get you to safety.” She whispered softly. The tip of his nose rubbed lightly against hers, his head nodding faintly with agreement.

“Anything you want, love. Just don’t let go of me.” His voice was but a whisper in the arrival hall of the prison. “Don’t tell me this is just a fantasy.”

“It’s not a fantasy, Draco.” She retorted in the very same fashion as he had, just moments before. “You’re coming home with me. And I will not be leaving you, not to go anywhere, for the foreseeable future.”

Her rightmost hand shifted from behind his back, taking his left. She felt the wedding band was loose on his finger, his it moved with her as she entwined her digits between his. Reluctantly, her body parted from his, causing his grip to tighten immensely around her fingers. She squeezed his in return, a quiet promise that they were not to part. Not until he was ready. Not until they were both ready. And she knew with certainty that she was not yet mentally, nor physically sated enough to release him.

“I’m right here.” She vowed to him, watching as his eyes were so intently locked on hers. How they were focused on every detail. As though she might vanish before his eyes. “Come, Draco. Come with me.” She smiled as his long legs led him forwards, following as she stepped backwards, to the departing floo hearth. She did not have to use powder, all she had to do, was hold onto him, and guide him through to the other side. To their new home. The home Draco did not know about. “Malfoy house.” She spoke clearly, fingers gripping his hand tighter whilst she walked into the tongues of green.

Draco’s eyes flitted around with complete confusion as they stepped out in the Oxford home. The first sight that greeted him, was the violet sofa of tufted velvet. “Hermione?” He asked, allowing his head to turn, finally scanning their surroundings. “Where are we?”

“Don’t worry too much…” She said, quicky fishing her wand from her back pocket, closing the floo as soon as she possibly could. “The killer has said you’d be next. That they would come for you once you were out from Azkaban.” Leading him towards the sofa, their sofa, he sat down. He did not release her. Not even in his utter surprise and horror. “So, I was worried they might have a way to reach us at the Manor, and I decided to buy us a new home.”

“Wait- Wait… Did you tell anyone about this?”

“Ronald and Theo. They came with me to look at the house and make sure it was decent enough. Bill Weasley came to help us set the wards.” She held onto his hand with both of his, feeling the manner of which his veins draped over his bones and tendons. How the skin was pulled tightly over his knuckles.

“And the ministry?” he urged nervously, his eyes scanning her face, both with worry and as though he needed to drink in every minute detail of her appearance.

“Still think we reside at the manor. Effie has been tasked to bring us the post, and to make it look as though someone still lives there regularly.” She saw him ease slightly, his shoulders easing with tension. “We have blood wards here, Draco. We have a sense of privacy now, that we did not have at the Manor. Because no one knows of this property. No one knows it belongs to us.”

He inhaled deeply though the mouth, filling his lungs to the brim with unsalted air. “And… And where are we, exactly?”

“Oxford.” She smiled, rubbing her thumbs lightly over the lengths of his fingers. “And the elves can still pop in whenever we need them to. All we have to do, is call for them. They are not hindered by the wards.”

He nodded his head, his fingers flexing in her hand, to the point where they could entwine with hers once more. “And… Is there a bath in this house?”

“There is,” She smiled. “Just upstairs. We have an en-suite with a rather large bath in it.” She watched as his silver eyes glittered with mirth and mischief. Oh, how she had missed him. How she had missed everything about him. The small smirk, tugging so effortlessly on the corner of his lips, lit her world. “Would you like for me to show you?”

His smirk broadened, graduating into a smile, and she knew he agreed. She stood to her feet, bringing him up alongside her. She led the way, taking slow, even steps as to not rush him through their new home. She glanced over at him, watching him as his eyes took in the new setting around them. He was not confused, nor was he upset. She could feel it in herself, how he was appreciative of what she had done, what lengths she had passed to make sure he was safe.

“You did… You really did all of this for me?” He was astounded. His eyes shifting from the sight of the fridge, settling back onto the gaze of his wife.

“Of course I did. I would do anything for you, Draco. Anything at all.” She reminded him, just as they entered the corridor and started up the stairs. “I love you with my entire being. I will never let anything happen to you, if I can help it. I will turn the world upside down, I would burn everything to the ground and tear people apart, just to keep you safe.”

He halted at the step beneath her, making their eyes levelled to one another. “I’m supposed to be the one telling you that…”

“You can tell me next time.” She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips, lifting her cheeks with the utmost joy. He was truly there. He was truly with her. And he was beautiful and perfect in any and every regard.

He picked the vanilla soap from the shelf and opened the bottle. He brought it to his nose with one swift motion and inhaled it, a small smile spread over his face as he appeared to enjoy the scent. “This one… Definitely this one.” He eventually confirmed.

He stood relaxed against the washroom counter, his jacket discarded over a chair, the topmost buttons of his shirt had become undone as he prepared for his bath. In certain aspects, he seemed to be entirely fine. He was much slimmer, and he seemed relaxed. At ease. Perfectly okay. Though, there was the slight tremors in his hands, and the sudden spasms of the muscles in his forearms. There was the manner in which his eyes grew distant and vacant, where a memory or perhaps something the dementors had altered within him, appeared to flash before his eyes.

He was present to her. He was there, living in the moment, though, not entirely. There was a small part of him that had been lost, a small part of his spark that had faded. The way his smile did not quite reach as far as it once had. The way he seemed lost to his own world, yet still present enough to answer her.

She gingerly took the bottle from his hands, pouring some of the liquid into the warm water, which was slowly filling the bath. The aroma of vanilla and honey seeped through the room as the soap disintegrated.

“Hey,” she said, catching his gaze once more, snapping him out of what might have been occupying his mind. She took a tentative step towards him, her fingers latching onto the row of opened buttons on his chest. She started opening the next. And the next. Trailing them lower. She was careful, lending him a helping hand whilst her eyes were focused entirely onto his. They were not the familiar and much beloved molten silver with blue specks, but misty grey. Just like the many mornings she had spent without him. “Where is your mind going off to?”

His head shook, eyes shifting away from her briefly, just to look down at her hands, and then they came back to her. “It’s nothing… It really isn’t.” Something in her eyes must have told him exactly how she didn’t believe him, for he sighed and covered her hands with his own. He removed them from the opened bottom of his shirt and carefully laced his fingers between hers. “I’m just… Waiting for the dementors to turn this into a nightmare.”

Her head nodded as she took another step closer to him. Her knit jumper grazed the line of bare skin. “The dementors aren’t here, Draco. I promise you with every fibre of my being, that they will never come for you again. You’re safe. Your memories are safe. Your happiness is safe.”

His brows furrowed, eyes shutting tightly below them. He gave quick, small nods and inhaled deeply through his nose. “I don’t deserve you…” his voice was only a whisper, ghosting the smell of spearmint toothpaste over her face.

“You and I were meant to be.” She reminded him as her fingers slipped from his hands. They travelled to his chest, following the path of lithe muscles towards his shoulder, where the fabric of his oxford slipped from his frame and landed in a pool of crisp white atop the floor. “Written in the stars and brought together through time and space, if to give each other the love and happiness we both deserve.”

Long arms rounded her waist, moving her body closer to his, where they were pressed flush against one another. His eyes were opened once more. Flitting between her eyes and her lips in silent question, begging to kiss her, as though she could ever deny him something she longed for just as much.

Pushing herself to her toes, her hand slipping into the long, white hair at the base of his nape, she pressed her lips to his. Tender and tentative. His lips were dry, yet soft as they pressed against hers.

And with their lips united, the final threads of their tapestry connected. Healing the threads that had been ripped apart nearly a month prior. She felt complete. She felt as through her heart and soul was soaring, flying through the air and painting the vivid hues of the sunset. He tasted of hope. Hope for their happiness. Hope for the lengthy future that lay ahead of them.

She didn’t let the kiss last as long as she wished. The bath had filled sufficiently, and the tap needed to be shut off. Without parting her body from his, she leaned back, still safely held against his body, and pressed the silver handle downward.

He followed after her, reaching over her bent body to press another sweet little kiss to her lips. “I love you, Hermione.”

She smiled against his lips, barely able to return it before he broke apart, his fingers trailing her sides perfectly as his grasp on her slipped, eager for his first warm bath in months. “I love you too, Draco. Now get in, and I’ll go prepare food for us.”

His bath was long and much overdue. She heard the water draining through the pipes in the wall, letting her know it was over. His footsteps crossed the floor, from their en-suite bathroom and into their bedroom. She smiled to herself, leaning back against the kitchen counter as she awaited his arrival.

It was such a nice change of pace, being able to hear proof that she wasn’t alone. Hearing the footsteps of the man who harboured her heart. Hearing the soft rustles of fabric as he dressed himself. How his footsteps trailed across the floor as he walked to the stairs. The pace at which his feet hit each step below. She could count the seconds until he would enter the kitchen.

5…

She pushed her curls behind her ear, looking towards the corner he would round in only moments.

4…

She heard him land from the final step, his weight settling gently onto the herringbone floor.

3…

His long legs carried him forwards. In through the arch of the sitting room, where he could see the violet sofa, which she had brought in from the manor. Their pictures together atop the mantle.

2…

His steps came closer. His pace leisurely as he stepped towards the open, French doors of the kitchen.

1…

She couldn’t help herself but to smile. To look at exactly the spot in which his eyes would appear to her.

And there he was. The man she would spend eternity adoring to no end. Tall, entirely made of hard lines and accents of silver. A true sight to behold. His hair was pulled back, secured with an elastic at the back of his head, causing small wisps of wavy, stray hairs to frame his cheekbones perfectly.

He had dressed himself in black joggers and an oversized, black T-shirt, which draped his body effortlessly. “Hey,” He greeted her, entering through the opened French doors. “This place you’ve chosen… It’s amazing.” He confessed with wonder, his long legs carrying him ever closer to her.

She extended her arms, welcoming him into them as he was finally near enough. “You like it? It’s entirely muggle, you know.” She couldn’t help but purse er lips, trying to suppress a grin. “I’ll have to teach you all about the fridge… And the telly.”

“And the little squares on the walls?” He nodded his head towards a double light switch. One switch for the sconces on either side of the French doors. One for the work-lights under the overhead cupboards. Just below the switch was a circular dimmer, for the overhead lights. He would have to press it to turn the lights off or on, and twist to dim or brighten. She had a feeling it might be fun to let him explore. 

“You should try that one out right now.” It earned her a look of scepticism, where his brows raised and his eyes sharpened. “It won’t bite you or shock you. Just try it out.”

“And what if it does bite?” He asked, his voice laced with curiosity and mirth. His arms detangled from her body as he slowly neared the switches. “What will you do then?”

“I will call the news, of course. Because if it happened, it would be the very first time a plastic thing has grown teeth and bit a man.” She crossed her arms lightly over her chest and watched him proceed with caution.

He looked at the switches before pressing his finger onto one of them. The top part of the switch was pushed inwards beneath the pad of his forefinger, causing the lights beneath the cupboards to turn off. He located what happened, and flipped the switch again, turning them back on. “It really controls the lights?” He asked with excitement. He left the cupboard lights on, then turned to the other switch. The sconces flicked on and off, earning a grin of pure joy to spread across his features.

Next in the queue was the dimmer. He pressed his forefinger to it, and it turned ever so slightly. He did not notice how the light became just a fraction brighter. “Does it do anything?”

“It does. Just try again.” She rested her hip against the counter as she watched him explore the simplest of muggle electricity. He pushed at it again, turning it in the other direction, nearly turning out the overhead lights completely. A sound of awe escaped him, as he once more brightened the lights. He pressed it to turn it off. Then on. He dimmed them, brightened them to the maximum, then lowered it again, allowing a comfortable display of light to drape over them.

“Fascinating.” He said in a low voice, his silver eyes focused on the ceiling above them, and the lights that were settled into it, in three rows of five. She felt her heart thunder in her chest. Happily watching as her husband learned something about her life, and the world she had grown up with.

How beautiful he was when he was amazed. His eyes lit up like that of a child’s, on the most magical day of all. She couldn’t help herself but smile. Couldn’t help but feel as the butterflies tickled the lining of her stomach as she watched him, feeling them as they fluttered around with intensity.

“Are you hungry?” She asked, not acknowledging how her voice cracked ever so slightly, caused by how much she wanted to rush over to him and pull him into her embrace. To never let him go. “I made chips with bacon and cheese again.”

That caught his attention. His eyes lowered their focus from the ceiling, landing upon her with intensity. “You made that for me?”

“Of course I did. I know you liked it last time you struggled with food. So, I thought might be a good choice for this evening.” She could almost read his thoughts. She knew what question was coming from the glint in his eye and the slight purse to his lips.

“How much cheese did you slaughter this time?” He stepped closer to her, his focus mostly on how he willed himself ever so hard to not smirk. Tried so hard to not show her, he found it just as silly as she did.

“Actually.” She stepped around him. Pulling the fridge door open by the silver handle. She reached inside, pulling out a bag of shredded mozzarella and cheddar, purchased from Sainsbury’s just a day prior. “This time, it came pre-slaughtered.”

Chapter Text

With his nose buried against her chest, breathing her in through the fabric of her sleep shirt, Draco knew with certainty that he would be the one to fall asleep first.

She felt like utter perfection in his arms. Everything about her was a comfort unlike any other. With her presence, there came a feeling of serenity and contentment. As though everything was right in the world. He had never, in his entire life, missed someone as much as he had missed her in their three months apart.

Legs were entwined with one another beneath their down duvet. Skin to skin, as they had both merely opted to sleep in their underwear and sleep shirts. His arms were wrapped securely around her middle, making sure she wouldn’t, couldn’t, go anywhere. One hand was gripping tightly to her shirt, willing her presence in his arms to be a reality. To be true. To be anything but another fantasy or hallucination. His other hand had secured itself into her curls, coiling the ringlets of brown hair ever so effortlessly between his fingers.

She was so incredibly soft and warm against him. She was inviting and comfortable and absolutely everything he had longed for in their time apart.

The scent of vanilla and black tea entered his nostrils on every inhale, reminding him of the fact that he was out of Azkaban. Freed from hell. He was safe. And best of all, was that she was there.

Her nose was in his hair, pressing small kisses to his forehead and the top of his head more often than not. Her fingers were entangled in the white-blonde lengths, combing them away from his face. Her other arm lay draped over his shoulder, her palm pressed to his back to make sure he breathed.

And breathe, he did. Deep and steady breaths, where he inhaled her scent. Where he matched his breathing to hers and felt as her fingers shifted ever so slightly over his shoulder, following the fabric as his lungs filled and emptied with her essence.

He felt every muscle in his body relax against her. The tension that had been building across the entirety of his body for the previous three months, slowly fading to naught.

Each deep inhale felt of safety. Each time the cotton of Hermione’s oversized sleep shirt shifted with her breaths, he knew he was where he was supposed to be. He felt a slight muscle spasm in his forefinger as his mind steadily grew fogged with the labours of the day.

Another kiss against his head. The rounded lengths of Hermione’s fingers scraping lightly against his scalp, the freshly washed strands of white slipping through her digits with ease.

“Sleep well, Draco,” Her voice was but a whisper, a gentle and soft caress in the night. He had no energy left to open his eyes, much less respond to her. He wanted to tell her good night. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to kiss her and know she fell asleep first, safely stowed in his arms. “I love you.”

Though, however much he wanted to, he found himself unable to. He only drifted deeper and deeper away, to a land where his mind could finally unwind, to a land where he could finally, hopefully, have a long and relaxing night of uneventful and undisturbed sleep.

“Draco?” Her fingers slipped onto his shoulder in a tentative, gentle touch. It brought him back to earth. Back to where he was firmly planted in the doorway of their new home. He had his bare feet resting on the gravel before the home, his eyes lost, distant, as he watched the quiet neighbourhood before dawn had comer. “How long have you been out here?”

“Don’t know.” He answered truthfully. He inhaled deeply through the nose, feeling the fresh, chilled and humid air of the early autumn morning. It was crisp as it filled his lungs to the very brim, where he held it for several seconds, then exhaled exhaled, ridding himself of the daze he had been in.

“I woke up and you weren’t there…” she closed the front door behind them, easing in to sit down next to him. “What have you been looking at?” She asked, just as she wrapped both arms around one of his own, hugging it closely to herself. His hand slipping from his own knee, only to fall into a much better position, where it rested on her bare calf. Smooth and silken beneath his touch.  

“The trees. The leaves are yellow…” he told her. It had been his biggest fixation since he had come out and sat atop the cemented platform before door. The leaves and the lamp post before the house had been his focus. He hadn’t thought much, hadn’t forced himself to slip into his memories or what may lie deeper; what was troubling him. No, he had merely observed. “Last I saw leaves, they were bright green.”

She shifted. The tip of her nose pressing lightly against his shoulder. She breathed him in. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course it does.” She didn’t have to elaborate on her question. He knew what she meant. He knew exactly what she wished to ask. “I was supposed to be gone for a week, Hermione. Just to see if there might be something to find out. And I had to spent three months away from you. Away from our life together…”

Honestly, there was nothing more to do than shake his head. He originally hadn’t wanted to go back. Hadn’t wished it upon his worst enemy to return to Azkaban. Potter, however, had convinced him of the necessity, how Draco was the only person who could give any sort of information. Then, he had been sent away for three months.

“I could have spent those months so much better. I could have spent much of that time visiting my mother. I could have spent every day worshipping you. I could have helped the case along in other ways.” He turned his head to look at her, only to be met with a hard and disagreeing glare from the woman he loved.

“You worry too much about others.” It was a sentence which Draco had never expected to hear. He might have had a few, small selfless deeds to carry with him, though he was far too selfish to be considered someone who cared too much about others. No. Draco was selfish. He was greedy. He always had been, for as long as he could remember. Always wanting the best. Always having the best. Being one step ahead of others or being in a position where other may envy him.

Though, he found himself considering her words. How he truly did care about those around him, her most of all. Of course, he was selfish in the way he always wanted to be around her. Greedy in the way he did everything he could to see her smiles, particularly if she smiled in his direction, to something he had done or said.

But he also knew it might not all have been due to his greed. Knew that somewhere, beneath it all, lay the soul of someone who cared for others. For the sentence slipped his lips, before he could stop himself.

“What else is there to worry about?”

“Yourself, for starters.” She trailed her fingers lightly over the Dark Mark on his leftmost arm. It was one of his greatest shames. Faded on the pale surface, much like a permanent shadow upon his skin. It nearly seemed to coil, like billowing smoke. Not fully there, yet never truly gone. Not as long as someone who wore it, shared the views of the Dark Lord. A constant reminder that there was bigotry and people who refused to change. “You could have gone to see your mind healer, had you been out. You could’ve gone flying or played quidditch. You could have painted if you so desired. Created potions or gone to the library or… Anything. You could have done literally anything for yourself and for your mental health.”

He truly found no good words to express his gratitude for her. How she always wanted the best for him, and how she reminded him of how he could achieve the stability he so desperately yearned for. He turned his body slightly, opting to face her. He found himself smiling at how she was resting her face against his arm, how relaxed she looked whilst holding onto him quite so securely. “I’ll do what I can, from now on. Thank you for always taking care of me, love.”

The couple shared a small smile. He could tell she was tired, that she hadn’t planned on spending her night alongside him on the front step of the house. Her hair was a beautiful mess of wild curls, framing her sleepy face ever so beautifully. Her eyes were half-lidded and her cheek bore signs of the slight creases in the pillowcase she had slept on.

“So, do you want to tell me why you’re awake?” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper in the early morning hours. She rested her cheek lightly against shoulder as she kept holding onto him. He could stop himself from adoring the manner in which her cheek squished against his bony body.

“It’s nothing, really. I just kept falling asleep and waking up all the time. So, I went downstairs for a glass of water. And I was curious about the neighbourhood, so I came outside.” He demonstrated his bare legs by patting his bare knee with his free hand, the sound of soft claps earning him a sleepy smile from his most beloved. “I couldn’t exactly go for a walk dressed like this, so I stayed by the door. Just observing what I could see from here.”

Her eyes were focused on him, though she didn’t move. Her brows were slightly furrowed and her eyes narrowed “You’re certain you didn’t have a nightmare?”

“Not that I recall,” he told her with the most sincere honesty. He leaned in closer to her, if only to press a kiss to the side of her head, where her curls tickled his nose ever so slightly.

She shifted her body closer to his, her bare legs pressing against his own, using what excess he had of body heat to warm herself. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything. You know that.” He rubbed his thumb lightly over her skin. The echo of her heart, residing within him, told her she was at peace. Relaxed and happy in the moment they shared.

“Why did you agree to go back to Azkaban?” He should have seen the question coming. He truly should have. He had awaited it for far too long, and she had been ever so patient with him that entire evening. But, who was he to hold her from an answer?

He inhaled deeply through the nose, expelling the breath from between his lips. “I mostly agreed because of what happened to Dolohov. He died with your name carved into his back, in a way that spoke very clearly of escalation from the killer. And I just wanted to do my part, to help however I could. Because if the killer came for you next… I don’t know what I would have done. If you had been injured, of Merlin forbid, murdered because of your affiliation to me, I simply just… I don’t have idea how I would have lived on without you. And so, when your oldest friend practically begged me to go in, I just couldn’t say no. I knew I had to do what I could, if only to make sure you were safe.”

Her head nodded against his arm, her cheek still pressed to his chilled skin. “But by agreeing to help, you separated us…”

“It was only supposed to be for a week. I knew we could do a week apart. I knew it would be awful, but I knew we could do it. Especially if it actually proved useful.” Rolling his jaw, he pulled his eyes from her for only a moment. “Three months, however, was not anticipated. Nor was it agreed upon. And I am really, truly sorry for leaving you for so long.”

He felt her head nod against him once more. “And why didn’t you tell me?” She wasn’t accusing. She was simply curious. Open and willing to hear his side of things.

“I wanted to.” He glanced back at her before looking away once more, feeling shame spreading throughout his chest. “I really did. But then I heard your voice in my head, yelling at the bastard to leave you alone… And then I saw you, and how he had treated you. I saw how hurt and upset you were. And then, when I saw the smug look on McLaggen’s face, I couldn’t let him go. He had hurt you beyond words, Hermione. He assaulted you, and there was no way I’d let him walk out of there without facing the repercussions… And then, I didn’t get to see you again until your birthday.”

“Ronald said you had promised not to say anything.” She reminded him of the agreement made within the conference room at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“We all agreed it might not be the best to let you in on the full plan.” He confessed. “But you should know, had I had the time, I would have told you. I’ve never wanted to keep anything a secret from you. I just would have explained it properly.”

Her hold around his arm tightened. His fingers squeezed her calf lightly, feeling the softness of her moisturised skin. “Promise me to never do anything like that again.”

 “I promise you. I’m so, so sorry. And I’m also sorry for leaving in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She nudged her shoulder lightly against him, her arms slipping from around his. “But I really want to go back to bed, with you, if you don’t mind.”

His eyebrow quirked slightly as he noticed the slight hint in her tone of voice. Oh, how he appreciated the witch by his side. “Only if I get to show you how much I’ve missed you?”

“Anything you want, my good sir.”

Together, they stood from the front step of their new Oxford home and walked inside. Her fingers were entwined between his as she led him up the stairs, heading towards their bedroom.

Draco did anything but complain about following behind her. For, with every step she took, her rear wobbled tauntingly before him. Her glorious thighs only made him appreciate the view all the more, his eyes never leaving her beautiful and enchanting being.

The door was left ajar as he pulled on her hand, causing her body to collide with his. “Draco, wh-” He swiftly closed the gap that had resided between them, their lips crashing with fevered expectancy.

She did not object. She did not pull away from him. On the contrary. Her body melted against his, pressing their two figures against one another in a manner he had most certainly not been expecting for the evening.

His hold around her waist tightened, feeling her muscles flex as her back arched towards him, uniting the fronts of their physical beings with the unyielding force of their souls. The pull he had familiarised himself with, the pull of longing, the pull of needing her, returned to him in full capacity.

The warmth of her body felt as though it eased over him like a blanket, allowing itself to sink into his very essence. It slipped under his skin, allowing the fibres of his muscles to feel the pulse that radiated from her touch. The fire of her touch settled into his bones, and he was unable to hold himself back. The internal pull of their souls was stronger than he had ever felt it. It was electric. It was magnetic. It was insatiable.

Her lips parted in a sigh of yearning, granting his tongue access to her own. She tasted of spearmint. He could feel her tongue slip along his, exploring and tasting the man who she hadn’t had accessible for far too long.

One of her legs hiked up along his side, tugging at his sleep shirt whilst she wrapped it around his middle, urging his body closer to hers as the pair stumbled towards the bed together.

They broke apart for a brief moment, where she landed atop the bed crawling backwards to give him access to join her. His eyes never leaving hers, gaze set on her orbs of glittering gold, he followed her, his knees and palms sinking into the mattress as his lips once more found hers.

His hand started at the middle of her calf, where his fingertips lightly brushed along the curve of her thigh. Goose bumps rose along her exposed flesh, following the trail that his fingers had created along her sun kissed glory.

She arched her back off the mattress beneath them, her fingers clinging at the fabric that hung loosely around his frame. Her kisses grew hungrier, needier, with lips pressing wantonly against his as his hands pushed the fabric of her sleep shirt up along her body. He exposed her middle to the dim light of dawn, which permeated through the curtains.

Ever so reluctantly, his lips parted from hers. Pushed himself up on his knees, he swiftly took his grey sleep shirt by the lower hem and pulled it up, allowing it over his head, which left him entirely in his black underwear. He recognised the spark of hunger in Hermione’s eyes, where they flicked between his body and his eyes with evident appreciation. He tossed the shirt aside, hearing it land somewhere off the side of the bed.  

Her chest heaved beneath her sleep shirt, laboured breaths causing her breasts to press against the fabric of her sleep shirt. Hardened nipples making an appearance beneath the loose fit white cotton. Her shirt was already pulled up on the side, exposing her slightly tanned skin and maroon knickers. His eyes landed on hers as his hands followed the delicious curve of her hips, slowly inching up along the arch of her soft, warm and welcoming body, slowly revealing her body by collecting the fabric at his wrists.

He came down over her like a shadow, pressing a light, open mouthed kiss to her stomach as her skin was gradually exposed to him. He pressed his lips to the freckles of her ribs, where his tongue could taste the sleep-ridden skin of his wife. 

As the fabric was eased over the beautiful display of her breasts, as did his lips. Tasting her irresistible, pebbled nipples. One after the other, letting his tongue flick and swirl around them both. He trailed his lips against the path of freckles on her chest, his hands pulling the oversized shirt past the remainder of her body and head, where he finally freed her of the blasted cotton barrier.

Once the garment had been tossed aside, he crashed his lips hard against hers. She tasted of lust and longing, he could feel the wild electricity of her body against his fingertips. The manner in which her body pulsed with a seemingly insatiable need, her skin tingling with the power of lighting at his touch. Her fingers grabbed at his silvery hair, holding him in place as their tongues mingled once more. Moving against one another’s with fevered need whilst her legs wrapped around his middle, encouraging him closer against herself.

Oh. Oh. He knew had felt slightly light headed after crawling into bed with her.

Her lips stalled against his, her breath hitching ever so slightly as she felt him press against her knickers. “I-is that…?” She sounded just as surprised as he was, though she also sounded intrigued. Her interest had most certainly been piqued.

He pressed his hips firmer against hers, allowing her to feel the entirety of his hardened length pressed against her. Her back pushed further into the mattress beneath them, her lips parting in a surprised inhale. A nod of his head parted their faces further, where he could see just how aroused she truly was. A smirk rounded the corner of his lips. “It is.”

Fingers slipped from his hair, creating a tingling trail down along the side of his neck. Her fingertips glossed lightly over his chest, feeling every ridge and groove of his silvery scars as both of their focus travelled southwards. After the light touch of her fingertip slipped over the thickest scar around his navel, her fingers reached for the clothed, erect muscle. Feeling the length of the sturdy surprise, having arrived just for her.

She had never before gotten to touch him. He had never truly needed her attention in that manner, for that particular part of his body hadn’t shown signs of life for years. That was, until that very moment. So, he had never before felt her gentle fingers around his length. He had never felt how, even through the elastic fabric of his underpants, her hold on him felt absolutely, intoxicatingly divine. To the point where he could ever so easily get lost in the sensation of nothing more than her light and tentative touch as she explored him through the thin fabric that separated them.

“Can we-” her fingers gave the tip of his length a slight squeeze with her fingers, earning herself a low groan of sheer want, which escaped his throat with ease. “-test it out?” She urged, releasing him, only so she could play with the hem of the last article of his clothes, which hid him from her view.

“Definitely,” He agreed hoarsely whilst reluctantly pulling his hips back from her reach, the waistband snapping back to his skin with the sound of a whip. His tongue flicked at her top lip, only so he could taste the freckles that were peppered on the soft, pink flesh. “But let me make you feel good first.” He pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her clavicle, allowing for his lips to guide him back down along her body.

Golden eyes locked onto silver, glittering with expectancy as he trailed lower, peppering kisses along every miraculous and unbearably beautiful part of her body. Simply no part of her exquisite being was permitted to go by unappreciated or untouched. Not when she was utter perfection before him. Not when there were freckles and stripes on her skin, which all needed to feel his love and devotion for her in the form of kisses and gentle caresses.

His fingers curled beneath the hem of her knickers as he pushed himself to his knees once more, only to ease the last piece of fabric down along her beautifully crafted legs and tossing them into the void along with their sleep shirts.

With her legs in the air, he gently held onto one of them, his fingertips ghosting lightly along her knee and thigh, feeling the fine hairs on her skin stand on end at his careful and tentative touch. His lips showed their appreciation to the supple skin of her ankle. To her calf, where the muscle stretched beneath the surface. The inside of her knee was next. His gaze set in on hers, focusing intently on her eyes of golden light as he moved in closer to her. Her beaths were laboured, kiss stung lips parted as she focused on every slow and loving manoeuvre.

His body descended between her legs, allowing his lips to pepper light kisses to the soft insides of her thighs. He could feel the heat coming from her. He could smell the arousal in the air between them. He could hear her breathing halt as his tongue swept lightly up along her slit for the first time in months.

He had truly missed the flavour of her. The taste of her mouth had always been intoxicating to him, always brought him back to earth and reality, away from his demons, by the simple promise of a mere kiss. Though nothing on the face of the earth could ever compare to the enticing taste of her quim. She was heavenly and rich, with a scent most awe inspiring, calling to him like a most alluring Siren.

Her breath was released in a shuddering exhale, her fingers collected one of his hands from her thigh, gripping at his lengthy digits whilst his tongue found her most sensitive bundle of nerves. A moan sounded from the back of her throat, light and airy in the way in rang through the room like a breeze.

His fingers curled around hers, feeling how her body relaxed completely as soon as she had something to hold onto. Her eyes fell shut whilst her hips bucked upwards, her mind lost with how he captured her between his lips, his tongue pressing harder against her. Her grip tightened around his fingers, head pressing further into the down pillow, a halo of luscious curls surrounding her. A Goddess like no other.

Like a breathy, pleading prayer, his name escaped her lips. Her thighs pressing on either side of his head as her breathing became uneven and quivering. She pulsed below his tongue, her muscles contracting as uncontrolled bliss and euphoria washed over her.

With soft whimpers, her eyes fluttered open. She tugged at his fingers and forearm, her need for him sending electric pulses through every part of skin that connected them. The grasp she had on him, sent the current of lust soaring from her body, in through his own, sinking into his pores and settling into his bones like a fever. The insatiable hunger, the unending need, the indescribable feeling of wanting to please her, wanting to experience the connection that their souls and bodies could form in moments of deep desire and passion.

She captured his lips in a moment of unrelenting longing, able to taste herself on his tongue as he settled his body gingerly against hers. Skin against skin, he felt as her fingers explored the length of his body. Her fingertips ghosting along the lean muscle of his back, leaving a trail of goose flesh in her wake.

She reached the elastic hem of his underwear, where her fingers tugged at the black fabric to ease it down over his rear and hips. He could feel the sensation of pixies, grand and strong, fluttering against the lining of his stomach as she worked on exposing him to herself.

Her tongue entangled with his, eager hands pushing his underwear down along his thighs, allowing his length to be free of its black, elastic confines. He felt as her entire being paused, her body halting for only a moment as she finally felt him against her thigh. Bare and hard and made entirely for her. He sat up on his knees and reached a hand down, pushing the remaining fabric down his legs and tossing it to the floor.

He felt as her eyes roved across his body, her hungry gaze of glittering gold leaving trails of warmth across his skin. She took in the sight of him in his entirety, for the very first time, biting her lip as she did so. It appeared she trul appreciated the sight before her. “You’re beautiful.”

The light of dawn broke through the slight opening on the curtains, painting her skin with the vibrancy of gilded morning sunlight. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the Deity that lay before him. Her mouthwatering curves on full display atop the mattress. The duvet bunched and stretched beneath her, shaping against her form just perfectly, where it highlighted the warm tones of her skin and the natural roundness of her hips. One arm was resting atop her wild curls, the other reaching for him. Her body was riddled with goose flesh, her thighs parting further for his body, inviting him in.

“Whatever beauty you see in me, I guarantee you it’s nothing compared to the divinity before me.” He lowered his body over hers, his hand taking the one that was reaching for him, their fingers entwining before he pinned hers to the mattress below.

Her lips were soft against his. Inviting. Perfect pillows which tasted subtly of her heavenly slickness. Her fingers wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly, tentatively up and down. Her touch caused shivers to crawl the length of his spine with the feeling of their connection, her own body reacting to the manner in which a low groan escaped him.

“You really shouldn’t keep that up- I haven’t been touched for years, remember.”  Though, of course he wished for her to continue. Her touch was electric. Her touch was enchanting. All he wanted to do was to let her continue, to never feel her release her grip from around him. Yet, her gentle strokes seized their movement, her fingertips grazing lightly up along the length of a throbbing vein.

“I don’t want to wait any longer.” Her voice was a mere whisper against his lips, her fingers moving him closer to her glistening heat, ever so entrancing. “Please, Draco.” Her other hand, pinned to the mattress beneath his, squeezed around his fingers, urging him to close what little gap parted them.

With his eyes locked on hers, focused on the molten gold he could so easily get lost in, his free hand travelled downwards. Fingers traced a path along the soft, warm skin of her stomach, ghosting over silvery marks in her flesh and the groomed hair between her legs.

“You’re sure?” He asked, just as he brushed the tip against her warm and inviting opening. He had to use all of his remaining focus and restraint to not push into her.

Her curls moved slightly as she nodded her head. “I’m absolutely certain.” Her leg wrapped around his torso once more, her leg moving his being closer to her own. “I want this. I want you more than anything.”

He knew she was honest. He could feel her need through her skin. He could feel it through the echo of her heartbeat. Her want. Her yearning. Her complete and utter desperation for nothing and no one other than him.

He captured her lips with fevered longing, his member easing through her slit once, coating her essence onto his length before aligning himself against her opening. His eyes flitted between hers, allowing them both a moment of clarity, a moment where nothing happened other than appreciating each other. Slowly, he pushed forwards, joining them in a manner deeper than ever before. Her tight, wet warmth swallowing him as he eased forwards, taking him in, inch by inch.

She gasped softly against his lips as he settled into her, sheathed to the hilt with her tightness. Their souls and bodies finally connected with a new and unfathomable depth.

He had not noticed their lips parting from one another. He had not noticed when both of her legs had wrapped around his middle, nor how she was gripping onto his hand like a lifeline, though he came back to reality as he felt her soft, quivering breaths fan over his lips and chin.

“Are you okay?” Her fingers raked through his hair. He wanted to tell her yes. He wished to tell her how deeply he loved her and how she was absolute perfection in every sense of the word. Though, all he was able to do, was to nod his head, allowing his nose to rub against hers. He felt her cheek pull against his nose with her grin. “Do you feel it too?”

Her fingers slipped from his hair, slowly creating a path down towards his chest, where her palm could feel his thundering heartbeat. He was barely able to feel anything other than what she was talking about. His entire focus was on the feeling of her warmth around him; their new physical connection and that.

Something in his heart had filled. Something in his soul felt completed. As though the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, a piece he had never known he was missing until that very moment. The piece completed their connection, their soul bond, which they had made in another lifetime, many moons prior.

He swallowed thickly, answering her with another nod. “I feel it.” He managed to choke out. “I feel it all. This,” he lay a hand atop hers, relishing in the way their connected skin prickled with sparks of electricity. “You,” he withdrew himself slightly from her, where he could see her eyes of glittering allure, where he could truly appreciate her in all of her beauty. His hips parted from hers, putting just enough space between the pair. “Us,” he added, rocking his hips against her own, earning himself a breathy gasp of utmost satisfaction.

Where their fingers were entwined against the mattress, she squeezed his hand, encouraging him on. With her approval, he allowed his hips to continue. Rocking himself in and out of her, feeling how her tight warmth took him with such slick acceptance. The soft sounds of her pleasure seemed to echo off the walls, filling their dawn lit space with every deep and even stroke. Her delicate fingers tangled in his hair, urging him back down to her.

“I love you,” she moaned ever so softly against his lips, her back arching from the mattress to connect as much of her skin with his. As though their two bodies were magnetically charged, pulling them closer against one another. “I love you so much, Draco”

His heart thundered in his chest, soaring with the comfort and elation of hearing her uttered words. Fingers trailed down from her hand, following the path of her supple skin over her wrist and forearm, the stream of freckles that slowly dissipated from her sun kissed complexion as his hand got closer to her chest.

“I love you,” he murmured back against her lips, before allowing his kisses to press against her jaw, paving a path along the column of her neck. Tasting the freckles of her collar bones and shoulder, leaving vows of his devotion as traceless patterns on her skin. Her body, painted in the glow of sunrise, rocked with his movements, her head thrown back against the mattress. “More than I ever thought possible.”

She felt like fire beneath him, burning his lips with her internal fire of magic. His fingers trailed down the side of her chest, teasing lightly over her nipple before following further along the softness of her captivating body. His hand was large against her waist, holding her securely as he pushed himself up, where he could see her in all of her magnificent, ever glowing glory.

A true and honest Goddess lay before him, beautifully displayed as he took his time to appreciate the view. His free hand traced down along her glorious curves, halting where their bodies connected. His thumb found her most sensitive nub, carefully massaging the pattern of three words against her core. I love you. Repeatedly. He felt her muscles contract slightly around him with his new actions.

Warm and wet, she was a snug fit around him, which sounded just as delicious as she looked. The sound of her saturated quim claiming the room along with the deep sounds of pleasure, escaping the both of them. He relished in the moment. Wishing to bask in the feeling of her, the moment with her, forevermore.

He lifted one of her legs against his chest, peppering kisses to her calf, needing a to distract himself from his ravishing soulmate. She collected his hand from her waist, pulling him back over her with desperation. Their fingers entwined at the very same moment as their lips connected, where he swallowed her whimpers as though it was the elixir of life.

He forced his pace to remain slow and deliberate, feeling the complete and utter desperation to reach nirvana tugging at his essence. Her muscles fluttered around him, drawing him deeper into her. His name escaped her lips as a revenant prayer, her tongue uttering passionate and whimpering musings of deities.

The tension in their bodies built, the pace that had, until then, been slow and rhythmic, escalated. The fullness within his heart, the completeness of their souls was something worth chasing. Months of longing and pain, of despair and horror had finally come to a close. A close where they had finally brought each other to such an endless and profound unity.

Her body arched beneath his, the muscles in her leg around his waist tightening as she contracted around him, tightening to the point where he could not relent. Could not withstand. His body gave in, his pace growing uneven and rushed as he chased his own high.

Her fingers gripped his hand tightly, her walls seizing around his length. He could only watch with amazement as the Goddess beneath him ascended to the heavens above, reaching the promised land of euphoric bliss.

Her ecstasy surged through his own body like a current, and with a series of hurried thrusts, he followed her into the paradise their souls had crafted together.

His eyes fluttered open against the crook of her neck, his lips parted against her skin, breathing her in with deep, laboured breaths. Her skin, so soft against his, was damp, bearing a misting of salted sweat.

Her limbs were tangled around him, her fingertips ghosting delicate, mindless patterns over his shoulder. Her chest was heaving with soft pants against his, where she was coming down from her own high with the mesmerising silence that had fallen over them.

A kiss was pressed to the side of her neck. Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. “I love you, Hermione.” He whispered ever so softly against her neck.

“I love you too, Draco.” Her whisper filled the room around them, along with their calming breaths. Morning had come in full bloom beyond their bedroom windows, lighting their surrpundings with the warmth of the sun.

He inhaled her once more, filling his lungs with her fragrance. Vanilla. Black tea. Sleep. Sweat. Sex. She smelled utterly divine. Like the most delicious and delectable dessert he could ever dream of.

With all of his spare energy, all of his might, he pushed himself up on his forearms, where he could see her fully again. Cheeks flushed red, peppered with the most breathtaking constellations, glittering with the soft misting atop her nose. Her smile looked euphoric. Soft, with an ever so slight fogginess to her eyes. Clearly, she was just about as tired as he was.

Gentle fingers eased his hair away from his face, before trailing down along the outer edge of his face. “I really have to go to the loo. And when I get back, I will need you to hold me all morning long.”

A breathy chuckle escaped his throat. “Anything for you, my love.” He stole a kiss from her swollen lips at the very same time that he pulled himself out of her warmth, his body and soul tingling with the sensation of losing their connection. “I’ll close the curtains.”

Whilst she rushed to their bathroom, Draco made sure the light could not enter their quarters, and used a little bit of magic to freshen their bedding. He picked up their clothes from the floor and put them in the woven basket by the doorway. He pointed his wand to his own body, quickly ridding himself of sweat and other residue before crawling back into their bed.

Then, she returned. His beautiful, curvy deity walking naked across the floor. Her hair was wild, with brunette curls bouncing lightly with every step she took. She was aiming for the bed. Aiming for him. Her eyes of gilded glory set on her husband, who was longing to hold her in his arms.

She joined him beneath the weight of the down duvet, settling herself into his awaiting hold. Her head rested atop his chest; hair draped over both of their shoulders. “We have to do that again.”

“Not right now, I hope.” He spoke with a grin on his face, turning his head to face her. He felt the weight of his eyelids pulling downwards, though he resisted it with all his might. “I can’t go again at the moment.”

“When we wake up then.” She pressed her nose against his chest, her entire body relaxing fully once she had him close. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I… I didn’t expect you to last quite that long.”

He buried his face in her hair, pressing his lips together to suppress his laughter. He failed, as his chest shook her up and down. “Oh, trust me, love, I was so close to losing it several times.”

“Really?” Her eyes opened, propping herself up on her elbow, where she could look at him with curious eyes. “What stopped you?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way. I just wanted us to have a first time together than lasted more than forty seconds” He started. The words only made her brows elevate towards her hairline. “So… I thought of Filch.”

A snort. A beautiful, little snort escaped her. “Fil- Argus Filch? You honestly mean that you thought of the old Hogwarts caretaker?”

“Yeah… I thought of him, wearing a muggle swimsuit. Like the type that’s in two pieces and worn by women?” It had, rather specifically, been blue. Much too tight. Not exactly what he wished he had thought of in their moments of passion, but it had most assuredly done the trick. He had lasted longer than he expected. He had pleased her.

“That’s absurd!” she chuckled, resting her head back onto his chest, her gaze set on his. “Barbaric, even.”

“Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.” His fingers tucked a tuft of her curls away from her face. “But it did the trick. I got to enjoy you far more than if I hadn’t.”

“Oh, the things one does for love.”

“Oh, the things I do for you.”

Chapter Text

It was most certainly Hermione who stood before him. He knew it. He could feel it in the blood within his veins. He could feel it on its every fibre of his body. In the very essence of his soul. Yet, the woman before him did not look like his Hermione in the slightest.

Her hair was dark brown and much thinner, it was tightly braided and pulled away from her face, with not a single strand out of place. Her skin was fair, and her eyes were a bright and vibrant blue, though they were sunken with evidence of defeat and fright. She looked older than he had seen her in their current life. Mature. Though still beautiful. The woman before him was radiating with the same golden hue, which he had only seen in his wife.

So, he knew with every fibre of his being, that it was most certainly Hermione. His Hermione. Even if the woman was a different version of her, bearing a different face and a different name. It was still his soulmate.

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, her piercing gaze catching him as she carefully layered her well-worn, brown dress over her white linen shirt and underclothes.

Without so much as a word, Draco stepped up behind her, the bolden heels of his shoes making light noises against the boards beneath him. When he drew closer to her, he could spot the few strands of silver in her hair. The fine lines that had started to form at the corners of her eyes and across her brow. She had smile lines along her cheeks. Her eyes glittered with the happiness they had shared through several years together. She was absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.

He helped her with her dress with trained expertise. Puffing out her shirt sleeves once they were through the hoops of her shoulders. The brown fabric was worn and tired, clearly having spent time in the fields and bore permanent patches upon the threads. The skirt was stained of dirt along the bottom hem and where her knees settled into the ground when she bent. She turned herself away from him, not to hide. She faced him through the small looking glass in the windowsill, where she adjusted the straps carefully, making sure she looked proper.

“I’ll take Charles to the market this morning.” He told her, his fingers fixing the back of her dress, making sure the linen shirt she wore had no wrinkles as he eased the tweed dress against her body. “You, Anne and Sara should harvest what remains of the crops.”

He could easily tell that something was weighing on her. It was obvious in the way her shoulders sagged with defeat and her lips pulled into a tight line. She averted her gaze from the mirror and looked beyond, to the beautiful English countryside that was just beyond the welded windowpane. The leaves were orange, threatening to fall to the ground with every slight gust of wind that flew by. “I can’t believe we have to harvest like Muggles.”

“They’ll kill us if they see us using magic.” He said carefully, reminding her of the world they found themselves in, if only by chance. They had inherited the land by a squib uncle of his, and thus they lived amongst the muggles, raising three children and farming the lands. To grow better crops, the pair brewed potions to feed the soil, which gave them a wonderful reputation of the best produce to get at the markets. He placed a quick kiss to her nape, before tucking the sign of affection carefully behind her white, embroidered collar. “It’s safest if we act like muggles when we can.”

“Then, let’s leave this place behind behind. Godric’s Hollow isn’t too far off. Or perhaps Hogsmeade, so we can see the children more often. Anywhere is better than here, where we can all get caught. We need to find somewhere to be safe.” He knew she only thought of the children. The three younglings had been forced to set their magic aside, which had caused minor mishaps to happen in sudden explosive bursts. All of which, had fortunately happened within the confines of their little home. Though, they both knew it was bound to happen in public one day, and the Muggles did not take too kindly to wizards. Public hangings before burning the corpses. No child or adult was safe if they had been accused of witchcraft.

He remained quiet. In the looking glass, he could see his own reflection. As opposed the the white-blonde hair he was used to, he could see the strands of salt and pepper, pulled away from his face in a tie. He appeared to be worn and exhausted from the life he lived amongst muggles, with dark brown eyes that spoke of the many fond memories he had gathered throughout his years. He had lines around his eyes, from squinting in the sun and smiling at his loved ones. He had a beard, long and surprisingly well groomed, contrasting starkly against his worn clothes. “We can talk more about this after the kids are asleep.” He promised her solemnly. It wouldn’t be the first time the conversation arose between the pair, though something told him that she had spent her time to prepare more, to convince him.

A witch in a nearby village had recently been found out and hanged before the masses. It was all the villagers could talk about at the markets. It had the muggles lit with excitement, keen to save the world from witches by slaughtering them. Maud and Solomon were not too afraid for their own lives. They had lived decent enough lives, having experienced more than a fair share of people their age. No, they were worried for their children. They did not wish for the young, innocent lives to be taken before they had had the chance to see what the world may hold.

Their daughter Anne was the eldest, at nine years old. She was keen and bright and brilliant. A wonderful and clever girl, with eyes as bright as the future before her. She had spouts of accidental magic, which had come in times of great emotions. Sadness when their family cat had died, and a vase had shattered along with her heart. Joy when she went to the market with her father, and the blossoms around them bloomed ever so beautifully, just as the smirks she shared with their customers.

Charles had come into the world but two years after her, having just turned seven. His magic had come in rather unpredictable and sudden bursts of magic. Making objects around him float when he was confused or disheartened. Sending currents and waves or uncontrollable, powerful magic through the air when he was angered. And then there was their little Sara, who would turn four that coming winter. She had only had a few bursts of magic, though nothing more than reigniting a flame or willing the door to shut.

Solomon helped lace Maud’s dress at the front and tightened the ribbon with a bow, which was already creased in the memory of the silken fabric. He always did that for her. Always helped her dress in the mornings. Always pulled her ribbon tight and always kissed whatever part of her he could reach. She never told him with words how she liked it, though he could see it in the smile she always tried to suppress. In the manner in which her eyes glittered with the adoration he showed her. But not that day. Her eyes were vacant and cold, her mind lost to the horrors that might face them in the future, should one little thing happen in the wrong place. “You’re just going to say no again, aren’t you?”

“We haven’t the gold to move, my love.” He reminded her, focusing on the pain that filled her sapphire eyes. “And even if we did, how could we simply pack up everything and leave? This is where it all began…” it was where they had both conceived and birthed all of their three children. It was the home they had lived in for over a decade. The home where their children had taken their very first steps. Anne had stood against a rickety dining chair and taken three wobbly steps towards her mum. Bare feet pattering softly against the wooden floorboards. Where they had learned to talk. When Charles had spoken ‘papa’ into existence one evening, after Solomon came indoors from planting seeds all afternoon. Charles had not yet spoken another word until that moment. Papa. It was the home where they had measured the children against the frame of the kitchen door. Where Sara had stood proudly against the back of the frame at only one and a half, being measured after her elder siblings. Standing proudly at 76 centimetres tall.

“We sell the land.” Not the house. She didn’t speak of the home, as she knew the sentiments it carried along within the structure. She only spoke of the land, even though they were both aware that the home was part of the land. “Our ground is famously fertile and quite well-behaved due to our potions; we don’t have any issue selling it. Make great profit, I presume. Then, we use magic and go. We can apparate. Take the floo. Anything. But we have to go before something happens.” She cast her eyes towards the door. Anne was in the kitchen, just beyond, where she was preparing breakfast for her younger siblings. Something she truly enjoyed doing.

Maud glowed of a golden light within. It was the glow of her soul, showing itself when she was passionate about something. Draco had seen it on so many occasions; he could not pinpoint the first time he’d seen it. The first time he’d recognised it. Even through Solomon’s eyes, he recognised it and adored it as much as he ever could. It was a radiant and wildly beautiful glow, which he had grown to love and appreciate with immense power. It was s glow that was as much a part of him as it was hers. For the light from within her, showed the immense beauty of her soul, which he is soul was bonded to for the end of time.

He knew he had no say in the matter at hand. He knew he could not remove her focus from the release of their lives surrounded by muggles. He knew that all he could do, was nod his head in agreement, the bristles of his beard raking against the linen of his shirt. He couldn’t let their children live under such circumstances. Couldn’t risk their lives, if only so he could look at the numbers on the doorframe or hear the echoes of his children’s first laughs ringing between the four walls of their home. “We will talk about it this evening.” But within his heart, he knew she was right. They would be moving north sometime soon, hiding away from muggles and their desire to eradicate witches and wizards from the world.

She was different again, Hermione. She was quite a bit younger again. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, with dark blonde hair tucked beneath a linen scarf around her head, shielding her from the blazing sun whilst maintaining her long locks. She had brilliant, hazel eyes, which bore into his soul with reverent intensity. All she did was pass by him. Walk at a normal, lenient pace at a fisher’s market in Copenhagen. In her hands, she carried a woven basket, carrying cuts of fish wrapped in parchment and tied with twine.

Her blue kirtle was striking, drawing his attention to her like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t describe it, the unrelenting urge to keep his gaze focusing on only her and hoping to catch her eye. And just before she passed by him, just before the most vibrant beauty in the Danish kingdom passed by him without a care in the world, her hazel eyes locked onto his. His heart fluttered within his chest, and thus he allowed his eyes to follow her. Over his shoulder. Between the people behind him, until she vanished into the crowd. Her white linen headscarf became but one of many, hidden in plain sight in the sea of people.

Long legs, strong and sturdy from his time at sea, refused to carry him forwards. He stopped, having completely forgotten where he was going, or what his purpose at the market truly was. All he knew was that he wished to turn. To follow her. The young woman who had barely looked his way. The young woman with the blue dress and the hazel eyes.

He didn’t have much to offer her. He didn’t have money. He barely had clothes to cover himself with. All he knew was that he had a wand and a need to woo her.

He felt for his wand in the inner pocket of his tattered jacket, barely touching the tip of his thumb to the worn vine wood wand and muttering a simple incantation, taught to him by his mother several years prior. ‘Rosa Solitaria’.

A single rose sprouted from the tip of his wand, catching between his loosely fit shirt and his worn jacket. His fingers carefully moved from their hold on the wand, gently holding at the stem of the rose as he turned his body around. He knew he needed to give it to her. There was no obligation that came with the red rose, only the knowledge that he had been captivated by her, by one look alone. He took into the crowd that separated them, hoping to find the mesmerising and dazzling beauty once more.

She had stopped at the end of the market, where the wooden boards graduated into cobblestone beneath her feet. She was clutching onto her woven basket, looking hopelessly back into the crowd, with enchanting eyes scanning the faces that were pointed her way. Her worries seemed to melt away, the puckered brows fading to naught, her shoulders relaxing and her lips turning into a smile of surprise, just as their eyes locked on one another’s between the heads of strangers.

She appeared to be a local. She appeared to be a Dane. Based only on the fact that she blended perfectly into their surroundings and the people that passed between them. And he was not Danish. He did not speak the language in any capacity. His ship had just arrived an hour or so prior, having sailed in from Livonia. He had never learned a language other than his mother tongue. In fact, he had never learned to read, nor write more than his own name. There were many things he did not know. Many things he needed to find out. Many things to learn. All he knew, with utmost certainty, was that he needed to know more about her.

He walked briskly between the crowd, steering clear of all other people, his eyes focused only on hers. Hopeful hazel remained on his, her chest heaving expectantly at his rapid approach. His legs came to a halt a few paces before her, his own breath deep and quivering as he tried to calm himself. He had never done such a thing. Never approached a stranger in hopes to woo her, never tried to get a woman’s attention by following her. He didn’t even know if she knew magic. He didn’t know anything about her, other than her appearance.

Something hidden deep within his soul knew they were meant to meet. Something told him to give the young woman before him everything in his power, for she would make him the luckiest man in the entire world, should he be lucky enough to earn her affections.

He wasn’t much to look at. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not particularly tall, nor well built. He was skinny and had plenty of freckles on his sunburnt cheeks and broad nose. He was but a simple sailor with tattered and threadbare clothes, yet, he had a wand in his pocket. A wand he had inherited from his father, having passed when he was no more than six years old, who had gotten him from his father before him. The third-generation wand was worn and slightly splintered. He oiled it frequently whilst at sea, so the salty, humid air did not make the worn wood more brittle than it already was.  

He revealed the flower to her, bringing it out from behind his worn jacket, holding it out to the mesmerising woman before him, keeping his eyes locked onto hers. It as only a single red rose. A rose, which petals were by and opened. One true beauty given to another. She inhaled softly, yet she plucked the flower from his hand. Her delicate fingers barely grazed at his skin, sending a thunderous bolt throughout the entirety of his body.

She felt it too. He could so easily spot it, how she, too, was affected by the slightest of touches. Hear how her breath hitched in her chest and how her gaze quickly darted between their hands, the flower and back to his eyes. And all he was doing, all he found himself capable of, was watching her. Observing her. Adoring her.

The same hand that had one held the rose, the same hand that had touched her eyes so briefly, was moved to his chest. He felt his rapidly beating heart beneath his palm, as he could do nothing more than announce his name to the enchanting beauty before him, knowing that language would be an incredible barrier between the two. “Ivan.”

She smiled brilliantly, though tried to hide it behind the rose as she smelled it. Her hazel eyes gleamed, complimented ever so splendidly by the slight flush to her pale cheeks. She lowered the rose, then she mimicked his move. Touching her fingers and palm to the top of her own chest, just where her heart would be, she recited her name in the most magical melody there was. A melody he hoped would remain in his heart and mind for decades to come “Inger.”

With her hand in his, the pair ran through the darkened, hallowed halls of Hogwarts school, the soles of their shoes slapping against the flagstones, echoing off the walls along with her utterly contagious, hushed giggles.

He had heard Professor Binns approaching them in the corridor whence they came, the shuffles of his overlarge slippers against the stone slabs were but a telltale sign of who was on duty for the evening. The History of Magic professor was famed for his slow pace and lack of interest when it came to capturing students. Of course, if he came across someone who was blatantly breaking the rules, he handed out detentions and took house points, though everyone knew that he didn’t search very hard for those who had snuck out after dark.

To avoid the professor further, the two students slipped behind the statue of an owl, looking as though it was about to take flight, finding a hidden passage behind the rotating wall, where the old man would never bother looking for them.

Flora’s bright red hair was what could only be described as a mess, compared to the tight bun he usually saw her wearing during school hours. Her wavy lengths hung loosely down her back, cascading ever so enchantingly down to her waist. Her cheeks were red with having run away from the professor, who had the potential to make their relationship known. Her lips were swollen from the stolen kisses in the darkened corridors, from where he had pinned her against the wall and pressed his lips to hers. Not to mention her smile, which was as brilliantly captivating as the freckles that dusted her pale features.

“I hope Professor Binns won’t find us here.” She whispered in the darkness as the wall rotated back into place, the corridor they had just been within, vanishing from sight entirely and leaving the couple in complete darkness.

“He won’t find us if he can’t hear us.” He whispered back, his fingers finding the soft curve of her jaw in the unending shadows around them, where he urged her slightly forwards. He felt a pull deep within the confines of his body, a feeling he had only familiarised himself with after he had befriended her. The strength of the pull guided him in the pitch-black night, the magnetic strength within his body only brought him upon her, where he was finally able to press his lips against hers, with the utmost longing he had felt the entirety of that day.

Perhaps even the entirety of that week. Or even month.

The pair were seventeen and eighteen years old, respectfully. She was a pure-blooded witch, the youngest daughter from a sacred family. A family which did not approve of him, as he was a mudblood. And because he was not a he. He was a she. The eldest daughter to her own family. A family of muggles, who had been happy to ship her off to a school with other of ‘her kind’. Where she had been lucky enough to meet her closest friend and confidant, Flora.

During their fourth year, she had asked her to spend a day with her in Hogsmeade. It was innocent, entirely respectful and cordial, though they had both sent each other intense, longing glances. The back of her knuckles had sometimes brushed against Flora’s, sending sparks reminiscent of lightning strikes surging through her body, where it seemed as though nature wished for her to catch her attention. To win her heart.

Their courting had not been a well-hidden secret. Several of their peers knew, even though most did not approve of two young ladies showing each other romantic affections.

So, when Flora’s father had demanded the pair to end their infatuation with one another, Niamh King and Flora Prewett had decided to make their relationship a well-hidden secret. To their peers, they appeared as though they had ended what may have one day been between them. Niamh had been sorted into Ravenclaw, whereas Flora was in Gryffindor. Sometimes, late at night, they would sit by their respective windows and write notes on parchments for one another. She had learned to fold her notes into small birds and enchanted them to fly to Gryffindor tower, which would deliver her messages of love and invitations to secret rendezvous in the grand corridors of Hogwarts.

Which was how they had ended up in their current situation. With Niamh knowing the schedule of the Hogwarts professors’ rounds, and Flora being a brave and adventurous witch, they snuck out of their dormitories, dressed only in nightgowns and half-laced shoes to meet in the darkness.

“Niamh,” Flora gasped ever so softly against the other witch’s lips, her pale fingers tangled in the deep brown strands, hanging loosely from Niamh’s head. She only answered with a soft hum, her lips never relenting. Never giving up the feeling of Flora’s desperate kisses, after days apart from her own lips.

It was only a couple of months until they had to separate. Summer and N.E.W.T. Exams were rapidly approaching, meaning that their Hogwarts education was about to come to a close. They would have to separate once more, go their own ways and listen to what Flora’s family would want for her. For they wanted their daughter to marry to a wizard of a sacred family. They wanted her to have a normal life, where she would mother children and further their bloodlines with purity.

Though, Flora had told her on multiple occasion that she did not want a wizard. She did not wish to marry due to obligations or contracts drafted before she was even born. No. She wanted to marry for love. And after three years together, the witches knew with the highest certainty that they loved one another.

“Run away with me.” The redhead whispered against her lips, causing her to halt entirely. She felt as long, eager fingers tugged at the fabric of her nightgown, urging it slightly up along the length of her bare legs, their bodies pressed against one another’s in the utter darkness. “I want to be with you. And only you. Please, Niamh, run away with me? We can start anew in France. Just you and me. No parents, nor family history to keep us apart. Be mine, forever.”

Moving to France would mean they could get the freedom they both longed for, the opportunity to be together without being forced to hide their relationship from those who mattered most to them. To be free and happy. To love one another and live the lives they had spoken ever so fondly of.

In a small cottage, with grand fields and forests around them. With nothing but love and affections filling their shared space. There would be rows of flowers in the windowsills. There would be stained glass windows, where the colourful glass would paint the insides of their home with beauty. There would be laughter. There would be kisses. There would be freedom to love each other.

“I’ll run away with you.” She agreed, almost breathlessly against Flora’s lips. “I’ll be yours, however long you’ll want me.”

The promise was sealed with another kiss. Love filled the air, almost like a gilded glow from within their bodies. Within their souls.

As for in that moment. Stowed away in a hidden alcove, they were only teenagers in love, assuming their love had been written in the stars. They hid their relationship, they only stole glances or kisses when they could. And Niamh was certain she would continue to steal her kisses until the moment she perished, should Flora want her.

He awoke with his nose in her hair. And it was her hair. Not a woman from a different lifetime. Not his soulmate from another point in time. It was entirely Hermione. His Hermione. Her ringlet of chocolate curls smelled incredible against his nose. Familiar in the best way, they way her scent filled his lungs with nothing but love for the witch in his arms.

Her bare back was warming his chest. Her legs were tangled with his, his arms were wrapped securely around her middle, where her fingers were looped loosely around his own, assuring herself that he could not leave without her knowing.

She carefully squeezed his fingers. He returned the motion, letting her know he was awake as well.

“I just had the strangest dream.” She muttered sleepily into their bedroom, turning her head to point her nose towards the ceiling. “I dreamt about us… In… Past lives?”

“I had that dream too.” His voice was raspy, his nose pressing gently against the back of her bare shoulder, where his lips ghosted against the constellations on her skin. She was so incredibly warm against his body, the comfort of her presence having sunk deep within his being. Her body perfectly fit against his own, slotted against him so perfectly. “The Middle Ages… Something about witch-hunting?” The first pair. Maud and Solomon and their three children.

The tip of his nose traced the freckles on her skin, pressing tender kisses to her shoulder. “Meeting you at a market in Copenhagen in the 1500’s.”

She turned in his arms, her hips hopping lightly atop the mattress before she once more settled back into him, her nose against the column of his neck, lips ghosting lightly against the sensitive flesh as she spoke. “Agreeing to run away together after finishing Hogwarts.”

“You were a pure-blood and I was a muggle-born.”  He mused, feeling her careful, sweet kisses onto his skin. He swallowed thickly, leaning his head back to grant her all the access she wished for. “How the tables have turned.”

“Indeed.” Her fingers traced the lightest of patterns along his bare back, her touch feeling as though it set magical fire to him. A fire that did not wound, only settle into his being with the utmost intensity. “You chasing me with a rose was incredible.” She pressed her bare body closer to his, her chest heaving with anticipated breaths. “Perhaps I can give you a thanks for that?”

“You know you don’t have to d-” She cut him off by pressing her lips to his. Her leg swung over his hips, easing him back against the mattress as she got on top of him. Her lips never leaving his. Wild, brown curls fell around them, hiding their kisses from the world beyond their bed.

Six hundred years, his soul had been hers for the taking. Six hundred years, he had been destined to fall in love with her. For six hundred years, he had been ready to do anything he could for her.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips, aligning herself with a newly awakened part of his body.

“I love you,” he returned against her mouth, his hands trailing to the enchanting curve of her hips as she sunk down atop of him, connecting their bodies ever so deeply yet again, just as the pair had connected their souls with nothing but the intensity of their unending love so many centuries prior.

The afternoon sky was clouded and grey over Oxford, which was not particularly astounding news to anyone living in England during the autumn months. Nor any months, really.

He was holding onto Hermione’s hand, warm in his own, with their fingers perfectly slotted between one another’s as the pair ventured into the streets, looking for a so-called grocery shop. “It’s not far.” Hermione said, readjusting the off-white strap of the bag, which was hooped around her shoulder, for the sixth time since they left their house.

“What are we going to the shop for?” He asked with blatant curiosity, turning his head to look down to his witch. She wore muggle denim trousers, fitting tightly against her gorgeous legs. She wore one of his oxfords, which was much too loosely draped around her body, so she had tucked the front into her trousers. Over it, she wore a loose fit, open tweed jacket and her hair was pulled back and away from her face, tugged into a messy bun atop the crown of her head. He thought the glamour charm she had cast worked quite well, hiding the brand new love bite on her throat without making it too obvious.

“We need to buy dinner.” She said simply, tugging lightly at the collar of her jacket, as though trying to hide her neck from public view. Draco thought it was absolutely adorable. “I was thinking I could make home-made pizza for us?”

“Isn’t that really greasy and disgusting?” He could only think back to the meeting with Potter and Weasley, which happened just before his most recent incarceration. Where the cheese was covered in grease and the reinsurers practically slurped the so-called food into their mouths.

“Not the one I make.” She met his gaze, and he could tell she was wondering about his experience with the dish, however, she did not ask him about it. “But we could eat something else instead. Is there anything in particular you’re in the mood for? Anything you’ve missed eating?”

He had honestly not spared much thought to food when he had been in Azkaban. He had accepted what he had gotten, and gone back to the unrelenting void in his mind, where all that ever was, was revisions of the most horrendous acts he had ever done. Or horrid illusions of what could have happened, had things gone differently.

“Honestly, as long as it’s not the horrid swill that Potter and Weasley brought to the ministry, I am more than happy to try your home-made pizza.” He reached his left hand over and adjusted the strap on her shoulder for her, after one of the hoops had slipped off once more.

“I promise you, Draco, it’s going to be good. I’ll make a normal, plain pizza and we can try our different toppings you’d might like later on?” Her shoulder bumped against his arm, capturing his gaze as they strode the pavement together.

“What toppings are you thinking for now?” He quirked a brow questioningly. He trusted her with every fibre of his being, to the point where he would gladly let her decide everything. Especially pizza toppings. “And which ones do you think I have to warm up to?”

There were several cars passing them on Draco’s left. They were all driving rather fast though nothing he couldn’t outrun on his broom. Most of them appeared to be shiny and of a nice standard. Perhaps even new. At least it appeared to be that way, to Draco’s untrained eyes.

“I was thinking we could start off rather simply, with minced meat and cheese.” She said, not noting how his gaze had drifted off to the vehicles zooming by. “You need all the protein you can get these days, but I think mince and cheese should be enough for now.”

“Does sound rather plain.” Draco agreed with her words, his lips pursing mindlessly. She used her grip on his hand to tug him closer to herself, her eyes trained on three passing women, just a bit younger than the Malfoy pair themselves. He barely noticed how the women looked at them as well. Though, what he surely noted was the wave of jealousy that flooded from Hermione’s body, crashing into his own like a force of nature. He decided not to say anything about it, but smiled knowingly in her direction nevertheless.

“It is. Usually we could add peppers, corn, pineapple, olives and so on.” They rounded a corner together. He could see the sign reading Sainsbury’s only a few paces away from them. “But some people don’t like any toppings, some prefer many and some think baked vegetables on pizza isn’t as delicious.” He felt the slightest tug of her arm as she shrugged a shoulder lightly.

“Vegetables? But you mentioned pineapple. That’s a fruit, my love.” He informed her, walking alongside her towards the shop. The glass doors parted for them, sliding open and allowing them entry without anyone having pushed at them, nor waved their wand.

“Yes. Well, some people like the freshness of pineapple on their pizza. And other people think that those who like it deserve to be executed.” She picked up a plastic basket, which he swiftly plucked from her hands and carried on his own forearm. No. Mrs. Malfoy would never have to carry her own items. That job was for him, and him alone.  

She didn’t stop him. Only watched him with a keen eye as he followed her further into the store. He wore his normal muggle attire. A plain t-shirt, blue, denim trousers and a black leather jacket with silver detailings. His hair had grown longer whilst he was away, so he could easily pull it all back into a bun, though he felt it was rather unmanageable and much too long for his preference.

She walked ahead of him into the store, which allowed his eyes to wander around the shop, as well as the magnificent view of the woman before him. “Hey- Hermione?” He asked, legs stopping in front of a section of the store that sold pastries of various types. His eyes mainly focused on the loaves in particular. “Why is the bread in a plastic bag?”

“Because this isn’t a bakery, Draco. Some breads come in plastic bags and that’s fine. They’re not the best quality or flavour, but you can certainly find much worse.” She had turned back towards him, coming to collect him by taking his hand. “Are there any more questions regarding the bread?”

“The croissants? And Pain au chocolat?” He could see the slightest shiver running up along her body at his words. He had almost forgotten how she loved it when he spoke french. Almost.

“They’re not nearly as good as the ones we got in Marseille.” She tugged lightly on his hand, urging him to continue along with her, to collect the items needed for their dinner. “I know you’ll have a lot of questions about muggle life, so we should probably get moving if we want our shopping done before midnight.”

And she was quite correct in her assumption. For they only made it three paces before his next question came to life. “What is this thing?”

She glanced to the light grey box he was staring at “That’s a machine that cuts bread.” She said and pulled on the handle to open the top flap. “You put bread in her and close the slot. The machine cuts the bread for you, then deposits it here.” She closed the lid, causing the entire machine to shake and hum.

“But- there are knives at home for that very purpose, isn’t there?” He asked, turning away from the machine to face his all-knowing wife.

“Not everyone has the same needs.” Her fingers fluttered across his knuckles. “If you didn’t have me, your tremors would have made you unable to cut bread. That machine would save your fingers and your hands from even more damage.” She took his hand in hers once more and tugged him onwards.

At one point, he opened a glass door into a room with a cooling charm cast over it. He carefully pulled out a small, pink carton with a strawberry on it and turned to his wife in utmost confusion. “Hermione?” He caught her gaze when she turned to him “How do they milk strawberries?”

When looking through cheeses by her side, he stared at the many different bags of shredded and cubed cheese, an unamused frown curling his top lip. “Hermione? Why are there so many varieties of slaughtered cheese? Why is it so popular?” He watched in horror as she collected a bag from the room with the cooling-charm and closed the glass door behind her.

“Hermione?” The most appalling thing of all. “Does this bottle of wine only cost three pound?” He knew a bottle of red wine needed to cost much more than that. A bottle costing less than a Galleons worth of muggle money needed to taste of nothing but grape juice and ill intent.

Milk came in cartons instead of glass bottles. There was something called ta-co and it was apparently not pronounced with a soft c. He spent much too long staring at square boxes of something Hermione had called serial. He didn’t know what they were serial of, but he decided against asking about the name and simply accepting what they were. Muggle food of some sort.

Hermione picked out a packet of minced meat, which Draco had surprisingly few questions regarding. After the pound of minced beef was placed into the basket, she put a paper bag of flour, something called ‘dry yeast’ and two glass containers of spices into the basket as well. Next to weight down his arm, was a small jar of pizza sauce. A box of something called microwave popcorn, which Draco was quite curious about. Then there was a flat, purple rectangle of sorts, which read MILKA.

“Do you want any sweets?” She asked him, leading him into another aisle, filled with bright coloured plastic bags and several varieties of small, handheld items. Lollies and small boxes with colourful depictions of drawn animals seemed to be quite popular. All of the things before him were new. Unfamiliar. Unknown. Something from another world entirely, just like the rest of the shop. “They have green apple sweets, you know.”

His eyes scanned the shelves with sharpened eyes, looking for anything that might stike him as known. Familiar. If even the name rang true as to something Theo or Blaise might have mentioned back in school. But there was nothing. It was all brand new to him in any and all capacities. There was no Sugar Quills. No Bertie Bott’s. No Liquorice Wands.  No Fizzing Whizzbees. No Pixie Puffs. He inhaled deeply through the nose, turning to look at his beautiful wife, hoping for help as it was a bit overwhelming. Just choosing a sweet was too much for him, tipping his mind over the edge as the reality of the muggle world around him, settled into his bones.

Like lead, his entire being felt heavy and uncomfortable. The tendons in his forearms contracted, the tremors returning with ferocity as his mind and body otherwise completely halted.

It had not yet been twenty-four hours since his release. He had not yet been outside for a full day, yet so much had happened. So many unexpected, though rather welcome, experiences had enriched his life. However, as he stood there, everything that had happened flashed before his eyes every time he blinked.

At one moment, he was staring at the small, portion sized chocolates, and the next he saw a flash of Ferrington, collecting him from his cell with a sneer.

The next moment he was colliding with Hermione, who looked about as worn and weathered as he felt, having just gone through the lengthy process of the prison release with a man who loathed him.

“The killer had said you’d be next.” She had spoken ever so carefully, scared of what may be to come. Why she had bought an entirely new home for the sake of his safety.

His eyes briefly focused on a bag of sour sweets, before they too vanished behind a flash of eating bacon and cheese covered potatoes with his wife. Her smile glowed next to the vase of iridescent flowers.

A flash of how her bare body arched from their bed, her mane of curls perfectly displayed against their duvet. He awoke in the middle of the night, his mind wandering into a hollow void as he stared at the streetlights and the yellowing leaves.

Their first life together, where he helped her dress. Their second life, where he fell for her before he had even looked into her eyes. Their third life, where her family was against their union. How she her hips rolled against his own as they had awoken that afternoon. How they had eyed each other with keen interest over the rims of their teacups. How he had come up behind her as she was dressing, his nose trailing at the soft slope of her nape. The cars outside. The intense wave of jealousy. The surprising impact of the shop and the items it held.

It was simply overwhelming. Heavy and dense and simply too much for his mind. And it all came over him in a horrid crash. It truly felt as though he had fallen from his broom, soaring towards the ground from a great height. Where he had landed with his back on the pitch. Every bone in his body shattered. The wind knocked out of his lungs. The soft grass beneath his body feeling like concrete as he landed.

“Could you help me?” His request was spoken in defeat, for he did not know anything about the world he had so abruptly become a part of.

In the mere moments that had passed since his first blink, her gaze had softened completely, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. She could feel it. It was both a blessing and a curse, having a soul bond with his most favourite person. There were never any secrets. Never the opportunity to hide how he truly felt, to try to remain strong for her. “Of course, Draco. Do you want green apple? Do you want something sour or something sweet or salty?”

He shook his head, looking down in what he could only describe as shame. He didn’t understand why such a simple thing as choosing a sweet could be such a big issue to his mental capacity. To every fibre of his being. He loved sweets, he always had. “I don’t know.” He felt broken. Shattered. His mind and body destroyed to a point beyond repair.

He took another deep breath, focusing on his hands, holding the hardened plastic handle of the basket tightly. He felt the small nicks and ticks, where things might have collided with the basket to create indentations, after having been in use for a long period of time. He tried suppressing his quiver, tried forcing his fingers to grip the plastic even harder, only so he could calm the tremors that had returned.

With vacant eyes, he barely registered how she collected a few bags and other items and sweets from the shelves and put them in the basket. He felt the weight increase between his fingers. “A variety to sample, once we get home.” He could only nod in response, his gaze flitting to her for only a moment. Golden eyes returned his gaze with worry.

She kept her eyes trained on him as they walked to the counter, her arm looped gingerly around his, as she led him to where a teenage boy waiting for them, eyeing the couple with a cold and scrutinising look.

He watched as the boy merely slid their items across the counter, where a machine before him made an atrocious beeping noise. Hermione collected their items in the off-white canvas bag and paid for their food and sweets with the paper notes, not entirely similar to the notes she had shown him in France. The ones she had in her hands, appeared to all be carrying the depictions of the muggle Queen on them.

He took the bag once it had been filled, slipping his arm through the large hoops. He didn’t feel quite himself. Didn’t feel quite like he belonged in the world he had suddenly become part of. A world that his wife so seamlessly blended into. A world she had grown up in and had no issue returning to.

Of course, he truly did wish to learn about her world. He wanted to learn all about it. Wished to be as fluent as her in muggle terminology and the manner in which they moved, in how they were all so well-rehearsed in the way they danced through life with such effortless ease. He wanted it all, only so he could be the best version of himself for her.

She took his hand. The warmth of her palm and the soft feeling of her touch grounding him immediately. Bringing his mind back to his body. Back to her. Feet firmly planted on the tile in the shop. There was the constant hum of some machinery in the distance. The soft rattles of plastic bags coming from somewhere near the produce section. And there was her. With her big, honey brown eyes and the kind smile that instantly settled the unease in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” She asked, stepping through the magically opening glass doors with him. The crisp autumn air washed over them, settling deep into his lungs. It felt like freedom, casting the slightest sense of ease into his body, which in turn settled into his blood. Not too much, though just enough to not allow him to remain. To not spiral off to the void once more. “You went somewhere these past few minutes.”

“I’m fine.” He promised, letting his thumb over the side of hers ever so gently. He didn’t wish to speak more on the topic. Not at that very moment. Not when they weren’t alone, and he could hug her and kiss her as freely as he wished to. For her knew that nothing and no one could bring his sanity back better than she could. His true love. His soulmate.

The silence weighed heavily on their shoulders as they walked towards their new home. Hand in hand, despite the fact that they did not talk. Her presence tethering his physical being to earth whilst his mind wandered hopelessly into the vast, endless chasm within his chest once more.

She didn’t like how he dismissed her. He could feel the echo of her disappointment and her disapproval ringing within his chest, paired with how she briefly turned her head to look up at him. She steered them towards their new house, her fingers stroking gently at his own as they walked in silence. They were only accompanied by the faint sound of rustling leaves, having fallen to the ground with the weight of approaching autumn, carried along the ground with small flurries of a soft breeze in the grey afternoon.

The streets were lined with red-hued brick homes, which all looked much too similar in his eyes. Though he knew they had a house on the corner. He knew their front door was elevated from the gravel by only one step, and that their front door was painted a royal blue. And it was the only house in the neighbourhood without a vehicle. Other houses had cars, motorcycles or regular pedal bikes. The Malfoy’s had none. Not that they’d ever need it, though he thought it might make them stand out in the everyday hustle and bustle of the busy muggle lives.

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they stepped onto the property, where the wards swallowed them as they had just reached the mail slot in the brick pillar. Blood wards. Strong and sturdy. Placed by exerts of some kind, no doubt.

Once the pair had made it to their kitchen, Draco stood by the window, looking out into the surprisingly lush garden. There, laying atop the slightly weakened grass, he could see an opened letter, facing the grey clouds above. The parchment had been bent and warped by the dew that had spread over the grass throughout the night, though he could still see the lines of ink and the purple seal of wax. A handwritten letter from the ministry.

“Can you be honest with me now?” She asked. Her tone was far from accusing. She was gentle. Tentative. Though she asked him for the truth of what was going on inside his mind. A truth he feared she might not like. A truth he himself did not like, and did not wish to share. Though a truth that needed to be spoken, nevertheless.

He pushed the stray strands of his hair from his brow, easing them back into their proper position atop his head, where they stretched towards the bun at the back of his head. “I don’t…” he took a steadying and calming breath. “It’s been a lot.” And before she was able to inquire further, he eased the canvas bag onto the kitchen counter before him and continued. “I was released from Azkaban not twenty-four hours ago. And I honestly feel like I have managed to live a lifetime since then. And just now, at the shop, I don’t recognise anything, I don’t know anything.”

Her arms wrapped around his middle; her head pressed to the back of his shoulder. Her warmth sunk into his bones in a matter of heartbeats, allowing a feeling of ease wash over him. As always, she spread comfort wherever she went, her heart the size of the sun, giving off the same heat and shining with the same brilliance as the brightest spot to ever traverse the galaxies. “I’m sorry. I pushed you too hard and… And I’m so very sorry, Draco.”

“You didn’t.” He lay his hand atop one of hers, his thumb feeling carefully over her knuckles. “But I would like it if we didn’t push too hard from now on. Just for a few days at least, until my mind settles and I can accept this new life.” His mind was present in their conversation, though he could easily spot the distance in his voice.

He could feel her nod against his back, at how his cotton shirt rubbed at the raised skin of his scar. “Of course. It’s a lot that’s happened since yesterday. I suppose I was just eager to get back to normal with you. I shouldn’t have pushed. Not last night-”

“Hermione?” He turned his head, looking at the nest of brown curls that were pressed to his shoulder. “You have nothing to apologise for. None of this is your fault. But I’m going to need a bit to get back to reality. Because right now, I don’t really feel like I belong here. And I don’t just mean here, in this house. I mean… I mean I don’t feel like I belong anywhere. Not with you. Not with the muggles. Not in Oxford. Not anywhere. It feels like I should just go back to the Dementors.”

Her hold around him loosened, to the point where she managed to pull back from him ever so slightly. Her hurt, her pain was palpable. It sat like an electric current of horrendous surprise in the space around them “What?”

“It’s not something that will ever happen. It’s just… Where my brain is, at least in this very moment.” He turned in her arms, if only so he could close the distance between them, pressing a small and tender kiss to her lips. A kiss he knew they both needed to settle the ice that had crept into their bodies. A kiss that melted their unease just enough. “I will never leave you like that again. I will not return to Azkaban. I’ll not die. At least not until we’re old and are preparing ourselves to meet in the next life.”

She nodded her head slowly. “Do you want to relax on the sofa? I’ll start on the dough, and we can relax with a book or a film or something this evening? Just the two of us? No outside world whatsoever?”

The tip of his nose rubbed against hers as he nodded his head in agreement. The idea of taking a moment to himself sounded more appealing than he had ever expected. Though, he also didn’t wish to part from her at all. He wanted to feel her. Kiss her. Show her how he had missed her and how deeply he loved her, simply by existing alongside her. “That sounds lovely. But I want to help you. In case you don’t recall, I’m quite skilled at kneading a dough.”

“That you are,” she purred against his lips, her chest pressing lightly against his. “I think my dough has bruises from this morning.”

Hermione had turned the L shaped sofa over entirely. The decorative pillows and cushions had been thrown out of the so-called telly-nook and tossed haphazardly around the violet sofa in the other room. Draco stood leaned against the opening with a raised brow, his arms folded over his chest.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he drawled.

“The damned remote!”

“Of course.” Was his only retort, his brow raising slowly as he watched her with pure amusement. She was a mess. Her T-shirt askew over her hip, showing a delicious sliver of sunkissed skin at her hip. “And that damned remote looks like…?”

She turned to face him, her eyes were as wild as her hair, which had grown twice in size since last he had seen her in the kitchen, only three minutes prior. “It’s a small, black rectangle with colourful buttons on it.” She huffed a tuft of brown curls away from her eyes. It flew upwards for only a moment, then returned back to the exact spot it had hung before.

He quirked a brow, feeling his lips tug upwards with realization. “It’s not in the sofa.” He informed her. For once he knew something she didn’t. For once, the famed witch, bearing the title of Brightest Witch of Her Age, did not know the answer. It had rarely happened, so he truly relished in the moment.

“And where is it?” She forced the T-shirt down as far as it would go, letting the white cotton cover her rear, yet expose more of her chest in the deep cutout. Apparently, when she wore that exact shirt, he was most certainly a winner. And the prize he won was the most delectable view.

“Let’s put the cushions back first. Then I’ll tell you.” He took a step towards the cushions and pillows, all heaped on the floor and against the violet sofa, having been brought in from the manor’s solarium. He picked up two and carried them to his wife, who took them from his grasp and placed them back where they belonged. They went back and forth several rounds, Draco picking them up and Hermione returning them to their rightful place, until everything was back to normal. Until the floor was cleaned and sofa looked like an actual piece of furniture again.

“Okay. Now you get to tell me.” She said impatiently. Her shirt had slipped up over the mouthwatering curve of her hips again, momentarily distracting him from the issue at hand. The so-called remote. “Where is it?”

He didn’t use his words to answer her, only pointed his long, pale finger to one of the the built-in bookcases on either side of the so-called ‘telly’. It was the rightmost case, on one of the only shelves that actually held contents. Something that looked like a series of books. Some were a decent thickness and thus length, though there were also several thinner ones – and, of course, the black rectangle with buttons. A remote.

“Oh!” She quickly retrieved it from where she had misplaced it. “I was thinking we could watch a film together. Something calm and relaxing. Filled with nature, a calm atmosphere and a sweet sentiment. How does that sound?” She looked excited to show him the film she spoke so fondly of. Her eyes glittered, even in the dim evening light that had settled into their home. He could never turn her down, never say no when she glowed with such enchanting vibrancy.

“I don’t really know what a film is, remember? Moving pictures with sound, sure. Though, does it last for a four-second loop as well?” He returned to leaning against the frame as he had done only minutes before, a smidge of amusement spread over his face.

“No.” She stood before the telly and pressed a red button at the top of the remote. The black square at the top of the low rising furniture came to life, a soft buzz ringing through the air as a blue colour took up most of the space on the otherwise black square. “It’s longer than that… I- I think I’ll show you a nice one. It’s calm, it’s beautiful and I think you’ll like it.”

“I trust you with my life, Hermione. I’m certain you know exactly what I’ll enjoy tonight.”  He watched as the blue faded, replaced by a black screen and a silver logo reading ‘SONY DVD’.

He pushed himself from the wall, where he was leaning against his arm. “I’ll let you to it and go collect the pizza,” he said, just was he watched her pick out one of the smaller books from the shelf. The cover was of a young couple running through a field of tall straw and grass. The title of the book read Tuck Everlasting. Only when she opened it, it wasn’t a book. It was a plastic case of sorts, opening with a slight rattle of something within.

“I’ll come help you,” she caught his gaze.

“No worry, love. You set up the film and I’ll get our food and snacks.” He assured her with a smile, then rounded the wall and headed for the opened French doors of the kitchen. Their pizza was already cut and prepared on the counter, placed under a stasis charm to keep the square slices warm. The snacks and sweets had been placed in bowls. Then, there was a large pitcher of water, a bottle of wine, which Draco had picked out from the shop, which had cost more than three pound, thank you very much, as well as a water glass and a wine glass for the both of them.

He placed them all atop a tray, along with two plates, and carried the lot back to the telly-nook, where his wife was awaiting his company on the sofa. She had pulled the table into the corner of the sofa and pulled out two blankets for them.

He placed the tray on the table, closest to the corner where they would be sitting and then climbed into the corner, which Hermione gestured wildly towards. He settled into the back of the sofa, and she could only grin at him. “This means I get to cuddle you all evening.”

“You say that as if I’d want it any other way.” His arm rested around her as she lifted the plate of square pizza slices up towards him. He took a piece. As did she. He sank back against the peach-coloured pillows as Hermione reached for the remote and pressed a button with a triangle on it, causing the black screen before them to come to life.

A soft, whistled tune filled the room, coming from the telly. A tune that almost felt melancholy. It was ever so beautiful and simple. Peaceful in a way, serene. Though, with a hint of sadness or defeat, though somehow mixed with the effortless flow of songbirds.

Walt Disney Pictures Presents

Tuck Everlasting

Chapter Text

Dressed in a crisp black suit and a white button up shirt, Draco stepped through the bright green flames, only to arrive at number twelve Grimmauld Place. He inhaled deeply through the nose, hoping that the air in his lungs steadied him in his nervousness and unease. He could feel it within the entirety of his body, how the physical connection to his wife had been affected by the distance he had put between them, after having spent a full week wrapped in each other’s arms.

Though, there were two things he truly needed to get done. And he had intended to do them without Hermione by his side, if only so he could show it to himself that he was capable. The first errand of the day, an errand he was not particularly excited about, was speaking with The Chosen One. Harry Potter. He had envisioned having words over morning tea, where he would be trying his very best to remain calm and collected. He knew it could prove difficult, facing the man who hurt both him and his wife in immeasurable manners.

What met him as he entered the Potter’s sitting room, was the sight of a heavily pregnant Pansy. Although her stomach looked beautifully rounded and healthy, the witch herself looked ill and uncomfortable as she walked awkwardly through the room. Her back was stiff, her hips appeared to be causing her immense pain, evident with how she hobbled over to the sofa. Her fingers clutching tightly at the backrest as she lay her eyes on her friend.

“Draco?” Her voice rang with surprise. The pain, having been easily recognisable on her features only moment before, faded to naught. Replaced by an eased expression of gratitude. Her brows relaxing back into their high arch and a faint smile hinting at the corners of her lips.

“Pansy.” He nodded his head to her, watching her with worry as the witch collapsed into the sofa, her hand and forearm supporting her unborn child “Are yo-”

“If you’re going to ask me how I’m doing, I’m going to have to stop you. I’m not fine. My hips hurt, the baby’s blasted kicking is brutal, and I sleep like absolute shit. When this thing is finally out of me, I’m taking a week off, to simmer on a Living Death potion, just so I can recharge.”  She snapped briskly, her previously calm demeanour having completely altered. Her eyes were intently focused on the man, who was fresh out of the hearth. She took him in with a sharp and scrutinising gaze. He knew was she saw. Long limbs, hidden beneath a somewhat ill-fitting suit. Sunken cheeks, causing his cheekbones and jaw to appear sharper. His hands were quivering. His knees were unsteady. Overall, he knew he appeared to be well rested and well groomed, though still a quite unhealthy individual. Her gaze softened once more, a lengthy and apologetic exhale escaping through her nose. “Harry’s in his study. You should go see him. And when you’re done, I’d love to have a chat with you. Life hasn’t been the same without you, you know.”

He truly did admire how Pansy had matured since their teenage years. How she was much more open and allowed herself to be vulnerable. Much more so, than he could ever recall. Even more than she had been whilst the two of them had been a hopeless couple, seeking comfort in each other in trying times.

“I’ve missed you too, Pans.” He told her, whilst sending a small smile her way. He most certainly meant it. He had missed her. The corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly in return, before nodding her head towards the doorway, silently urging the tall man to leave. To go talk with her husband.

So, that was exactly what he did.

Long legs carried him forwards, where he rounded the sofa, which the uncomfortable witch occupied. His fingertips briefly touched her shoulder, sharing a moment of silent acknowledgement with one another, before he stepped out through the doorway to the dimly lit corridor. Potters study was the only door to only door to the left, it was ajar, so the auror could hear what happened in the upstairs sitting room and corridor.

Dragonhide shoes sounded against the wooden floorboards as he walked up to Potter’s door. He couldn’t help but feel the severity of the nerves, ever so evident in his body. Fingers twitched. His head felt heavy and fogged. His stomach was in a tight knot, uncomfortable and weighted within his torso as he made his way closer to where he knew the auror awaited him.

Alabaster knuckles tapped lightly on the dark stained, wooden door. He kept his gaze focused on the brass doorknob, a simple oval, as he awaited Potters response. It only took a brief moment, the mere blink of an eye, though it felt like minutes to him. Long and excruciating and, surprisingly enough, terrifying.

The soft rustle of paper sounded from within the study. A quill being returned to its inkwell. The audible inhale. A slight creak to a wooden framed chair. “You can come in, Malfoy.”

The shift in his body was more abrupt than he had expected. He felt discomfort in how he had dressed himself. The collar around his neck pressed against his skin, to the point where he could feel his pulse against the pressed fabric, he could feel how his jacket did not fit right over his shoulders. How the trousers lay too loosely against his thighs. How his heaving chest shifted the cotton of his shirt with every deep, shaking inhale.

Reconnecting with the man who had taken everything away from him so swiftly was, with the utmost sincerity, quite horrifying to him. The situation Draco had put himself in, by simply existing in Potter’s home, was ever so uncomfortable and intense, causing his heart to beat rapidly within his chest. “Potter,” he uttered, the words rang harsher than he had expected, just as he swung the door open and stepped inside.

The office was small and dark, and to the lack of Draco’s surprise, it was extremely cluttered. A single window on the back wall lit up the space, highlighting soft flutters of dust in the air. Potter’s desk stood with the front pressed against the wall, with several stacks of documents, notes and muggle chocolate wrappers. Behind the auror’s back, the wall was lined with towering, black, wooden bookshelves, housing several folders and scattered books.

Potter sat with his back turned towards the window; his fingers folded loosely before his stomach as he took in the man who entered his private space. Green eyes observing him with caution behind the ever so famed circular spectacles.

“It’s good to see you.” The man greeted, his voice coarse and dry, whilst gesturing to chair, which stood at the short side of his desk. Draco only gave a nod in return, not knowing how to respond. 

He had given The-Boy-Who-Lived so very much of himself. He had given himself up as bait, just so the auror could get more information regarding the case. The case they had both been working on. The case that had started out with Draco simply giving the aurors his thoughts on what was happening. Where he had only been someone to theorise with. However, it had taken a turn in the wrong direction, with the killer, or killers, wanting him dead next.

“I’m here to tell you of my experience in Azkaban.” He spoke to the auror, quietly shutting the door behind himself completely. He knew how Pansy would most likely be able to hear their conversation, should the men get into an argument. However, Draco had truly intended to remain as calm as possible throughout their meeting, only stating the very few observations he had made and hopefully leave the bespectacled man to his own devices.

He rested his quivering fingers atop the wooden backrest of the chair, pulling it slightly back from the desk and the auror who occupied it. The feet of the chair dragged against the carpet below them, moving almost soundlessly. Then, when the chair was deemed far enough away from the other man, Draco sat down on the seat offered to him. The wood creaked and groaned softly beneath his weight as he settled himself, ever so uncomfortably. His eyes were keenly peeled on the auror, watching his every move as though it could be a defining factor for the moment.

“But before that, I believe I should apologise for my actions.” Potter spoke solemnly into the quiet office, the words settling themselves onto the recently incarcerated man. Through Draco could only shake them off.

“I don’t really care about an apology from you. However, I would like to know the intent behind your actions. Why you had me back in there and only tried to extend my stay, rather than involve my wife and get me out.” He could feel the tendons in his forearms tug beneath his skin, causing him to clench his fists, only hoping to be in control of his tremors.

“We agreed not to tell her.” The other man protested quickly, his brows lowering over emerald eyes.

“We did. For the stay that would last up to a week. Though, I was there for three months. Just in case you forgot.” He kept his hard gaze on the auror before him. He waited for a moment, allowing his words to sink in, noting the slightest of shift, the remorse, taking place in the eyes opposite his own. “I sat there, in the cold, for three months because of you. Where the dementors warped my mind and created… Created horrid visions of my friends and family, of Hermione, which I’d rather not think about for the rest of life.”

“Malfoy…”

“Anyways. I didn’t really see anything. I was kept with the dementors, so I didn’t have much time with the regular guards. They only came by for meals and didn’t speak much. Not that I can recall, anyway.” He cast his eyes away from the auror and down to his hands. They were trembling. Quivering. Unsteady and weakened. “After a little while, perhaps just hours, I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t know how much time had passed until Theo and Weasley brought Hermione for a visit on her birthday. I was certain I had been locked up for years. That everyone had moved on, that the killer had been caught and Hermione had remarried.”

Potter shifted in his seat, seeming uncomfortable in how he managed to lean back and appear as though the words spoken did not affect him. He tried. He was entirely unsuccessful. A sigh escaped from deep within his soul. “Malfoy… I don’t know what to say.”

Another sigh entered their space, though that time it came from the broken soul, occupying the guest chair. “I won’t make you say anything. I won’t force you to acknowledge how you’ve hurt those you supposedly care about the most. I honestly don’t even care that you hurt me, you and I aren’t particularly close, nor have we ever been. But your actions did more than hurt me. You hurt Hermione. You hurt Pansy. You hurt Weasley. I know for a fact that the two people you’ve been friends with for most of your life, don’t even trust you after this stunt of yours.” He shook his head slightly. “You know what. I think I changed my mind. You don’t have to tell me why you did what you did. You don’t have to explain yourself or apologise. All you have to do is try to be better. Not for me. Not for Weasley. Not for Hermione. But for your child. You’re about to become a father, Harry. You must set an example by being a good person in a corrupt world. And you have to be a good partner for your wife. Pansy deserves nothing but the best. And If you’re not going to try to be the best… You don’t deserve to be part of her life.”

“You don’t think I know that? Honestly, Malfoy, I thought I was doing the right thing in all of this. Clearly, I wasn’t.” As a sign of utmost defeat, Potter ran his hand down over his nose and mouth, his dry hands rubbing lightly against the stubbled in his chin. “It was difficult enough to try to get you out, which I tried to do in the beginning, but then the owl came with that blasted letter and everything changed. You were supposed to be safer in there, as they would target you when you were out. I- I know you and I aren’t best mates, but I couldn’t stand the thought of you being murdered like the rest of the Death Eaters. I tried getting you moved. Away from the dementors, I mean. It would just take a bit of time to make it happen.”

“You know… You had the brightest witch of our age on your side. Had you gone to her, she would have figured something else out.” He unclenched his fist, stretching his long fingers as far as they could reach, holing it would ease the discomfort he felt in his hands. The two men looked at one another, Potter pressing his lips into a tight line. “Just like she did, without your help, when it was proven to her what was happening. She got me out. She got me to safety.”

“But the plan was to not tell her anything.” Potter sat up straighter in his chair, his shoulder taught with his unease.

“Even I would have told her, had I had time to before I was taken away. You know our plan changed the minute I was arrested. Because I wasn’t arrested by you or Weasley. I wasn’t arrested on some bogus charges. I was arrested for something that rightfully landed me in Azkaban for longer. In other words, plans change. Things happen. Life goes on. You made the wrong choice by not telling Hermione.”

A hand ran through tousled, black hair and mussed it up even further. “I know… I know.” He spoke softly, his body sinking back against his chair with an odd appearance of vulnerability.

After a few moments of silence, where he knew Potter had sat with the words and thought of his actions, he spoke up again. “Why did you remove her from my list of visitors?”

Deep green locked onto grey. Uncomfortable but open as they stared at one another. “I came to see you a couple of days after you were taken in. I saw the mess you were. You were just sitting in a corner, talking to yourself. Mumbling things about mudbloods and murder. I tried talking to you, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t even look up. I don’t know if you heard me at all when I shouted your name. The sight alone would have broken her. Hearing the things you said,” he shook his head “I don’t know if she’d ever forgive it.”

“That was one of the first hallucinations I got in there. Where the dementors changed a memory. At the World Cup, when Death Eaters were levitating muggles and told her to keep her head down… My mind envisioned that she was dead. Murdered, floated around whilst Death Eaters shouted Mudblood.” He looked away from the auror, down to the quivering hands on his thighs. “But why did you not treat her like a friend when she needed you the most?”

“What do you mean by that?” A younger Potter would have been accusing. The more mature version was curious. Open to criticism, though still slightly on edge about it.

“Have you opened your birthday gift yet?” He asked simply. Even he knew what she had made. How hurt she was that he had not opened it at his party, nor mentioned it to her later.

Potter shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line. “It was a book, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t. It was so much more than that.” He looked up, watching as reality washed over the auror. “She needed her friends, you know, and you didn’t come to check on her once. Not a single time. She was all alone in that giant manor, not taking care of herself and working herself to the bone, just to be busy. But she could have gone out with you for dinner or lunch or whatever, once in a while. She could have gotten an owl telling her she was appreciated and loved by those she cared for the most. But all she got was silence.” He was not there to fight her battles, he knew that. Though, it was difficult not to try. For he had seen the pain in her eyes. He had held her while she had cried in his arms, recounting her solitude whilst he had been locked away. “It literally took one of my best mates to come and check on her for her birthday, for her to feel seen. She had injured herself. Hurled bottles of wine at the wall, litres of wine she had intended to drink all of. Theo picked her up from the floor and took her to Weasley. Together, they brought her to me. Just so we could reunite. Just so our bond could strengthen. Which is what would have happened, had you not removed her from my list. She would have been happy, and I would have been mentally capable to handle what the Dementors threw at me. Perhaps I’d even have more information to give you.”

“I get it. I get it. You’re disappointed in me and angry that I stepped back from her… It’s not like I could look her in the eye when I saw how broken she was. When I saw what our stupid plan did to her, and how she became a shell of her normal self. I couldn’t just pretend to not have a hand in what upset her. In what tore her and her bloody soulmate apart.” Potter was getting increasingly agitated, adjusting his body to how he sat hunched forwards and stared keenly back at Draco. “I swear, I had no ill intent behind anything. I swear it. I wanted to do the right thing, I wanted to help, to keep you safe and to make sure you stayed alive… But I made it all ten times worse.”

Draco nodded his head slowly, letting the man before him come to his own conclusions. He could tell, with utmost certainty, that the topic had weighed on him for quite some time.

“Pansy barely looks at me. Ron won’t talk to me. I think Kingsley talked me in circles. As for Hermione, well, she’s better off without my friendship.” He swiftly pulled his glasses from the bridge of his nose, tossing them to his desk with a heaving sigh. They skidded across parchment before hitting the wood with a soft click. “I sleep in the guest bedroom, you know. I don’t have my partner at work. I am always alone. And let me tell you, working on this case and trying my best to solve it without having anyone to talk to is…”

“Impossible.” Draco leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking beneath his weight. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Whenever I’ve been lucid at least.”

“What have you thought of?” Potter asked with a huff, as though whatever Draco had to say might just be repetition of something he had thought of multiple times before. Though Draco only recalled because Hermione had healed the thinly stretched skin, where bone had been exposed only days prior. Her healing his opened wounds, had not been done perfectly. It had left a series of scars, which was itching and uncomfortable against the inside of his boot.

“Well… The fact that there are shackles on every inmate’s ankles. They force the prisoner to remain on the Azkaban grounds.” The words caused green eyes to light up, locking onto the grey of Draco’s. The eager look shared from the man, wordlessly indicated for Draco to keep going. To share the little things he had recalled. “It was introduced before I was first locked away. After the Death Eater breakout in ‘96. So no one could escape. One could only remain on the Azkaban island. The victims weren’t found with missing feet, were they?”

“Not at all.”

“Either the guards are involved, if only by removing the shackles or…” He raised a blonde brow, sending the thought over to the auror for completion.

“Or someone is killing them on Azkaban grounds.” Potter finished the sentence that Draco had started. Draco simply nodded his head. “I’ll have to search it all. Talk to the guards an-”

“Don’t rush into anything, now. I agree you have to search the grounds, but don’t speak to every guard. Speak to few. The longest standing ones, who have most authority.” He urged the auror to understand. “I don’t know everyone, but those who have access to release prisoners at least. Ferrington and his crew. Some of them should know something.”

The men shared a look. Even without his glasses, Potter stared over at Draco with intensity. A new fire set ablaze within his heart and soul. “Ferrington?”

“A shit human, but he’s worked there for a long time. He knows everything happening inside Azkaban. He’s the one that would notice if anything was amiss.” He watched as Potter sat the circular spectacles back on his nose and looked over his cluttered desk for something to write with. Something to write on. “Before you go into interrogation, I need you to write down every specific question you plan to ask the guards. I’ll go over them, double check they’re not easy to bypass under Veritaserum. And don’t forget, Hermione’s mind is excellent, and she can help us.”

The-Boy-Who-Loved turned his head sharply to Draco, his brows quirked. “You think she’d help with this case? Didn’t you want her to stay out of it for her own safety?”

“At the point of Dolohov’s death, when her name was carved into his back, absolutely.” He nodded with sincerity. “Though I believe she would help in any way she could, especially now that my life is being threatened. You should know her well enough to know she wouldn’t just drop this when she always wants to do the right thing.”

Potter nodded his head, inhaling deeply through slightly parted lips “You’re right. You should both analyse the questions and rewrite everything you feel could be sidestepped.” He said, turning back to a piece of parchment and a muggle pen, scratching hurried thoughts down with blue ink. Filling the parchment with quick, desperate and unintelligible scribbles.

“Do you have any other thoughts after this?” He asked curiously, pushing back hair from his brow. “I’ll have to show this to Ron come Monday. See if he’ll be willing to come back to working with me.” The words were uttered with excitement, though there was a hint of a worried undertone to his words. As though Weasley thought himself too good for his friendship. As though Weasley, much like Hermione, wouldn’t help aid in a situation where it was the right thing to do.

“He’ll help. I know he will.” He said calmly, allowing his head to fall to an understanding tilt. “I know it’s scary to ask, but you know him. You know he won’t back down if you show him you want to be better. If you show him how you care and that you want to grow from your mistakes. And besides, this is exactly what you’ve been working towards for quite some time. A break. Something to help move the case forwards. To find the killer.”

“I honestly think it’s more than one. Killer, I mean.” Potter quickly said, lifting his gaze from the parchment to look over at the other wizard, whom must have appeared to be as surprised as he felt. “I think it’s two. Perhaps three. They’re working together. One of them orchestrates and plans. Another one kills and disposes. If a guard is involved, I believe they’re the ones killing. Perhaps they’re doing it for a motivator. Something to help them deviate from their training and the laws.”

“Gold.” Draco said plainly. “Gold will make the most honourable man be willing to sell his soul. The right amount of gold could be life-altering to even the richest individual.” Though Potter and Draco alike had more than enough Galleons in their vaults, they both knew the results a vast amount of money could do to someone. It could corrupt the purest soul. Could make righteous men join in on mass murders.

“Are there enough galleons in the world to make you kill someone?” Potter asked with curiosity.

“No. But when my mother’s life was threatened, I killed anyone I had to.” He confessed with a sigh, reminded of his next task for the day. “Though, had I not been raised with enough Galleons to buy the Queen of England, I probably would have folded quite easily for a big number of Galleons as well. Azkaban guards can’t be quite so well-paid, so I’m guessing a decent enough sum could get them on board.”

Potter nodded his head with vigour, the pen gliding across the parchment with ease as he continued jotting down notes. “So, you think the one in charge of this has a lot of money, then?”

“Probably, yeah.” Draco nodded his head in contemplation.

“A sacred family perhaps?” Potter did not lift his gaze, his brows knit across his forehead as his focus only intensified and the speed of his writing increased drastically, his penmanship growing sloppy atop the parchment.

“After the war, one doesn’t have to be rich to have a vault full of Galleons. Or so I’ve been told.” Draco though back to conversations with his mother, from when he had first been imprisoned. Hearing about the restoration of wizarding society. Being told exactly how many Galleons had been taken from his family’s vaults. From the vaults of everyone who had been at the wrong side of the war.

The gold had gone to victims. Handed to those who had lost limbs. Those who had lost their homes. Lost their minds. Remaining family of those who had lost a loved one. Of those who had become childless following the war, such as Molly and Arthur Weasley. Or those who had been orphaned, like little Teddy Lupin.

And it wasn’t as though all sacred families had immense amounts of money. The Malfoy’s had always had towering stacks of golden Galleons in their vaults. Though the family had strong investments to rely on, investments which dated back several centuries. The contents of their vaults only kept growing, even after the war. The Malfoy family was simply rich because of luck. However, not everyone was quiteso lucky.

The long since extinguished Gaunt family, dating back to Salazar Slytherin himself, had gone through their riches without any hesitation. Only one bad seed, only one bad generation was all it had taken to empty the vaults of a most ancient and sacred family.

“So… It could be anyone.” Potter looked up, just as there was a weak knock at the door.

“Just stopping by to make sure no one has slaughtered each other.” Pansy said as she opened the door, just enough to peer inside, her eyes scanning the two men with curiosity. “I thought you were too quiet for the conversation you needed to have. There was no yelling.”

The men exchanged looks. Light-hearted, though not entirely back to as friendly as they had previously been.

“I believe the two of us actually agreed.” Draco said, earning himself a nod from Potter. “What happened what not ideal, but he regrets what he did. There is still a murderer out there, who needs to get caught, and I’ll continue to help out.”

Pansy looked between the two, her mind seemingly racing behind her soft green eyes. “Let me get this right. You’re… You’re friends again?”

“Something like that. We can’t continue to lock him out because of one mistake. He knows he’s made a series of poor decisions, but I’m not going to hold it against him. He doesn’t hold my past against me, after all.”

He observed as Potter locked eyes with his wife. A wordless conversation was shared between the two, where it ended with Pansy rubbing the underside of her bulging belly. “Sounds like a fair enough agreement…” She said with careful calculation. “I’ll leave you boys to it…”

The door closed quietly, letting the auror and the ex-prisoner to return to the task at hand.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the rope as well. The one that Dolohov was strung up by.” Potter said, fingers skimming through the corners of worn parchment. “It was blue polypropylene. Usually used by muggles, and is very common in boating.” He said, pulling out a sheet of parchment from the stack and offering it to Draco.

Horribly written notes from a crazed auror. Not easily decipherable, though Draco truly tried his very best. “I think I need your spoken words for this, Potter.” He said with a small frown marring his features, returning the parchment to the corner of the desk.

“Basically, why would a wizard use polypropylene? Why not actual rope, easily accessible in our community? Why go out of their way to get a muggle rope?” Potter queried, his brows raising further towards his hairline with every rhetorical question.

Draco simply shrugged a shoulder by a mere fraction, only to show he did not know.

“Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps it’s a half-blood or muggleborn, someone who had it readily accessible. Perhaps, if they’re muggleborn, it can explain why they carved Hermione’s name into Dolohov’s back?”

The words washed over Draco like a wave of ice cold water. He pushed to the edge of his seat, his discomfort and unease entirely forgotten with the new theory. “I’ll have to talk to Hermione.”

“Yes you do.” Potter could only grin in return, appearing as though elated to have revealed his thoughts and theories to someone willing to listen.

He truly had wanted to invite Weasley for his errand. Then he had considered asking Pansy, though quickly discarded the thought after seeing her weakened state. Hermione was next on his list. Even Potter crossed his mind, though after spending hours in his study, theorising and reinstating their friendship, Draco found he was quite done with Potter for the day. There was something within his heart that told him he had to do it on his own. That he shouldn’t use a buffer. That there should be no one to hold his hand. Just him. Alone. Facing his demons. Facing his mother.

The Welcome-Witch at St. Mungo’s Hopital had told him his mother had been released from care one month prior. She did not tell him more, apparently not allowed to share more information on the patient to her very own son. Which could only mean that someone else had taken his role as her emergency contact. Not that he had been in a position to be that contact for her. Not when he had spent more time within the towering walls of Azkaban than he had spent as a free man. Even as a free teenager.

However, if he was not her emergency contact, it could only mean she was being taken care of my someone else. Someone who cared for her, who was by her side when he refused to be, all because of her deeply rooted bigotry.

Someone like Andromeda Tonks.

“Hermione?” He called, stepping out from the floo hearth within their new home. He was greeted by the sight of a violet sofa with a blanket tossed over the tufted velvet backrest, a book laying closed atop the coffee table. Pride and Prejudice. A classic that his Hermione read for comfort.

“Upstairs!” Her melodic voice called back, sounding effortlessly through the corridor and the middle level of the home. He didn’t hesitate to follow it, as though the voice of his true love was a trail of magic, leading the way back to her. Long legs carried him into the corridor and following the curved staircase up to the top level of the home. He followed the pull from his soul, which guided him to the bedroom, where she was dressing herself after a shower.

Her hair was wrapped in a towel atop her head, wearing an overly large T-shirt she had stolen from his side of the dressing room. There were damp streaks in the light grey cotton, where her hair had momentarily rested before being pulled away. She was about to pull on a pair of joggers when he entered.

“Hello, beautiful.” He hummed softly, leaning his shoulder against the doorway, his eyes trailing up along the curvy lengths of her legs. “I didn’t know it was time for dessert just yet.”

She swiftly pulled the joggers up her legs, securing the waistband on her hips. “It’s not.” Her brow quirked ever so slightly upwards, taking him in with amusement. Of course it wasn’t. She had told him the night prior that she had just gotten her monthly visitor, and thus, there would be no dessert for him to enjoy for a few days. “You’re home earlier than I expected.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching her for a lengthy moment before he nodded. “Mother was released from St. Mungo’s about a month ago.” He informed his wife, watching as she stepped closer to him. “I believe she’s with Andromeda.”

Hermione’s fingers cuffed around his steady forearms, carefully untangling his arms from before his chest. She felt down along his sleeves, where his jacket met his shirt cuffs, and then where the cuffs met his skin. Her touch was warm as she slotted her fingers between his, entwining their hairs together in simple perfection. They were still in her presence, his tremors long since forgotten. “Do you want me to take you there?”

“In one way, I suppose I want to talk to her alone… But I don’t know if showing up there, completely unannounced, would be a good idea if you weren’t with me.” He confessed to her, his fingers tightening slightly between those of his wife. “What do you think would be best?”

“I think,” She started, stepping into him, where their lips met in a small, light peck. “We should go together. And then you and your mother have a moment together outside or in another room or something. Andromeda, Teddy and I can give you peace whilst you talk.”

“And if I end up needing you?” His question was barely audible, even in their proximity.

“Then I’ll come. I’ll be right there, and no matter what I end up doing, where I end up going, if I feel that you need me, I’ll come right back to you.” She vowed, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “You know I’ll feel for you.”

Since his most recent release from Azkaban, since the pair had finally consummated their relationship, the unwavering bond between the pair had only strengthened. They could feel each other over greater distances, he could tell her mood and her feelings without fail. Just as she could with his. He could tell when she had read a sad sentence in a book. He could sense it when she was hungry. Everything about their connection felt complete. As though she had become an extension of himself, a part of his existence that he could know as well and as deeply as himself. Perhaps even better than himself.

“I know.” He concurred, the tip of his nose feeling hers. “I just feel…”

“Apprehensive.” She put words to the tightness in his chest. “Nervous. Scared she might not have changed?”

“Terrified I’m not getting my mother back.” His fingers slipped form hers, if only so he could tangle his arms around her to bring her completely against him. Where she rightfully belonged, in his secure embrace. “What if she is free from the hospital, deemed healthy enough to be on her own, though still spitting that word. Still not accepting that I’m happy, that I’m lucky to have you…”

Though most of all, he was terrified he might have destroyed his life, might have spent years in Azkaban, endured seemingly endless torture for a woman who could never make equal sacrifices for him. He had killed so that his mother could remain safe. He had murdered to keep his mother from experiencing torture. He had ended young lives, just so his mother would live. And he was terrified he had done it all, just for her to remain in her prejudice state, hating on the most important person in her son’s life.

“The decision of what your relationship becomes, is entirely up to you. I hope she has changed, seeing as Andromeda was once married to a muggleborn man herself, I don’t think she would accept a slur like that being tossed around inside her own home. Especially not with Teddy there.” Golden brown eyes locked onto his, gazing deep into his soul. A warm comfort sank into him, much like the warmth of a fire melting into the depth of his bones. “You’ll always have my support if you decide to remove her from your life. But just know how grateful I am that you have been willing to try. That you have given her these opportunities to change.”

“I don’t know if she deserves another chance. If she fails now, I can’t keep giving her more.” He had made up his mind, though he had to see his mother, talk to her and hear her words of hate, or hopefully remorse, before acting.

Gentle fingers skimmed his hair, tucking a series of loose, white strands behind his ear with tentative care and tenderness. “The choice is yours, and yours alone, Draco. You know where I stand, and that is entirely by your side. Let me get dressed and dry my hair, and I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes, is that okay?”

His mother was in the garden with Teddy, both her and the young boy working together on pruning and trimming Andromeda’s flowerbeds. There were no roses, which had always been his mother’s favourite flowers. All life that had once resided in the flowerbeds had wilted, though the bushes remained. Which meant, his mother, as per usual, was persistent to save the greenery for the next season. He had never understood his mother and her incessant need to preserve flowers for season after season, as though the petals held magic which could save lives. Though they did not. Not the roses she had always cared for. Her favourite flowers, grown in vast amounts in her gardens at the manor, were simply for show, pruned and cared to fake perfection, just as most other things in her life.

She glanced up for only a moment, allowing her eyes to land on the couple by the door, who were surveying the woman and the young boy. She shifted her gaze back down, though quickly looked back as her mind seemed to register what and who she had truly seen only metres from where she was kneeling on the soft ground.

“Draaco?” She dropped the pruners into the dirt, catching the young Teddy by evident surprise, as his hair darkened to royal blue. She plucked the glove from her hand, one finger at a time. Her brilliantly blue eyes remained focused on her son before both gloves joined the pruners in the newly overturned eath. “M-my draagon”

Her dragon, who was standing by Hermione’s side. Her dragon, holding the hand of his muggleborn wife. Her dragon, the man who could be nothing more than a disappointment to her. The ex-Death Eater. The prisoner. The man who was good for nothing.

She charged for him, excitement written clearly upon her features as she almost leapt forwards. Her eyes seemingly glowing as she hurried his way. His grip around Hermione’s fingers only tightened, wordlessly telling Hermione to not leave his side. His hold bringing her body closer to him, where he could feel the heat radiating from her body and sinking below his skin.

His mother’s pace faltered, lessening until she stopped, only a few paces from her only son and the woman he loved above all. As though the act of bringing Hermione closer, was the only thing that brought her existence to Narcissa’s attention.

“A-and Hermiione.” Her voice was levelled. Holding but a hint of curiosity, though there was also the slightest fraction of disappointment. The blue gaze was sharp as a blade as her eyes locked back onto those of her sons once more, judging him for his actions, for bringing Hermione to her new sanctuary.

Draco glanced to Teddy, who remained on his knees by the flowerbed, the boy keeping his eyes on his great aunt with ever so slight worry. His small hands were rolled into small fists atop his thighs; bright blue eyes intently focused on the three Malfoys. “Yes. Hermione is here.” Draco told her, letting his eyes shift from the young boy, to finally fall to his mother’s presence once more, his voice as sharp and pointed as his gaze. “She is my wife, if you recall. My soulmate.”

His mother stood stiffly, rooted to the spot as her eyes flickered between the two, taking them in. “I kno-ow that, Draaco.” Her voice bore a slight chill. Her eyes narrowed just a fraction to how they usually appeared open and sincere. “I knoow shee’s yoour wife. Yoour s-sooulmate.”

Draco inhaled deeply through the nose, simply taking a moment to observe his mother. The woman who gave him life. The woman he would once have burned the world for. The woman he had never expected to feel such utter disappointed in. “At least you called her by her name this time.” The comment earned his hand a firm squeeze from Hermione, wordlessly telling him to retract his claws. She had not yet been rude to either of them, so he had no reason to attack before his mother had.

“Teddy?” Andromeda chimed though an opened window. “Come inside for lunch.” The boy was quick to get to his feet and hurry inside to his grandmothers. Leaving only the three Malfoys in the Tonks’ back garden.

He inhaled deeply through the nose, trying his best to remain just as calm as the incredible woman standing by his side. She was nothing but amazing. A true pillar in his life, always supporting him as he threatened to crumble without her. “I’m sorry for being so hostile, mother. I’m just… Quite cautious, regarding the last few times you have met her.”

Narcissa turned her nose from her son, pointing it in the direction of her daughter in law, taking her in with slightly puckered brows and a detailing stare. “M-myy apoloogiies m-miss Graanger.”

Her words made his heart sting within his chest. He could easily have turned around at that very moment and left, for he knew there was no reason to stay. Yet, his feet remained rooted to the grass, his fingers curling tighter around those of Hermione’s. She squeezed his hand firmly in return.

She was there. He was safe. She was on his side.

“Actually,” Hermione started, her voice showing but only a hint of hesitation, beating him to correct the woman before them. “My name is Hermione Malfoy now. Not Miss Granger.”

Narcissa nodded her head slowly, taking in the words spoken with clear consideration. She took a tentative step forward. Then another. Slowly making her way to her son, who appeared to be her main target. “Y-you look so m-muuch like yoour faather liike this.” She said absently, her fingers brushing lightly over the loose strands of white hair, framing his face.

“Mother…” Her title left his lips in a sigh. “I urge you to acknowledge her. Now. Before it’s too late.” The message he was speaking would be clear to his mother’s ears. She should know, would know, what he meant.

“Y-yoou have dec-ciided to remain togeether, then?” The sting returned to his chest as he observed his mother cast a nearly concealed glare between the couple. Her bright blues showed clear disappointment as they finally stopped on her son. She was pleading for him. “M-my draagon… A muud-”

“Finish that sentence, and it will be the last thing you’ll ever say to me.” Draco said coldly, cutting his mother’s sentence off before she spoke the slur he refused to hear. Especially not from her. “Actually, come to think of it, this will be the last time we speak, no matter if you finish your sentence or not. Because we have been here before, mother. We have had this talk and shared these words once too many times. Hermione is my present. She is my future. And you? As of this moment, mother, you are nothing but the poor decisions of my past.”

He watched the moment his words washed over his mother. The manner in which her jack slackened. How the remnants of excitement, lingering from the moment she had spotted them, faded entirely into hopelessness.

A deep, quivering inhale sounded from his lips. His hands, quaking as heavily as the rest of his being, was gripping onto Hermione’s harder than he had ever anticipated. He willed his fingers to ease around her hand, averting his gaze from that of his mothers, locking onto the soft, warm golden eyes of his wife. His Hermione. His present. His future.

The best thing to ever happen to him. A woman he had never deserved, a woman who held his heart and soul in her hands. The brightest and warmest summer’s day, filling his life with nothing but overwhelming joy and fullness. He lived, if only so he could be hers in the fullest capacity.

“Home?” His witch suggested, a small smile rounding the corners of her lips. Her golden eyes were like pools of honey. Absolute perfection.

“Home.” He agreed with ease, feeling her radiant smile causing him to mirror her.

And together, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy turned their back to the woman, who was woefully stuck in the past, only to return to a peaceful existence entirely on their own terms.

Chapter Text

The first Monday without his wife by his side, was excruciatingly boring. With Hermione back at work, spending hours upon hours in London, ever so far away from him and their home in Oxford, he simply didn’t know what to do.

After eating breakfast on his own, a simple slice of bread with butter and cheese on top, he wandered about the home for a bit. He had seen it all before. He tried watching something on the telly, though he couldn’t operate it as well as his wife ever could. All he was able to find, was a show about whales, appearing entirely uninteresting to him, and another programme about a bunch of men kicking a white ball across a field. There was a lot of screaming and shouting involved, so he was quick to turn it off.

He sat and read, managing to get through a full three chapters of Pride and Prejudice before putting the book back where he found it, not bothering to mark his spot in the pages, as he knew it within his heart, he would not return to it.

He wandered through every empty room. Through the naked storages in the basement, through empty spaces and up all sets of stairs. Every bare room was more boring and lifeless than the last.

He showered, humming a tune he had heard on a commercial on the telly, just the evening prior. He dressed himself and laced his trainers. On his way out the door, he made sure to bring his kit of most essential muggle things.

A wallet, filled with a plastic card holding his name, to use for larger purchases. Muggle paper notes. There was also a folded piece of parchment with their address on it, as well as a feletone number where Hermione could be reached and something called e-mail. He took a look at himself in the mirror, using his fingers to comb loose strands of hair back from his face.

“Y-you look so m-muuch like yoour faather liike this” the words his mother had spoken rang clear in his mind. He watched as his reflection pressed his lips together and nodded slowly back to him. The grey eyes that stared back at him, could only be described as sad. Lost.

He went through another drawer, collecting a couple of more things he needed for his solo outing into Oxford. He tucked them safely in the inner pocket of his leather jacket, which had a zipper he was quick to close. His wand was stowed into the wand pocket on the inside of his jacket as well.

He looked exceptionally muggle. White trainers with three black stripes on either side. Denims. A white hoodie, layered with his black leather jacket. His icy white hair was halfway tied into a bun at the back of his head. He nodded to his reflection once more, satisfied with his appearance and the comfort of his clothes.

He locked the door, using both the muggle key and his wand, warding the front entrance to notify him if anyone was at the door at all.

Long legs carried him along the pavement, leading away from the house. He stepped amongst the leaves, hearing some of them crunch softly beneath his shoes. The colours were changing, ever so beautifully painting the trees, bushes and climbing plants with hues of amber and orange, just as October was drawing to a close.

The air was fresh and crisp, filling his lungs with cold and clean air as he walked to the city centre. On his journey beneath the golden autumn leaves, he passed by differing storefronts, looking into every window as he walked. A tattoo shop. Antiques. Tesco. A baby shop. Jewellery.

Then, he found what he was looking for. A travel agency. With their passports in his inner pocket, his wallet in his right-hand pocket, he pushed the glass door open by the handle and stepped inside.

“Hello sir. Is there anything I can help you with today?” Asked the bespectacled man, standing behind the front desk, wearing but a kind smile.

“Perhaps.” Draco said with a small nod. “I’m here in hopes that you can help me get tickets for my honeymoon. It’s a surprise for my wife.” He said, letting the door fall shut behind himself as he made his way closer to the front desk.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Congratulations.” Said the man, earning a smile and a nod of Draco’s head as thanks, before turning to look back at the sliding doors in a corridor behind him. Large glass panels were framed with yellowed oiled oak. He could see two sliding doors, right next to each other, remained open. The rest had been closed. “Let me go find you a travel agent.” With a swipe of his hand, he gestured to some chairs in the waiting area, as well as some stands with brochures and pamphlets on popular travel destinations.

Rome. Madrid. Oslo. Copenhagen. New York. Miami. Paris. Barcelona. Marseille. Monaco. Amsterdam. Kraków. Prague. Minsk. Odesa. There were many more, though Draco’s perusing of the pamphlets was interrupted by the gentle voice of a woman.

“Hello, sir. Let me help you get that honeymoon sorted for you.” The woman spoke, causing Draco to turn around to face her. She appeared to be about two decades older than him, with light brown hair containing soft grey streaks. She had a smile filled with crooked teeth. “I’m Amanda Collins.” He said, extending her hand to her new customer.

“Draco Malfoy.” He said with a small smile, shaking her hand firmly with his own, masking the slight tremors. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Once their hands released, she walked him back to her office, shutting the sliding glass door behind him and then took her seat behind her desk. “So, Dr- Was it Draco?”

“Yes. Draco. My family has a thing about naming children after constellations and flowers.” He explained to the woman, leaning slightly back in his chair. “Anyways, my wife has always wanted to go to Australia. Brisbane to be exact.”

“Oh yes. We can get that sorted for you.” She started pressing buttons on her machine, her eyes locked on a miniature telly that stood off to the side between them. She cast him a glance. “What dates were you thinking of going?”

“Sometime soon? Perhaps mid- to late November. Stay for three weeks.” He told her, folding his hands into his lap, where the light tremors would be stilled.

Her fingers clicked several more times, before she cast her gaze his way once more, eyes sizing him up and down but once. “Are you looking to fly economy?”

He quirked a brow upwards. “What are your options?”

She looked back to her telly. “There is the basic economy. Economy. Economy plus.” She stopped, turning her eyes from her screen to look back at him, avoiding mentioning the other classes. He knew Hermione had mentioned Business class or First class could be comfortable for him, based only on his height.

He leaned slightly forwards in the chair, looking at the woman with sharp eyes. “You don’t think I have the money for something more premium?” He asked with a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I can assure you, Amanda, that I have more than enough money to buy this entire company on a whim. I can buy my own airplane and hire a private pilot. I just don’t go flying planes enough to make that a lucrative investment.”

He watched as her eyes shifted from judgmental scrutiny to surprised clarity. “M-my apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He leaned back in his chair once more, though instead of allowing his hands to lay in his lap, he crossed his arms low across his chest. “My wife and I want to be very comfortable, on what is bound to be a very long flight. If you give us the best, I’ll make sure to forget about your assumptions.”

She looked back to her small telly, her fingers clicking rather quickly as she appeared to alter some things she was working on. “First class, then.”

“That sounds quite a bit more appealing.” He said with a nod to his head.

“I’ll need your passports.” She looked up at him, her brows raised. He reached into his inner pocket, feeling his knuckles graze against his willow wand. He plucked his and Hermione’s passports from the zipped pocket and laid them atop the white desk, which separated him from Amanda.

She opened each passport, copying the information listed on the very same pages as the still images of their faces. “Draco… Lucius… Malfoy… June… 5th… 1980…” Amanda Collins had quite the habit of saying everything out loud, much to the test of his patience.

He could only observe as she continued to do her job and got everything ready for the young Malfoy’s. His eyes eventually wandered the walls of the office. The wall to his left was decorated with postcards, sent by happy customers from various destinations across the globe. Several places he had known of. Wished to visit them for himself. Other places he had never paid much attention to, never longed to visit or not even known what country the postcard was sent from.

“Hermione… Jean… Malfoy… September… 19th… 1979…” Amanda’s voice pierced his serene bubble of peace, bringing him back to reality. “I’m so sorry for asking, but… Is her maiden name Granger?” His head turned quickly, snapping his eyes back to hers with nothing but sheer surprise.

“Why… Yes. That was her maiden name.” He said, shifting in his seat to sit forwards, looking at the woman across from him with blatant curiosity. “How did you know?”

“I lived not far from the Granger’s house.  My son went to primary school with Hermione, until she started attending a boarding school.” Her smile was kind as she thought back to the young children. The young girl who had grown into his Hermione. “My husband and I moved from Hampsted when Ewan was eighteen and moved out. By then, the Granger’s had already gone as well.”

“Yes. They moved when Hermione was seventeen.” He said, hoping the manner in which discomfort washed over him, was well hidden beneath the mask of carefully constructed ease.

“Are they well?” He knew the question was coming. He had seen it from a long distance. Of course, an earlier neighbour, an earlier acquaintance, would ask how they were fairing after having lost contact with one another, almost a decade prior.

“They both died before I had the opportunity to meet them.” He said, trying to sound as truthful as he could muster. In a way, the Grangers were dead. Long gone, never to return to the lives they had once led. Though he was still excited to meet them, even with their new identities as Wendell and Monica Wilkins. “Car accident.” He said, answering her questioning gaze. It was what Hermione had told him she said, whenever someone from her past reappeared and asked questions.

“I’m so sorry to hear it.” She spoke softly; her brows pulled into a frown. “Please, give Hermione my regards. Ewan asked about her a lot when she left for that school of hers. Missed his friend, he did.”

“I’ll make sure to let her know.” He said, the corners of his lips pulling into a small and thankful smile on his wife’s behalf. “I’m certain she’ll be happy to know she was remembered by someone on her street.” He watched as the smiling woman went back to the task at hand, planning their trip to see Hermione’s parents.

Her eyes glanced between her telly and the man across the desk from her. “So, may I ask, where did you meet each other?”

“When we were eleven. At the boarding school, where we both started first year together. We weren’t particularly good friends or anything, so we didn’t know each other very well.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, though it was close enough to reality to flow naturally from his lips. “We both spent some time abroad and upon our return to England, we reconnected through mutual friend and fell in love. Got married.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?” She hummed absently, gazing down at Hermione’s passport.

“It sure is.” He said in agreement, pulling out his wallet from his pocket, where he could see the picture of her. Of them. A polaroid, where she was smiling at the camera with the brightness of the sun, and he was kissing her cheek as though his life depended on it.

He had never before had to pay for travel. There had, of course, been the occasional times he had needed to purchase floo powder as a teenager. Or paying a few galleons for a portkey. Though nothing could have prepared him for the vast sum Amanda had told him their trip to Australia would cost.

He could simply not fathom how muggles could pay such sums to sit in a confined space with recycled air for seemingly endless amounts of hours.

He had paid nevertheless, using the plastic card Hermione had gotten him and the four digit code, which he had written on a scrap of parchment. It had been safely tucked away inside his wallet, in a hidden compartment just behind where he displayed the polaroid.

Checking his wristwatch, he found he still had several hours to pass before Hermione would be home from a full day at the ministry. And if she arrived home before she was scheduled to, he knew he would feel her presence in his body. He would feel her warmth, her love and the presence of her radiant soul, familiar in its embrace around his own, and would know to go home to greet her.

With the passports and reservations safely tucked into his inner pocket, he took down the street once more. Long legs carrying him at a leisurely pace, where he looked absently around himself. Focused on his surroundings, taking in every minute detail, though not the specific things one might think.

What so easily caught his attention, was the colour of the leaves and how they rustled in the soft breeze, threatening to fall from their branches at any moment, though remained strong and beautiful and vivid in their place. The way people spoke as they passed by him. Either whilst talking on their feletones or between one another.

There was a woman saying, “See you tomorrow,” as she exited a shop, holding onto the leather strap of her purse, just in case a slight breeze might shift it.

A small rattle of chilled, autumnal air brought forth the much welcome smell of a bakery. Sweet and savoury and absolutely mouthwatering as it passed by him, rattling the long, loose strands of his hair as the scent sank deep into his lungs.

He had eaten a filling breakfast that morning, and thus was not quite as hungry as he wished to be upon his lunch hour. Though he knew he’d search for the source of the delightful smell when he had finished his next errand.

He spotted what he was looking for. Looking left and right, multiple time just to make sure he was safe to cross, Draco rushed across the street before any car could get close to him. The glass door pushed open with the soft chime of a bell, and he was greeted by the face of a young woman, who was peeking out from behind a shelf. The black furniture that parted them, was lined with neat rows of hair products.

“Hello.” She said with a big grin. Her hair was black, streaked with thick sections of vibrant purple. Her face was peppered with piercings. One between her nostrils. Two in her bottom lip. One in her eyebrow. “How can I help you?” She asked as she rounded the shelf to meet him.

“I’d like to get a haircut.” He said, feeling the sensation of a tightness in his chest evaporating from his existence, merely from saying the words. He found he wondered how to would feel once the long strands were severed from his being for good.

The statement, however simple it may be, earned him a grin from the young woman. “I have an open slot right now, if you’d like?” she suggested to him, gesturing her hand towards a seemingly comfortable faux-leather chair, which was situated before a grand mirror.

He didn’t even think before nodding his head. It was perfect. He needed the change. He knew he did. He had needed it for a long time, though the words his mother had spoken just the day prior, had made the change an even bigger necessity. He didn’t want to remind anyone of either one of his parents. He did not wish to remind any single person of his mother or his father. He did not wish to remind himself of his father specifically, nor bring forth any memory of the people who had allowed him to become the errand-boy of the most vicious and vile wizard to roam the lands.

His hair was not only a reminder of his parents. His mother, with her lengthy, blonde hair, always styled to perfection. His father, with his long white-blonde hair pulled away from his face. No. It was more than just them whenever he gazed at his own reflection. It was the time he had spent in Azkaban. It was the feeling of when he lacked the opportunity of a choice. The moments when life merely happened around him, and all he could do, was sit and wait for the horrors to come.

His hair showed him the weak boy, the scared teenager who didn’t stand up to those he was supposed to trust above all else. It showed him the monster he had become. The lives he had taken by someone else’s command.

He never wore it down. Never showed it off. For in the lengthy, white strands, there was nothing but shame. Shame that tingled deep within his spine, a sensation which happened whenever Hermione brushed stray tufts away from his face. Shame that always loomed over him, much like an invisible dementor, following him wherever he went and destroyed everything in its wake.

“Perfect!” He said with a tight lipped smile. She led the way to the chair, swivelling it around on the lone, silver leg and indicated for the blonde man to take a seat.

He was turned towards the mirror before she lay a black cape over his shoulders, securing it at the back of his neck. “So, how do you want it?” She asked, whilst her fingers undid the bun at the back of his head. With a small tug, the locks were released, draping down to the width of his shoulders.

“Short on the sides, longer at the top. No shaving, just cutting.” He said, only giving her the vague idea of what was running through his mind.

“Okay. A cut you can style for everything, or do you have a specific thing in mind?” She asked, her fingers combing through his hair and looking at the soft ends.

“Something that can look good with normal clothes, as well as a suit. Timeless and simple.” He retorted, watching the young woman with nothing but amusement through the mirror.

“I have a feeling like the word ‘simple’ shouldn’t belong in your vocabulary. How about timeless and exclusive instead? And also a bit Understated?” She asked with a large grin as she stretched the lengths of the hair, checking it out in the mirror.

“You can use whatever words you like, as long as I get it cut short.” He said, pressing his palms against his thighs to steady his quaking hands beneath the cape.

“You know, I expected a lot more damage to your hair after so much bleach. Your hair looks to be in great condition, even after so much processing.” Said the pierced woman, releasing his hair to find her small trolley of various cutting and styling equipment.

“Bleach?” He scoffed at the mere idea she was getting at. “I’ve never coloured my hair. This hair colour of mine, the white, it is entirely natural.” He told her, watching her every move in the mirror. She collected a comb, some clips and a pair of gleaming, sharp scissors.

The mirror let him see what she was doing. How she dampened it first with several pumps of a spray bottle, then sectioned his hair into four parts. How she started combing through each section to then start cutting. Piece by piece.

Platinum white locks fell to the floor with each pass of her sharpened scissors. It felt as through a heavy weight was lifted from his shoulders with every soft snip, cutting through the air. The sound of his past brushing past his shoulder on its way to the floor.

It was therapeutic in a manner he had never expected it to be. His mind eased. His heart felt elated. His eyes fell shut as he let her do her job.

“It’s quite a big change you’re going for.” She said, halfway through the third section of his head. “May I ask what’s got you going for it?”

“Honestly?” The question escaped him in a hum. “A lot has happened in my life lately. My father was murdered, and due to his will, I had thirty days to get married to take over my family’s assets and estates. Fortunately for me, I got to marry the woman of my dreams, someone I love with every part of my being. However, my mother doesn’t agree with my choice of spouse. Mostly because my wife doesn’t fit into the life I come from. She and I met at a boarding school for very wealthy children. I came in because of my family’s name, and she got in because of her overwhelming talent and brilliant mind.”

He could see in the reflection that she nodded her head, listening to his every word.

“So, I recently cut my mother from my life. And one of the last things she said to me, was that I looked so much like my father. And without going into details about him, let’s just say he’s not a person I want to remind anyone of. Much less myself.”

“And what do you think?” She asked, as she shifted his head, so his nose was pointed straight ahead. His eyes were open, where he could see his reflection clearly.

Long, narrow nose. Calculating, grey eyes. Platinum white hair, though it was shorter than it had been in years. The sharp jawline. The high cheekbones. Every feature carved into alabaster skin with utmost consideration and precision. He looked as though the perfect depiction of the Aristocrat he had been bred to be. Just like his father before him.

“I think I look just like him. Cutting my hair differentiates us a little.” He felt the slight tug of her fingers gliding along the lengths of his hair, then heard as the blades cut it off.

“I have never met your father, but I bet there are parts of you that are very different.” She assured him as she kept on ridding him of his demons. “There is a kindness in your eyes. I have a feeling your father didn’t have much of that.”

His brows furrowed across his forehead as he took in her words. She was correct. His fathers’ eyes had always been hard as steel. Cold and cruel in nature. An armour worn at any time, when he wasn’t admiring his wife.

“Your jaw is strong.” She said, causing him to roll the part of his face that had been mentioned. His father’s face had certainly been more pointed. With a narrower set to his jaw. Draco’s was slightly broader, with the hinge of his jaw sitting more squared and defined. “I bet you’ve gotten used to swallowing insults.” She was more than correct.

As he looked closer, he could see the differences between himself and the pictures of his father, way back in his youth. Both Malfoy men were sharp and pointed, though his father had been as narrow and sharp as the point of a blade.

Draco, though similar, was not the same. His sharpness was more blunt, as though the edge had been worn by the time passed in Azkaban. Softened by the strain and constant use he had been put under. The hard edge to his personality and mind was still there, still a part of who he was. But it was hidden beneath an exterior that was warmer than anything his father could ever have faked.

“I suppose you’re correct. We are very similar in some ways… Though there are parts of myself that I haven’t inherited from either of my parents.” He finally said, choosing to see the differences he had from either one of them. Specifically the differences in personality. How he had escaped the Malfoy mould by proudly marrying a muggleborn with. Necessity or not, it was the best decision he had ever made in his life. It was in how he did not care for galas or grand balls. He didn’t care to linger with talk of the weather to those who did not matter to him. It was how he had chosen to look apart from generations of hatred towards so-called Blood Traitors and chosen a path of happiness and friendship and love. Something no one in the Malfoy line had done in a century.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding but… You mentioned he had been murdered.” Their eyes met only briefly in the mirror, just before the scissors parted his from a lengthy lock of ice blonde hair. “How…?”

“It’s quite brutal.” He didn’t hesitate to answer her, though keeping the specifics to himself. “It’s a horrible and painful way to go. Tortured to death.” To put it mildly. Skinned alive. Likely dying of hypothermia rather than the loss of blood, after enduring endless amounts of pain. “But he got what was coming to him. There is not a doubt in my mind that he deserved exactly what he got.” He set his jaw with finality, earning himself a slow and understanding nod from the stylist.

“If he was so awful that he deserved being tortured to death, I understand why you don’t want to look like him.” She said with a half-hearted smile, finally starting on the last quarter section of his hair at the front. She positioned herself between him and the mirror and got to work.

He remained quiet for a bit, until she asked a simple enough question. “If you’re from a family with money, what do you do for work?”

“I don’t work at all.” He told her, eyes focused on the black cape that was draped over his knees.  “My family is on a few boards, though I’m not needed for meetings very often. I’m working on opening a selections of bakeries. A small shop I bought in France, where I will stand for the paperwork and the finances and someone else will otherwise run them.”

“That sounds incredible. Sort of like a fantasy. You probably don’t even set alarms in the morning, do you?” Her voice was filled with a bemused chuckle.

“No. I wake up when my wife does. She has to be in at work every morning, so I wake with her.” With a smile on his lips, he thought back to that very morning.

She awoke him by rolling into his arms. Her leg draped over his hip whilst her nose nudged affectionately against his jaw. He had only groaned sleepily in response, his arms slowly slipping around her body to pull her close to himself. They shared lazy kisses with one another, waking each other up with soft touches and sleepily whispered confessions of love.  

“She works?” The pierced woman asked with curiosity.

“She does. Her heart is so grand, she will work tirelessly to make the world a better place in any way she can.” And she had.

There had been large changes planned for, to be implemented the following school year of Hogwarts. Muggle Studies would be a mandatory subject for those who had been raised in magical households. At least it would be in first year. Muggleborn students had to take a year of a new subject, called Magical Customs, which would grant them the insight to the world they were becoming a part of. It was designed so that every single student had to take part, to learn about different upbringings and broaden their horizons from their first year. To understand one another. To accept one another.

She combed through his hair, parting it where he knew he had a natural lift to his hairline. “So she works, but you don’t. Is she at work right now?”

“Yeah.” He forced himself not to nod. “She’s in London at the moment.”

“Does she know you’re cutting your hair?” She reached for a big, black, handheld tube of sorts, with a handle at the bottom. She plugged a cable into the wall, connecting the tube to the plug, as though it was a very common electrical object to her.

“Uh- no.” He said, not letting his gaze shift from the oddity she held in her hands, though he decided not to question it at all. “She doesn’t. I think it might just catch her by surprise when she returns home this evening.”

“I hope she likes it.” She said, before flipping a switch and turning on the object in her hand. The volume of the monstrosity was loud, though he figured what it did as soon as he felt the hot air through his fringe, whilst she gently ruffled his hair with her fingers, drying it beneath the wind of the machine.

The woman switched it off, then stepped around him, where he could spot himself in the reflective surface. His hair was finally cut short. Shorter on the sides, longer at the top, with a soft upwards swoop at the front. It was too short to show off the wavy pattern of his hair, though the fringe carried the slightest hint of it. Timeless. Simple. Versatile. Exactly what he had wanted, and so much more.

The remnants of his association to his father fell away. The only similarities he could see in himself, the similarities he carried to the man who had given up his one and only son for torture, was their colouring. Both of them were pale, Draco more so than his father. Both had the same ice blonde hair and eyes in shades of grey.

For, Lucius Malfoy had been hard and cold and sharp. He had spoken in riddles and threatened children with their lives. Draco, although raised to follow in his father’s footsteps, was softer. He was kinder. He hadn’t always been. Far from it. But he had grown. He had matured. He had chosen a life away from bigotry and hatred. He had chosen love and happiness over money and power. He had chosen life instead of death. Light instead of darkness. Smiles and endless joy over threats and torture.

He could not remove his gaze from his own reflection. Silvery eyes staring right back at him as he observed his new look. He felt lighter. As though his tremors had eased just from the simple fact that he was no longer carrying his father’s image and horrid history atop his own demons. Lucius Malfoy was long since dead and gone. And Draco would be ever so certain to not revive him in his own appearance ever again.

Feeling the chilled breeze on his nape felt lovely. It almost tickled as he stepped away from the salon and into the streets of Oxford yet again. He had one more errand to run for himself. Then, he wanted to pick up a little thought for Hermione. For no other reason than the fact that he missed her. He always did, whenever they were apart. Which had been too much to count or imagine as he had been locked away from her. Stowed safely in Azkaban, where he had been unable to hold her. Unable to kiss her. Unable to tell her how he loved her beyond words.

He took off down the street once more, though his pace clearly showed he had a purpose as he walked. He looked ahead, feeling each step was easier to take. As if his knees were stronger and sturdier, able to carry himself without faltering. He felt stronger. Invigorated. Energetic in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

His last errand of the day. Something he had wanted to try for a while. Something he had been curious about since the trip to Marseille. A curiosity from a life he had never explored. The muggle world was so vast. So grand. So surprisingly mysterious. Even the littlest thing to most muggles, had the capacity to completely overturn him. If it was how to turn on the telly. To heat something in the microwave or paying with a plastic card with his name on it. It was all so different from what he had grown up with. From what he knew. From what his world was like.

It was a glass door that slid open upon his arrival, due to what Hermione had called a sensor. Which spotted him approaching and thus opened the door for him without him having to do anything. It was, quite frankly, magnificent muggle technology.

The waiting area was a total of eight uncomfortable looking chairs and a desk. Three of the chairs were taken, and he could see the blonde head of a grown woman peeking up at him from behind her tall desk.

“Hello. Are you here for a lesson?” She asked in a hushed voice as he approached.

“No. But I  would like to sign for them.” He said, tucking his hands nervously into the deep pockets of his leather jacket. He felt the hood of his shirt tickle against his nape, along with the hair, ever so much shorter than what he was used to.

“Okay. Have you taken any courses or driving classes before? Do you know how to operate any other vehicle?” Asked the woman, turning her head slightly to look at the little telly before her.

“I know nothing about driving. And I don’t know how to operate any vehicle.” He was unsure if a broom counted as a vehicle at all. He thought it more akin to a bicycle, if anything. Though in the air. Potentially at lethal altitudes. Soaring at speeds that a bicycle would never catch up to. “What do I need to do to get started?”

She glanced up at him from behind her glasses, then turned back to her screen. “I need you to apply for a provisional drivers’ license. Once that is done, you can have your theoretical test, take driving lessons and eventually pass your driving exam. If you know nothing about driving, I suggest you buy a book on what you may encounter.” She pointed the cap of her pen towards a rack on the wall, displaying several copies of the very same book on the theory of driving.

His eyes focused on the books with contemplation. It seemed there was nothing to be done in the office. It did not appear that she could help him at that time, no matter how much either of them wished for it. He stepped closer to the wall and pulled one of the identical texts from the rack.

He paid for the book with his plastic card, watching as the lady bagged it for him, alongside a business card, which she slipped between the pages of the book. “I hope to see you back here when you get your provisional license.” She said with her eyes focused on him, above the slightly elongated rim of her glasses.

He gave her a small smile and nod in return. “Thank you. I’ll be back.” He said politely to the woman, earning himself what he could tell was a rare smile. With that, he turned and left the office of the driving school.

Those were the three errands he had decided to run that day. The three changes he needed to get done, for his own peace of mind. They would surprise Hermione. He wasn’t sure which part would be most surprising of the three. He hoped it would be the tickets to Australia.

In the air of Banbury Road, he could smell baked goods once more. He did not hesitate to walk the street, following the divine smell of pastries and freshness in the air as he stepped off to a side street.

The pavement was slightly uneven where he walked, his long legs guiding him towards the bakery. The door chimed as he pushed it inwards and stepped through. It smelled beautifully. Freshly baked goods, with scents of vanilla, cardamom, sugar and chocolate filling the air, whilst his eyes feasted upon the tan sights before him.

Rows upon rows of various pastries, lined up in delicate sections behind the gleaming glass. There were breads, sweet buns, croissants, cakes and several more things he couldn’t allow himself to linger on. Everything looked exactly as inviting as it smelled. And it smelled almost exactly as Hermione’s perfume.

The bakery was filled with people. It was crowded, indicating how well loved it was. He stepped forwards, falling into the queue as he kept eyeing everything, wondering what his witch might like above others.

“What can I get for you today?” asked a young boy behind the counter, the top of his head barely reaching above the curved top of the glass.

Draco’s eyes briefly scanned the neat rows once more “Er- two pain au chocolat, two croissants, two cinnamon rolls and your most popular fresh bread. Oh! And two macarons of every flavour.” And the boy collected everything as he was told, placing all pastries in individual paper bags, which in turn went into a paper bag to collect the entire purchase.

The exchange was ever so brief, though pleasant enough. The wizard paid for his goods with the paper notes Hermione had issued him, then left the shop behind.

The autumn air was filled with the delicious smell of fresh baked goods wherever he went. It followed him, just like a trail of perfume, which he always followed in Hermione’s wake. The soft vanilla, surrounded by divine smells of delicious pastries, breads and fillings. And it was in the brown bag in his right hand. Carried carefully as he let his heart and soul guide him home.

The streets of Oxford were still unfamiliar to him. He had only walked the streets but once before, to shop for ingredients with Hermione on his first full day back into freedom. He could only think to retrace his steps. To follow the landmarks of shops and trees, which he had marked away in his mind, to make sure of it for later use.

The streets were busier, nearing the middle of the afternoon. More people littered the pavement as he strode past unfamiliar shop after unfamiliar shop. Girls in their school uniform walked by him, briefly meeting his gaze before turning back to one another and giggling.

Teenage boys rushed past him, catching up to their friends. Bikes happened by him. There were immense amounts of cars in the street. He hadn’t the faintest idea how the relaxed streets of mere hours prior had seemingly vanished without a trace, being replaced by the bustling, busy streets he found himself in at that very moment.

The smell of fresh pastries vanished from his nostrils. All he could feel was the tremor in his hand, still holding the handles of the paper bag. He felt unsteady, as though the ground beneath his feet was even more uneven and caused him to wobble. Though, he knew it was his knees growing weakened and weary with the overwhelming masses of sensations, flooding through his body.

He felt shoulders brush against his jacket as he kept walking amongst people. Overly floral perfumes wafting through the air around him.

The faint ringing of a bell told him a bicycle was coming by. It passed at a great speed, catching him by surprise.  

The pounding music of a car passing by, the heavy thumps of a bass drumming down the street.

A group of boys cackled hauntingly amongst one another, loud and obnoxious as they took up a lot of space.

It his heart pounded in his chest. Fingertips feeling numb against the twisted parchment handles of the bag. He inhaled deeply through the nose, hoping something within the crisp autumnal air could ground him.

A door pushed open. A lady walked out from a shop and into the busy street, continuing on with her day.

He quickly replaced her. Seeking the refuge the shop may provide him.

Once the door chimed again, the door easing shut behind him, he felt safe once more. The air was humid around him, it was chilled, just as it was outside, though not as crisp. It felt softer. Calmer. And he knew he was safe from just the quality of the air alone.

The smell of botanicals and flowers permeated the air around him, washing a calm ease into his body. His shoulders released the tension they seemed to have been holding. The tremors in his hands lessened. It was calm. It was safe. He was safe.

He filled his lungs with chilled, humid air, allowing the panic that remained pulsing in his veins to slowly subside. Fading away through deep, cleansing breaths.

“What can I do for you, love?” Asked the greying lady wearing a black apron. She was small, slightly hunched to the side, as though favouring one leg over the other.

“Oh,” He blinked slowly, casting his eyes around the shop. It was quaint, with walls the colour of deep persimmon, with shelves and displays decorated beautifully with various flowering plants, bouquets and greenery. Everything seemed to be cared for by trained hands and the heart of a kind soul who loved her craft. “I…”

He met the kind, green eyes of the lady before himself. She was smiling ever so subtly, nodding her head at him. “Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“Wife.” He breathed the word into existence. The woman who smelled of vanilla and baked goods. A scent which emanated from the bag in his hand, filling the botanical space with its delicate freshness. The strongest pillar in his life. The woman, the person he trusted above all else. His soulmate. His wholly unique Hermione. “I haven’t bought her flowers in far too long.”

He hadn’t bought her flowers at all. He had always picked from the hedge maze. The flowers used at their wedding dinner, where he had plucked from the gardens carefully sculpted decorations using the language of flowers. Though usually, it had been their flower. The ones that stood in a vase atop their dining table. The white flowers with iridescent patches of opalescent sheen. He had never purchased flowers for her. Never surprised her with a handful of red roses, just to tell her he loved her. He had never gotten her a bouquet. Never. Merely single flowers, showing off their soul bond with the magical flowers, which bloomed only for them.

“Any preferences?” asked the woman, turning towards some of her pre-arranged bouquets she had for sale. They were beautiful. With differing kinds of flowers and greenery arranged in positively breathtaking combinations.

His eyes roved the various bouquets, displayed from buckets placed in woven baskets, landing on one with luscious red- and lilac-coloured flowers, sprinkled with eucalyptus and baby’s-breath. It was simple. It was elegant. It was sweet. Timeless. Perfect.

“This one,” He didn’t hesitate to reach for it, to pluck it from the woven basket, the stems dripping with the water that had given them nutrition. He knew the colour was not exactly her favourite, though it was merely what closest resembled her favourite, periwinkle.

The lady took his payment of paper notes and wrapped the flowers beautifully in clear plastic and parchment, fluffing the flowers to make the bouquet as decadently beautiful as could be. To be something he could proudly hand over to his wife.

“Does she like flowers, your wife?” Asked the lady as she pressed tape to the parchment that enveloped the bouquet.

“She and I have a special flower. One that means a lot to us. But it’s out of season, and I can’t get them to her at the moment.” Though he knew they would never be out of season. They would always be there. At the manor in Wiltshire. Blooming and beautiful, awaiting the pair’s return to their true home.

“Then roses might just be a good alternative in the colder season,” the lady agreed, extending both arms to hand the beautiful arrangement over to him. With quaking hands, he took it from her gentle fingers and cradled it carefully over his forearm.

“Thank you,” He cast a glance to his right, where the front door would lead him out, back onto the unfamiliar street, with shops and people whom he did not know. “I’m sorry but do you happen to know how to get to the Summertown area from here? I’m quite new to the area, you see.”

She gave him another warm smile, then used her hand to gesture where to go. “Take left, up the street, and at the corner, you take right. Then, when you reach Banbury, you go left again, until you get somewhere familiar.”

Following her instructions made the journey better. Not easy, by any means, though certainly much easier. He felt unsteady. He felt overwhelmed by the people around him, the unfamiliar locations and the abundances of differing smells wafting all around him.

What grounded him, what kept him going, was the smell of her. It wafted slowly upwards from the bag in his hand, keeping his feet steady on the ground as he walked. Long legs moving steadily forwards. Towards their home.

It didn’t take long. Only minutes passed from his exit from the florist, until he could feel her. She had arrived home, much earlier than he had ever anticipated. He knew she was someone who liked to work late. Someone who liked to finish her projects and daily tasks completely, before stepping through the floo to go home.

His fingers tightening around the thick paper handles of the bag, his strides became longer. Quicker. The expectant and excited rhythm of his trainers hitting the pavement as he strode quickly. He didn’t need the directions the florist had given him. He didn’t need a map. He didn’t need magic. For his soul guided him towards where he needed to be. Guided him towards his one and only home. Hermione.

Before long, the red bricked house on the corner, appeared before him. Their house. Their home. He could feel it in the pull from his soul, telling him with unyielding excitement that she was inside, awaiting his arrival.

“Hermione?” He asked, climbing the stairs into their main level. He heard her steps on the floor, the soft rushing to meet him in the corridor. He rounded the banister of the staircase and smiled as he laid eyes on her.

She was in the middle of the French doors. She appeared to have stopped rather abruptly, her eyes locked on him with her lips parted in evident surprise. “Draco…” her voice was careful and tentative.

He placed the paper bag carefully to the floor, where it leaned against the wall of the corridor. He kept the flowers in his hands, though it was not what she was focused on. Her eyes remained ever so focused on his face. His eyes. His hair.

“You’ve cut your hair.” Her voice was barely audible as her legs found their function again, taking tentative steps towards her husband, who felt his heart beating ever so rapidly against his ribcage.

“I did. If you hate it, please remember that it will grow out again.” He watched as she came closer, her hand slowly rising between the two of them. Her fingers grazed ever so gently across his jaw before going into the vastly shorter, white-blonde hair. Her fingernails trailed gently against his scalp, causing gooseflesh to rise along his nape.

“How could I ever hate it?” She asked, allowing her fingers to slip the shorter hair at the base of his head. Golden brown eyes, twinkling, even in the dim light of the corridor, settled onto his. “How do you feel about it?”

He felt his fingers tighten around the parchment in his hand, feeling the slightest outline of grooves between the flower stems, wrapped securely in the pretty packaging. “I feel like I don’t look like my father anymore. I feel lighter. Freer.”

It felt odd admitting it to her. She had always been on the receiving end of his empty threats, where he vowed to tell his father about the mindless doings of Harry Potter and his little friends. Hermione included. He had looked up to his father for so long. Idolized the man. That was, until Draco and his parents alike found themselves on the wrong side of a horrendous war. A war which his father had willingly participated in. Until his father had dragged him off, to be tortured by their Death Eater peers.

“If that’s how you feel, then I love it.” Her smile was radiant as always as she stepped closer. The parchment and plastic pressed against her body before she could ever collide with him, and her eyes quickly averted themselves from his gaze and down to the bouquet between them. Red and lilac roses. Big and beautiful as they beamed towards her, reflecting her beauty back towards her.

“I figured it was about time I bought you flowers.” He was the one to close the gap, his lips pressed lightly against her temple as he carefully placed the bouquet into her arms. Her eyes remained on the roses between them, and he felt the echo of her heart pounding with elated, joyful bursts.

Her head shook slowly in disbelief, rustling her nest of curls. They were so much wilder than they had been when he had met her. Back then, she had coiled them beautifully, arranging them neatly in somewhat perfect ringlets. With their time together, he had noticed how they went back to the wild and bushy curls from their teenage days. When she had been so easily recognisable by the mere statement her hair made as she wandered the grand, Scottish castle.

They had relaxed more along with her. As she had settled into her life, as she had felt safe and secure, her hair had let loose. Beautiful and unpredictable and uncontrollable. A stark contrast against her sleek pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. She was breathtaking as she stood before him.

Though, something seemed to be wrong. The topmost button of her blouse was torn open in haste. Her blazer had been removed, as had her heels. She was walking around on nothing but her nylon stockings, her hair tossed over her head, to the right, instead of the left.

“What’s the matter?” She query slipped his lips before she had been able to tear her eyes from the flowers.

The flowers lowered between them for the briefest of moments. “I… I felt you. You were panicking. Stressed… I thought it would be best if I went home. And on the way to the Atrium, I met Harry. He was rushing home, because Pansy’s in labour. And then you relaxed… And I was already in the Atrium by then, so I came home.”

He blinked once. Then once more. His heart felt both light and heavy in his chest at the revelation she had given. It felt as though it wanted to float away into the air, to vanish amongst the clouds, whilst still sinking into the pit of his stomach.

The fact that she had felt his discomfort and worry all the way to London made him feel safer than he had in a long time. Knowing she immediately went home, to come see him and make sure he was safe, made guilt pulse through his veins like iced water. That she had left her job for him, only to return to am empty house, still bearing the news that one of her closest friends were in labour. A life changing and horribly painful experience that would alter her life forever.

He didn’t know what to say, though he watched in adoration as she pressed her nose against a red rose, inhaling the rich scent of the beautiful flowers. “Thank you for these.”

“I-I got something else for you as well.” He tore his eyes from her, only to look towards his jacket whilst he pulled out the reservations for their flights to Brisbane. He handed her the folded paper pages and watched as her brows softened above her gilded eyes. A sigh of appreciation escaped her

“We’re flying to Australia?” Her words were but a whisper. He could see tears welling on her bottom lashes.

“We are. We’re going to see your parents.”

Chapter Text

Water Lilies. It was a beautiful painting, hung on the wall before him. It was an original, painted by the famed Claude Monet himself. Soft pastel colours depicting the serene water which housed the beautiful flowers. Water lilies. The surface of the water reflected distant trees and the light blue sky up above. It was a beautiful painting, bringing Draco much-needed peace of mind in a world where everything had been nothing but unrelenting chaos.

“Draco? May I have a word?” His father’s voice was slippery and cold as ice as he stepped up behind his son in the sitting room. Draco could hear the soles of his polished, dragonhide shoes on the dark-stained wooden floor. At the mere sound of him, he started counting the moments until his father's hand would grip at his shoulder.

Five. The slap of the soles drew Lucius ever nearer. Four. A deep inhale on three, as he heard the fabric of his father’s jacket rustle with a slight movement. Two. Gooseflesh rose at the back of his neck, feeling as though hunted by a predator. One.

Fingers curled harshly around the fabric of his jacket, just where his neck connected to his shoulder. He released the breath he was holding, allowing a sigh to escape past his lips and into the dark room that surrounded them. Deep shades of grey and emerald encompassed the two Malfoy men, who were both clad in black.

“Yes.” That was the word he allowed his father. It was the one and only word he was willing to give up, considering the tension that had surrounded the Malfoy family since the Dark Lord had fallen.

It had been four days since the battle of Hogwarts, the battle that had slaughtered so many of his peers. His father had scolded him repeatedly for his misdeeds and the hesitancy to help the so-called right side of the war. He had been yelling at his son, to the point where his voice had been all-encompassing. Allowing his rage for his heir to spill, to where rows of stained-glass windows rattled in their frames, and the paintings of ancient Malfoy men had trembled along the walls.

At least the Malfoy family was, in their own terms, safe. His father had made sure they were stowed away in a discrete and secret house, purchased by untraceable gold during the first wizarding war. A safehouse, so to speak, filled to the brim with ancient, dark artefacts and goods, much too sacred to keep in a home which might be raided by the ministry from time to time.

“Come with me.” For once, his father seemed somewhat calm and collected. It did not feel as though his rage and fury was present, at the very least not at that particular moment.

Without a word, Draco stood from the periwinkle-coloured sofa, which had been handcrafted sometime in the 17^th century. Even if he was only following his father for more scolding, for more repercussions after the battle, he would follow. He always did.

His father had always been the most important person in his life. The person he had looked up to, ever since his childhood. The person whom he idolised above all. Through bad choices and horrid mistakes, through supporting a tyrant on the wrong side of the war, through murder and torture alike, Draco had always loved his father dearly.

Wordlessly, the Malfoy men walked the dim corridors towards his fathers’ study. The so-called modest house was still quite a large estate to most people. With two levels, the estate was built in the early 1800’s, for a noble family at the time. Draco entered the room behind his father, spotting no more than two of their previous Death Eater comrades, who were awaiting their arrival.

Thorfinn Rowle and Rabastan Lestrange. The former was a big, broad, blonde and blue-eyed bloke, who was burly enough to might just win in a fight against Greyback himself. The latter was wiry, with dark, greased curtains that hid his sallowed face. He could only see the vaguest hints of the dark eyes, which seemed to watch him with clear disdain.

The men stood on each side of the fireplace in the Malfoy patriarch’s makeshift study, hard eyes of blue and brown shades staring at the youngest member of their clan as he entered their place and slowly shut the door behind himself. He did not wish for his mother to overhear what might be discussed between Death Eaters.

“Lestrange. Rowle. You know my conditions. You do the job thoroughly, to my wishes. I will not have a failure roaming around.” His father's voice carried a nauseating chill; his top lip curled into a vile snarl.

“What job?” Draco asked, just as the two visitors nodded their heads in synchronised agreement. He did not understand why he was there, should his father not wish to include him on his plans made with the two others. Any plan would require discretion, as all four wizards within the room were wanted by the Ministry of Magic, all bearing various charges of war crimes, torture and murder.

Lucius turned his cold, silver eyes back to his son. There was nothing behind them. No feeling of any kind, other than utter disgust. Rowle and Lestrange tracked towards Draco, urging the teenager to step back, right up until his back collided with the door. “Teaching you a lesson.” The words slipped his father’s lips with ease.

“What?” Before his mind could wrap around his father’s four simple words, he was seized by the other two Death Eaters, who quickly yanked him back towards the hearth with them. “Father, no! No! Please! Make them stop, father, please!” But the two men were too strong for a mere boy to overpower. His struggles were for naught, for no one would help him. The men did not relent, doing as his father had ordered them to. Over his shoulder, he cast a despairing look, which met the chilled and unforgiving gaze of his father. “Please…”

He would only observe as his father crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his ebony desk, seemingly enjoying the view of his one and only son being dragged away, to be taught a lesson. “Stop begging, Draco. It is a rather unflattering look on you.”

 The two brutes yanked him through the floo, and all he could do was watch in horror as his father disappeared behind a wall of green flames. The sly smirk upon his father’s lips told him more than words ever could. His father had orchestrated more than his fair share of horrors, though he had never expected him to hand over his one and only son.

His one and only heir.

He did not know what the vile men would do to him, he did not know what might be planned between the elder Death Eaters. Though he had a feeling he would be ever so lucky, if only he managed to escape with his life. For men such as Rowle and Lestrange could beat, torture and brutalise their victims until they succumbed. Either to insanity or their untimely deaths.

The room they entered was dark. Only a few wooden chairs were placed sparsely along the lengths of the room, lining the dark, flagstone walls. The dungeon they had entered bore nothing more than an ominous look, shown by the two torch sconces that cast dim, flickering shadows across the room. Shadows, which looked more like claws, reaching for their prey.

The men pushed him violently further into the depths of the room, separating him from the floo hearth they had just come through. He stumbled, nearly falling over, though managed to catch himself with a hand pressed flat against a large, uneven slab of flagstone.

“Fucking blood traitor!” He heard the raspy voice of Rabastan Lestrange snarl from behind himself. He could only manage to turn his head before a fist, hard and brutal collided with his jaw.

The pain tore through his skull, sending his body staggering backwards several steps. His back collided with the broad, firm frame of Thorfinn Rowle, who quickly hooked his arms around Draco’s. He locked the long limbs backwards, where the teenager could not fight back. Entirely unable to retaliate in the brute’s firm grasp. Not with his fists, nor with his wand. If only he hadn’t left his wand on his nightstand that morning.

He could only watch in horror as Lestrange’s hand retracted, panic surging through his body with his rapid heartbeat. Rough knuckles slammed against his eye with immense force, causing a horrid, mind-numbing shot to ring throughout his head.

The back of his head bounced against the clavicle of the man behind him, causing the blonde brute to tighten his grip on The youngling. In his periphery, he could see another fist heading his way, though for once, his body reacted purely on instinct. A long leg, clad in black trousers and polished dragonhide shoes, kicked upwards, his shoe crashing hard against the other Death Eater’s midsection. He could feel the pressure of his ribcage against his foot. If he could only do it once more, he might manage to break a few of his ribs. 

Rowle tugged him further back against himself, forcing his arms and shoulders back, landing them in a position where the one-year-old scars on his chest tear, as though they were about to split apart.

“Fucking hell, let me go!” The words left the Malfoy boy through gritted teeth. The command tasted of the familiar metallic sense of blood, pooling from rough gashes within his mouth.

“Ye heard yer dad, boy.” Rowle hissed in his ear, whilst Rabastan took another swing at Draco’s head. Pain etched itself in his nose, stinging though his sinuses at the very moment he both heard and felt the bone shatter. More blood spilled down his face.

Pure blood, which the lost war had been all about preserving. Saving. And yet, the two men spilled much more than necessary.

“Yeah. We need to do a good job disciplining you.” He could practically hear the grin on Lestrange’s lips as he spoke. “Blood traitors don’t belong in our world, little Draco.”

“Yeah. So, either you let us beat some sense into ye, or ye die in the process.”  Rowle snarled, tightening his slipping grip on the youngest of the three wizards. His spine groaned in protest, cracking in places he had never before experienced.

Before so much as another word could escape Draco’s lips, before he could plead for his freedom or try begging for release, another one of Rabastan’s fists crashed against the side of his cheek. His eye was next. The side of his nose soon followed. The rough knuckles collided against his temple, then, as his head slumped forwards, the pounding resumed to other parts of his head.

His ears rung with the pounding his skull had gotten. His vision had doubled, perhaps even tripled, just from the man’s vicious fists. Rowle’s grip on his arms eased ever so slightly, letting the youngling slip from his grasp and down onto the dirt floor.

Knees landed on the rough surface of the ground with simultaneous thuds; his body slumping forwards with the complete lack of energy left within him. His head wobbled unsteadily atop a neck that felt much too weak to hold him aloft. He could hardly feel his face. It was simply a mass of numbed flesh, allowing drops of crimson to land onto the dirt below him.

A mouthful of blood was spat onto Lestrange’s boots. “In case you didn’t know, the Dark Lord is dead.” His voice was thick with the coating of fresh metallic taste on his tongue.

“Keep at it, boy, and ye’ll be the next to join him.” Rowle’s boot was quick to hit against his back, pushing his weakened body forwards with one rough thrust. He only just managed to catch himself on his leftmost forearm, a mere moment before his face would pound into the ground with the brute force.

“Blood purity will never be as important as you lot have thought it to be!” He spoke through gritted teeth, his useless fingers curling into a fist below his blood-stained hair.

If only the Draco of two years prior could see him at that moment. Where he was beaten and battered, whilst defending those of a blood status lesser than his own. Perhaps the younger boy would have been even more hesitant to take on the Dark Mark, or even might question the blind love he carried for his father.

Though, there he was. Bludgeoned by his previous comrades, those he was supposed to fight alongside, for protecting those who were not quite like him. Half-bloods. Mudbloods. No… Muggleborns.

He heard feet shuffle the coating of dirt within the humid darkness. Rabastan was circling him. The man’s tauntingly slow steps, made Draco feel exposed to a vile beast.

Pausing for a moment, he was about to turn his head to look up at the greased man, though the movement was quickly halted when he felt a heavy boot crash against the side of his ribcage.

A roar of pain echoed throughout the chamber just as he felt two of his ribs snap beneath his skin, the bones curving slightly around his lung. He struggled to take a breath, the pain of the broken bones keeping his intake of stale air to a minimum.

Only moment later, the boot collided with him again. A hard and rough kick, meant to cause harm, swung at his stomach. The force and agony of the strike, caused the young man to topple over, falling on his side on the floor. Seeing another strike coming, he hurriedly balled himself up, hoping to shield himself from the incoming assault.

Boots struck his arms. His shins. His back. His shoulders. Both men attacking him from either side, both men increasing their intensity, as though seeing who could kick their victim the hardest. Who could break him beyond recognition first.

Tense and rigid under the onslaught of boots against his body, he locked his mind away. Choosing to hide himself behind a wall of study stones. Each kick, every punch was but one more brick, masoned to perfection between himself and his two assailants. Separating his mind from his body, so as to not feel the horrid pain his skin rupturing. As to not feel bones break and crunch beneath the force from the other men.

The pain did not escape him, though it faded. Going from overwhelming and inescapable, a pain so vast that he could not wrap his mind around it, to a throbbing ache. Ever constant, though manageable to the point where he did not wish for death to lay claim on him. Not quite yet.

“Crucio!” the curse left Lestrange’s lips in a vicious snarl. The wall of study bricks and cobblestones, which he had built within his own mind, crumbled to pebbles without so much as a sign of its previous strength.

Draco had barely had the mental capacity to register the curse before it struck him. The familiarity of it coursed through his veins, feeling as though he was being boiled alive, his entire body having been set ablaze from the inside. His skin bubbled and blistered, reacting to the fire lit within his veins from the much too familiar curse.

What must have been mere moments, only seconds of real time, felt like being lowered in and out of lava for hours on end.

“Crucio!” The curse sent from Lestrange’s lips echoed through the dungeon.

Draco’s skull felt like it was being slowly crushed. The pressure within his head, building with immense force under. He could almost hear it, the groan of his brain as each and every plate beneath his skin was broken and pulverised by a great weight.

He could not breathe. He could not think. Life was nothing but pain.

Just as the pain eased, the cruciatus curse slipped from a different set of lips. Rowle’s. “Crucio!”

He could not feel it, but he heard it. A loud and guttural roar tearing from his chest, whilst his body throbbed and convulsed with the everlasting pain, the horrid sensation of being clawed to shreds by a horrid and vicious beast.

“Crucio!”

Every scar on his body tore itself open. Slowly tearing the once healed wounds apart, splitting them to the point where his flesh would bulge and blood would spill. He could feel every thread of muscle and skin separate, leaving the large, gaping wounds for carnivorous pests to devour his body. Bite by bite. Piece by piece.

“Crucio!”

The feeling of acid rained down upon him. Every drop sizzled and burned, whilst it melted his skin and tissue apart. The horrendous, the devastating feeling did not give way for his screams, where he was begging for death to take him, to lead him into the next life.

“Crucio!”

Earth-shattering, relentless agony washed over him. It once more felt as though his skin was being shredded. However, as opposed to a previous round, the pain made it feel as though he hosted a vile werewolf inside of his ribcage. It was tearing him apart from the inside, whilst transforming itself to break him apart from within.

“Crucio!”

Limb from limb he was torn apart. He felt every joint within his body being stretched, eventually popping out of their sockets. The muscular tissue and tendons were next, tearing and snapping in half before his extremities parted from his torso. His left arm, branded with the Dark Mark, was first to go.

“Crucio!”

“Crucio!”

“Crucio!”

“Crucio!”

All pains he got to endure merely melted together in a pool of horrors. His mind and body felt shattered. Broken. Incomplete and twisted and torn apart all at once.

Bones broken, mended and then pulverised beneath the weight of the unforgivable curse.

He did not know how many times he had felt a new wave wash over him. He hardly knew he was alive. Though by the sound of thick, heavy breathing, slightly gargled by blood, he thought he might be. There was, at the very least, breathing. Pained, stinging breathing.

Large, rough hands picked him up from the firmness of the ground, yanking him roughly to get his legs under him. One step forwards and Draco’s knees buckle beneath the weight of his broken body. He collapsed, landing in a broken heap of bones, sweat and blood.

“Weakling.” Came one voice.

Another voice spoke. Though it seemed ever so far away. “… Three hours…” and then followed by “… Me the knife...”

His body was lifted once more, though as he took one step, his body once more fell, the weight was much too grand for his weakened state. He did not know if it might be the entire earth that trembled and shook, or if it was only him.

Up once more, the firm grasp on his arms tried getting him to stand. He tried opening his eyes, barely managing a thin slit between his leftmost lids. All he saw was a blurred, wooden chair, which had been set up in the middle of the room. Torchlight flickered on the worn wooden surface, making it appear as though it would crumble beneath his weight.

The rough hands pushed him forwards, onto the chair. The back rest was low, hitting him at the middle of his wounded chest as he was made to straddle the weak, wooden frame. His head swayed atop his neck, breathing heavy whilst his eye fell shut once more.

“Pass the flask.” A snake-like voice hissed behind his shoulder. Draco’s head bobbed forwards, the tip of his chin resting on his chest. His lips were parted, allowing the blood within his mouth to rip to the floor. Soft splats sounded on the floor beneath him.

Someone tugged at his shirt. He thought it was a shirt, though as it slipped from his body and onto the floor beneath, he realised it was a jacket. He could not remember wearing one. Then, to be fair, he could not remember which clothes he had worn at all. He noticed a slight tremble to his hands, falling to rest limply against the outsides of his thighs.

A sound of fabric tearing echoed through the dungeon, causing his one eye to open into a slit. There was nothing to be seen besides the small pond of blood and saliva mixing with the dirt below. A line of chilled air flashed over his back before the fabric of his shirt fell from his body. How he wished he had something to rest his head upon. His body was desperate for sleep. For rest. For anything which would make his eyes close and for his body to fall into a deep slumber. Perhaps an endless slumber, from which he might never wake.

Searing pain stabbed at his leftmost shoulder blade. The sharp edge of a knife cut into him, slashing a deep gash through his muscle. He tried moving, tried pushing away, but the chair was in the way, rendering him entirely unable to escape the situation. His delirious mind and exhausted, battered body were of no use in a moment that felt like it balanced between life and death. Rough hands pressed on top of his shoulders, forcing his body hard down onto the wooden surface as he tried writhing to get away.

Another deep gash. Followed by one more. And another, curving towards a slightly different path. The pain was overwhelming and raw. Not only was the blade cutting him apart as though he was made of butter, but he could also feel his flesh and blood carry a thundering and searing burn from the fresh wounds and further into his body. Sinking deeper and deeper with each rapid pulse of his heart.

Poison.

“S-Stop…” His voice was a hoarse mumble, barely audible, even to himself, under the mutterings of the two crazed Death Eaters who maimed him. He was almost certain one of them was one of the Lestrange brothers. Almost. Whoever the men were, they did not hear him.

The blade stopped cutting into him, just long enough for Draco to fill his lungs with stale, humid air. Then, it was back at it. Small yet deep slashes sinking more poison into his system.

His head bobbed further, the continued pain throbbing throughout his body tried dragging him under, pulling him into a world where pain was no more. A world where he could rest peacefully, if only for a moment.

Overly large hands slapped his cheek with force, causing him to open his good eye ever so slightly. There was a blonde man before him. Big and tall and muscly. A scary force, if Draco had ever seen any. And his hands felt so utterly warm against his skin. “Stay awake, pretty boy.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to die before you’ve felt any pain.” Snarled a voice behind him, just as the blade sank particularly deep into his back. He tried arching his shoulders away from the Death Eater’s poisoned knife, though his body had no energy left. Completely unable to make an effort or even a sound of pain under the ministrations of the supposed Lestrange brother.

“Felt… Pain?” Blood spilled from the corner of his lips, trickling along his jawbone and down the length of his neck. The tiny slit of his eye falling shut once more, allowing him some semblance of mindlessness. “Kill me…”

A faint snicker came from behind him. “Patience, young blood traitor.”

“Ye’ll die. Don’t worry about that.” The blonde brute chuckled. He recognised the voice more than he had recognised the tall blur of a man. “Just slowly. It might just take a day or two.”

A day of two worth of pain? A full day or two where he lived just as he did in that very moment. Beaten to a puddle. Tortured under the most vile curse, for only Merlin knew how long. And then there were the deep cuts on his back, sinking what he could only assume to be a slow-working poison into his system. Pumping steadily through his heart and into his extremities.

The blade shifted, slashing lower on his back and seemingly deeper, near his spine. “And when you die, we will all know why.”

“Yeah. Blood traitor.” Snarled Rowle from above him.

“Rather… Traitor than…” He inhaled a quivering breath, feeling a streak of blood, or perhaps sweat, slip from his hairline and down the curve of his cheekbone. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Death… Eater…”

The blade stabbed into him, the sharp edge of the knife hitting the back of a rib, slashing into it. “Fucking watch it, boy!” he yelled over a deep and guttural groan, escaping Draco’s throat. The poisoned weapon wasn’t too big, though the pain it caused was nothing but horrendous.

“Or what?” thick, rough fingers gripped at his white-blonde hair, holding his head steady as footsteps rounded him. A blurred version of Rabastan Lestrange came into view. Long, black hair, greased and unkempt. Black eyes, piercing the young Malfoy with palpable loathing. Rowle pushed his head back slightly, so the two tormentors could see how the horrors were lacking in his eye. The smirk pulled into a painful grin. “You’ll… Kill me?”

A fist collided with his face. “Little!” Once. Twice. Thrice. “Fucking!” Rabastan growled, allowing his fist a fourth and fifth pass at his head. “Shit!”

Lestrange was pulled away from him by the blonde brute, who in turn released Draco’s unsteady head. “Ye heard Lucius’ orders.” He hissed towards the Lestrange man. “If we kill him tonight, we won’t get paid. Only torture, and perhaps something slow working for the next few days. She can’t know it was him.”

Of course. His father. Lucius Malfoy easily opened his vaults, dropping his gold anywhere he might want it. And if he wanted his one and only son dead, no one would nor could, stop him. Especially not if he paid them enough. And he was known to pay quite handsomely for whatever he may desire. Particularly when those things he desired, were on the wrong side of the law.

And then there was the fact that Rowle had said ‘tonight’. The last time he had looked at the time, it had been just before noon when he had been yanked through the floo. And there he was, late at night, after hours of torment and beatings.

A small, minute surge of energy sparked throughout his body. It may have just come from the realisation that his very own father wished his very own son dead, simply for being what was seen as a blood traitor. Someone who aided the Order of the Phoenix, just so the war would be won by the right people. Though the energy might also have come from anger. Disappointment. Defeat.

He knew he would die. His father always got what he wished for. Though perhaps the young Malfoy could get his end to come on his own terms. Where he might just be in charge of one thing happening in his life. The very last thing which would ever happen to him. His own death.

Locking eyes with Rabastan, he did the only thing he could muster. The only thing he could think to do in his somewhat delirious state. He collected the blood in his mouth and spat it at the man, watching as it landed in a thick glob upon his shirt, with red droplets spreading over his sallow face and neck. And whilst he watched rage fill Lestrange’s very essence, he could only grin in retaliation.

It took no more than a slow blink, and Rabastan was standing just before him, the tip of his wand pressed against Draco’s sore throat. “Crucio!”

It seemed his soul escaped through the violent roar of agony and suffering that left the very core of his being. His body arched under the flames that set his skin ablaze. The feeling of fiendfyre slithering along his body, etching every pore with its vicious, licking flames of hell.

His breath stopped in his throat, caught under a firm grip. If it was reality or curse-related, he did not know.

“Crucio!”

The overwhelming feeling of a swarm of deadly bees, stinging every thread of his body.

“Crucio!”

It felt as though landing against concrete, having fallen from the great height of the Astronomy Tower at his old school. His body smashed to pulp.

“Crucio!”

Eaten alive by a vile and horrid snake, who’s muscles crushed him whilst simultaneously devouring him. Like his teacher before him.

“Crucio!”

“Crucio!”

“Crucio!”

By the time he came to, he was laying on his side on the ground. Evident only by the feeling of the dirt floor beneath his shaking fingertips. His breath came in quivering, almost jumping and very shallow heaves. His fringe was damp and sticky with cold sweat and slowly drying blood.

His entire body was quaking. Nerve endings shattered under the strain of torture. It felt as though by miracle alone that he managed to open one eye into a tiny slit, where he could see the blurred, blonde figure sitting against the wall, seemingly looking at him.

“Morning, Malfoy.” The gravelly voice cut the air like a blade, setting him on edge immediately, prepared for another round of the cruciatus curse. “Good to see ye awake, princess.”

Darkness fell once more as his eyelid succumbed to the weight of the immense swelling. He heard the large man shuffle on the ground before standing. Slow, almost calculated steps carried Thorfinn Rowle towards his victim. He braced himself, preparing his mind and body for another round of the unforgivable curse.

But more brutality did not come his way. Instead, he felt the rough hands of the man tug at him, yanking his body upwards. “Stand, boy!” He barked, causing Draco to shift his feet atop the dungeon floor, placing them carefully beneath his weight as Rowle released him.

He was able to stand. Just barely. The jumping, heaving and quaking body made him unstable and near the edge of succumbing to gravity. But he stood. Even as the gruff hands placed a heavy jacket over his bare, wounded shoulders, where it pressed down onto the deep, fresh wounds of his back.

Blood traitor.

“Hold on.” The voice was almost taunting, with a large hand wrapped around his bicep, another clapped him heavily on the deep carvings on his back.

His body, raw and broken, was yanked and sucked through a tight tube, all coming from a harsh tug from deep within his own stomach. Rowle had disapparated with him. It was in his best interest to hold on tight.

And just as quickly as the sensation had washed over him, he heard another crack of apparition, which he had fortunately not joined. Rowle had left him, all alone, standing on a hard surface… Somewhere.

The world around him was cold. The sheen of sweat on his torso caught the breeze beneath the opened jacket. Without daring to open his eyes at first, he used his trembling hands to pull the cover around himself, shielding himself from whatever may be around him.

“Oy!” The chime of a bell as something buzzed by him at a great speed. A cyclist.

A tiny slit of  his eye opened. A blurred version of muggle London, a street which seemed to be somewhat hidden, stared back at him. The light told him it was morning or early afternoon.

So that was where he would die? How fitting. The blood traitor who succumbed to his injuries, his so-called lesson, on a muggle street corner.

Without energy to walk, without the capability to think, all he managed to do, was sit on the pavement, hunched over his own thighs as to not feel the mind-numbing pain of his carvings. Forehead on his bent knees, hands resting limply on the slabs of concrete beneath him. They spasmed frequently, his fingers quaking horribly as a reaction to what he had been through.

He closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift in and out of consciousness as he waited for his suffering to end. For his life to end. He could feel the poison coursing through his veins, weakening his heart with every beat. He could feel his breath grow shallow and uneven. As he sat there, feeling the state of his weakened and wounded body, he knew it wouldn’t be long.

He would simply lose consciousness, topple over and perish in his sleep. He wouldn’t know when his last breath was taken. He wouldn’t know anything. He would just die.

“What in Merlin’s green earth… Malfoy?” A worried yet kind, male voice pressed as someone rushed up towards him. He could hear the soles of shoes slapping against the pavement. His eye opened as much as he could muster, just as his head was carefully lifted from where it was resting on his knees. A somewhat familiar face appeared before him, though he could not place it in the moment. Red hair with hints of silver streaks. Kind, green eyes swimming with worry as he took in the shattered state of the broken boy. Someone from the ministry. He looked almost Weasley-like. “What- Tell me, what is your name? What happened to you?”

“Dra-aco… M-malfo-oy.” He had never had a harder time speaking in his life. The pain of broken bones pressed against his lungs, made speaking a horrible endeavour. “P-poi-s-son…”

“Bloody hell…” the man muttered, grasping the young man’s shoulders firmly. “My name is Arthur Weasley… I will need to apparate us to St. Mungo’s. Can you hold on to me? Tightly?”

“Ye.” Draco breathed, his weak and quaking fingers grasping onto Arthur Wealsey’s jacket with all his might. It seemed as through the fabric barely curled beneath his strain. The older man embraced the teenager, who was teetering on the cusp of mortality, apparated him to St. Mungos.

Water Lilies. It was the most beautiful painting, placed in a gilded frame in the bookcase before him. It was not an original, but a print of the famed artwork by Claude Monet. Soft pastel colours depicting the serene water which housed the beautiful flowers. Water lilies. The surface of the water reflected distant trees and the light blue sky up above. It was a beautiful painting, bringing Draco back to reality and peace of mind. Bringing him back from a memory of a world where everything had been nothing but unrelenting chaos.

Hermione was standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle, whilst her head was resting against the healed message, once so brutally carved into his back.

Blood Traitor.

“Bad memory?” Her voice was quiet in the late evening. He honestly couldn’t remember the sun setting. He couldn’t recall Hermione arriving home from her day at work. Daylight had illuminated the living room, a rare sunny day in mid-autumn. And then he had seen it. The print of water lilies.

“You know, I always wondered why Molly and Arthur accepted me so easily.” His mouth was dry as he spoke. It must have been hours since his last sip of water. Her thumb gently caressed an unmarked patch of his stomach. “But Arthur… He saved me.”

Her nose rubbed ever so gently against the cotton T-shirt he wore. “How do you mean?”

“He found me… After my father had tried giving my life away to Rowle and Lestrange, when they had tortured me and carved me open…” his hand lifted from his side, gently resting atop both of hers, which hat interlocked above his navel. “Rowle left me to die in a side street in Muggle London. And Arthur found me. I think he recognised me by my hair…”

He heard her inhale deeply against his shoulder. “Are you sure it was him, Draco?”

“Positive. He took me to St. Mungo’s… made sure to owl my mother, letting her know I was being treated.” His hands were calm. The tremors having subsided, only for as long as she was nearby. The tremors, which had come from a magnitude of unforgivable curses and a light shower of a poisoned blade.

She nodded against his head, the tip of her nose rubbing lightly against him once more as she breathed him in. Deeply. Appreciatively. “If it’s not too much to ask… Could you please tell me about that day?”

“I suppose it is the perfect story for a Halloween evening.” He said with a small chuckle. His free hand reached towards the small, framed print, shifting it slightly on the bookshelf in the mostly empty library. “Well… It all started with this painting. On May 6^th of 1998, only four days after the Battle of Hogwarts. You see, it hung on the wall in my father's self-proclaimed safehouse.”

Chapter Text

There were several reasons why she couldn’t look away from the golden-framed mirror before herself. It was full length, hanging peacefully on the bathroom wall between the bathtub and the counter with his and hers sinks. The frame was ornate and intricate, designed as though it came from the Baroque or Rococo period. But it wasn’t the frame itself that made her unable to look away. No. It was the picture within.

Him. He stood behind her, leaned against the doorframe, with his freshly cut hair nicely pushed back and away from his face. There was a soft swoop to the icy white fringe, which made certain his sharp features were clearly defined, though highlighted by the soft light of the sconces on either side of the mirror.

He wore a white oxford shirt and black trousers. It was clean and crisp, and he looked positively delectable. In his hand, large and pale against the black parchment wrappings, he held a bouquet of flowers. Dahlias, to be precise. Their colour was of such deep purple that they almost appeared to be black. The bouquet had been arranged with eucalyptus and a very light smattering of baby’s breath, making the bouquet almost look as though it was a night sky, perhaps even a depiction of a far-away galaxy.

From her point of view, where she was combing Sleekeazy’s hair potion into her curls, she could truly appreciate how he looked. How he had changed.

His body had filled in with his new diet, where he was actually given food and wasn’t forced to starve. His broad shoulders weren’t quite as angular, with a roundness coming in as his muscles rebuilt and his body had grown stronger. His shirt fit him better, and was tucked nicely into his trousers, which also complimented his lithe build rather than drown him in fabric, as it had upon his first release from Azkaban.

“You’re staring.” The breathtaking man in the looking glass spoke. “May I suggest you stop ogling me, Mrs. Malfoy? Pans told us to arrive on time today, not fashionably late.”

“If you want me to stop staring at you, you should probably leave the room.” She told his reflection. Her heart struck her with a twinge of pain as he pushed from the doorframe where he had perched himself. The pain subsided as soon as he took a step in the right direction. In her direction.

By Merlin himself, she couldn’t find it in herself to look away as he stepped up behind her. Long, slender legs carried him forwards with graceful and elegant steps that spoke of confidence and possibly also years of attended classes on how to move in a way that made a witch’s knees give way beneath her.

He stopped close enough to her body where she could rest the back of her head against the top of his chest. His breath fanned her hair as they both adored the picture before them – the one in the mirror.

Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, dressed up quite nicely to visit their friend, their friend’s husband and their firstborn baby, who happened to have arrived on October 31st. Hermione did not yet know if it was a boy or a girl, all she knew was that the babe had come into the world exactly 25 years after their grandparents, James and Lily Potter, had lost their lives at Voldemort’s wand.

Hermione had dressed nicely, wearing a long-sleeved black dress, hemmed to her knees and a set of black heels, a bit too tall for her preference. The look had been chosen for the occasion by her husband. The dress was modest in ways, yet it hugged every curve of her body, accentuating her broad hips and narrower shoulders. She hadn’t been certain she liked the dress, until that very moment. With his free hand curving around the front of her hip and his nose burying into her coiled hair.

“By Morgana herself, you’re a vision.” His voice was almost husky against her head as he spoke. The vibrations from his words causing goose flesh to rise along the back of her thighs, before travelling up along her spine and into her hair.

“Keep speaking like that, and I can guarantee you that we’ll be late.” She said, lowering the hairbrush to her left, where the sink stood. A soft clack sounded as the wood met the marble.

His fingers sprawled across the curve of her hip, his fingertips brushing ever so lightly against her stomach as he nestled his nose deeper into her curls. “How about I keep speaking like this, and we’ll leave the Parkinson-Potters early?” Rain whipped against the window, facing their garden. “We can cuddle up in bed together all afternoon.”

She plucked her lipstick from the counter by her side, watching him intently through the looking glass as she applied it. Soft mauve, complimenting her skin tone beautifully, it made her lips appear flush and full. A colour that would leave an evident stain on his lips and alabaster skin if he tried to kiss her.

Intense eyes of gleaming silver watched her with evident hunger as she rolled her lips, making sure the colour was evenly applied. “You’ll be the death of me, Hermione.” She heard him utter as he placed the bouquet of Pansy’s flowers into one of the sinks to their left.

The heat in his gaze was blazing, sending a current of electricity down her spine from his reflection alone. Fingertips grazing along her waist, leaving her skin to tingle below the fabric of her dress. She yearned for more of his touch.

It was as though he had read her mind.  With both hands free, he let them roam her body. The warmth of his palms causing her to react to him by arching her back ever so slightly, just enough to rub her rear against the front of his body. And she could easily tell it wasn’t only her body that was reacting in the moment.

Pale hands followed the curve of her hips, with long fingers gripping at the fabric to pull the hem upwards. It shrunk along her thighs, exposing more and more of her skin. Hungry eyes of molten silver were focused on hers in their reflection. She felt his breath in her hair, his chin against her neck. She desperately wished to turn around and kiss him, though the view was simply too spectacular to turn away from.

With the skirt of her dress collected at her waist, her gaze locked onto his, she felt his hand follow the curve of her thigh. Fingertips settled at the peach toned lace in her undergarments, following the floral design to settle between her thighs. Two fingers swiped lightly against her clothed core. Her breath shivered as she inhaled, knowing he could feel the dampness through the thin fabric of her knickers.

Her lips parted as she nodded her head, letting him do as he desired with her. She couldn’t take her eyes off his as she felt his fingers, long and deft, push the fabric aside.

His touch was delicate, two of his fingers feeling their way through her folds and spreading her slick with gentle swipes. Her eyes shifted, allowing her to take in the sight of how he touched her. She felt a spark of something hot ignite within her core.

His lips were against the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he spoke. “Oh, you like this.” Not a question. An observation. Both of his fingers slipped inside of her with one easy motion, filling her to the point where she gasped and rolled her head back, allowing his clavicle to support her.  

She knew with the most sincere certainty that they would not arrive on time at Grimmauld Place.

Silver eyes maintained their focus on her, observing every move she made through the looking glass. Long fingers slid lazily in and out of her, filling her with his gentle motions as the pair kept each other gazes through the golden framed mirror.

Her hips bucked back against him, meeting his movements in short strikes, causing her skin to pebble under his ministrations.

Parted lips pressed against the side of her throat at the very same time as both of his fingers brushed against her front wall.

A groan of pleasure escaped the back of her throat, her hand reaching for him. Fingers clawed at his other hand, which had found its way to her breasts, his thumb gently circling her nipple through the two thin layers of fabric that separated his fingers from her delicate flesh.

Whilst his fingers massaged her from within, the heel of his palm pressed against her most sensitive exterior, sending sparks of magic through her veins. It only took a second until a moan escaped her parted lips.

His eyes gleamed of silver and blue, he appeared to be utterly and completely entranced by her reflection, where he was able to see exactly how much she wanted him. How much she needed him.

She was incapable of looking away. Watching how his lips parted, his tongue wetting his bottom lip as he observed her with keen interest.

And then there was how he made her feel. Like ice cream on a scorching summer’s day. She was melting at his touch, slick and dripping with the sensation of what was to come, and feeling as though she was going to overflow at any given moment.

She rocked her hips against his hand, the continued movements only urging the heel of his palm more firmly against her clit.

His fingers within her core, long and slender and arched to the perfect spot to coax distinct noises of pleasure from the depths of her soul. His touch, his moves, were everything she could hope for, overwhelming and perfect though simultaneously not quite enough.

She wanted him. All of him. She yearned to feel his skin, warm and smooth and scarred, slip against hers, creating friction and pleasure between her legs. She wanted to feel his lips against her own, to lose herself in the taste of his tongue as he took her. All of her.

And she could tell he wanted it too. For his cock was pressed against her rear, where she could feel how he was hard and throbbing between his body and her own.

A breathy moan turned into a gasp as he massaged her sweet spots relentlessly, his lips and tongue on her neck and the large hand massaging her breast only causing her senses to flutter. Her fingers tightened around his hand, the dull tips of her nails clawing at his skin as her hips shuddered.

Her head rolled back further against his collar bone, her gaze averting from the eyes of molten silver as her lids closed. Her muscles started to tense, gooseflesh riding across her skin like a tidal wave and her breath hitching in her throat as she stood on the cusp of Nirvana.

“Open your eyes.” His voice was but a rumble of desire, deep and hungry. Her lids fluttered as the heel of his palm eased atop her clit. “Look at us.” His breath was hot on her wetted skin as she lifted her head forwards.

The reflection was breathtaking. Both of them were flushed with hues of red, lips parted and only waiting expectantly for what was to come. His hand was tucked between her legs, where his fingers remained inside of her, keeping her just on the brink of release.

“Look at how beautiful you are, Hermione.” His voice was hot as embers in her ears, sending a wave of passion and lust from his body, from his soul, over to hers. It travelled down her body at an immense pace, accumulating within her core, where his fingers still kept her on the cusp.

“Please…” She didn’t know what she pleaded for. If it was for him to open his trousers and enter her, or if it was for his fingers to allow her the freedom to leap off the edge and into blissful release. “M-More…”

He never denied her anything she asked for. Not even in a moment like that, when he held all of the power over her and her orgasm.

The heel of his palm pressed firmer against her clit once more, which she pressed herself against. His fingers resumed their strokes within her, and she found herself entirely unable to keep her feet grounded.

An explosion of unyielding pleasure and warmth erupted within her, and all she could focus on as her mind blanked, and pleasure took over, was the silver eyes in the golden framed mirror. Intense. Hungry. Lusting.

Her hand searched for anything to hold onto as wave after wave of bliss coursed through her vert essence. Her body leaned forwards, holding his hand in place whilst her fingers curled around the edge of the mirror, grasping at the ornate, golden edges.

She could feel him through his trousers. Long and hard, straining the fabric of his trousers against her rear, which was pressed firmly against him.

His heated gaze bore into her soul like the flame from a dragon, setting her lust ablaze from within her soul. Her rear pressed harder against him, rubbing the race fabric of her knickers against that of his trousers. He pressed back towards her, and the connection of their souls agreed that they were not yet done.

Her thighs unclenched, releasing his hand. She watched with bated breath as his fingers slipped from within her core. They were long, pale and glistening with her arousal. Her eyes followed the slow movement of his hand as it rounded her body and approached his lips. He wet his bottom lip with excitement before using his tongue to lick her taste off his fingers; eye contact unwavering through the looking glass.

Unsteady on her high heels, her body excruciatingly warm and desperate for his attention to return to her, she pushed back against him once more, urging him to remember her, to open his trousers and take her, just like she wanted him to.

A groan escaped his throat, causing her skin to pebble once again. “Patience, my love. I only wish to savour the taste of you.”

“I don’t think I have patience in me much longer.” She confessed, grinding her rear against him with desperation and need. The reflection before her only showed how his eyes of silver and blue darkened with desire. His hands went to the space between them, where she felt the simple, silver buckle of his belt.

She watched with keen interest as he unbuckled it, the reflection not granting her access to view what she so greatly desired. However, she could feel him. She felt how his length briefly rested against her lace knickers as his thumbs guided the peach toned fabric down over the curve of her legs.

He was warm against her skin, and she could only imagine the drop of excitement, beading at his tip.

Arching her back, she felt the familiar flutters of butterflies tickling the lining of her stomach. She watched his reflection, focusing entirely on his blown pupils and the way his lips were parted in a mixture of focus and awe.

She could feel his heartbeat echo in her chest, his soul telling her exactly how much he wanted her – how he longed for her with every fibre of his being.

Silver and gold locked onto one another in the mirror, just as she felt his length glide against her heat, coating himself in the arousal that dripped from her.

The touch of his velvet skin sent sparks of electricity through her veins, just as she gave him the slightest of nods, approving of his silent request, his plea, to enter her.

His eyes seared hers through the looking glass, keeping her gaze fixed as though a lifeline whilst he slowly eased the tip of his cock between her slick folds.

The wanton sigh that escaped her was nothing compared to the generous size that filled her. Every follicle on her body stood on end, her skin pebbled at the delicious feeling of fullness that he brought her.

His hand on her hip, he guided her back against him as he pushed forwards. Easy and deep strokes of his length were accompanied by the sound of colliding skin and breathy moans that knew no end.

The ornate golden frame was sturdy as she clung to it, taking every deep thrust of his cock. Each rock of his hips against her rear only swaying her, her heels making her unsteady in her mindless state of bliss.

She couldn’t look away from him. The way his neck had dampened ever so slightly behind the collar of his shirt. The manner in which his fringe rocked along with every snap of his hips, dangling loosely over his eye. His jaw slack, lips slightly parted, eyes dazed, though still keenly focused on her own in the reflection.

After a deep and hard thrust, earning him a guttural moan of desperate need for more, he pulled back, his cock slipped out of her. The loss felt immense within her core, their physical connection broken much too soon.

“Draco?” She asked his reflection, watching as he took one small and slow step backwards.

“Turn around” His words were laced with the very same want, the same needs, which she could feel surging through her own body. She stood, turning her back to the mirror, and facing her husband for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

A flash of his silver eyes appeared before her, then his lips were on hers. Passion. Lust. Want. Need. It all poured from his body, from his soul, and into her own. One hand gripped the back of his shirt, the other tangling in his hair. Strands as white as snow slipping between her fingers with ease, their softness caressing her marital rings.

Hands on her, he guided her, holding her steady atop her heels and unsteady knees.  Her rear pressed against an edge, and he lifted her onto it, allowing one of her feet to slip from the hold of her knickers. The white marble between their sinks seared her skin with its coldness, though the inferno from Draco’s body quickly caused the chill to subside.

Her legs were on either side of him, her legs wrapping around his waist to invite him closer to her body. The raised scars on his back slipped from her senses as her hand moved, skimming across the fabric of his shirt, around his ribcage and down between them.

His cock was warm and hard, still damp with her arousal, and eager to get back into her, to please them both. She stroked him up and down, feeling the velvet of his skin before guiding her back towards herself.

One motion of his hips, and she was once again breathless from how he filled her. A groan of pure elation escaped her, just as she felt his tongue find hers. Hot and slick and tasting of sweet clementines.

Hips rocking back and forth, she felt him hit deep within her, where the pleasure mixed with pain in the most intense sensation she loved. Her back arched, her head and shoulders pressed against the grand mirror behind the sinks.

She gripped his hair tighter, needing him, craving him every way imaginable. One of her legs was lifted, resting over his shoulder as he pounded into her at a relentless pace, hitting her just right with every. Single. Thrust.

Who broke the kiss, she would never know. All she knew was him. All she could feel was him. His warmth covering her body. His cologne sinking deep into her lungs. His sheared hair, soft against her jaw. His wetted lips on her neck, branding her as his own. His deep groans of pleasure, sweet as sin as they collided against her skin. His name on her lips, slipping off her tongue like an unending prayer.

A hand shifted from her thigh, from when he had folded her in half, and eased to the space just above their connection. His thumb massaged her most sensitive nub, sending sparks of magical flames surging through her veins.

His name graduated into desperate cries of lust and passion, moans echoing off the marble walls, mingling with the sound of his skin colliding with hers, and the clacks of her heels landing on the floor. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but him. Nothing mattered but them.

She could taste the rapidly approaching Nirvana on his lips, which once more collided with her own. Long fingers tangled in her hair, gripping a fistful of her sleek curls as they both approached heavenly release together.

His groans against her lips tasted of passion, stoking the flame he had started within her. With each thrust, his delicious cock fed her desperation. She gripped at what she could, fabric, skin or hair, it did not matter, as long as it was Draco, as long as he could feel the pleasure he was building within her.

Their souls collided, mixing and mingling like plumes of vibrant smoke, growing from twin flames. Two halves became one whole as silver fireworks flashed behind her eyelids and release washed over her. Another groan sounded from him, deep and guttural and almost lethal as it echoed throughout the room, his hips stuttering as he buried his cock against her cervix. He had finally reached Nirvana alongside her, and she felt the pleasure of their entangled souls ease into simple and tender peace. Love. Unity.

Pleasure had never felt so good as when she was with him. Nothing in her life had ever been quite as overwhelming, as overstimulating and yet such a perfect and easy fit as he was.

The fevered kiss, once filled with passion and lust, slipped into one of soft, familiar pecks and little noises of bliss. His fringe tickled her brow, his chest rising and falling, steadying and calming, against the backs of her thighs.

The echo of his heartbeat pulsed through her veins, rapidly at first, though it eased into the calm pace she loved to feel within her chest.

She kissed him languidly, her fingertips trailing gently over the short hairs of his nape and the crisp collar of his shirt. “I think we might be a bit late.” Her voice was but a whisper against his lips. Over his shoulder, she could see the peach-coloured knickers dangling from her ankle.

A puff of air escaped his lips, a chuckle accompanying it. His chest rumbled against hers as he allowed their lips to part from one another’s. The tip of his nose rubbing soft and gentle circles against hers. “I think she’ll understand.”

“Are you guys quite done shagging in there or what?” Asked the lazy drawl of Theo’s voice from just outside the closed bedroom door. How long he had been there, she did not want to know. Only judging from the manner in which Draco’s body tensed, he hadn’t the faintest idea of Theo’s presence either. She found herself immensely grateful for the fact that Draco had closed the bedroom door before slipping into the bathroom after her.

She inhaled a deep breath, filling her lungs with her husband’s natural scent and the few sprays of his fragrance. Creamy sandalwood, bergamot and the slightest hint of vanilla. It was exactly how she loved him.

“Could you give us a moment, Theo?” She asked over Draco’s shoulder, her fingers easing over his nape to calm the man who was still between her legs, their bodies remaining connected. She smiled when she felt his forehead relax against her shoulder and his arm tighten around her waist, as though wishing to pull her ever closer.

“Oh Mrs. Malfoy, I already gave you several moments.” came his voice, carried in a humourless chuckle. “I’ll be downstairs, awaiting your company shortly.”

The slap of soles on wooden flooring told the couple he had left their bedroom door and was on his way back to the lower level of the house.

“One day, I’m going to kill him.” The low rumble of her husband’s voice drifted against her shoulder. “I swear it, Hermione.”

“And risk being away from me for more than a work day? I sincerely doubt it, my love.” Her fingers raked through the short strands of white-blonde hair at his nape, enjoying the moments of closeness between them before they had to join their friend in the sitting room.

A harsh huff of air escaped him. “Fine. But I still want to.”

With one gentle move, he pulled away. Their bodies disconnecting, leaving her exposed cunt dripping their shared release onto the marble counter. “Go take care of him.” She urged her husband, watching with keen eyes as he cleaned himself off and dressed himself properly once more.

“You’d better join us soon, or I might just strangle him.” Silver eyes, speckled with gleaming sapphires, locked onto hers. His expression softening at once, the faintest hint of a smile rounding the corners of his mauve-stained lips as he buckled his belt.

The only things about him that told the story of their passion, was the way his hair had been ever so gloriously dishevelled. His lips still stung, bearing evidence of her kisses and lipstick. Strands that outshone the moon, reflected the trails her fingers had traced against his scalp. He ran his hair through his hair, though it  effortlessly flopped back to the messy look she had created for him.

“Go, Draco.” She looked to the open door, connecting their bathroom to the bedroom just beyond, reminding him of their friend, who was eagerly waiting in their sitting room. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Once I get my legs working again.”

He placed a sweet end tender kiss to her lips before leaving the bathroom to join Theo downstairs.

It took her more than the assumed few minutes to clean herself up, get her legs working, settle her clothes and make herself presentable once more.

Smeared makeup was cleaned up, her curls needed yet another round of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and the love bite on her neck was covered with makeup and a simple glamouring charm.

The heels she had once decided on, had been securely returned to their place in the back of her wardrobe, and had promptly been replaced by black flats, before she took Pansy’s bouquet in her arms and staggered down the staircase.

Entering the sitting room, she felt like a freshly born deer, tottery and frail, walking on ice. However, when she spotted the two men in the sitting room, the worries for her own unsteadiness stilled immediately.

Theodore sat on the armrest of the violet sofa of tufted velvet, pale and dishevelled. Not nearly in a manner similar to Draco, no, Theo looked frazzled. As though he hadn’t slept and had spent much too long looking at the bottom of his whiskey glass. The rest of the sofa was filled with an immensely large plush dragon, not remotely lifelike, and teal in colour, with small wings on its back that would barely lift a bird if they worked.

Draco stood with his rear against the windowsill; his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The eyes that had only just been filled with love and admiration for her, had hardened with worry, his brows furrowed just above.

“Did someone die?” she asked into the quiet, breaking the silence that had encompassed them. Only rain against the panes of glass sounded through the room.

“Worse.” Uttered Theo after a moment of autumnal silence.

“It’s not worse than death, and you know it, you bloody git.” Draco told him, shooting his friend a stern look from his place by the window. She could see leaves hued of amber and fire flutter behind him, blown from the trees where they had once lived. “It’s just not ideal for you.”

“Not ideal?” Theo scoffed, his gaze set onto the herringbone floor beneath their feet in a manner that made her worry it would set fire. “Not everyone has a fucking soulmate, Draco. Not everyone gets a happily ever after.”

“What is-” Her question lingered in the air as she looked between them. “- Happening?”

Draco cast his eyes to the coffee table, separating the violet sofa from the hearth. Her eyes followed his, spotting a letter with the sigil of the Ministry of Magic.

“The fourth wave.” Theo said, finally lifting his gaze from the floor, to look over at Hermione. “I’m in it. I have to marry in twenty-seven days or I’ll be appointed a wife by the blasted Ministry.”

She had feared the worst, expecting someone to have died, perhaps even summons to a court hearing or time in Azkaban. A marriage, forced upon him by the fourth wave of the Repopulation Act, however unfortunate it may be, was not nearly as bad as she had expected.

“Ginny.” She said, taking steps towards her new friend, who only rolled his eyes in return. “I mean it. You’ve been… Well, I don’t exactly know what you are, but you’ve been that for quite a few months now. You should at least talk to her about it.”

“That was my first suggestion as well.” Draco informed her, just as Theo stood from the armrest of the sofa, his long legs allowing him to round around Hermione and stride the length of the room within seconds.

“Gin doesn’t want me.” He said, standing near the dining table in the opposite end of the room from Draco and Hermione. “She’s made that abundantly clear.”

A memory of Ginny surfaced in her mind. Her friend excited to sneak out of Harry’s birthday party to see him. The sheer joy and energy sparking in her eyes had told every word her lips had not said.

She liked him. Truly. Deeply. If she hadn’t, she would have let him go the moment she lost interest in his company. And there he was, apparently convinced she had no interest in him, even though Ginny was positively besotted by him.

“Has she said that? Used those words?” She asked, slowly and unsteadily stepping closer to the coffee table and the letter from the ministry. It appeared to be the same letter she had reread hundreds of times in the start of June that very year. She laid the bouquet of flowers next to the parchment as she read. He had until December 1st to marry, or a wife would be appointed to him by the Department of Matrimonial Affairs.

She found it to be rather rushed. Not the letter, but the entirety of it all. It had only  been five months since the third wave had begun, since she and Draco had married. And there they were, with the fourth wave already having struck.

“She hasn’t needed to use her words. She doesn’t want me like that.” The defeat in his voice echoed throughout the room. Accompanied with the sound of rain, it truly  sounded like despair and heartbreak. Like he had lost the one thing, the one being he truly desired. “I know it.”

“No, you don’t know it.” She said, looking away from the parchment and the signature of the horrid and rude Dennis Creevey at the bottom.  “One of my favourite things about Gin, is how direct she is. If she doesn’t want to be with you, if she doesn’t want you in any way, she would have told you as much and left. You would have known, not just assumed.”

They locked eyes across the room, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. “She doesn’t want me. She can’t want me.”

“She’ll be at the Potter’s to meet the baby.” Draco said from behind her, still peacefully standing by the window. “If you don’t talk to her, I’ll do it for you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Malfoy.”

“Well, then all you have to do is talk to her on your own.” Draco sounded that of an exasperated father, talking with a stubborn and moody teenager. It warmed her heart more than it ought to. “What makes you think she doesn’t want you, anyways?”

A sigh. Deep and destructive in nature. “She hasn’t told anyone about us. Not in her family, at least. I believe two Harpies know.”

“Well, I bet you haven’t run off to Azkaban to tell your father about her either.” Said Draco, earning himself a look over her shoulder that told him to not bring up relatives that were in imprisoned for attempted genocide.

“If two Harpies know, they all know.” She was quick to inform him, turning back to their visitor to hopefully steer Theo away from punching Draco in the nose. “But, about her family… She doesn’t really tell them thing about her love life anymore, because Molly and Arthur has been hounding her for years to get married. They first wanted her with Harry, when he was on the first wave, and her brothers were quick to encourage her as well.”

She watched as he plucked an opalescent flower from the vase atop the dining table. He cradles the flower gently in his hand, his thumb brushing ever so lightly against the beautiful petals. “I fear the two of you might have skewed views… Not everyone has a soulmate, and even if they do, not everyone gets to marry that soulmate in every lifetime.”

“We know that.” Draco spoke the very words that had been charging in her throat. She heard him step closer, feeling his warmth radiate from behind as his hand came to rest on her waist. “Not even we got to marry in every lifetime.”

Their friend lifted his gaze, taking in the Malfoy soulmates, standing united, strong and sturdy against each others side. “What do you mean?”

“We didn’t get to marry in every lifetime.” She told him earnestly, her body angling itself towards Draco purely out of habit – of instinct. “There were times when we have been the same gender, and even wizarding society hasn’t been accepting. There was a lifetime when we didn’t meet until it was much too late, until we were both married with children.”

“There was a lifetime when I was too poor, and her parents didn’t approve of me. Or the time our countries were at war and she was killed before I could steal her away to my country, to marry her in safe grounds.” His voice was deep and soft, radiating the same warmth as his hands. She felt his lips press against her hair.

Memories of dreams, recollections from other lifetimes, drifted to the surface of her mind. There had been more instances of heartbreak between them than she wished to count. “There has been language barriers between us, that could not be mended. There has been people pulling us from one another. Lifetimes where all we could do, was wish to be with each other, but the world didn’t allow it.”

Hazel eyes flitted between the two, then allowed his focus to return to the flower in his hand. He twirled the stem, watching as the iridescent splotches reflected the grey afternoon light of Oxford. “But I- I can’t marry her. She won’t be happy with me.”

“You don’t get to decide that for her.” Said the love of her life, his tone easy and calm. She looked up at Draco, smiling with appreciation for his chosen words. “I feared Hermione wouldn’t be happy with me either.”

“You were wrong.” She told him, voice soft as an opalescent petal in the space between them.

“I was wrong.” He returned her soft smile, eyes focused entirely on her. She vowed to herself that this lifetime, they would not part ways. This lifetime it was meant to be, until the very end.

Across the room, Theo placed the Virent Irides back into the vase, gentle and careful not to hurt the petals as he did so. His jaw was set and squared, though his eyes bore a glint of hopefulness, even in the bleak and rain-filled day.

Green flames crackled softly as they deposited Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy in the upstairs sitting room of number twelve Grimmauld Place.

Despite the amounts of people in the room, it was quiet. Not eerily, but appreciatively and respectfully so. Ginny, Molly, Arthur and Daphne were all seated in the two sofas, their eyes warmly focused on the newborn baby with wild raven hair, barely peeking out from the white knit blanket in Pansy’s arms.

Theo, having dragged the almost full-sized dragon plush through the floo minutes before, had deposited the toy in a corner by the doorway to the corridor, stood behind the plush, amber-coloured armchair that held the new mother and the newest member of their little group.

He was leaned over the back of the chair, his arms folded atop the cushion behind Pansy’s shoulders and looking adoringly at the child, who was only four days old. It had not yet been a week, and the infant was infinitely loved by everyone in the room, as well as their father and uncle Ronald, who were not present in the room at that moment.

“Hey, you two.” Daphne greeted the pair gently, just before zipping Winnie’s full-body suit, making the little girl look like a brown teddy, with little ears and paws completing the ensemble.

“Hi,” Hermione said in a hushed tone, stepping out from the hearth with Draco in tow. Pansy only smiled in return. It was quite evident that she was tired, worn, but her emerald eyes glittered with the truest form of happiness that Hermione had ever seen on her friend’s face.

Draco rounded the back of the armchair Pansy occupied, leaning over his truest friend to press a kiss to the top of her head whilst resting his hand ever so lightly on her shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, Pans. Congratulations.” His words were soft in the calm room, allowing everyone to hear them, even though they were meant for her, and her alone. He then stood tall once more, glanced meaningfully at Theodore, and took the bouquet of flowers with him as he rounded the dragon push and left the room to find a vase in the kitchen in the lower level.

A white bag of gifts from the two Malfoys was placed atop the sideboard below the window. The paper bag housed an utterly cute onesie for the baby, bought with love and hand-picked in a muggle shop by Draco. They had included a few snacks and a gift for the new mummy, inviting her to have a day at the spa, with champagne, massages, manicure, pedicure and the full works.

Draco and Hermione had always known they wished to give Pansy the world once the baby was born, because she had spent months of her life without being able to do anything she wanted to do. Lacking energy, having severe sickness through the entirety of her pregnancy, as well as bad hips and pain surging through her back and shoulders. The least she deserved was a day at the spa, with the company – or lack thereof – of her own choosing.

A smile grazed Hermione’s lips as she gazed over at her friend, who had her knowing, emerald eyes focused on her, though her nose was pointed towards the sleeping human in her arms.

There was nothing more than a slight eyebrow raising ever so briefly, wordlessly inviting the brunette over. She, just as her husband before her, rounded the back of the chair and hugged her over the amber backrest.

“How are you?” She asked her friend, still not allowing her eyes to settle onto the newborn. Of course, she was there to meet the highly anticipated new addition, but her main focus whilst visiting was the woman whom she had gotten to know over the years, the woman who had become a friend, a sister.

“My body is soft in odd places, it’s sore and stiff and raw in all the other places… And I’ve never been happier.” Long, slender fingers, lacking their usual manicure, shifted the hand-knit blanket of familiar Molly Weasley quality, inviting her to finally have a look.

A tuft of black hair was the first to garner her attention. Slight curls lay to the short lengths, making it stand on end, just as it did with their father. They had Pansy’s delicate nose, and the softness ion which Harry once carried in his structure, set under the porcelain skin inherited from their mum.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Pansy asked almost absently.

She. A girl. Everyone had always thought the firstborn Parkinson-Potter would be a boy, a chaotic little youngling to follow in his father’s footsteps before him. But there she was. A beauty of a little girl, resting ever so peacefully in her mothers’ arms. She was perfection, the most beautiful, wonderful addition to the Parkinson-Potter family. She watched as the girls’ fingers shifted over the edge of the blanket, tightening slightly into the knit patterns of delicate florals.

“She most certainly is.” Hermione agreed with her whole heart, chancing a glance over at Theo, who bore reddened eyes, glassy with unshed tears. He hid his eyes beneath the shadow of his curls, never removing his gaze from the little one.

Draco’s footsteps could be heard re-entering the living room. The vase was carefully placed atop an end table, just between Pansy’s chair and the sofa on her left-hand side, where Molly was seated.

The hearth roared to life once more, allowing Blaise and Giulia to slip through the green shimmer. The Zabini paired seemed to be in their element, evident in how Blaise carried armfuls of bags from Italian boutiques into the sitting room, and Giulia followed her husband with a big smile and a crocheted blanket of rainbow colours, which hung delicately over her arm.

“Pansy, darling.” Greeted Blaise, ridding himself of the bags by setting them down next to the sideboard of gifts. It was evident that the bags would not all fit atop it. Giulia was quick to fold the blanket and placed it on the end of the sideboard, where it didn’t occupy too much space.

Hermione removed herself from Pansy’s shoulders, encouraging Theo to do the same. He quickly brushed his clothes forearm against his eyes, ridding himself of the coming droplets as he stood, freeing the new mother up to receive hugs from the two newcomers. Theo stood back, joining the plush dragon by the shortest wall whilst Hermione joinined Draco on the lengthiest sofa in the sitting room.

They sat just next to Ginny and Molly, who made room for the pair by scooting further  on the sofa. where the Weasley matriarch reached across her daughter to cheerfully, yet quietly greet the couple

“It’s so good to see you again, dears. Especially you, Draco.” Molly said with a genuine smile as she squeezed his hand firmly. “You know the two of you are always invited for dinner. Every Sunday at the Burrow, there are seats with your names on them.” Her warmth radiated to the couple, reminding them both that one did not need blood-relatives to have family.  

“I know, Molly. Thank you so much for that.” He said back with effortless kindness. “We have had to settle back into our lives together now. But we’ll join you for dinner sometime soon.”

Ginny eyes Hermione with a small smirk, her eyes of deep brown showing mirth and pride. “It’s very unlike the two of you to be late.” She muttered, only loud enough for Hermione to hear. “He’s rather tall, so I hope he’s… Proportionate. Is that why it took you so long?”

Hermione cleared her throat, deciding to join her husband and Molly in their conversation. “Yes.” She started, glancing over at Ginny with slightly raised brows. “We’ll be able to make it twice before we go to Australia.”

“Australia?” the mention piqued Molly’s curiosity. “When is your portkey leaving?”

“Actually, we’re flying.” She could feel his arm slip around her waist, long fingers spreading out just slightly across her side as he pulled her closer towards himself. Goose flesh rose along her spine, just as she recalled how his hand had curled around her in a similar fashion before slipping into her knickers, only an hour or so prior. “I’ve got us tickets to go the muggle way.”

“Are you really?” asked an eager Arthur from the other sofa, where he held a half-sleeping Winnifred in his arms. “Flying an aer-o-plane, are you? Oh, I’ve always wanted to travel somewhere with an aer-o-plane. Molly thinks it’s a waste of money, and it is most certainly a waste of time, but wouldn’t it be nice, flying an aer-o-plane only once?”

Hermione watched as Theo sat down on the armrest by Daphne. His eyes were once more hardened and serious; his gaze locked onto the eagerly grinning redhead by her side. Ginny. He appeared as though he was thinking of something, focused on something entirely different than the conversation at hand. There was no witty commentary. There was no twinkle in his eyes.

She feared he was starting to doubt himself. To doubt the conversation, which they had shared in the Oxford sitting room.

Ginny noticed his look, and her big grin faded fast. Her eyes softened, locking onto his, and Hermione felt she was invading on a private conversation between the two. Ginny’s deep brown eyes and his intense hazel almost fought for dominance across the sofa, sending a chill into the space around them. Their intensity radiated through the air, a quiet and wordless argument happening between the two who had once cozied up next to one another in Marseille with drinks and laughter, where they had ever so naturally, effortlessly, become what they were in that moment. A couple. Even if they didn’t see it themselves.

“I’ll tell you how it went once we return.” Draco said from her right-hand side, bringing her back to the spoken conversation at hand.

“Draco and I made promises for him to learn about the muggle world before going to see my parents. And he’s done quite amazingly, so now we are going to see them.” She turned her head to look up at the handsome man who held her heart. The kind and wonderful man, her soulmate through centuries of hardships and multiple lifetimes. “And I couldn’t be for excited. I get to show you off to my parents, now.”

Even though they weren’t aware they were her parents, they still mattered more to her than she dared to admit. She loved them dearly, and having them meet him, hopefully approve of him, meant more than she could ever explain.

Silver eyes glittered with droplets of blue, clear and clean, even in the dim light surrounding them. She felt him, the way the echo of his heart pounded joyfully, almost fluttering, within her own chest. She could feel his love, his devotion, and could only hope that hers mirrored his; that he felt hers in return.

“Harry wanted a floral name. Any kind of thing, to honour his mum.” Pansy’s voice broke through the low conversations within the room. She wasn’t speaking loudly in any sense, but her voice was filled with a deeply rooted love for the little being in her arms, it captivated everyone to become her audience. “And I have a thing for Greek Mythology… So, we worked rather hard to find her a name we were both pleased with.”

Hermione rested her head against Draco’s shoulder, watching Pansy swoon over her baby girl, whilst Blaise sat on the armrest by her side, partially draped over his friend to have a better look at the wrapped child. “So, what did you end up choosing?”

Pansy inhaled almost nervously, preparing herself to announce the name in front of their most important people. Emerald eyes shifted towards the pony-sized stuffed Dragon, which her husband and Ronald appeared to have been admiring. Harry smiled at her, giving her an encouraging nod of his head. “Hazel Persephone Parkinson-Potter.”

“I swear I insisted on a P-name for her first name, but Pansy only liked Petunia and… Due to my dearest auntie, that name was out of the running very quickly.” Harry chuckled, his hand shooting into his hair, to further dishevel his hair.

“I also suggested Peony. Primrose, Posy, Poppy… Even Pear, but you turned them all down.” Pansy reminded him, her voice somewhat stern, but her eyes showing the love she held for him.

“Then she insisted on Hazel, because I shouldn’t be the only one in our family without a given P-name.” Harry stepped up behind her armchair, and they met in a brief kiss. “But I still think Hazel’s name is a work in progress. We might change it if we can truly agree on something. I believe Poppy and Primrose might be growing on me.”                           

“No matter what you decide, I think all of those names are beautiful,” cooed Molly, her eyes focused on the sleeping baby Potter. “Little Hazel.”

Baby names. Such a wonderful thing to spend one’s time thinking of. She briefly let her mind wander, curious as to what Draco would want for their child, whenever their time came. Considering he had no specific ties to either one of his parents, she was curious if there were any traditions he wished to bring onwards.

Her name was mostly famed from Shakespeare’s work; she found herself curious if they would consider continuing that trend? Following from The Winter’s Tale or any other play by the famed writer.

There was Draco, a man as celestial-looking as his name gave notice of. Named from a constellation, beautifully portrayed upon the night sky. Would they follow the blinding lights of the galaxies and stars in the night sky to name their future child?

And then there was something that seemed to be of great importance to them. Flowers. Her mind started racing for floral names of various names fitting what might one day be their little family, when she felt a nose graze lightly along the shell of her ear.

“Where did your mind wander off to?” came Draco’s soft and deep rumble of a voice, easing her back into her present. Her reality. Where she was not expecting a child, and she was there to welcome someone else’s baby into the world.

She turned her head to face him, easily spotting the mirth and mischief glinting in his silver eyes.

The vision of a dream, a hope for the future flashed in her mind, showing her the image of a baby, round and soft. It was resting easily in her arms, draped in a blanket she had knit for them. The babe in her mind had eyes just like his, with a tuft of curled hair, as white as snow. A pointed chin peeking out between plump, olive-toned cheeks.

Her fingers gripped at the sleeve of his jacket. She knew he could feel the flutter of her heart. The want she carried deep within herself. A want she had never explored until her soul had found its other half. Until she had united with Draco as adults. Until she had started shaping a life with him. A life where she wanted a family with him.

“I’ll tell you when we get home.” The smile she got in return only told her that his mind had been in a place similar to her own, where he too could feel the biological urge to expand their duo into a trio – perhaps even further than that.

A small, almost noiseless yawn broke the idle chatter in the room as little baby Parkinson-Potter stretched and awoke in her mothers’ arms. Every head turned to focus on the little one. Every eye keenly observing the newcomer as she opened her eyes and appeared to look around.

“Now that you’re awake, Hazel, it’s time to meet your family.” Pansy hoisted the little girl further into her arms, where she might be able to see the vast outline of Blaise and Giulia next to her mum. “This is Uncle Blaise and Auntie Giulia. If you ever want anything designer, and for some reason mummy says no, you go to him.”

Theo got up from his seat, quickly striding across the room with long footfalls, only to circle behind Blaise and peek his head up behind Pansy’s. His wicked and mischievous grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I’m uncle Theo. If you ever need someone to hide a body, I’m the one to come to. And I’ll always be the one to buy you the most fun gifts.”

He was smacked on the shoulder by Blaise. “Mate!”

“What? Hazel ought to know these things.” He patted Pansy’s shoulder before slipping away and out into the corridor, obviously needing time for himself. She quietly hoped it was to gather courage to talk to Ginny, though she doubted that was his intention.

Pansy looked over at Draco, who sat the closest to her. “Come on, Uncle Draco. You should get used to holding a baby for when it’s your turn.” She quirked a brow at him, her lips pursing ever so slightly “Nice lipstick mark on your shirt collar, by the way. Very classy.”  

His hand left her side as he shifted towards his friend and the small child. His silver eyes seeming to melt as he reached for her, promptly ignoring Pany’s snide remark. Pansy carefully laid her in his arms, watching with keen eyes as he drew the baby closer to his chest, yet angling her ever so slightly, so Hermione could see.

“Hey there.” His deep voice was smooth and gentle as he spoke to the curious little girl, with the big, dark green eyes. “I’m Uncle Draco, and this right here is Auntie Hermione.”

“And you are always safe to come to us for absolutely anything.” She reached for the little hand, feeling her heart clench as the small fingers tightened around hers and squeezed at her nail. “Our home is always open for you. Because we love you so very much, little Hazel.”

The sofa shifted as Molly scooted closer, taking Ginny’s seat after she had rushed out of the sitting room, presumably to follow Theo and check in on him.

Arthur joined them on the larger sofa, leaving Winnifred sound asleep in her mother’s arms atop the settee.

The Parkinson-Potter princess was passed from Draco’s sturdy arms, across Hermione’s lap and into the awaiting arms of Molly. She bore a proud and fond smile as she held the little one securely, safely. “And you can call me Nan.” For she would be. The Weasley clan was the closest thing either Pansy or Harry would get to a family. It was the clan that united them all, making everyone aunties and uncles under the warm embrace of Molly and Arthur. “And this is Pop.” She announced, showing off her husband to the littlest addition to the family.

The muffled voices of Theo and Ginny sounded from the downstairs corridor. An evident argument taking place between them. Daphne, Pansy and Hermione looked between one another, exchanging worried glances between themselves.

Hermione was the first to stand, quickly succeeded by Daphne, who handed Winnie over to her father, a rather confused looking Ronald, and then they rounded the plush dragon and slipped into the corridor.

“What has gotten into you lately? You’ve ignored all my owls, you’re pushing me away and I don’t get it.” Ginny. It sounded as though she wanted to shout at him, though remained as quiet as she could to not startle the newborn.

“I don’t know, Gin.” He sighed. “I think it’s best if we end… This…”

“You’re not breaking up with me.”

“It’s not breaking up if we were never together. You never even told your mum about me. Not Ron. No one got to know.” The hurt in his voice was louder than she had ever heard it. Daphne stopped on the landing, grasping Hermione’s arm to keep her standing still. They both remained quiet, ready to leap into action if they needed to.

“I’m on the fourth wave, Gin. I have to get married by December first, and I don’t…” she felt a wave of relief wash over her, elated that Theo mustered up the courage to be honest with her. “I really want it to be you, but I don’t know if you want… If you want me… Like that.”

Daphne and Hermione locked eyes, blue eyes wide with the realisation of what he was saying. She gripped her arm tighter, nodding her head back up the stairs, to where they weren’t imposing on something quite so private.

They slowly retreated alongside one another, meeting a frazzled looking Ronald and stern Blaise at the top.

Ronald had presumably not yet been told about Ginny and Theo’s relationship, and Hermione knew that it was not a wise idea to tell him whilst he was holding a sleepy baby Winnie in his arms.

“They’re working it out.” Hermione said with finality, earning herself a slow nod from Zabini and a confused grimace from Ronald. She turned to the red headed man and raised a brow in retaliation. “It’s not for me to share. Nor Daphne!” She added in a hiss as he turned to look at his wife. “Blaise, Draco will tell you later tonight.”

“Why can’t Draco tell me?” Ron huffed indignantly, shooting Hermione a rather nasty glare.

Daphne smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand, glaring up at him with an intensity which was scarcely seen from the former Greengrass. “Because you’re Gin’s brother, you blasted buffoon. You have to wait your turn.”

The front door opened and shut, and the lower corridor was left entirely quiet, empty of life, as both Theo and Ginny had walked outside.

Together.

The sitting room was quiet as they re-entered the room. Harry was walking about before the hearth, rocking Hazel gently in his arms as he caught Hermione’s eyes.

She was quick to look away from him. They hadn’t spoken a word to one another since Theo had helped her set him straight, and she did not feel obliged to start doing so at that moment. Instead, she shifted her gaze to her husband, who looked up at her with hopeful eyes of gleaming silver. She walked over to him, and joined him on the sofa once more, feeling at ease once his scent and warmth enveloped her yet again. She leaned into him, and looked over at Pansy, still perched expectantly in her armchair, and Giulia, who raised a brow in silent, yet excited question.

The new mother had also known about their secret relationship, which had started taking shape in the glorious Marseille. The intense stare of emerald sank into her heart, and she nodded her head in return.

“Everything is okay.” She spoke into the room, immediately feeling the tension in the air slip away into a quiet ease. “They figured it out.” She said, just as her fingers slipped between those of her husbands, and felt the moment her soul relaxed alongside its other half.

“Something to look forwards to tomorrow?” Ronald asked, taking a seat next to his wife on the settee.

Pansy shifted her eyes from Hermione to Daphne, trying her very best not to look amused or excited about the prospect of what may happen during a Sunday dinner at the Burrow, just the very next day.

“Definitely something to look forwards to.” The blonde said with a vibrant grin across her lips. A grin that told her husband to stop whinging, and accept that he might just have to wait another twenty-four hours for the answer that had the youngest women in the room excited beyond measure.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know how he could ever hate an inanimate object quite as much as he did, but he was certain the kettle had somehow wished for him to perish a slow and agonising death. There was simply no other explanation.

At first, he struggled to open it, so he had to pour in water from the tap through the spout, which took an ungodly amount of time. Then there was putting it onto its little plate, where the hole in the bottom of the kettle never lined up with the plug beneath, and pressing the button to start the electric contraption, which was easy enough.

However, it only worked about half of the time, and never when Draco was the one doing it. All he wanted was a cup of tea, but he was almost certain he would end up with a broken window, a kettle on the wet grass in the garden outside and a fully-fledged mental breakdown.

Hermione stood in the doorway, watching him with evident amusement as he struggled to get the light going, which would indicate the kettle had been switched on. It remained as grey as always, clearly hating him just as much as he hated it.

He unplugged the kettle’s power plug from the wall, then plugged it back in. He flipped the switch on the kettle for the fourth time and groaned with utter exasperation, earning himself an amused snicker from his wife.

“Instead of laughing at my misery, you are more than welcome to help me.” He said whilst turning around to face her.

She was as beautiful as ever in the overcast morning light. Wild curls had been tamed into a bun atop the crown of her head, with strays framing her hair in a way that made her look like she belonged on the front of various muggle magazines. She wore one of his dress shirts, crisp and white against her olive skin. The marquise diamond on her finger glittered as she moved her hand to cover her lips, clearly trying to stifle her laugh.

“Have you tried turning it on?”

Her query was met with an aggressive flick of the kettle switch. It did not light up. He flicked it again but got nothing. He then flicked it about twelve more times in rapid succession, showing the laughing witch exactly why he was as miserable as he was.

“I- I- Draco stop.” Her voice was enchanting when she laughed. He kept flicking the switch vigorously. “Draco! Stop! It won’t work because you haven’t turned it on!”

“I’m trying to! Do I need to touch it a certain way? Sweet talk it a little bit? I didn’t know kettles could be this bloody selective!” He turned back to the contraption in question, eyeing the little window where he could see the cold water, mocking him with how useless it was to make proper tea.

A wheeze escaped his wife, sounding as though she had turned into a boiling kettle herself, though, as opposed to the one on the counter before him, she sounded like a functioning one, instead of the useless plastic one that Draco had failed to persuade.

“Is it one of those kettles that don’t like scars, perhaps? Because I can go put a shirt on if that’s the issue. Or is it one that’s only attracted to women? Because I can’t compete with that.” He looked between the kettle and his wife, who was slowly turning red against the doorframe. “Well, go on then. Do your magic my dearest Hermione, Goddess of the Kitchen Appliances. Turn it on like the gorgeous woman that you are.”

He briefly looked to the stove, then back to the kettle on the countertop and sighed, noting how plastic could not go on the cooktop, and even if it could, he didn’t really understand how to operate the cooktop yet, because it was tomfoolery that needed electricity. And as was previously established, Draco and electricity were not friends.

He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her wipe her bottom lashes free of tears. “I- I mean… Draco, just- The switch? You just flip the switch.” He must have looked crazed as he looked at her with wide, unblinking eyes, flicking the switch yet again with the side of his forefinger. She clutched the doorframe with one hand, fighting for her life not to shriek with laughter. “On the wall.” She squeaked.

“That’s for the lights, isn’t it?”

“No!” she sounded as though she was about to combust. “Next to the plug. The switch.” His eyes went back to where the black plug had been shoved back into the wall only minutes prior and sighed. He truly hadn’t seen the two little switches next to the holes in the wall.

“Is this the switch of all switches?”

“The one switch to rule them all.”

“You’re such a nerd, Hermione Granger.”

“It’s Hermione Malfoy now, actually. You married me, remember?” She stepped closer to him, her arms wrapping around his bare waist whilst he flipped the switch on the wall and the light on the kettle shone a bright orange.

“I swear, had this not worked, I would have microwaved a cup of water for my tea.” For he did know how the microwave worked. There were no hidden buttons or smart touch-panels. No, he would only need to turn the dial to the point where he was pleased with the time, then hit the ‘start’ button.

Even aghast, she was stunning. “You wouldn’t dare.”

How someone could ever be offended by how to boil water, he would never understand, but, as he understood it, British muggles were very specific on the tools used to boil water. And doing it in the microwave was simply not acceptable behaviour. Not even from a desperate wizard who ever so longingly yearned for a cup of tea.

“I suppose I wouldn’t.” He stole a brief kiss from his favourite person, his gaze noting the dampness residing within her lashes. Her eyes glittered of gold and the truest form of love and happiness he had ever seen.

Whilst the water boiled, she prepared scrambled eggs for their breakfast rolls, and he prepared their mugs and separate tea bags. Hermione had decided to try a new flavour she had found at the store, with the taste of apple, cinnamon and cranberries, supposedly a perfect blend for autumn. Draco, on the other hand, had decided to try a left-over bag from a packet of mixed teas, and had thus chosen an orange blend with grapefruit. Hermione took hers with only a splash of milk and a small scoop of honey when she needed it. He, on the other hand, needed at the very least two sugars, but didn’t bother with the milk for that specific blend. At least not until he had tasted it.

As the tea steeped, he walked up behind his wife, slipping his arms around her body. She was warm and soft in his embrace. She smelled of her vanilla body wash, which he had lathered her up with in their late-night shower the prior evening, and he buried his nose into her hair, feeling his own lips tug into a smile at the sheer comfort she brought him.

She hummed into the air, her body relaxing back against his as she pulled the eggs off the heat. “You’re very cuddly today.”

“Mmh.” He grazed the tip of his nose lightly against the shell of her ear. He tightened his hold slightly around her, urging her closer against himself. “It may be because I want to be in your good favours today.”

That made her body tense in his arms, something she rarely did. Though, she tried to mask it, even if he could feel her heartbeat within his own chest. “You do?”

“I have a suggestion for what we can do today. And I want you to not shut it down immediately.” His hand found hers, allowing his thumb to stroke a light pattern onto the back of her hand. She shifted her head to look up at him, gilded eyes glittering with intent curiosity and caution.

“Okay…?”

“I think our library looks rather empty.” He started tentatively, his thumb feeling the valleys between her knuckles. “As do the shelves by the telly.”

“We’re not going to buy all the books in a bookstore, just to fill the shelves of a temporary home.” She said firmly, almost as though she wasn’t what muggles might classify as a billionaire or something along those lines.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that, my love.” He felt her fingers tighten around his. “I think we should take the floo and go to the manor. You’ll finally get to see the library; we’ll spend a few hours picking out books and bringing them here. We can even ask Effie to help us out, so we don’t have to go through the floo as often.”

“But Draco, we don’t know if it’s safe there.” She was always the voice of reason. Always the one who did everything within her power to protect him, to shield him from the darkness of the world.

“We would have sensed it if the wards at the manor had been triggered. And we know how much Shacklebolt and his lot struggled to get in when doing their raid. It’s near impossible to penetrate the manors wards, it would take hours for even the most experienced, meaning that we will both be safe when we go there. I promise.”

Her eyes shone up at him, showing both her worry and the slightest hint of excitement, hope of finally seeing the famed library. “Just a few hours? Just long enough to get a few books and then come back here?”

“Just a few hours.” He repeated, elated that she didn’t turn down the idea, but rather welcomed it. “And you’ll get to see the library for the first time.”

When she had confessed to him that she had not stepped into the library, even when apart from one another for three full months, he had been awfully surprised. He truly had expected her to enter the grand double doors and explore the library – her library, even hoped she would, just to have something to occupy herself with. But she had not. She had known he wished to be by her side when she saw the rows upon rows of towering bookcases and ancient tomes, and thus she had waited for him.

It felt as though everyone knew of his family’s library. Everyone in wizarding Britain had heard the tales of how the Malfoy family had several of Merlin’s notebooks, how they had texts and tomes that supposedly had been homed in the great Library of Alexandria at one point in history.

Through the centuries, however, it was hard to know if every tale told was a fact or fiction. He had seen the supposed tomes from Alexandria. They certainly looked ancient, and the text had most certainly faded over the millenniums, but he did not know if it had been from the famed library or if it was simply an old book from a cave. No matter where it was from, it had been placed on a pedestal, showcased under a permanent stasis charm to preserve what was left of the ancient ink.  

Merlin’s notebooks, however, he knew to be true. He had red them time and time again, his fingertips stroking lightly over the writing of the most famous wizard in history. The penmanship had inspired his own handwriting, narrow and elegant, with great swirls and lavish dips. Of course, he hadn’t practiced his own handwriting for a long time, so it didn’t look quite the same as it once had.

There were so many books and trinkets within the library that he wished to show her. Books he knew she would love, tomes she would bury her head in and barely come out of to eat or sleep. There were hidden passages, alcoves and chaises she would love, a fireplace she could warm herself in front of, whilst reading some of her favourite classics.

“Fine. But no more than two hours.” His witch was strict when she said it. He accepted her premises without question, giving her a few eager nods. Little did she know that she would change her mind about the two hour mark the moment she saw it.

The torches did not light once they had entered the manor, like they usually did. There was no feeling of endless joy within the long corridors, nor any sign of life. Every footstep echoed through the halls, sounding cold and almost hollow.

Autumn had settled over Wiltshire. With rain pelting against the stained-glass windows, making the mermaids weep as they passed them. With the chill that surrounded them, it was clear that summer had long since passed.

Hand in hand, the pair walked the opposite way from their much beloved solarium. It felt as though it had been years since his last walk through the manor, and he took notice of how the building itself almost felt disappointed with them. As if the grand home didn’t wish to welcome them into its hallowed halls after leaving it behind so abruptly.

“Why does it feel like the house doesn’t want us here?” Hermione’s voice was but a whisper.

“Because it probably doesn’t.” He said with a small smile. He had seen the house behave that way before, where the towering walls seemed ever colder and the torches never flickered to light unless one used their own magic. It was amusing to an extent, seeing the way the ancient house behaved.

“Are you saying the manor is sentient?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea if it is. But it feels a little bit like it, doesn’t it? How it’s offended that we have another place we call home?” He secured her closer to himself and pressed a kiss to her head. “It will warm back up to us and greet us warmer next time.”

“Draco… We don’t know when next time will be.”

“I know we don’t. But hopefully it will be soon. Hopefully we will be back home and enjoy lazy mornings in bed and lazy afternoons in the solarium.”

“We might also consider using some other rooms than only those two.” She hooked her arm around his back, her fingers soothing lightly against one of the scars that had been carved into his side by Potter’s spell so many years prior.

“I suppose we can.” He agreed, rounding a corner of the corridor. “Like the kitchen, to cook together. And the library, because I have a feeling you would simply move in there if you could.”

He thought of other rooms. The manor had several bedrooms and wings, meant for generations of families to live amongst one another. There were several empty bed chambers and suites, private sitting rooms in each wing, as well as the common rooms littered between differing wings.

He thought of the family tapestry, having its own room on the second level. Every Malfoy was listed on it, since the very first registered man in France, Roúl Malfóy. Just as he was. Just as Hermione was, since becoming his wife.

One day, their children would appear on the tapestry. First as buds of flowers, blooming to life. When born, they would appear in the very centre between the protective petals. Once they were sixteen, the petals which encases the younglings would start to brown and wilt, and at seventeen they would be gone entirely.

He turned his nose into her hair, allowing the scent of the one and only Hermione Malfoy to fill his lungs. He knew how lucky he was to have her in his life, he knew that whatever fates might have gathered his soul to hers must have favoured him dearly. For without her, he would have been nothing more than another name in the family Mausoleum.

Her hold on his waist tightened. “You’re sentimental. I can feel it.”

“I am… Is it wrong to be?” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m just madly in love with you, Hermione. And I was thinking of how different the world would be if I didn’t have you. If you hadn’t been a beacon of light and hope in the dreary world of our youth.” 

Their gazes met for a long moment.

“You know, I always thought you hated me. Always thought you despised everything about me.” Her eyes narrowed just enough, letting him know she wasn’t too serious. “My mum always said that if a boy bullies you, it’s because he secretly likes you. But I never thought that pertained to you. Because you did so much more than just bully me. Did you always like me or was that something you noticed in later years?”

“I think… I think I always believed you to be cute. A bit different-looking than the polished witches I always saw, but cute nevertheless.” His finger idly curled around a coil in her hair, indicating the big, brown bushy hair she used to have in their first few years, before she had learned to tame it somehow. “But you had these big, brown eyes, and the cute teeth that were just a bit too long, you had all of these freckles and you knew everything. I was supposed to hate you, a muggle-born, a witch who didn’t live up to the standards I had been taught about my entire life. I bullied you and thought I hated you simply because I was supposed to. I didn’t know how to navigate the bigotry my father always spoke or the veiled threats my mother said, so I just… Pretended.”

He had always noticed her. In his first few years of school he had only noticed how big her hair was, how her hand always shot into the air and how she seemed to know absolutely everything. She had been nothing more than Potter’s annoying friend. Potters cute annoying friend, hidden behind big hair and swotty attitude. Until he had finally seen her for who she was.

“What made you change your mind about me?”

“Well, you slapped me across the face.”

And there it was, her bright grin, gleaming as she started to laugh. Her head fell forwards, with her forehead pressing against his shoulder, where she hid her face from him. Her shoulders shook with joyous laughter.

“I know I deserved it. And I liked that you stood up against my shit behaviour and literally smacked me so hard, I probably started crushing on you instead of wishing you dead.” Their history, at least the one in their current lifetime, was an amusing story of confusion, conflict and eventually connection.

“You were a proper arse, you know.” She hummed, her forehead and nose rubbing against his shoulder.

“I know. But I like to think that I’ve changed.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes as bright as sunlight, shining upon him from deep within her soul. “You have.”

Without expanding on the topic any further, he simply closed the gap between them, pressing a small, tender kiss to her lips. When they parted from one another, he spun a coil of her hair around his forefinger.

If only his teenage self could see him where he stood, married to the girl he once bullied relentlessly. Not feeling complete without the girl whom he had wished dead. Not only had the cosmic forces of fate and destiny tied them together from lives long forgotten, but he was most certain he would have loved her just as much, had their souls not been bonded.

The door to the library was just before them. A Towering set of double doors, where the brass door handles were made to depict stretched wings, like an owl taking flight into the vast sea of knowledge just beyond the doors.

“Are you ready, my love?”

“Ready?” the word left her lips in a breathy laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. This library is… It’s famous, Draco. There are tomes in here since... Well, since before Hogwarts was founded, I’m guessing.” Her assumption was met with a nod. “And I have heard rumours of a book or two from the library of Alexandria being in here.”  

Another nod to his head. “Allegedly. It’s so old it’s just encased by magic at this point.”

“The journals of Merlin?”

“Not all of them, I believe. But a vast number, yes.” He realised his casual tone was not one she had truly anticipated. “Hermione… I realise this is a bit much to take in, but you do know you have married into a very wealthy family, which is dating back over a millennium. Over the years we have had opportunities to purchase what some might call ‘collector’s items’, or… I don’t know, at some times, there might also have been bribery involved. We have so much stuff, that I wouldn’t even know half of it, nor the story behind most of the items I do know about.”

“Can you tell me how many priceless books are in there?”

“Probably thousands. There is the book from Alexandria, some of Merlin’s old notebooks, several first editions, I know we had some things from several dark wizards, but I hope they’ve been taken since the war. There are books bound in dragon scales, some of Slytherin’s old texts, Ravenclaw’s notes…” looked back to the gilded wings on the cream-coloured doors. “Unpublished, handwritten things by Shakespeare, I believe.”

“Shakespeare? You really have muggle literature in there?”

“Muggle?” He chuckled. “You really think Shakespeare was a muggle, do you?”

“Well yeah, wasn’t he?”

“Not in the slightest. He attended Hogwarts, even has some things in the Trophy room, I believe. So no, he just married a muggle.”

“Wait- wait!” She took one step backwards, looking up at her husband with wide eyes. “You’re telling me that not only was he a wizard, but he has trophies at Hogwarts, and Ron and Harry, who cleaned that trophy room more than anyone in the history of Hogwarts, didn’t tell me?”

“How about, instead of discussing the incompetency of your friends, we enter the library and have a little look around?”

She heaved a sigh, her lips pursing just a little. “Ron I can excuse but not Harry. He grew up with muggles; he’s supposed to know the name.” He only found himself grinning at her disgruntled huffs.

She reached for the winged door handles and pressed them downwards. The doors swung open, revealing to them what had once been his most favourite room. He stood by her side, watching her face as awe spread across her features. Her eyes glittered with golden sparks as a safe haven, a sanctuary of tomes and knowledge was revealed to her.

With slow steps, she crossed the threshold and entered the room he knew he would someday have to fight for her attention.

He had found himself slightly nervous to return to the room. He had spent countless hours within it, hiding away from the cruel reality that had become his life in his teenage years. And as he followed his wife into the library, he felt as though he was stepping back in time, back to when he was nothing a young boy, curious about what the vast world had to offer.

The Malfoy library was the perfect depiction of someone’s idea of the perfect old-world reading room. Tall, cream-coloured shelves climbed the walls, reaching up towards the vaulted ceiling, which had been decorated by gilded cherubs.

A row of seven grand chandeliers of brass and crystal hung from above, casting beautifully, warm light over a lengthy, polished table of deep brown wood. Candelabras stood atop the surface of the table, holding candles that burned with magical fire, the wax never melting beneath the flames.

Two grand, arched windows on the far wall, allowing rivers of grey daylight into the room. The windows were separated by a wide hearth, which had flicked to life with crackling logs the moment the doors had opened. On the wall above the fireplace, there was a glorious painting of Athena. She held a book in one hand, a spear in the other, looking out over the library with a look he had always believed to be pride and superiority.

He no longer believed that to be true. The look was one of respect and contentment more than anything else.

Two arching staircases reached upwards from either side of the room, leading up into the second level, where the bookcases only continued their journey skywards. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes and texts, with gliding ladders for every height of literature.

Marble busts of famed wizards and ancient deities stood in sparse alcoves around the room, allowing their quiet company to enrich it, as though they inhaled the inviting silence and exhaled stories and tales from a time long since forgotten.

Between the towering rows of knowledge, they could see the daylight flit in through the windows. Even through the heavy clouds of pouring rain, there was light, catching motes of dust that hung idly in the air.

In alcoves where the busts had no home, there stood furniture in their stead. Cozy and inviting armchairs, settees where one could sink into the pillows and enjoy the comfort of a good book. Chaises and daybeds were peppered about, just as the hidden rooms behind the bookcases that lined the outer walls, where he would once hide from the ever-present darkness that had taken over his life.

But best of all was the woman who was walking along the right side of the table, marvelling at the room that encompassed her. She had dressed herself in grey, oversized cotton trousers, so-called ‘joggers’, and a cable knit jumper of forest green, the same colour she had painted their bedroom walls at the manor.

Her shoes were made of off-white canvas; her hair was a loose mess of wild curls. The ringlets glowed with the dancing candlelight, creating a halo of golden brilliance around her.

He simply could not fathom how he had been so lucky to find someone he wished to share his safe space with. The room had protected him in the most trying times of his life, been his sanctuary. And there she was, the woman who had become his safest haven, the one who kept him calm, the one who healed him, who saved him in more ways than he could ever have counted. She had done what no one else could. She was his safe space, his haven—his sanctuary.

His shoes sounded against the polished wooden floors, then against the carpet that lay beneath the table and chairs. He could follow her without looking if he so pleased, only having the trail of her perfume to guide him, the pull of her soul to show him the way. Their fated bond pulled them closer to one another, reaching towards their other half.  

She deserved no less than the entire world, a world where everything was right and nothing bad would ever happen. A world where everyone was equal. A world where magical creatures were treated with respect and where no one was better than other simply for their blood or species.

He vowed it to himself at that very moment, he would try to give her the world she so dearly wished to be a part of, and he would start by giving her the library of her dreams.

He had always adored the library, always loved the safety of the towering bookcases and the hidden rooms where he had sought safety. And yet, he had never appreciated the room as much as he did in that very moment.

The room had seemed to embrace her upon her entry, welcoming her into the space as if they were two long lost friends, finally reunited. It felt like, looked like she was where she was supposed to be, like she had been destined for the library all along.

Like she was finally home.

“I can’t believe this is- I just- How…” her words trailed off as he slipped both of his arms around her from behind, nose burrowing into her hair.  

Had he truly been able to render the Hermione Granger, nay, Hermione Malfoy speechless. He couldn’t think of a single moment in his life when such a thing had happened. And all he had to do, was to take her to their home library.

“Don’t overthink it, my love.” His voice was soft against her curls. He felt her body press ever so lightly back against him, relaxing into his arms whilst her hands rested in top of his.

He felt the warmth of her soul settle in over him, warming him from deep within her being. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the Malfoy couple in a room that was meant for them. The vast expanse of the universe narrowing into their two joined heartbeats, their synchronised breaths and her overwhelming presence enveloping his senses with pure bliss.

She turned in his arms, her head falling to rest atop his chest. There was nothing said, for the moment didn’t need to be filled with chatter and words that could have meant nothing; could have meant everything. All that was needed, was the presence of their other half.

The moment of easy silence and deafening love lasted longer than he had ever expected it to. Contentment blanketed them, settling deep into his bones.

“Now, if we only have a few hours here, I suggest we get started.” He eventually spoke the words into existence, slowly and carefully retreating from their embrace, his arms lingering, still resting at the curve of her waist.

Her lips pursed in the way she always did when mulling things over. “Well… We do have six hours until we need to be at the Burrow. So… we could stay a bit more than two hours.”

As was to be expected from his wife.

“Well, let’s start with our first edition of Hogwarts: A History, shall we?”

“Mister Weasley?” Draco asked, knocking lightly on the door to the dingy Weasley shed. He felt nervous standing there, seeking out Arthur for a conversation where it would just be the two of them. Alone in the shed. Part of him didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to plunge into what he needed to say. But he knew he had to, for it was the right thing to do.

“C’min!”

Filling his lungs with air to hopefully steady the nerves jittering throughout his body, he opened the door, swinging it outwards to peek his head in though the gap. “Hi!”

Mister Weasley looked up from what he was tinkering with. Some rounded, yet flat handheld device with several buttons with symbols in them. He had no idea what it may be, nor did it seem the greying man before him did.

“Draco! Is it time for dinner already?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Hermione and I just arrived early. She wants to talk to Molly about something and I-I want to talk to you. Is this a bad time?”

“Oh, no. Not at all, come in my boy.” He put the trinket back down atop the table and pulled out a wooden stool for him to sit.

He carefully shut the door behind himself and made way between the tables of unidentifiable muggle clutter and trinkets. Some things he recognised, such as a device that weighed ingredients for cooking and one that controlled the telly, only the telly itself was nowhere to be seen.  

“Thank you, mister Weasley.” He said with a smile, taking the seat next to the other man, who only looked at him with an amused quirk to his brow. “Oh-er- Arthur. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Draco. It’s a big thing to settle into a different family.” Arthur spoke with a gentle smile. “Now, what can I help you with?”

He looked back to the handheld device, noting to himself how it was named Discman. He wanted to ask Hermione about it later on, when the chat was over.

“I actually came to thank you.” He said, his eyes remaining focused on the device, specifically a circular silver button with a square indented onto its surface. “Just a few days after the dar- Voldemort had lost the war, you found me. I was bloody and beaten and you… You found me in some side street in London. You picked me up and took me to St. Mungo’s and made sure I was safe.”

In his periphery, he noticed how Arthur turned the entirety of his body to face him. The Discman was clearly forgotten in the moment. “I’m surprised you remember anything about that day.” He felt his shoulder was weighed down with the comforting presence of a hand.

“Unfortunately, I have quite the good memory.” He told the Discman. “I remember most things about that day. What happened before you found me, I don’t think I’ll ever forget. For the longest time though, you were just this faceless man with a big heart, someone who just happened to notice me and could take me to the hospital, someone who appeared to care for a somewhat recognisable stranger. I only just recalled a few days ago that it was you who found me.”

The hand squeezed his shoulder. Draco wanted to turn to him, to hug him as thanks, to let him know how much that one decision had impacted his life. He did not dare to look away from the button, because he knew that meeting the kind eyes of the man by his side would only force the long-suppressed tears to the surface.

“We were on opposing sides of the war. You lost so much because of people like me – Death Eaters, I mean. You lost your house to our fire, your friends, your… Your son. And yet, you saved me. You could have let me sit there for ten more minutes, and I’d probably just be another casualty of the war. But you didn’t. You saved a bloody Death Eater, Arthur… And I can’t do anything more than to thank you.”

There was a silence that settled over them like a thick fog. It seemed heavy and loaded with questions and commentary that neither knew how to voice for the longest time.

“You were never a Death Eater.” Arthur eventually said, his voice thick. “You may have the mark, you might have been fighting for the other side of war, but you were never one of them.”

“I wasn’t innocent in the war. Not at all. I hurt people. Killed people. Innocent and part of a war that they might not even have known was happening.”

“Draco. You were a boy. You weren’t supposed to have to pick sides or fight for your life before you’ve become an adult. What you did, you didn’t do for your own pleasure.” His shoulder shook beneath the firming hand of the only father figure he had ever truly had in his life. “It was always between your life and someone else’s. You only did what you did to survive. You are still a victim of the war.”

His eyes closed tightly, fighting back the horribly stinging sensation of tears that had taken over his eyes and the back of his nose. “Do you know what happened to me that day?”

“You were too broken to say much. I remember you saying it was poison. But I know poison couldn’t have broken your bones that way. Poison couldn’t have beaten you senseless.”

“This is all true.” he nodded, opening his eyes to try to blink away the moisture that had gathered in his bottom lashes. “My father had spoken to some other Death Eaters that had yet to be captured after Hogwarts. Apparently, he said I was fine to be killed, as long as it couldn’t be tied back to him. So, after they had beaten me, tortured me and everything, they carved a message into my back, using a poisoned blade.”  He finally dared to meet Arthur’s gaze. Deep green and sympathetic, as if the man truly did care for him, despite barely knowing one another. “It says Blood Traitor.”

Realisation slowly dawned on the Weasley patriarch, his mouth opening with evident surprise. “Oh. Oh, Draco.”

He swallowed, nodding his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I really shouldn’t hav-”

“Never apologise for what you went through.” Mr. Weasley quickly interjected. “Molly and I tried to shield our children from the war. Even tried to shield Harry from it, even if we knew he would be a big piece of the end. But they all pushed themselves into our meetings and demanded to act with us, despite our resistance. Somehow, I don’t think your parents showed you the same courtesy. I don’t think they tried shielding you from- From him.” If anything, Arthur looked angry as he spoke, the crease between his brows growing deeper for every passing moment.

He was right. His mother had tried to protect him from some aspects, yet his father had practically thrust him into the Dark Lord’s embrace. He was not shielded from the return of the most monstrous man in wizarding history but expected to welcome it. He had been forced to share a home with him, forced to dine at the same table, forced to familiarise himself with the other. And he had despised every second of it.

Before long, Draco had been encouraged to attend meetings with the Dark Lord and his disciples. He had taken his father’s spot at the table after his arrest. He had been branded like cattle, given a mark he had to carry for the rest of his life. A mark he hated as much as he hated his own grotesque history of taking lives and torturing innocent souls.

“You have a family that cares about you now. A family where we look out for each other and only have each other’s best interest at heart.” His free hand landed atop his left forearm, Arthur’s fingers separated by the Dark Mark by only a thin piece of white fabric. “You are safe now. We protect each other, we stand by each other. No matter your history, you are a part of our family now. And I will always stand by my family.”

Family. Up until his release, he had only thought family could be those he shared a lineage with. He thought family could only be blood, and that his closest friends might be thought of something similar to brothers or sisters. Yet, he had no concept of what a sibling was, nor what family truly could be. Not until he had been released from Azkaban and was welcomed into the Weasley home with open arms.

The more he thought about family, it dawned on him that he never truly had one. He was only born to further the Malfoy line, to be an heir to the name and the money, to allow the ancient and pure lineage to continue.

Though, that had all changed when Lucius Malfoy ordered his one and only heir to be murdered for treachery, for not wanting to be a soldier in a world where the Dark Lord ruled. His mother had not protected him, had not even tried to get back in his good graces when he told her he was in love with a muggle-born witch. She was not a mother he was proud of. She was not a mother he wished to carry within his heart.

No. He wanted a father who listened to him, who considered his wellbeing and saw him for what and who he truly was. He wanted a father to be someone he could open up to, who made everything feel manageable and easy. He wanted a father who protected him, and welcomed any change in his life, both small and large. A father who was safe and welcoming, kind and yet stern when he needed to be. A father who cared. He wanted a father like Arthur.

He wanted a mother who hugged him, who greeted him with enthusiasm and love, a mother who openly shred her adoration for him and told him when she was proud of him. A mother who taught him to make food, who treated him like he was meant to be there, like he belonged. A mother who accepted him, who did not only care for appearances and perfection. He wanted a mother like the one who always lit up when she saw him, who hugged him at every opportunity and danced with him at his wedding. Like Molly had.  

He had never had such parents on his own. He had never been shown the love and warmth a family was supposed to. He had been raised for his duties, taking over the family’s assets and vaults, furthering the line with pureblood heirs and continuing the bigoted nonsense his parents always spoke. Nothing more.

He nodded, looking back down to the Discman before them. “And again, all I can do is thank you… For showing me what a family truly is. I can only hope that I can give this feeling to my own children someday.” He inhaled shakily, imagining a life he might someday be able to share with his family someday. The family he so yearned to make with Hermione. “Protection. Open arms. Understanding. Kindness… Love.” The last word broke as it escaped him, just as one tear streakers down his cheek.

Before he knew how it had happened, he was pulled into an embrace. A kind and warm hug, unlike any signs of affection his own father had ever shown him.

It was so different from what he was used to. This was a hug without obligation. It was a hug without a soul bond. An embrace without romantic love. It was simply to show him that he truly was not alone. And the man who had once given him a second chance at life, truly, honestly cared for him.

Like family.

The dam he had tried to maintain burst open. There was nothing stopping the flooding of tears from escaping him. He clung to Arthur like a lifeline, returning the embrace he never knew he needed.

As much as he felt aspects of his life was falling apart, he felt new part of his life was falling into place. Like he had been trying to complete someone else’s puzzle, only to finally realise that the pieces he was using was for another picture entirely. A brand-new puzzle that he had to start from the very beginning.

He did not know how long they held one another, though it was long enough for him to calm down, long enough for his tears to have stopped and for his breath to have gone back to deep and steady inhales. Arthur eased away from him, allowing the younger of the two to dry his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“I- I’m sorry, Arthur.” He said, inhaling quickly through his nose. He had never wanted the moment to grow quite so serious. All he had wished, was to thank him for another opportunity at life. Yet they had both gotten more than they thought would come from their little conversation.

“You apologise too much.” Arthur said, his hand slowly slipping from Draco’s shoulder. “You’ve done nothing to apologise for. Nothing at all. I promise you that. You don’t have to apologise for being a victim in a war.”

He struggled to see himself as a victim, not when he had been behind copious amounts of devastation and death. Of course, it was a life he had not chosen for himself, yet he had also chosen not to tell anyone, nor to simply give up and walk away.

He ran a hand through his hair, brushing the short, white fringe back from his eyes. “Okay. I’ll try to believe that. Thank you for this.”

The greying man smiled and got to his feet, using his foot to guide his stool against the edge of the table. “Don’t mention it, son. Now, let’s go inside before Molly starts sending people to collect us.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Besides, there will be more people joining us today.”

The Burrow itself was even more full than Draco had ever seen it. Almost every Weasley was in attendance, all except the littlest one. Ginevra was nowhere to be seen, she had not yet arrived, not before the house had started filling with every Weasley, Potter or Malfoy, nor when him and Percy danced around each other and the children whilst they set the mismatched set of tables.

Since him and Arthur had went back to the house, Draco had spent time in the kitchen, being taught how to cook with a mixture of muggle and magic means. He had chopped, blanched, boiled, roasted and shredded while under Mrs. Weasley’s guidance. He had made suggestions he was familiar with from finer dining, and together they had learned to make it from an old recipe book.

“D’you reckon she’ll come?” Weasley, of the Ronald variety, asked as Draco slipped by him to pick up the third plate of butter-steamed rainbow carrots from the kitchen.

“Who? Your sister?” he asked, over his shoulder, noting that the redhead tagged along after him.

“Yeah, Gin. Who else?”

“Weasley, I think your sister is a grown woman who can choose what to do for herself.” He said, placing the plate on the table closest to the windows, just next to the carved turkey and potatoes au gratin. “But yes, I believe she’ll be here, perhaps fashionably late, just to make a statement.”

“And what statement d’you think that would be?” Weasley crossed his arms over his chest, raising a brow at his blonde friend.

“You’re insufferable.” Draco chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ll see what point she’s making when she gets here.”

Draco had already counted the chairs. They would need three more than normal, and thus had set the table to account for the increase. Molly had enthusiastically invited Blaise and Giulia whilst they had all been visiting the Parkinson-Potter house the previous evening. And then there was Ginevra and hopefully a date for the evening. A date named Theodore Nott.

Percy snuck past his bother with a hearty sigh, placing a gravy boat down on the table, just next to the rainbow carrots. “Honestly Ron, why do you care so much what she’s up to?”

“She’s my sister.” The youngest redhead was quick to defend his curiosity.

“And what do you think she is to me? A bloody shoelace?” Percy pushed by his brother to retrieve more food from the kitchen, where Molly was waiting. Draco followed his lead, grinning to himself at Weasley’s disgruntled look.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just worried about her is all. I don’t even know what happened to her last night. She just vanished with that bloody Slytherin.”

“Hey!” Barked Pansy as she entered the dining room with little Hazel in her arms. “You don’t get to talk about ‘bloody Slytherins’ when you yourself are a ‘blasted Gryffindor’.”

“You don’t get to use that, Pansy. You’re married to a ‘blasted Gryffindor’, remember? Probably the one that’s the most Gryffindoriest of us all.” Weasley retorted, gesturing wildly to a grinning Harry by her side

“I think that if we are spending a Sunday at the Burrow, we are all married to a Gryffindor. It’s just how it is.” Draco said with ease, plucking two more gravy boats off Molly’s overfilled kitchen counter, carrying them back to the table.

Percy was just behind him, carrying two baskets of steaming dinner rolls. “Not everyone. Giulia’s a muggle and married to a Slytherin.”

“Enough about houses.” Hermione mused, pulling out a chair for Audrey, who had her hands full with baby Molly. “Theodore is a good man. Very friendly, a bit cheeky but definitely good. And even an excellent match for your sister.”

“You have high hopes, I hear.” Weasley muttered, stepping aside to let his brother and Draco rush along the length of the table without interfering, nor standing in their way. “You saw how moody he was last night, right?”

“He had good reason to be.” Draco said, pointing at Weasley with the narrower end of an ornate, oval plate of roast potatoes.

“Definitely.” Hermione agreed with him, picking up a stack of napkins to place at the other side of the table from where Draco and Percy were parading.

“And if it helps you to ease up a bit, Theo is my best friend, he’s not bad at all.” He told the youngest Weasley son as he placed the second plate of roast potatoes down, served on a different plate from the oval he had pointed with earlier.

“Hey!” Pansy huffed from the seat she had taken next to a very amused looking Harry. “I’m your best friend, Dray.”  

“Not if you continue to call me Dray. Besides, you’re my ex girlfriend.”

“I can be both your ex and your friend, Dray.”

“Mind your business, Pansy, he’s mine.” Weasley countered, his face scrunched into a grimace of disagreement.

“Actually!” Daphne cooed, entering from the garden with Victorie and Fleur. “I think Draco belongs to Hermione.”

The mentioned witch chuckled, folding the napkins in half before tucking them under the cutlery. “I don’t think you want to take over my relationship with Draco.” It was obvious she was fighting a smile; her cheeks tinted with warmth. “Or perhaps you do?”

“I’m not too keen on sleeping with your husband, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Weasley said with a scrunched face, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Awww, but Weasley, I’m sure we could work something out.” Draco said with in an over enthusiastic wink.

“He doesn’t even call you by your name, mate.” Blaise said, occupying the chair on Harry’s other side, arm draped over the back of the other wizard’s chair.

“I bet they could make each other scream each other’s names if they got to it.” Potter hummed with evident amusement.

“Oh shut it, Harry.” Weasley groaned, and the sound made Pansy shake with hushed giggles. “But seriously mate, why don’t you call me Ron?”

“Probably for the same reasons I don’t call Potter by his first name.” Draco leaned his hip against the table, looking over at his red-headed friend with a slight shrug to his shoulder. “Just feels wrong.”

Molly stepped up to the doorway to the kitchen, looking at her youngest son and all of his friends and wife. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the pots and pans, from rushing about to make dinner, and she had removed her crocheted cardigan to cool herself down. Hands on her hips, she settled her eyes onto Weasley. “I must say, Ron, I believe you and Draco would make a fine couple indeed.” She taunted.

The youngest redhead groaned loudly whilst the others joined into a loud and boisterous laugh, echoing through the kitchen and dining room.  

“I hate you all.” Weasley said, his face pulled into a grimace.

“But not me.” Draco said before blowing him a kiss.

Once the table was set, the children were tasked to collect every member of the family. Draco found a spot next to Hermione, just across the table from Potter and Blaise. On his other side, he was joined by Bill, who was having an animated conversation with George and Charlie about something to do with a new wheeze at the Weasley’s shop in Diagon Alley.

Plates were filled with the same fluid ease that was always to be enjoyed at the Burrow. Dishes passed from one hand to the next. Scoops of vegetables being placed on empty plates and filled with potatoes of varying types, gravy, steaming dinner rolls and sliced turkey until they knew no one would leave the table with an empty stomach.

Conversations of varying volume occupied the room, mixed with the sound of cutlery against plates and food and drinks being refilled.

“So, Blaise, Giulia, how long are you back for?” Hermione asked after swallowing a rather big mouthful. She had a little dab of potatoes au gratin left in the corner of her mouth. She looked absolutely breathtaking.

“Just a few days. Mother asked us to join her and her new bloke at the Isle of Wight on Tuesday and Wednesday, and our portkey back to Italy is on Wednesday night.” Blaise said as he was loading up his fork with a purple carrot slice and some gravy-soaked turkey.

 “New bloke?” Hermione asked curiously. Of course, she probably hadn’t paid much attention to the rumours going around back in the day, about how his mother was also going around.

“Yeah. You know what they say, Granger. Thirteenth time’s the charm.”

He couldn’t help himself, reaching over to wipe the corner of her lips with the pad of his thumb, removing the dab of cream and making sure she didn’t focus too much on the information she had just learned. Her could practically see the gears turning in her head, could almost read her mind and the questions that were forming.

Before she was able to shape the words racing through her mind, he decided to change the topic of conversation. He was certain it would be equally as confusing and perhaps bring up just as many questions, yet they would be easier to answer than anything she might ask Blaise about his mother and the twelve husbands of hers that had all been buried.

“Giulia?” He asked, making eye contact with Blaise’s unusually quiet wife. “You used to be a driving instructor, wasn’t that so?”

She nodded her head, quickly chewing and swallowing her food. “Yes, that’s right.” She said with a smile, her accent ever present. The question had made several of the wizards and witches in the room to turn to look at her. Arthur, in particular, looked ever so interested as he leaned over the table to look at the Italian woman who sat on Percy’s other side.

“I want to learn how to drive a car.” He confessed to her, noting how members of the clan much further down the length of the table turned to look at him. The man who had once despised anything and everything muggle, wanting to learn to drive a car. Such an exceptionally muggle thing, yet something quite extraordinary for anyone living in a wizarding community. “If you don’t have any other plans for tomorrow, perhaps you could teach me?”

She lowered her silverware as she looked at him, a motion in which Hermione mirrored by his side. “Absolutely! Do you have a car we can use?”

“No. But I’m pretty sure we can fix that tomorrow?” He said, turning his gaze onto the beautiful brunette by his side. The smile growing across her lips made her appear like she was glowing from within. The echo of her heart was fluttering within his chest, letting him know exactly how much she appreciated his efforts of settling more into a muggle world.

“We can definitely fix that tomorrow morning.”

Before more conversations could start properly, before the topic was delved further into, the entire room was silenced by the sound of the floo roaring to life. Every nose turned to face the corner that hid the hearth, waiting expectantly for someone to appear.

Molly shot to her feet, quickly scurrying off around the corner to greet the only person or persons missing from the dinner table, to fill the two empty chairs at the corner between Arthur and Fleur.

“Ginny! And Theo, was it?”

“Hey mum,”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Weasley. Yes, my name is Theodore Nott. It’s an honour to meet you – officially.”

“Oh goodness. Thank you so much. Uh- er- please, come and join us for dinner. We’ve saved you both seats”

The Weasley matriarch rounded the corner first, carrying a lavish bouquet of warm, seasonal colours. She was flanked by Ginny and Theo. Ginny looked right at home, comfortable holding everyone’s attention, yet Theo looked immensely nervous, filled with trepidation. It was so far from how he usually appeared, that it was almost uncanny.

Honestly, if Draco had to assume anything from the mere three seconds he had seen his friends, it was that Theo was feeling poorly. He was pale, his body rigid under everyone’s interest.

“Hi everyone. Sorry we’re so late. We had some paperwork to send to the ministry.” She said in such a casual tone, one might assume she was speaking of the weather.

“Ministry?” Percy piped with curiosity, which she had baited him with to utter perfection.

“Yes. You see, Theo here was put on the fourth wave of marriages under the repopulation act.” She looked over to the aforementioned man, her hand carefully taking his, fingers entwining. “So, once we decided to get married, we had to send in the papers. Hopefully we can go and tie the knot this coming week.”

Molly looked as if she was about to drop the floral arrangement to the floor. “Married?”

“And before you ask any questions or judge us, please know that we have been a thing since June. So, no one make a stink about it. Is that clear?” She locked eyes with the youngest of her elder brothers.

“No one will make a stink about it. This is great, Gin!” George was the first to speak, a big grin spread over his face. “Come join us now, before the turkey dries up.” The last jab woke his mother up from her surprised daze.

“The turkey is not dry!”

“Best watch yourself, Georgie, before mum has your other ear bitten off.” Bill laughed, nudging his brother’s arm.

“Well, let me just say that it’s about damn time.” Blaise chimed in, looking to the newest couple around the table. “I think we can all say we’ve been waiting for the day you’d make it official.”

“I dare you to get a soul bond!” Harry cheered. “Give these two a run for their money.” He gestured vaguely across the table, where the Malfoy’s practically sat entwined with one another.

“Yeah! If you finally found someone to settle down with Gin, you’ve got to be destined for each other!” Bill added.

A chair scraped long the floor, and Draco’s eyes landed to Arthur Weasley, who stood from his seat at the table, raising his glass with utmost pride. “Welcome to the family, Theo.”