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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger smiled as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast on the first day of classes for what had been dubbed her “eighth year.” The smile came from a place of true happiness—this moment finally symbolized what she and her two best friends had been fighting for the previous year. Harry had ended Voldemort’s reign, with her and Ron standing by his side the entire time. Cooperatively, she and Harry had fought for the freedom of Death Eaters’ children, ensuring that only true justice was being served by the Wizengamot. They had even fought for the freedom of Draco Malfoy—even though he had been a Death Eater—because he had chosen their side in the end. The wizarding world had listened to The Chosen One and The Golden Girl, and together they fought to model the world they wanted the wizarding one to become.

All the war survivors had spent the summer rebuilding Hogwarts, seeing mind healers, and processing the grief brought on by the devastation of the war. They had all reached a point where life had to be lived. Harry and Ron, still compelled to fight the good fight, had entered Auror training with the Ministry. Hermione, however, felt she had served her time and wanted to get her academic path back on track—leading to this very moment of entering the Great Hall to begin her final year of study. Smoothing her Gryffindor uniform robes and flipping her curls over her shoulder, she let hope fill her heart for the year to come.

As she entered the Great Hall, flanked by Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, the entire hall turned to stare. Not only were they war heroes, but they had grown into their womanhood as part of their healing journey, and their beauty was transcendent. Ginny glowed with fire, Luna radiated with ethereal light, and Hermione embraced the golden luminosity that shone from within her.

During one of their healing group sessions with other students, the trio had formed a fast friendship with Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and Astoria Greengrass. One could not be friends with that trio without developing a love for fashion and beauty. Pansy’s strong personality led the group to fully espouse the idea that brains and beauty went hand in hand. The six of them were determined to rewrite the roles of women in the patriarchal society they lived in.

Hermione grabbed her two friends’ hands and tugged them along to sit at the Slytherin table. The Great Hall went deathly quiet, as if no one could believe what they were seeing. This was largely due to the fact that Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria were seated there with Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Draco Malfoy. The other students had created a wide berth around the group—no one wanted to be seen associating with them. Because of the war trials, the wizarding world knew what had happened at Malfoy Manor. Hermione held her head high, bracing herself for the judgment that was inevitably cast their way.

The world didn’t understand the depth of gratitude she felt toward the Malfoys for the protection they had offered in her darkest moment. Not only had Draco refused to identify them—when he clearly knew exactly who they were—but Lucius had saved Hermione’s mind. He had used his formidable talent in mind magic to protect her from the relentless torment of Bellatrix’s Cruciatus Curse. He couldn’t block the pain, but he had slithered into her mind undetected and erected shields to keep it from cracking. When Hermione spoke at his trial, the world was stunned that the staunchest pureblood had fought to protect the mind of a Muggleborn. The Wizengamot came to its own conclusions—that the Malfoys were proof that true change was possible—and sentenced Lucius to only five years of house arrest.

It was obvious that most students were avoiding Draco—everyone, that is, except the group at the Slytherin table. Hermione seethed. This was exactly what she had fought against. The world knew the truth, but still insisted on painting them as villains. In a bold move, she nudged Draco to slide over so she could sit between him and Pansy. Following her lead, Ginny took the spot next to Blaise, and Luna seated herself beside Theodore. Shocked expressions followed them, but Hermione stared back with defiance in her eyes.

Just then, Neville sauntered into the Hall, his eyes lighting up when he spotted the ragtag group. He whistled as he walked over, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Clearly, he had come straight from the greenhouses. With a swing of his long legs, he slid onto the bench beside Pansy.

Hermione suppressed a smirk as she saw a rosy blush creep up Pansy’s cheeks. She knew her friend wasn’t immune to the transformation Neville had undergone since earning the moniker "Snake Slayer." He was confident now, his body filled out with muscle, his skin tanned from long hours rebuilding Hogwarts under the sun, and his brown hair charmingly tousled from labor. He flashed Pansy an easy grin, clearly unfazed about sitting next to her.

The Great Hall erupted into whispers and gasps. No one could believe what they were seeing from their war heroes. Glancing toward the head table, Hermione caught the Headmistress’s eye and was met with a small smile and a nod of approval. Her attention was yanked back to the table when Theodore, his smooth drawl laced with amusement, declared, “Ahhh, we have lions officially joining the snake pit, it seems.” His sea-green eyes twinkled with mischief, and his chocolate-brown curls shook with laughter.

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Draco’s heart thudded in his chest the moment he felt the shift in the Great Hall. When the Gryffindor Princess entered, she commanded the room with a grace and poise that rivaled any pureblood. Then she moved—regal and fluid—straight in their direction, a defiant smile gracing her upturned face.

She looked at Pansy with a depth of friendship that dripped with genuineness, and when her whiskey-golden eyes turned to meet his silver ones, all he saw reflected back was sincere kindness. Kindness he didn’t deserve—not as the fallen Slytherin Prince.

Then she had playfully nudged him aside to sit next to him. He had wanted to react, to protect her from the weight of his tarnished reputation. But she simply stared back at her “court” in the Hall with an expression that dared anyone to challenge her choice. She wore an air of authority that demanded consequences for any who tried to defy her.

His heart stuttered. How did she do it? How did she so effortlessly defy societal expectations and walk a path entirely her own?

His musings were slammed back to reality when he realized Theo was the first to speak to the lions who had joined them. He scowled at his best mate for stealing Hermione’s attention so quickly. A flicker of irritation flashed through him when Theo threw a knowing smirk his way. Of course he knew. Theo had teased him for years about the not-so-secret crush Draco had harbored on the Gryffindor Princess ever since she broke his nose in third year.

It had been humiliating—and oddly thrilling. She had haunted his thoughts from that moment on.

But now she was here. Sitting beside him. Extending an olive branch to their entire House. And this was his chance—his moment to prove that he wasn’t the same boy who had once tossed slurs like hexes. He wasn’t going to waste it.

He cleared his throat and forced his voice into something that sounded casual. “Granger, what N.E.W.T.s did you decide to take?”

Gracefully sipping her Earl Grey, she hummed in thought—a sound that lit a slow-burning fire somewhere deep inside him.

“I’ve decided to focus on Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Defense, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes,” she said. “I want to apply to Cambridge this year and enter their Healer and Research Mastery program. So I need to focus on classes that will prepare me for it. What about you?”

He almost smiled—almost—when he realized they would have the exact same schedule. His chest tightened at the thought.

“I’m taking the same classes,” he replied, careful to keep his breathing even. “With the Muggle Studies course they’ve mandated added in. I’m considering applying to either Cambridge or Oxford, depending on where I land with my mastery. I’m still undecided between Potions or Magical Law and Estate Management.”

Her whiskey-golden eyes locked onto his, full of curiosity—as if she were trying to solve him like one of her precious Arithmancy equations. She was listening intently, as if what he said mattered. That realization nearly unmoored him.

She nodded in understanding, then nudged his shoulder playfully and quipped, “Then I guess I should claim you early—see if you want to ditch your old Potions partner and be mine?”

Draco’s brain short-circuited at the word claim. For a moment, it echoed louder than anything else she'd said. But then the rest caught up to him—she wanted to be his partner. His.

A slow, genuine smile broke across his face before he could stop it. “I’d be honored to be your Potions partner.”

He didn’t notice the exchanged looks among the other Slytherins. He barely registered them until Theo’s familiar, dramatic voice cut through.

“Hey! What about me? You can’t just ditch me for someone better!”

Without missing a beat, Luna reached over and patted Theo’s hand. “It’s okay, Theodore. I’ll take you instead.”

Theo’s eyes went wide as his jaw dropped and a deep crimson flush crept up to his ears. Draco turned toward him, smug satisfaction curling at his lips.

“Hmmm… looks like you’ve met your match.”

The group burst into laughter as Theo recovered, his signature cocky grin sliding back into place.

Draco was the only one who knew of his best mate’s secret longing for the whimsical blonde. When Luna had been held captive in his family’s dungeons, Theo had spent countless hours bringing her small comforts—blankets, warm drinks, quiet words. Things Draco knew his friend had risked to offer.

He was quietly relieved to see that Luna didn’t seem to hold any grudges about her imprisonment. In fact, she seemed as serene and unbothered as ever. And maybe—just maybe—Theo would find a little happiness this year too.

A chorus of screeches above signaled the arrival of the morning post. Owls swooped through the Great Hall like a chaotic flock, delivering parcels and letters to eager hands. A medium-sized package dropped neatly into Draco’s lap, the elegant handwriting on the label unmistakably his mother’s. He opened it to find an assortment of his favorite sweets, but this time the quantity was… generous.

He frowned slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. More than she usually sent. Did she know? Could she sense that—for the first time in years—his world might be expanding?

Just as he reached for a chocolate-dipped biscuit, movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention. Hermione had stilled, the color draining from her face as she stared at the crest on a letter in her hand. He couldn’t make out the emblem before she quickly stuffed it into her bag, unopened. The reaction was immediate, visceral.

Their eyes met, and he raised a single brow in silent question. “Everything alright there, Princess?” he asked, tone light but probing.

She flinched at the nickname.

Curious, he thought, filing the reaction away for later.

“I’m fine,” she replied a beat too quickly. “I just remembered—I need to grab a few books from the library before class. Grab us a bench in Potions?”

Before he could say another word, she slung her bag over her shoulder and slipped away from the table, curls bouncing as she moved with purposeful haste.

Draco watched her go, that same sense of curiosity sharpening to something more intent. Whatever had been in that letter had rattled her. And while part of him knew better than to pry, the rest of him—especially the part that still felt the lingering heat of her shoulder against his—couldn’t help but want to understand her better.

To know her story.

To be part of it.

Chapter Text

Hermione had made it through her day of classes. She wore her practiced smile, masking the anxiety caused by the letter burning a hole in her bag. She knew Draco was most likely in the library during their free study period between the day’s classes and dinner. With determination, she headed for his favorite hiding spot deep in the stacks. She sent a silent prayer to Merlin that he would be alone—because she had come to the conclusion that he was the only one who could help her.

She spotted the signature silver-blond locks tucked into the obscure Potions section at a tucked-away work table. She paused for a moment, just watching him.

Now that he wasn’t living under the thumb of a madman, he had filled out with lithe muscle that accentuated his Seeker build. The aristocratic angles of his face were striking, but it was the softness of his pouty lips that gave Hermione pause. She had always known he was handsome—but now, without his cruelty to hide behind, he was positively divine.

Silver, intense eyes snapped up to meet hers, and his face broke into a rare, genuine smile. Hermione felt something flutter in her stomach—warm and unexpected. She decided at that moment that she wanted to see him smile more often.

Gently, she sat down across from him as he quirked a brow in amusement. Without losing the sharpness in his gaze, he beat her to the punch.

“All right, Granger,” he drawled, “are you going to come clean about what’s been keeping you in a tizzy all day?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, choosing to ignore how he had seen through her so easily. She had done an admirable job masking her anxiety—smiling, laughing, engaging like usual. Even Ginny and Luna hadn’t mentioned anything. How did he know her well enough to catch the subtle shift?

In response, she pulled the envelope from her bag and laid several documents carefully out in front of her. With a practiced flick of her fingers, she cast a silent Muffliato, and noted the spark of intrigue that flickered across Draco’s face.

Taking a deep breath, she began. “I’m here to ask a monumental favor. You may tell me no, and if you do, I’ll walk away without resentment. But what I’m about to share is confidential, and I’ll only go on if you agree to a wand oath to keep it that way. No exceptions.”

She held his gaze steadily, watching him weigh her words—curiosity clearly piqued.

A slow, cocky smirk spread across his features. “All right, Granger. I’ll play. You’ve caught my interest.”

She extended her right hand, and he clasped it without hesitation. Hermione shivered at the unexpected warmth of his touch—his long, elegant fingers wrapping around hers with steady confidence.

With her free hand, she drew her wand. Red ribbons of magic spiraled around their joined hands, binding them in silent agreement: he would not speak a word of what she was about to reveal.

Once the ribbons vanished, the moment lingered with their hands still clasped. Neither of them moved to break the contact, each seemingly rooted in the strange intimacy of the oath. Eventually, Hermione summoned her Gryffindor courage and gently pulled her hand away, breaking the moment with a steady breath.

“Malfoy,” she began, her voice quieter now, but firm, “the wizarding world doesn’t know my true Muggle identity. When I first entered this world, I was the first witch born in my family for generations. It was decided that my identity would remain hidden.”

She paused, studying his expression. His silver eyes hadn’t moved from hers, steady and unreadable, but he gave a slow nod to show he understood.

“During the war, I lost contact with my extended family. And with my parents hidden under the memory charm I cast… there have been consequences to that decision.” She hesitated again, watching for a flicker of judgment. None came.

“The lack of contact—both from me and my parents—triggered an old marriage contract,” she said evenly. “One that will activate when I turn nineteen.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly, and for the briefest second she saw something close to panic flash across his features before his mask slipped perfectly back into place.

“But… your nineteenth birthday is in just a few weeks.” His voice had lost a touch of its usual smoothness. “How can I help?”

Hermione exhaled slowly. This was it—the crux of her confession. The line between freedom and a life bound by a name not of her choosing.

“You have to understand, Malfoy. The lineage I come from has very exacting standards. If I don’t meet those expectations, I’ll be forced to marry this Muggle man—and that means being forced to leave the wizarding world entirely.”

She pushed the parchment across the table. “I brought the contract. Here’s the clause outlining how the marriage agreement can be changed.”

Draco took the documents with uncharacteristic caution. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the pages with practiced precision. Hermione could practically hear his mind working as he reached the section in question.

She saw the moment he understood. Saw the flicker of realization spark behind his controlled expression.

“Granger,” he said carefully, “this contract can’t be broken. Only amended... meaning the name of the groom can change.” His tone was unreadable now, but his gaze had sharpened.

She straightened her spine, summoning every ounce of confidence she could.

“I know I’m not the pureblood you’re expected to marry,” she said plainly. “But the family I come from is one I think your parents might approve of. And your name—your lineage—is exactly what’s needed to nullify the current agreement.”

Her voice was steady now. Unflinching.

“I realize this would mean marrying me,” she continued, “but I believe we could be formidable partners. A union with me would help rehabilitate your family’s name... and it would keep me in the wizarding world.”

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Draco’s heart pounded so loudly in his chest, he could barely hear her words over the roar of blood rushing in his ears. The woman he had secretly loved for years—admired from a distance, watched with quiet awe—was asking him to save her from a binding contract. Asking him to become her husband. His wife. His.

He had always known his future would involve an arranged marriage. It was simply part of the pureblood path—deals brokered in parlors rather than hearts. But this? This had never even crossed his mind as a possibility. Yet, as she spoke of her lineage, it explained so much: the grace with which she moved, the quiet nobility in her posture, the command in her presence. She was society—just the Muggle version of it.

His gaze lifted, and he met her eyes—those rich, golden whiskey eyes that so often haunted his thoughts. For the first time, he saw something in them rarely directed at him: vulnerability. Fear. The fear of rejection. It nearly undid him. How could she possibly think he would turn her away? She, the brightest witch of their age, who had every right to look down on him for the choices he’d made. She, who still sat across from him offering her trust and a future entwined with his.

In that moment, he made himself a vow: he would be the man she needed. He would show her what it meant to be loved, truly and faithfully, within a marriage built not just on convenience, but on respect, trust… and, if he was lucky, something more.

He must have gone too quiet, too still—because her voice wove back into his thoughts, soft and hesitant.

“…you can take a day to think on it. I’m not trying to pressure you. It’s unfortunately a tiny window of time… but please, don’t feel obligated—”

“Granger.”

Her eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise, her breath caught in her throat.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said softly.

Her shoulders drooped, disappointment flickering in her expression before she could hide it. But he wasn’t finished.

“But I promise I will treat you with reverence and respect,” he continued. “And I will never endeavor to hold you back. I will stand beside you and support whatever you set your mind to. I won’t waste this chance to earn the right to be worthy of you.”

Her eyes were impossibly wide, as though she couldn’t quite believe he had said yes. And to ensure there was no room for misunderstanding, he leaned forward, voice firm.

“I agree,” he said clearly. “And I gladly accept the role of your groom.”

With resolve hardening in her eyes, she reached out and clasped his hand again. A quick flick of her wand, and the crimson ribbons from their wand oath shimmered briefly before dissolving into nothing. Nodding with precise, unshakable control, she pressed on, “Fantastic. I’ll contact my family and arrange for the contract to be amended. Since today is Monday, I believe they can be here by Wednesday for negotiations. I’ll speak with McGonagall about using her office Wednesday afternoon since we only have morning classes. Do you think you could arrange for your parents and legal counsel to be here by then? I believe your father’s house arrest still allows for Hogwarts visits on your behalf, and I think this qualifies under that clause.”

Draco found himself smiling at her sharp, no-nonsense tone. Of course she already had a plan, lined up with military precision and efficiency. That was Hermione Granger through and through—grace under pressure, intellect sharpened to a blade.

He began packing his bag, knowing full well that studying was a lost cause now. His mind was already spinning with what this all meant. “I’ll floo my parents now. Everything will be arranged by dinner,” he promised.

Before he could even fully register what was happening, she flung her arms around his waist in a fierce hug. Her head tilted up, eyes brimming with gratitude and something soft, something warm.

“Thank you, Draco,” she whispered.

Then, in a blur of curls and motion, she was gone.

He stood there frozen, as if his brain was short-circuiting from the sudden rush of sensations. The warmth of her body lingered against him. Her voice—his name on her lips—echoed in his ears like a sacred incantation.

How had he, of all people, become the luckiest man in the entire world?

Chapter Text

Draco’s body thrummed with anticipation as he tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and called out, “Malfoy Manor.”

Green flames roared to life, and he stepped through with practiced grace. Emerging into the grand hearth room, he gave a flick of his wand, vanishing the ash from his robes.

A sharp pop signaled the arrival of Lala, the family’s devoted house-elf. She squeaked in surprise, her wide eyes lighting up. “Master Draco! What a surprise! How can Lala help?”

“Is Father in his study?” Draco asked, his tone clipped but calm.

“Yes, Master Draco!” she chirped, practically bouncing on her toes.

He gave a small smirk at her enthusiasm. “Fantastic. Please fetch Mother and tell her to meet us in Father’s study—quickly—but assure her nothing is wrong.”

With a delighted nod, Lala vanished with another pop, and Draco turned on his heel, striding toward the study. The echo of his boots on marble floors bounced between the disapproving stares of his ancestors, frozen in oil and gold frames. The portraits seemed to bristle at his brisk pace, but he ignored them.

At the study door, he rapped once with a knuckle.

“Come in,” Lucius’s voice called, calm and imperious as ever.

Draco entered, taking in the sight of his father seated behind the vast mahogany desk—stoic, composed, and steeped in the kind of practiced elegance only a Malfoy could maintain without effort. Lucius glanced up, one brow arching in quiet surprise at his son’s unexpected appearance.

Before Draco could speak, the study door burst open with the urgency of swirling silk. Narcissa swept in, every inch the composed matriarch despite the worry etched across her face.

“Draco, are you alright?” she asked, immediately crossing the room to him. Her hands moved with practiced grace over his arms and shoulders, checking for injury or distress. “Why have you left school? Lucius, we must help—”

“I’m fine, Mother,” he interrupted gently, catching her hands and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Truly. Nothing is wrong. But something... significant has happened. I need to speak with both of you. It’s important—and time-sensitive.”

Draco moved to the dark green chairs across from his father’s desk, settling into one with his usual elegance. He crossed one leg over the other and launched into his appeal with measured clarity.

“Hermione Granger is currently bound by a marriage contract that has very strict and inflexible stipulations. Namely, it cannot be broken—only amended—and the deadline is her nineteenth birthday, which is September nineteenth.”

A subtle glint of curiosity and something like restrained excitement flickered in Lucius’s eyes. Across the room, Narcissa sat straighter, the corners of her mouth twitching in an effort to suppress a knowing smile.

“Granger approached me today and asked if I would step in as the groom, so she wouldn’t be forced to marry a Muggle and, in doing so, be cut off from the wizarding world entirely. We’ve all seen her poise, and we’ve long suspected she was more than just a Muggle-born. She carries herself like someone who was raised in society—and now we know why. She would make an exceptional Malfoy wife.

“And beyond that,” Draco added, leaning forward slightly, “we owe her a great deal. She fought for our world, for people who didn’t deserve her efforts. We can’t let her be pushed out of it. Marrying her would also bring considerable favor back to the Malfoy name.”

Lucius raised a hand, and Draco stopped instantly.

“Son,” he said, his voice smooth but firm, “we have no objections to this union. In fact, I believe the Malfoy family gains more from this arrangement than she does.” He glanced toward Narcissa, his voice warming. “Besides, Malfoy men only marry the best. And she is the best.”

Narcissa’s face softened as she reached across and gently took Draco’s hand in hers. “Darling, what do you need from us?”

Draco gave her a small nod, grateful for her support. “Granger is arranging for contract negotiations on Wednesday afternoon with her family and their legal counsel. Can you both be present with ours to formalize and finalize the amended agreement?”

Lucius schooled his expression, though Draco could see the spark of satisfaction that lingered behind his composed façade. He gave a dignified nod. “Of course, son. We will ensure everything is prepared on the Malfoy end. A marriage contract of this prestige deserves nothing less than our full attention.”

Draco stepped back through the Floo, arriving at Hogwarts just in time for dinner. As he entered the Great Hall, he spotted the group from that morning gathered at the Slytherin table—but this time, it was unmistakable that Hermione had saved him a seat right beside her.

Sliding into place, he casually remarked, “I’ve finished my side of the arrangements.”

Theo’s head snapped up, and Ginny leveled a suspicious gaze at the two of them. But it was Pansy who cut through the rising tension.

“Excuse me—what arrangements? What are you two not telling us?”

Luna hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head. “I couldn’t find either of you in the library earlier.” Blaise let out a snort, shaking with silent laughter as Draco’s ears turned a telling shade of red. Luna’s innocent observation had, unfortunately, made it clear something was indeed going on.

Hermione, ever the composed one, quickly cast a firm Muffliato around their group before the attention spread too far.

“Draco is doing me a significant favor,” she began, her tone steady. “It’ll be public soon, so we wanted to tell you first. I have also written to Harry and Ron to inform them of this news. Due to my standing in the Muggle world, and the actions I took during the war—namely, erasing my parents’ memories and disappearing—certain consequences have come into play. My extended family assumed I’d gone off the rails, and as a result, a marriage contract was enacted. Since my parents weren’t present to dispute it, and I was out of contact, the contract has been locked in. I can no longer break it.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “If I go through with the current contract, I’ll be forced to leave the wizarding world.”

Gasps rose around the table. Ginny reached across and clasped Hermione’s hand tightly, panic etched across her face.

Draco picked up where Hermione left off, his voice smooth but resolute. “However, the contract can be amended—to replace the intended groom with a wizard instead of a Muggle. Doing so would allow Hermione to remain in our world.”

At the sound of her name on his lips, Hermione turned toward him, eyes soft and glowing with something Draco couldn’t quite name. Her smile lit up her entire face—and the moment stretched, suspended in the quiet of their charmed bubble.

Then, as usual, Theo shattered it.

“Oh my fucking Salazar. Granger asked you to be her groom?!”

Hermione turned a brilliant shade of rose and quickly stepped back into the lead of the conversation. “Yes, I asked him. And Draco has agreed. We both believe we’d make strong partners. Our families will be meeting on Wednesday to finalize the amended contract. That is what we’ve been arranging.”

Draco watched as his fellow Slytherins exchanged knowing looks and plastered sly smiles across their faces, offers of congratulations slipping through smirks and raised brows. He wasn’t fooled—they would be absolutely relentless later. But before he could pursue that thought any further, his vision was overtaken by a flash of bright red hair.

Ginny Weasley threw her arms around him in a fierce hug, knocking the wind from his lungs as she whispered with startling sincerity, “Thank you.”

Caught off guard, Draco awkwardly patted her back, his hands hovering for a moment before giving in to the hug. Across the table, Luna caught his eye, her expression serene as ever.

“You are more than worthy,” she said softly.

Draco blinked, the weight of her words settling in his chest. He felt as if she’d spoken directly to something buried deep in him—something he hadn’t dared name until now.

Hermione, seated beside him, looked visibly relieved at the warmth and support radiating from their friends. The dread she had clearly carried into the evening was now lifting, replaced by cautious hope.

Together, they were about to write a new chapter—one that could finally begin to close the long-standing rift between bloodlines and houses. And Draco? He would show the wizarding world what true magical strength looked like.

It had nothing to do with blood.

His gaze drifted to Hermione, her laughter lighting up her face as Pansy leaned in to interrogate her. He could hardly hear them over the sound of his heartbeat, but it didn’t matter. All he could see was her.

His soon-to-be fiancée.

And Merlin help anyone who tried to stand in their way.

Chapter Text

As Hermione exited Gryffindor Tower, her eyes immediately landed on a welcome sight. Draco stood waiting, dressed in impeccably tailored business robes of the finest onyx fabric, the material cut to accentuate his lean form with effortless elegance. His silver signet rings caught the torchlight like scattered stars, and his dragonhide boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he stepped forward to greet her with a kiss to her cheek.

“Princess, you look positively breathtaking.”

She gave a light laugh and swatted his arm playfully, smoothing the front of her burgundy dress with a touch of nervous energy. The dress, chosen with meticulous care, was a muggle business-cut style she knew her grandmother would approve of—modest, commanding, and perfectly matched with her burgundy pumps. The color enhanced the warmth of her complexion, while the rich material mirrored the silent power of her lineage.

Draco offered his arm with gentlemanly precision, and she accepted, allowing him to escort her through the corridors toward the Headmistress’s office. His posture was stiff, almost too precise, so she cast him a gentle smile, hoping to ease the tension. But he suddenly paused, glancing around to ensure they were alone.

“Hermione, I know I apologized after the trial,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with gravity, “but I need to say it again. I was a fool, and I hurt you. I can’t express how sorry I am for my ignorance. You deserve better than me.”

She stopped and turned to him, raising a hand with graceful command that stilled him immediately.

“Draco,” she said softly, his name causing his pupils to dilate just slightly, “I forgave you long before the war truly began. After fourth year, I realized how society had chained you, and then I watched that same society try to destroy you from sixth year on. I forgave you when I knew Voldemort was returning and saw that you were only trying to protect the ones you love.”

She stepped closer, her voice strong. “Our past is not going to define our future.”

His throat bobbed with an audible swallow, and after a moment, he dipped his head in solemn understanding. “Then I will say this again, and keep saying it for as long as it takes—I do not deserve you, but I will spend every day proving that I intend to.”

Upon entering the Headmistress’s office, they found the Malfoys already waiting. Narcissa was the first to rise, gliding forward with effortless grace. Her sapphire robes shimmered as they moved, catching the afternoon light and cascading around her like waves. With the poise only a true lady of society could command, she enveloped Hermione in a refined yet warm embrace.

“Miss Granger, we are so delighted to be here,” she said with a gentle smile that was both reassuring and dignified.

As Narcissa stepped aside, Lucius approached next, exuding old-world elegance. He took Hermione’s hand and kissed it with the formality expected of a pureblood patriarch. “Miss Granger, a pleasure,” he intoned with a respectful nod.

Hermione returned their greetings with a small but confident smile. Their support—gracious, composed, and without a trace of condescension—eased a knot of tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They understood what was at stake, and their presence alone would send a clear message to her family: the Malfoys were a family of equal, if not superior, societal standing, and she would be marrying into power and respect.

“Lord and Lady Malfoy,” she began, voice steady, “I appreciate your punctuality in this matter. I’m confident we’ll reach an agreement that honors the values of both our families.”

Lucius nodded in clear approval, his expression unreadable but undeniably impressed by her measured command of social niceties. With a practiced flick of his hand, he gestured to the man standing just behind him—a sharply dressed wizard in tailored gray robes. His thick, silver-streaked hair framed a face marked by age, wisdom, and sharp intellect.

“This is Mr. Belthaur,” Lucius announced. “Our family’s legal counsel. He specializes in magical-to-muggle contract integration.”

Belthaur stepped forward and bowed slightly, his tone measured and deferential. “Miss Granger, it is not only a privilege to be involved in an arrangement of this magnitude, but a personal honor to meet the Golden Girl herself. Thank you—for everything you’ve done for our world.”

He reached for her hand to kiss it, but before the gesture could linger, Lucius cleared his throat—a subtle yet unmistakable warning. The older man straightened at once, his lips twitching in a sheepish but knowing smile, as if reminded that gratitude had its place, but not at the negotiation table.

Just then, the fireplace flared emerald and roared to life. Out stepped the Muggle Prime Minister, Tony Blair, brushing soot from his sleeve with practiced ease. Hermione moved forward, inclining her head with perfect composure.

Blair bowed his own head in return and reached for her hand. “Lady Hermione,” he greeted reverently, his tone warm but measured. “It is an honor. Your service to both our worlds has not gone unnoticed.”

A sharp intake of breath echoed behind her—subtle, but enough to confirm that her carefully guarded identity was beginning to unravel.

The floo flared again, and from the green blaze emerged Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, towering and purposeful. His usually unreadable expression faltered into one of visible conflict. He bowed his head, then crossed the space to her quickly.

“Hermione—Lady Hermione,” he corrected, voice low with awe and frustration. “Had we known... why didn’t you tell us? How could you let us treat you like—” He paused, swallowed hard. “You put yourself at risk in the war.”

He kissed her hand with unexpected gentleness, his large frame radiating barely restrained emotion. Not once did he spare a glance for the Malfoys.

And then, another roar signaled that the final party was arriving.

Hermione felt the tension in the room crest like a wave the moment Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip stepped through the floo, brushing a few flecks of ash from their impeccably tailored coats. All movement stilled as the Queen’s sharp gaze found her granddaughter instantly.

Hermione stepped forward with composed grace, sinking into a deep curtsy with practiced precision. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, her voice reverent yet trembling slightly with emotion.

The Queen reached forward, her gloved hand gently lifting Hermione from the curtsy. “My dear girl,” she said softly, her eyes glassy but composed. That familiar touch unlocked the floodgates, and Hermione surged forward into the embrace she had craved for over a year.

“Granny,” she whispered, clinging tightly as her composure cracked at last. Her breath hitched, but she blinked furiously, refusing to let the tears fall.

As they pulled apart, Hermione turned and curtsied once more. “Your Royal Highness,” she greeted with clear affection.

Prince Philip’s expression, so often stern in public, softened as he opened his arms. “Hermione,” he said simply, his voice warm with quiet pride.

“Grandpa!” she exclaimed, leaping forward into his arms. He lifted her effortlessly, chuckling as he hugged her close.

“You’ve grown stronger,” he said gruffly. “I suppose war has a way of doing that. But I prefer you in one piece, thank you.”

Hermione laughed through her tears as she stepped back between them, flanked by love and legacy, and for the first time in months, she felt whole again.

The floo flared once more, and a nervous-looking man stumbled through in a swirl of green flame—her family’s legal counsel had arrived, visibly flustered but determined.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco felt as though he were floating outside his own body as he executed a formal bow before the Queen, his voice low and steady: “Your Majesty.” He mirrored the action for her consort with a respectful nod and, “Your Royal Highness.”

And suddenly, everything made sense. No wonder she’d flinched when he’d jokingly called her Princess after receiving that cryptic letter. His private pet name for her—the one he only dared think when they were alone—had been unintentionally, and almost prophetically, accurate.

His brain struggled to recalibrate as he watched his parents, equally stunned, perform the same respectful gestures with an almost mechanical grace. Of course they knew how to conduct themselves around the monarchy. Families like the Malfoys, Notts, Parkinsons, and Greengrasses had long maintained discreet ties with the Crown. Titles and appointments bestowed by the royal family weren’t considered “muggle honors” by pureblood society—they were acknowledgments of divine right.

And divine right, Draco knew, was often rooted in ancient magic.

Throughout history, monarchs and magic had walked hand-in-hand. Divination, prophecy, power—these were the underpinnings of both thrones and wands. The Sacred Twenty-Eight didn’t see the Crown as muggle. They saw it as untouchable. Sacred. That’s why even the most elitist of purebloods never disrespected royalty. Monarchies were too closely intertwined with the old magic to be dismissed.

He glanced sidelong at his father and caught the moment Lucius paled. He was clearly having the same realization. Hermione Granger wasn’t just no ordinary Muggleborn. She wasn’t even just an extraordinary witch. She was magical in a way few could claim—descended from a bloodline with authority over all British subjects, magical and non-magical alike.

She hadn’t just survived the war. She had been born to rule through it.

Chapter Text

Draco followed his parents to their seats opposite Hermione, who now sat gracefully beside her grandfather. Her grandmother, poised and commanding, took her rightful place at the head of the table. The Queen’s presence was impossible to ignore—elegant, composed, and utterly in control.

The room fell into a brief hush as the legal representatives exchanged uneasy glances, seemingly unsure who should speak first. But, as expected, it was the Queen who took the lead, her voice calm but resolute.

“Lord and Lady Malfoy, we are here to begin negotiations to amend an existing marriage contract—one that originally compromised my granddaughter, Hermione Granger. The proposed amendment would see her wed to your son, Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy estate and title. Do you have any objections at this time?”

Lucius inclined his head with practiced precision, his tone clipped and respectful. “No, Your Majesty. We have no objections. We are prepared to proceed.”

A small nod of satisfaction passed over the Queen’s features before she continued, her gaze unwavering.

“I am pleased to hear it. After considerable discussion with your Minister of Magic, Mr. Shacklebolt, it is our belief that this union provides a much-needed opportunity for unity between our two worlds. The royal family’s influence must extend into the wizarding community, and your son’s future bond with my granddaughter offers a powerful symbol of that reconciliation. It is time for mutual understanding to replace inherited division. Prejudice led your world to war. We are here to prevent the next one.”

Lucius visibly swallowed—torn between pride at his family’s elevated standing and the weight of the Queen’s subtle reprimand. Narcissa, ever the diplomat, offered a serene smile and reached for the contract folder before her, signaling readiness to begin.

Draco, meanwhile, struggled to focus.

Hermione looked calm, resolute—her posture perfect, her chin slightly lifted in that way she had when she knew she was right. The Queen’s words echoed in his head. The royal family’s influence… My Princess’ family. How had he ever thought she was anything less than extraordinary?

He was marrying not just a brilliant witch, but a legacy.

“First,” the Queen began, her voice resonant with authority, “I am proposing—with the support of both Ministers,” she nodded toward Shacklebolt and Prime Minister Blair, who each gave solemn nods, “that the Malfoy family will relinquish their current noble title.”

Lucius’s face remained carefully composed, but Draco could sense the flicker of tension beneath the surface.

“In its place,” she continued, “the groom, Draco Malfoy, will assume the newly reinstated title of Prince of Camelot, as the consort to the reigning Princess of Camelot—my granddaughter.”

Gasps fluttered across the room.

“This title,” she explained, “was officially retired in 1812, when magical children ceased being born into the royal family. But its origins trace back much further.”

Her gaze swept the table as she continued, every word measured and significant.

“The title was created at the end of King Arthur’s reign. After the fall of Camelot, Merlin and Arthur’s half-sister, Morgan Le Fay, bore an illegitimate child—Merlin’s heir. That child, naturally magical, began a bloodline of magically gifted royals stretching from 540 AD onward.”

A pause settled with weight.

“Now, with Hermione—magic reborn into the royal line—the bloodline’s legacy continues. And it is time for the title to be reactivated.”

Draco could see it—his father was nearly vibrating with pride, his posture straighter than usual, chin lifted just a touch higher. The idea that their noble title would be replaced with a royal one had ignited something deep within Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa, though composed as ever, had the faintest flicker of approval dancing in her eyes.

Then it clicked.

Draco saw it—felt it—the exact moment the realization dawned for both of his parents.

Lucius leaned forward, awe dripping from his usually controlled voice. “So much makes sense now. Your power, your intellect, your title as the Brightest Witch of the Age…” He shook his head slightly, wonderstruck. “You’re Merlin’s descendant. You carry his legacy—his magic. Future Malfoy heirs will be descendants of Merlin!”

Narcissa’s hand drifted over her husband's elegant fingers applying the slightest pressure. A silent reminder: Composure, Lucius .

The Queen’s eyes glittered with restrained amusement. “I’m glad to see such vehement approval from you, Lord Malfoy,” she said coolly. “However, that enthusiasm brings me to my next concern—why should it be the Malfoy name that resurrects such a prestigious title?”

The room fell still, breath suspended in collective anticipation.

“Minister Shacklebolt has provided a thorough briefing on the war,” she continued, voice crisp with command. “And the unresolved dangers that remain.”

She turned her gaze on Shacklebolt, and the look she gave him—equal parts pride and reproach—had him bowing his head in response.

“As proud as I am of my granddaughter—who guided the wizarding world through the defeat of a dark tyrant—this should never have fallen on her shoulders. No one of royal blood should have had to face such darkness.”

The weight of her words settled over the room like a heavy cloak.

“She will need the protection of a name that commands respect. The Malfoy name must not simply benefit from this alliance—it must shield her. I expect—and demand—that the Malfoy family offer her unwavering protection against any rogue Death Eaters, or those foolish enough to oppose her rise.”

Her voice, though not raised, carried the authority of centuries.

Draco felt a rush of something deeper than duty stir within him. Not obligation. Not politics. But something dangerously close to devotion.

The Queen fixed her gaze on Draco, her eyes sharp and unreadable. “Do you agree to these terms?”

Draco met her stare with unwavering composure. “I do, Your Majesty,” he said clearly, his voice firm with conviction.

Her attention shifted to his parents. “And you, Lord and Lady Malfoy?”

Lucius and Narcissa both inclined their heads in tandem, voices calm and measured. “We do.”

With a regal nod, the Queen gestured toward her legal counsel. “The Queen’s Counsel will now proceed with the terms of the marriage contract.”

The nervous-looking solicitor stepped forward, clutching a stack of parchment with slightly trembling fingers. “Ah—yes, Your Majesty,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “The proposed contract is a combination of traditional Malfoy stipulations and those required for integration into the royal house.”

He adjusted his spectacles, attempting to steady his nerves as he unfolded the papers. “The Malfoy marriage agreements, historically, emphasize mutual benefit and autonomy within the union. These clauses have been preserved to honor that tradition.”

He glanced between Draco and Hermione, then continued, “We have also integrated the necessary royal obligations, including but not limited to: royal appearances, diplomatic representation in the magical and non-magical sectors, and the management of both estates’ charitable endeavors.”

He hesitated, then quickly added, “Enclosed as well is the agreed-upon dowry from the crown, commensurate with royal custom, and the financial settlement for the dissolution of Miss Granger’s original betrothal contract.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked down to the parchment with practiced precision. With a subtle nod to Mr. Belthaur, he said, “The Malfoy contract stipulates that the union must produce at least one heir. We would like to propose an addendum—should there be more than one child, the firstborn shall inherit the royal title and associated estate. The second shall be named heir to the Malfoy family and its holdings.”

The Queen’s Counsel inclined his head, already making the amendment with a precise flourish of his quill. “The clause will be adjusted to reflect that arrangement.”

He continued without pause, “Upon the reinstatement of the titles of Prince and Princess of Camelot, the couple will be granted rights to reside at the Castle of Camelot. The estate has been magically preserved since the last heir’s passing in 1812. Once their first child is born, the family may elect their permanent residence—either the Castle of Camelot or Malfoy Manor.”

Lucius looked as if he might burst with pride. The idea that a Malfoy would lay claim to a stronghold once preserved by Merlin himself was nearly too much for him to contain. The Castle of Camelot was a thing of legend—its location lost, its magic unparalleled. Draco had no doubt that his father would make himself a frequent guest.

Before he could say more, Hermione spoke up with quiet authority. “We will move in after we graduate from Hogwarts.”

Her tone left no room for debate. It was a statement, not a suggestion.

The solicitor gave her a respectful nod and made the final note.

Then, in a more ceremonial tone, he concluded, “All terms have been reviewed by both legal teams and are now pending final signatures.”

The silence that followed was profound—not from tension, but from the collective realization that history was being forged in ink and magic.

Without hesitation, Draco reached for the ceremonial quill and signed his name with confidence.

Hermione followed suit, her signature elegant and sure.

The smile she gave him afterward—open, radiant, and entirely unguarded—told him everything he needed to know.

He had made the right choice.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Queen rose with practiced elegance, prompting the rest of the table to stand. “As it has grown quite late during our negotiations,” she began, “I would like to extend an invitation to Buckingham Palace for a celebratory dinner. The magical wing has been reopened now that we officially have a royal witch once more. Floo access is available for your departure afterward.”

Her gaze shifted to Narcissa. “Lady Malfoy, I would also like my secretary to join us at the palace so the two of you may begin planning the muggle ceremony, the wizarding ceremony during which the title will be conferred, and the necessary coordination for the press.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle. “I’ve observed what you have accomplished on behalf of the Malfoy name over the years,” she added, fixing Lucius with a look that was almost too pointed to be called subtle. “Your husband and family are fortunate to have such a brilliant mind shaping their narrative.”

Lucius, to his credit, didn’t even flinch at the backhanded compliment. The Queen admired his wife—and quite frankly, she was right. Malfoy men married the best, and Narcissa had surpassed even those expectations. He beamed at her, practically shooting heart-shaped sparks from his eyes as she accepted the Queen’s words with effortless grace.

He stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy handed a Quidditch ticket. “Your Majesty, we would be honored to join you for dinner to celebrate this most auspicious day.”

His eyes shifted toward Draco and Hermione, who had already gravitated toward each other as if tethered by invisible magic. His son stood close, unconsciously protective and utterly captivated—he was gone for her, entirely. Lucius saw it in every inch of his posture. And Malfoy men, when they loved, they loved with a ferocity that reshaped worlds.

The Queen followed his gaze, a knowing smile curving her lips. “I agree, Lord Malfoy. A most auspicious day indeed.”

She nodded once more to both Ministers, then stepped through the Floo with Prince Philip close behind.

Lucius, nearly bouncing in place, turned to guide his wife toward the hearth—only to be stopped cold by Narcissa’s hand on his arm.

She gave him the look . The one that had frozen Draco in his tracks for years. “Lucius,” she said evenly, “I need you to gain control of your excitement. You are a Lord, not a fangirl.”

“But Cissa,” he whispered dramatically, “we’ve just been personally invited to Buckingham Palace! Our son is marrying into the Royal Family . Can you believe it?” He grinned so hard it was a miracle his face didn’t crack. “By Salazar, we’re going to be related to actual royalty . Take that, Father! I’m making us stronger!”

Narcissa rolled her eyes with affectionate exasperation as her husband practically vibrated with joy. “Lucius,” she muttered under her breath, “you’re glowing.”

“And what makes it even better?” he continued, dropping his voice and motioning toward the young couple by the fire. “Look at him, Cissa. I think he’s going to have the kind of love we have.”

That quiet admission softened something in her expression. Her hand slid into his. “I agree,” she said, her voice catching. “We’ll do everything to protect her as a Malfoy. We both know there’s a battle ahead, with enemies still lurking.”

Lucius nodded solemnly, his joy tempered now by steel.

But Narcissa’s eyes were bright with hope. “Still,” she said, “some battles are worth it.”

She looked toward Draco and Hermione, now whispering to each other like the rest of the world had faded away. “I think this is the beginning of his own love story.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the sun dipped behind the spires of Hogwarts, a hooded figure lingered just beyond the castle’s protective wards, cloaked in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest.

He’d intercepted a coded message earlier—something slipped out of the Ministry. Muggles were coming to Hogwarts. Important ones.

But he’d seen no one come or go. Not through the gates. Not by broom.

Which meant one thing.

They used the Floo.

His jaw clenched. What kind of muggles have access to a Floo?

He swore under his breath. This was bigger than he’d expected. And worse—he had no answers.

His brothers weren’t going to like that.

Not at all.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Draco walked side by side through the corridors of Hogwarts, making their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast. They were running a bit late, having stayed overnight at Buckingham Palace after a very long day of negotiations.

As they turned a corner, Hermione felt Draco slip his hand into hers. She hummed in appreciation, glancing at him with a soft smile. He was quickly becoming a solid anchor in the whirlwind her life had become.

Just outside the Great Hall doors, Draco gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Are you ready for the stares?”

Hermione straightened her spine, her chin lifting in quiet defiance. “Let them look.”

Hand in hand, they pushed open the doors.

Inside, the post had already arrived, and the atmosphere was electric. Clusters of students huddled around The Daily Prophet readers, excitement buzzing through the air. As soon as Hermione and Draco entered, every head snapped toward them. Jaws dropped. Whispers erupted.

They walked with practiced grace toward the Slytherin table, ignoring the gawking as if it were routine. Their usual group was already there—and judging by the smirks on Blaise and Theo’s faces, they had read the headlines.

Blaise arched a brow, eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, mate, you really know how to make a statement.”

Theo leaned in with a teasing grin. “And lock her down lickety split. ”

Ginny snorted. “Please. As if the Ferret was the mastermind. Our girl knew exactly what she was doing.”

Luna nodded serenely. “Strategic brilliance,” she murmured.

Neville chuckled. “Honestly, Malfoy’s the safest man to take her off the wizarding market. No offense, Hermione.” He gave her a sheepish grin that suggested he was half-joking… and half-afraid.

Theo squinted suspiciously at Ginny. “I’m sorry, what? You’re saying a Gryffindor outmaneuvered a Slytherin ? Impossible. Blasphemy.”

“Gin…” Hermione said in warning, already knowing it was useless.

“Oh, ‘Mione,” Ginny said with manic glee, “I think your fiancé deserves a proper introduction to your record . He should know what he’s in for.”

Hermione groaned. “I need tea before I can handle this.”

Ginny grinned. “Perfect. I’ve already had mine!” She turned to Draco with faux solemnity. “Draco, darling, in her first year, she set Snape on fire at a Quidditch game, hexed Neville, and bypassed every protection Hogwarts had to help Harry face Voldemort. And that was just year one.”

Theo blinked.

“She brewed Polyjuice Potion second year,” Ginny continued. “Third year? Used a time turner to help a convicted prisoner escape Azkaban’s Dementors and free Buckbeak. You know… your old family pet.”

Draco’s brows shot up. Hermione gave him a tight, innocent smile.

Neville chimed in, voice full of admiration and slight fear. “And let’s not forget: the Prophet never prints anything bad about her.”

Blaise leaned forward, eyes wide. “How?”

Ginny smirked. “Because she figured out Rita Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus—a beetle—and kept her in a magically sealed jar for weeks. She’s been blackmailing her ever since.”

Luna’s voice floated dreamily over the table. “And poor Marietta Edgecombe’s face… it’s never quite recovered after that lovely little curse she embedded in the D.A. signup sheet. That was poetic.”

Neville chuckled. “My favorite might be when she Polyjuiced into Bellatrix Lestrange, broke into Gringotts, and escaped on a dragon. ”

Ginny’s eyes sparkled. “And that’s not even the half of it. Merlin knows what else she’s done that we don’t know about.”

Silence fell around the Slytherin table. Wide-eyed stares. Shock. A little awe. Maybe even fear.

Theo finally spoke, voice low and reverent. “Fuck, mate. I’m so jealous and hard right now.”

Draco choked on his pumpkin juice.

Theo nodded seriously. “Salazar’s beard—you’re marrying the perfect witch. And your kids? They’ll be Bloody terrifying.”

Draco smirked, squeezing Hermione’s hand once more. "Yeah," he said softly, eyes never leaving her. "They will be."

Daphne discreetly flicked her wand under the table. With a subtle flourish, Hermione’s Gryffindor robes shimmered and shifted into elegant Slytherin ones—deep emerald with silver threading and a delicate serpent crest stitched over her heart.

Her younger sister smirked. “There. Now you’re part of the correct house. Honestly, if we’d claimed you sooner, we’d have won the House Cup every year.”

The table erupted in laughter, several Slytherins nodding in agreement.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Traitors, the lot of you.”

Draco leaned in, brushing his knuckles against hers. “I always knew green suited you.”

Before she could respond, Pansy practically lunged across the table, eyes gleaming. “Okay, girl . Left hand. Now. I need to see that heirloom ring in real life.”

Hermione obligingly lifted her hand, and the sunlight caught the ring—eliciting a collective gasp.

Set in gleaming platinum, an enormous oval-cut emerald dominated the piece, its rich green depths alive with light. Surrounding the gem was a radiant halo of clustered diamonds, catching the morning sun like tiny stars. The setting was intricate and old-world, yet utterly regal—exactly the kind of ring one would expect for a witch soon to be titled Princess of Camelot.

Pansy let out a breathless sigh. “Ugh. It’s obnoxiously perfect. How dare you have good taste and good politics.”

Hermione chuckled, tilting her hand so Luna could get a better view. “It’s been in the Malfoy family for centuries. Supposedly enchanted by a Royal Jewelsmith for one of Merlin’s descendants.”

Theo raised his hands dramatically. “Of course it was. And of course she’s wearing it like it’s just another Tuesday.”

Ginny grinned. “Honestly? Kind of is, for her.”

Draco, smug as ever, slipped his hand over Hermione’s under the table. “It’ll look even better at the royal ceremony.”

Blaise whistled low. “Mate… you’re punching so far above your weight I think we’re in orbit.”

The table howled with laughter.

Pansy and Ginny exchanged a look that Hermione immediately recognized as trouble.

Pansy arched a brow and asked with suspicious innocence, “So… is the Prophet’s timeline actually correct for all the events?”

Hermione gave a wary nod, and in perfect sync, the Gryffindor and Slytherin girls grinned like co-conspirators.

Ginny leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. “That means we’ve got about a week, which means…” She dragged out the pause dramatically. “We need to throw your Hen and Stag party this weekend.”

Both Hermione and Draco scoffed in unison.

“That’s hardly necessary—” Hermione started.

“Absolutely not—” Draco added.

Ginny waved a hand dismissively. “Shh. Denial is cute. But futile.”

Pansy nodded firmly, already making mental checklists. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.”

“And,” Ginny added pointedly, looking around the group, “I’ll owl Harry and Ron. If this is going to be a joint party, we need an even guy-to-girl ratio. I’m sure the Headmistress will let them stay for the weekend. I’ll spin it as diplomatic outreach or something.”

“We’ll also handle everyone’s outfits,” Pansy said, far too gleefully.

She turned to Ginny and added sweetly, “Be a dear and ask for the Chosen One’s and the Weasel’s sizes, would you?”

Ginny grinned and slid a piece of parchment to Pansy, “No need.  I have them memorized.”

Pansy gave Ginny a sly smile as she took the parchment from her.

Hermione groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it?”

Draco patted her back sympathetically. “Absolutely. But at least we’ll look fabulous.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione barely recognized the woman staring back at her in the mirror.

Pansy and Ginny had refused to give her even a hint of what they’d planned, and now she understood why. She stood clad in the shortest, tightest, shimmeriest emerald-green dress she had ever worn—the exact shade of her engagement ring, and almost certainly not a coincidence. The fabric clung to her curves like it had been custom-cast for a goddess. Her curls had been coaxed into sultry waves, her eyes smoked with shadow, and her lips painted a bold, confident red.

Dangling from her neck was a delicate gold chain holding a teardrop-cut emerald that matched the ring on her finger, with simple studs to match. Pansy had casually mentioned that the gems had come from the Malfoy vault—though Hermione suspected nothing about that choice was casual.

She muttered a quick balancing and cushioning charm on her sky-high black stilettos, then turned to appraise her friends. Every single one of them looked like sin incarnate. They wore dresses in shades carefully chosen to complement their complexions, and each outfit screamed confidence, allure, and a complete disregard for subtlety. Goddesses. Absolute goddesses.

She had no idea who Pansy had bribed—or hexed—to ensure the halls were empty, but they made it to the Room of Requirement without crossing a single soul. When they stepped inside, the men were already there waiting.

Hermione barely registered Harry and Ron sweeping her into a hug, because her eyes locked immediately on Draco.

His pupils dilated on sight, jaw slack as he visibly forgot how to breathe. One hand came to his chest like he’d been physically struck. Hermione smirked. Mission accomplished.

All the men wore sleek black trousers and shirts that perfectly matched the shade of a woman’s dress. Draco, of course, was matched to her. But as Hermione glanced around the group, she noticed the other pairings and lifted an eyebrow in Pansy’s direction.

Ginny and Blaise.
Pansy and Neville.
Theo and Luna.
Daphne and Harry.
Astoria and Ron.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“So,” she muttered under her breath, “is this actually a party… or just a matchmaking scheme disguised as one?”

Pansy only winked.

Hermione finally took in her surroundings—and nearly laughed out loud.

The Room of Requirement had transformed into an exact replica of the Muggle club she’d taken Ginny, Pansy, Daphne, Astoria, and Luna to over the summer during one of their “friendship-building” outings post-therapy. From the dim, pulsing lights to the glint of mirrored walls and deep bass thumping through the air, it was all there.

Ginny shot her a devilish grin, and Pansy added a conspiring wink.
“It’s time we introduce these pureblood men to a real party,” she said with a smirk that promised mischief.

Soon enough, drinks were flowing freely, and the women had claimed the dance floor. They’d all been to a Muggle club before—thanks to Hermione—and muscle memory took over. They moved with practiced ease: fluid, confident, and entirely unbothered by the stunned silence coming from the men’s side of the room.

Hermione was hitting her stride when she glanced to the side and caught a row of dropped jaws. Every single one of the guys looked thunderstruck.

That was Luna’s cue.

With ethereal grace and a glint of something wild in her eyes, she strolled over to Theo and pulled him onto the dance floor. Within seconds, she was spinning and twirling around him like he was her personal pole—and Theo, predictably, was done for . Pure putty.

That was all the spark the rest of the girls needed.

Each woman grabbed her assigned partner. Hermione turned to Draco and slid her hands up his chest before placing them around his neck, his hands naturally falling to her hips. She pressed herself back against him and started to move—slowly, deliberately—grinding in time with the beat.

She felt the tension coil behind her, his body going taut with restraint.

When she glanced over her shoulder, his eyes were molten.

Long fingers traced the edge of her dress, brushing over her hip and waist.
“If this is a preview of what I get to look forward to,” he murmured in a husky growl, “I’m going to die a very happy man.”

She turned to face him, and his breath caught. He looked like he was about to combust.

Letting herself lean into the heat building between them, Hermione moved closer, her body molding to his as she let the music guide her. The sensation of his solid form, the way his hands roamed with reverence—it made heat pool low in her belly, and she didn’t even pretend her paper-thin knickers were holding up against it.

She met his gaze, eyes heavy-lidded, and watched as his dropped to her lips.

Taking his hand, she pressed further into him and tilted her head just slightly.

He took the cue like a man dying of thirst.

His lips brushed against hers in a soft, testing kiss—until she threaded her fingers into his silken hair and kissed him back, deep and sure. That was all it took.

With a groan, he kissed her like a man starved. One hand tangled in her hair, the other anchored firmly at the small of her back, pulling her as close as humanly possible.

They were lost to the rest of the room. The crowd, the music, the lights—it all disappeared. They danced, kissed, and melted into each other like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them.

And honestly, for Hermione, it had.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco had long suspected that Pansy wasn’t finished with her meddling—and he was proven right sometime in the early hours of the morning.

Everyone was sweaty from dancing, flushed from flirting, and far too drunk to think clearly when Pansy clapped her hands and announced, “It’s time for Slytherin games!”

The room erupted into cheers.
Idiots, Draco thought, watching them with the fond exasperation of someone who knew better and yet kept showing up anyway.

Pansy pulled out her favorite party trick—a magical version of Spin the Bottle. The glass bottle levitated into the center of the room, twirling midair as it glinted with enchantments.

With a Cheshire-cat grin, she explained, “Rules are simple. Tap the bottle with your wand. It'll spin and land on the most magically compatible snog candidate in the circle. And no pecks, people. The kiss has to be really good for the magic to release and let the next person go.”

A ripple of anticipation spread through the room.

“But first,” she added, “we scramble seats. Can’t let the magic cheat by pairing you with your current crush.”

A chaotic shuffle followed as everyone stumbled and re-seated themselves in a loose circle on the floor.

“Bride-to-be goes first!” Ginny chirped.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at her painted lips. With slow, liquid grace, she leaned forward and tapped the bottle with her wand.

It spun once. Twice.

Then it landed directly on him.

Draco raised a brow, but before he could speak, Hermione climbed into his lap, straddled him, and kissed him like she meant to end him.

The room exploded into whoops and cheers. Somewhere, Theo muttered, “Holy Salazar… what a witch.”
Draco gave his best mate a glare that promised violence.

Next up was Ginny. Her bottle pointed straight at Blaise, and she wasted no time. With a wicked grin, she yanked him forward by the collar and practically devoured him.
“Damn girl!” Pansy cackled.

Luna floated forward next. Her bottle landed on Theo, who looked like he’d momentarily forgotten how lungs worked. She climbed into his lap with dreamlike grace, cupped his face, and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled away, she smiled serenely.
“Oh, Theo. Your soul is glowing right now.”

Theo looked like he might actually pass out.

Daphne spun next, and her bottle pointed to Harry. The Chosen One looked like he’d been personally blessed by Merlin as Daphne leaned in, smirking, and kissed him like she was claiming a prize.

Astoria followed, her bottle landing on Ron, who turned Gryffindor red as she stalked toward him like he was some heroic Greek statue. She cupped his jaw, whispered something in his ear, and kissed him soundly. Ron was speechless. A rare moment.

That left Pansy.

Only Neville remained. Draco arched a brow in her direction.

She arched one right back, a devil-may-care glint in her eye. With exaggerated ceremony, she spun. The bottle landed on Neville—as everyone knew it would—and Pansy sauntered toward him like a queen.

But Neville surprised them all.

He stood as she approached, met her halfway, and pulled her in with surprising confidence. Then, with gentle hands and absolutely no hesitation, he kissed her. Not cocky. Not rushed. Just deep, grounded, and entirely unashamed.

Even Pansy looked momentarily stunned.

Draco leaned back, absorbing the sight of his friends—flushed, smirking, thoroughly entangled—and thought, Well, she really did it. The snake got everyone matched up.

But when he glanced across the circle and caught the unguarded joy lighting up Hermione’s face, something inside him shifted.

Maybe—just maybe—he did deserve this.

Deserve her .

And that thought alone felt like the most dangerous and wonderful thing of all.

Chapter Text

Draco woke with his head pounding, the room spinning, and his body uncomfortably overheated. At some point, the Room of Requirement must’ve conjured bean bags for each couple to pass out on. Naturally, he suspected Pansy had a hand in that arrangement. It would explain why he currently had a small, curvy witch wrapped around him like a clingy koala.

Hermione stirred against him as he shifted, groaning softly. Around the room, others began waking as well. From somewhere across the space, Theo muttered something about feeling like death, and Draco was fairly certain someone had just retched. Likely the Weasel—lightweight that he was.

A loud pop startled the room, followed by a high-pitched voice that cut through the groans of hangovers.

“Harry Potter and friends! Dobby has come with help!” the elf chirped, arms full of vials. “Hangover potions, pain potions, and pepper-up! Lunch is starting soon, and Dobby does not want Harry Potter’s friends to starve!”

From Draco’s left, Harry’s voice called out, “Dobby, you’re a true hero.”

Dobby beamed, nearly levitating with pride. “Fresh clothes have also been brought! The elves made a special lunch for friends!” And with another crack, he vanished.

“Oh my god, Hermione, I love you! He brought us leggings!” Astoria squealed somewhere near the girls’ beanbags.

Leggings? Draco frowned. Why were they excited about such boring clothing?

The room had conveniently sprouted bathrooms, and soon the group split up to clean themselves up. The men returned first, dressed in casual wizarding wear. But when the girls stepped back in, all conversation stopped.

It turned out, leggings were not so boring after all.

They looked painted on. Magical second skin. Draco caught Theo muttering, “Bloody hell, I just got my cock to go down,” while Neville and Blaise nodded solemnly, as if confirming the sight was indeed that good.

Hermione had the nerve to smirk at him. “These are the perfect morning-after outfits,” she purred, throwing in a wink for good measure.

Draco exhaled sharply. There was no point pretending anymore—his cock had a mind of its own around her. And apparently, even his self-control had its limits. He made a mental note to reward Dobby with a very generous gift for the wardrobe delivery.

To his surprise, there was no awkwardness lingering in the air. The couples—if one could call them that—slipped back into their flirtations and easy companionship as they headed to lunch. Pansy practically radiated smug satisfaction as she walked arm-in-arm with Neville, completely basking in his attention.

As they made their way down the corridor, Hermione had fallen into step between Harry and Ron, laughing easily with her two best friends. The joy radiating off her was infectious—and it made Draco smile. He silently resolved to thank both Ginny and Pansy for making sure her friends had been included in the party. This happiness? It was everything.

But the mood didn’t last long.

The moment they entered the Great Hall, Hermione led them—without hesitation—to the Slytherin table. And that, apparently, was a step too far for some.

“What the actual fuck! ” Seamus Finnegan’s voice rang out, loud and venomous from the Gryffindor table.

The group turned, startled and confused. But Seamus wasn’t finished. He stood now, his face twisted in outrage. “The heroes of the war sitting with the scumbags who tried to kill us? What the hell is wrong with you? How dare you insult all of us by slumming it with Death Eater spawn? Or did you forget the pain they caused?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He was used to it—the anger, the blame. But hearing it directed at Hermione? That cut deep.

She, however, was already reacting. Her curls began to spark with raw, uncontrolled magic.

Seamus didn’t notice the warning signs.

“Of course, we always knew she'd turn out a Death Eater whore. Must be the money. But you , Potter? We expected better from you. ”

Before anyone could blink, Seamus was frozen mid-rant, levitating a full meter off the ground. Hermione’s eyes blazed as her hair crackled like wildfire.

“Let me make a few things absolutely clear,” she said, her voice cold as steel and sharp as glass. “First: if you’re still clinging to hate, that’s your problem. Not mine. Second: I didn’t survive a war, a torture curse that shattered Aurors, and the loss of half my innocence just to replicate the same prejudices that started it. And third: What exactly have you done for this world? For anyone? ”

The hall had gone silent, breathless.

Draco expected Harry or Ron to try and calm her. Instead, Ron raised his wand— against his own former housemates.

“My family lost everything to this war,” he said clearly. “We’ve got every reason to hate Malfoy. But I was there. I saw how he protected Hermione. I saw him treat her with more respect than any of us ever gave her. He’s alright by me.” He strode forward and extended a hand to Draco. Still in disbelief, Draco took it.

Harry stepped up next, his voice ringing with quiet authority. “I agree. And if you think you know what people went through under Voldemort—you don’t. Unless you’ve lived that nightmare, you don’t get to judge what survival looked like. That loyalty? That fire? That’s exactly what Hermione deserves.” He, too, shook Draco’s hand.

Hermione lowered Seamus to the ground, magic crackling as she released the spell. “If anyone else is harboring hate in their hearts,” she said, scanning the crowd, “I suggest you keep it to yourselves. I will not tolerate it. Not in my presence. I will model the peace I expect this world to embrace.”

There was no applause. No cheers. Just a deep, reverent silence.

And then, as if breaking a spell, Colin Creevey stood and crossed the hall. Justin Finch-Fletchley followed. Then Ernie Macmillan. Padma and Parvati Patil. Former DA members, allies, friends—all sitting at the Slytherin table.

Soon, students from every house were scattered along the green-and-silver benches, and the Slytherin table had never looked more united.

Draco looked at Hermione, glowing with righteous fury and conviction, and felt something powerful settle in his chest.

This was the beginning of the future she wanted to fight for.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After breakfast, the Headmistress requested a private meeting with Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Draco.

Hermione smiled at the invitation—it felt like old times, heading off on a mission with her boys. But the moment they stepped into McGonagall’s office, the warm nostalgia shifted into something heavier.

McGonagall quickly pulled Harry and Ron into tight hugs before gesturing them all to sit. No sooner had they settled into the chairs than Harry slipped seamlessly into his Auror persona.

Alarm bells rang in Hermione’s head.

Harry’s expression was all business. “’Mione, Draco—this weekend gave us the perfect excuse to come see you under the radar. Dawlish asked us to make contact covertly and give you both a critical update.”

Hermione straightened in her chair, her brain already jumping three steps ahead. She looked to Ron and saw he’d slipped into mission-mode, too.

Harry continued. “There’s been a breach at the Ministry. A mole. We believe they’ve been intercepting and leaking information about your acceptance of the royal Camelot titles.”

Ron picked up where he left off. “We’ve traced the intel back to a rogue Death Eater cell—more organized than we’ve seen since the war. They’re rallying behind a new leader. Unknown. Dangerous.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. The war was supposed to be over, but this... this felt too familiar.

“They view you as the ultimate insult,” Ron said grimly, “A Muggleborn woman gaining one of the oldest magical bloodline titles in existence. And Draco—” he glanced at him—“you’re being painted as the worst kind of traitor. A blood-traitor aristocrat.”

“Lord Malfoy has been advising us,” Harry added. “He’s helped us understand how the symbolism of these titles is fueling them. They’re using it to recruit. Some of the propaganda calls for your public execution. They want to make examples of you both.”

Hermione’s fists clenched in her lap. Anger surged like wildfire through her chest.

Again. Always again. Her life, her peace, her love —threatened by bigots with outdated ideologies and a lust for violence.

Harry reached over and gently took her hand. “We know you’re a powerful witch, Hermione. Honestly? I sleep easier knowing Draco is usually at your side. He was trained by Bellatrix and Voldemort. He’s a dangerous duelist.”

Draco, who had been silent with shock, finally found his voice. “I’ll give everything I have to protect her.”

Hermione turned to him and clasped his hand. “I believe you. And I appreciate it. But I will not let extremists dictate my life again.”

Ron exhaled, clearly expecting her answer. “We figured you’d say that. That’s what we told Dawlish, too. Still—we need you both to be careful. Don’t contact us at the Ministry unless it’s urgent. We don’t know who’s listening.”

Harry added, “And Hermione—don’t go anywhere alone. Please. Not because we don’t believe in you. Just... the numbers. The risk.”

She let out a breath, the fire in her eyes dimming just a touch. “Alright. I promise. No unnecessary risks.”

But her heart was already preparing for war.

Chapter Text

The week blurred by in a haze of classes, late-night planning, and mounting nerves. Before they knew it, their first wedding ceremony—the Muggle one that would fulfill the contract—was just days away. In a matter of hours, Hermione would legally become his wife.

Draco’s heart went warm at the thought. It still felt surreal.

But there was something weighing on him—something he had to discuss with her, especially now that they knew of the rising threat. He waited for her in the Entrance Hall, hoping a quiet walk around the Black Lake would give them space to breathe and talk.

The second he saw her, his heart stuttered in his chest. She was wearing her school robes, just like him, but the golden September sunlight caught in her hair and made her look almost ethereal.

When he offered her his arm, she gave him a teasing, bemused look. “What’s this about, Malfoy?”

He chuckled, knowing he wasn’t fooling her. “I thought we could both use a break. From school. From all the stress.”

They started walking down toward the lake, and Hermione tilted her face to the sun. Her expression softened into something peaceful, and Draco felt like he could breathe easier just watching her.

Still, he couldn’t put it off any longer.

“I wanted to talk about something before the ceremony on Saturday,” he said, steadying his voice. He felt her body stiffen slightly beside him. “Not about marrying you,” he added quickly. “I’m looking forward to that. But I am worried about your family’s safety. Even though the ceremony is private and royals usually have strong protections, the threat we’re facing changes everything.”

That got her attention. She turned her full gaze on him, serious and alert.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continued. “We can’t trust the Ministry—not beyond Potter and the Weasel. So I propose we ask our friends to act as magical guards, at least during the ceremony.”

Her expression immediately darkened, and she stopped in her tracks. “You want to use our friends as shields?” she asked sharply, eyes flashing. “How dare you! We’re not putting them in danger for us .”

Draco raised his hands, trying to keep his tone even. “Hermione. I’m not trying to be reckless—I hate the idea of involving them. These people are my chosen family. But what other options do we have?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I won’t entertain this. Not after everything they’ve already been through.” She turned and stormed off across the lawn.

Draco exhaled, then lengthened his stride to catch up. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“Hermione,” he said gently, “I’m not trying to fight you. And this isn’t just about us. It terrifies me to even consider asking for their help. But it’s no different than what Harry asked of you back then. Would you have turned your back on him if he’d asked for your protection?”

She opened her mouth, ready to argue—but no words came out.

Draco stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Resting his forehead against hers, he softened his voice. “I know you want to protect them. I do too. But if we don’t ask, and something does happen, they’ll be furious that we kept them in the dark. We need their help—if only to keep your family safe.”

Hermione slumped slightly against him, the fight draining from her. “I don’t want to argue with you,” she murmured. “And I don’t want anything to happen to my grandparents. They’re completely powerless against this kind of threat…”

He pulled her closer, anchoring them both in the moment. “We’ll figure it out together. After dinner, we can talk to the gang?”

She nodded silently, too overwhelmed to speak, but grateful for the strength of the man holding her.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione stood frozen before the tall antique mirror, the satin hem of her gown fanned around her feet like ripples of moonlight. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She hardly recognized herself.

The lace sleeves hugged her arms like whispered strength—soft, but resilient. Her eyes traced the fitted bodice, the delicate embroidery, the veil that floated like a dream behind her. And then the tiara—gleaming subtly above her curls. She looked like someone out of a storybook. A queen from legend. A woman standing at the threshold of becoming.

And yet… it was still her.

Not the bushy-haired girl who buried herself in books to prove she belonged. Not the war-hardened teen who held broken friends together with pure will. But this version—grown, sure, steady—was all of them woven together. A culmination of her past and the promise of her future.

She reached up, fingertips grazing the edge of her veil, her heart thudding against her ribs. She wasn’t afraid of the commitment. Not to Draco. But the weight of what this moment represented—the history she carried, the love she was choosing, the future they were stepping into—pressed against her chest like a second corset.

Draco had surprised her in so many ways since that first conversation about the contract. He had become her constant—steady, present, dependable. He never made her feel small or asked her to shrink for his sake. He didn’t trail behind or charge ahead. He stood beside her. As a partner. The kind of partner love was supposed to look like.

She paused at the realization.

Especially after Harry and Ron had shared news of the new threats against them, she had felt a shift. An unshakable, fierce need to protect Draco just as much as he wanted to protect her. Somewhere in her heart, a truth stirred—quiet, persistent, terrifying in its clarity.

She would do anything to keep him safe.

Her heart pounded with emotions she didn’t yet have names for, but she knew they were real.

There was a soft knock on the door. Ginny’s voice, light and warm: “Are you ready?”

Hermione took one last look at herself.

“I am,” she whispered.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco had faced war. He had stood before the Dark Lord himself. He had felt the crushing weight of legacy and shame and survival. But none of that prepared him for this.

For her.

The moment Hermione appeared at the end of the aisle, the breath left his lungs in one stunned, reverent rush.

She looked radiant—no, more than that. Untouchable and real all at once. The ivory gown shimmered in the sunlight like starlight woven into silk. The lace framed her arms and collarbones like it had been conjured just for her. And that tiara—gleaming delicately above her veil—reminded everyone exactly who she was. Not just his bride, but someone powerful in her own right. A woman worthy of crowns and wandlight and reverence.

But it was her eyes that undid him.

They locked on his, and in that instant, nothing else mattered. Not the wary whispers from the pews, not the lingering judgment of the world, not the threats that loomed like stormclouds on the edge of their lives. Just her. Just the way her gaze anchored him, reminded him that he had been chosen—not for what he could offer, but for who he had become.

A man worthy of her.

His chest felt too tight, like his heart was trying to push its way free. He wasn't sure when his hands had started to shake, only that he gripped them together tightly to keep himself grounded.

Theo leaned in behind him and whispered with amused reverence, “You look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus charm.”

Draco didn’t even blink. “I’ve been hit with something.”

As she walked closer, step by step, every beat of his heart felt like a vow. Not the kind spoken aloud in ceremony, but the kind forged in silence—raw and real. That he would fight for her. That he would protect her. That he would never let her forget her own brilliance, even when the world tried to dim it.

And then she was there, standing before him, eyes shining like they held galaxies.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to wait until the officiant told him to speak.

He already knew the words by heart.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ceremony passed in a blur, but silver eyes kept her anchored. Hermione lost herself in them, steady and luminous, knowing he wouldn’t let her drift. When the Bishop finally declared them husband and wife, Draco's soft lips found hers. The world fell away. His kiss—reverent, grounding—was a promise of a future she hadn’t dared to dream.

Hand in hand, they exited the royal chapel to cheers and applause from family and friends.

Hours passed in a blur of photographs and gentle congratulations before they arrived at Balmoral.  As it was a smaller, private affair, the wedding dinner was held at Balmoral Castle in Scotland, allowing time for the students to return to Hogwarts the next day. Draco escorted her into the dining room, his presence a calm, steady contrast to her swirling thoughts.

She stole a glance at him in his impeccably tailored Armani tuxedo. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fairy tale. No—he looked like a prince. And he was hers.

They greeted her grandparents first, formally at first with honorifics, and then with warm embraces. Hermione’s eyes shimmered as her gran pulled her close, whispering softly in her ear, “My dear, I am so proud of you. You’ve chosen well. I know great things lie ahead for you in this new role. You are radiant.”

Next came Draco’s parents. Narcissa stood with composed grace, her hand gently resting on Lucius’ arm, clearly holding back his enthusiasm. To Hermione’s surprise, Lucius pulled her into a deep hug—far warmer than aristocratic decorum might allow. But Hermione welcomed the unexpected affection.

“We’re truly honored to call you family,” Narcissa said, her tone calm but sincere. Lucius nodded, clasping his son's shoulder and pulling him into a brief, proud embrace.

It was real now. Not just a contract. Not just a ceremony. But the beginning of something extraordinary.

The clinking of silver against crystal brought the dining room at Balmoral Castle to a gentle hush. Narcissa rose first, elegance personified in deep emerald silk. She lifted her glass, her gaze soft as it swept across the guests and landed on Draco and Hermione.

“Family is not just blood,” she began, her voice poised but warm. “It is the people who stand with you in joy and in pain. Today, I gain a daughter—not through obligation, but through admiration. Hermione, your strength, brilliance, and heart are exactly what this family needed. You’ve brought light into Draco’s life, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, caught off guard by the sincerity. Draco squeezed her hand beneath the table.

Next came Lucius, surprisingly brief. “Hermione, you have our respect and our support. And Draco… I have never been prouder. Not of your name. But of your choices.”

There was a moment of stillness—one of those rare, weighty silences where something old quietly breaks and something new is allowed to bloom.

Ron stood next. The room tensed, if only slightly. But Ron just smiled and raised his glass.

“Alright, I won’t lie. I didn’t see this coming. At all.” A ripple of laughter. “But I’ve watched you both—really watched you. And what I see now is two people who make each other better. Draco, thanks for proving me wrong. And Hermione… thank you for always being the first to believe in people—even when they didn’t deserve it yet. I reckon we all could learn something from that.”

Hermione’s eyes welled again, but it was Ginny’s turn. She stood beside Harry, her voice bright and strong.

“When we were younger, Hermione used to have a list for everything—study schedules, exam prep, how to survive a troll attack. I think marriage might be the first thing she didn’t over-plan. And look at her—it’s perfect.” More laughter. “To love, loyalty, and the quiet strength that makes everything around it rise higher.”

Finally, Harry stood. His toast was quiet, almost private, yet every word landed with weight.

“Hermione, you were my first friend in the wizarding world. You taught me what bravery looks like when no one’s watching. And Draco… somehow, against all odds, you’ve earned her trust. And mine. That’s no small thing.” He raised his glass. “To choosing love even when the world tells you not to. To choosing each other.”

Glasses clinked. For a moment, everything was still—peaceful, golden, full of possibility.

As the laughter from Harry’s toast faded and the clinking of glasses settled again, Grandpa Phillip rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his presence commanding in a way that needed no magic to turn heads.

“I will admit,” he began, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “when our granddaughter first told us about this young man named Draco Malfoy, I braced myself for... turbulence.” A low chuckle rippled through the guests. “But I have come to know him not as a name or a reputation, but as a man who looks at our Hermione not as a prize or a challenge—but as a partner. And for that, I am deeply grateful.”

He glanced at Hermione, his eyes misting slightly. “My girl, I have watched you grow from a fiercely clever child into a woman who bends history toward justice, who never compromises her values, and who now stands here... radiant. Married, yes—but still entirely, brilliantly you. That is no small feat.”

Granny Elizabeth stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Draco,” she said warmly, “thank you for cherishing her, for matching her strength with your own, and for seeing her—not just for what she’s done, but for who she is. We welcome you not just into our family, but into our hearts.”

She lifted her glass with elegant ease. “To Draco and Hermione. May their union be built on respect, sharpened by wit, and filled with a love that makes each of them more fully themselves.”

The room lifted glasses once more, and Hermione found herself pressing her hand to her chest, overwhelmed—but rooted. Grounded in love from all sides.

After dinner, Hermione’s grandparents rose with warm hugs and lingering kisses for the newlyweds, promising to join them for breakfast before the students returned to Hogwarts. Their departure left behind a tender calm, the sort that comes only after true blessings have been given.

Of course, Pansy couldn’t let a wedding pass without indulging a few traditions. She’d arranged for a gramophone to be set up in the adjacent ballroom, and soon enough, the small party made their way there—because no proper wedding, in her opinion, could go without a first dance (and several more to follow; she was already scheming).

Hermione leaned into Draco’s arms as he expertly guided her across the polished floor. Her cheek brushed the soft wool of his lapel, and her fingers curled against his shoulder. As he moved with practiced ease, Hermione’s mind briefly wandered to the fairytales she’d once adored—how the Beast had led Belle in a graceful swirl across a candlelit ballroom. Draco wasn’t a prince out of a storybook, but somehow, he had become her own hidden one.

He broke her reverie with a gentle question. “Do you regret not having your whole extended family here?”

She let her eyes flutter shut as her body moved in sync with his. “Not really. Honestly, I feel better knowing they’re safe. It gave us fewer people to worry about, and I think… this was the most perfect muggle wedding I could’ve imagined for myself.”

His smile was radiant, tender, and he kissed her gently—no audience in the world could have broken the moment.

Soon the dance floor filled again, echoing the pairings from their Hen and Stag night. This time, however, Lucius and Narcissa joined them. Hermione watched, a soft smile tugging at her lips, as Lucius spun Narcissa with surprising grace. They moved in elegant harmony, eyes locked with such fierce devotion it seemed to silence the world around them.

Draco noticed her gaze. “I grew up watching that kind of love,” he said quietly. “Fairytale love. I know we’re not there yet… but I promise you—I want to build that with you.”

Hermione turned to him fully, her chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. Her heart, already brimming, melted into the hope of a future they would build—together.  For the first time, she let herself believe it was possible—that the future she had always fought for might actually include joy.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation as she and Draco made their way to their suite. They had lingered late into the evening with friends and family, but now, at last, it was just the two of them—their first night as husband and wife.

Their ornate chamber was softly lit, golden lamplight casting a warm glow over the carved furniture and the massive, canopied bed that dominated the room. Hermione paused just inside the doorway, her heart pounding as her nerves threatened to steal her breath. She must have looked stricken, because Draco gently brushed the back of his cool fingers against her cheek, guiding her gaze to his.

“My Princess,” he said softly, “we don’t have to do anything tonight—not unless you’re ready.”

She drew in a steadying breath, summoning the last of her Gryffindor courage. “Even in the Muggle world, marriages have to be consummated to be legally binding,” she murmured. “We’re so close to the deadline… we have to.”

Draco nodded, his expression serious but gentle. “Then let me take care of you,” he said. “Tell me what you like. I want this to be good for you. I want to worship you, Hermione. You are—without a doubt—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

And Hermione believed him. She had seen it in his eyes earlier—when she walked down the aisle, when he kissed her, when he danced with her like she was made of starlight. The way he looked at her now—intense, molten with silver fire—left no room for doubt. His desire was not veiled. He wanted her. But more than that, she could tell… he cared.

“That’s not the problem,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Draco… I… I don’t know what I like. I’ve never had the chance before. Not during the war. Not after.”

His brows rose in stunned realization. “You mean… you’ve never? You’re a virgin?”

She twisted her hands together, suddenly unsure. “Is that… is that a problem? I didn’t think it would matter, but maybe I should’ve said something sooner. I’m sorry—”

He silenced her with a kiss—gentle, reverent. His hands cradled her jaw as if she were something priceless.

“Hermione,” he whispered, “you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. And no, it’s not a problem. Gods, no. I’m honored. To be your first—and your last? That’s not something I take lightly. That’s a gift, and I promise—I’ll treat it as one.”

Hermione realized, in this moment, just how much she trusted him. And if she was truly honest with herself… she couldn’t imagine anyone else being her first. She believed him when he said he wanted to make it good—for her. That belief settled something deep inside her. She relaxed into his arms, her tension easing, and he leaned down to kiss her with a gentleness that felt sacred.

She knew she could let him take the lead. With him, she felt safe. Safe in his arms. Safe in this moment.

His hands cradled her face as he kissed her slowly—languidly—like he had all the time in the world. There was no rush. Just the warmth of his lips, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the way her mind began to quiet under his touch.

When he finally broke the kiss, his voice was soft, seeking her permission. “May I take off your dress?”

Hermione swallowed, her breath catching, and nodded.

With reverent care, Draco began unfastening the buttons down her back, each one followed by the press of his lips against her spine. The heat of his mouth lingered on her skin as the fabric loosened, and finally, the dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling silently around her feet.

He stepped back, letting his eyes roam over the white lace lingerie she wore—Ginny and Pansy’s idea, of course. Judging by Draco’s stunned expression, they had been absolutely right.

“Salazar,” he breathed, awestruck. “You’re perfect.”

His hands skimmed along her sides, fingers brushing her stomach, trailing up her arms until they slipped into her hair. He kissed her again—but now the hunger simmered just beneath the surface. His lips were demanding, and when his tongue swept into her mouth, she gave way to him completely.

The shift in his energy was intoxicating—still careful, still in control, but with a growing urgency that sent sparks rushing through her veins. Heat bloomed low in her belly, spreading like wildfire between her thighs.

“I want to see you too,” she whispered breathlessly against his lips.

He stepped back just enough to give her space. Hermione reached up and slid his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, her fingers brushing the crisp fabric. She removed his bow tie, then moved to the row of gleaming white buttons on his shirt. Her hands trembled slightly, but she kept going, button by button, sensing the weight of his gaze on her the entire time.

She was determined to be the one to undress him.

When the shirt finally fell away from his shoulders, Hermione’s breath caught. His body was lean, defined—sculpted from years of Quidditch, all sleek muscle and strength. But it wasn’t just his form that held her attention. It was the marks etched across his skin—curse scars, faded but still visible.

She reached out and traced them with her fingertips, then followed her instincts and pressed soft, reverent kisses to each one. Each touch rewrote the story her body had never known. There was no fear, no shame—only the way her body bloomed under his hands, and the way he looked at her like she was divine.

That’s when she noticed the white bandage wrapped around his left forearm.

Her eyes flicked up to his, and Draco spoke before she could ask. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable if we got this far. I didn’t want the reminder there—of what I used to be.”

Hermione stepped forward, bold with affection. “Draco, that mark doesn’t define you. It doesn’t bother me—because I see you. The real you. Don’t hide your scars from me.” Her voice was steady, full of conviction. “When we made vows to each other, I meant them. Not just to share titles or names, but the scars too. That’s part of you. And I want all of you.” She continued with reverence in her voice, “I never waited for someone perfect—I waited for someone I could trust. That’s you.”

She gently unraveled the bandage, revealing the faded Dark Mark against his pale skin. Without flinching, without looking away, she leaned in and kissed it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her lips pressed to the mark he had once hated himself for, and Draco’s restraint unraveled like thread yanked from a seam. Her kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t fearful. It was defiant. Loving. Fierce.

She sees all of me—and still wants me.

Before he could think, he had her in his arms, his body blanketing hers on the bed, his mouth crashing onto hers with a hunger he hadn’t dared let himself feel until now. She opened for him instantly, kissing him back with just as much fire. He could taste her nerves, but beneath them—trust. Desire. Courage.

Merlin, she’s going to break me.

His hands explored her slowly at first, reverently—learning her curves, mapping her softness like she was made of magic itself. She was flushed and trembling under him, but never afraid. Her eyes didn’t leave his. She was letting him see her—truly—and that was more intimate than any touch.

When she whispered that she wanted him, his vision nearly went white. “You’re sure?” he breathed against her jaw, his voice rough and shaking. “You can still stop me.”

“I’m not going to,” she said, bold and honest. “I want you, Draco.”

Those four words nearly undid him.

Her lingerie was delicate, all lace and silk and temptation, but it came away under his hands like it was never meant to be a barrier. She was a vision beneath it, all curves and flushed skin, her hair fanned out like wildfire on the pillow. His mouth followed his hands—worshipping her breasts, the soft swell of her stomach, the sharp curve of her hip.

But when his fingers slipped between her thighs and found her wet for him, he nearly lost control.

“Merlin, Hermione…” he groaned, lowering his head to her neck as he began to touch her—slow, coaxing circles, watching her writhe and gasp with every flick of his wrist. She clung to him, thighs falling open wider, hips chasing his hand like she’d known him forever.

Watching her come undone was the most powerful thing he had ever seen. He had made her feel that. He had given her pleasure no one else ever had.

And gods, he wanted to give her everything.

He shed the last of his clothes with shaking hands, positioning himself carefully between her legs, his body strung tight with need but still asking, “If you want me to stop—”

“I don’t,” she said, voice shaking. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He pushed into her slowly, carefully, the heat and tightness nearly undoing him on the spot. Her gasp nearly killed him, and he froze, holding her face, watching every flicker in her eyes.

“You’re okay?” he rasped.

She nodded, breathing hard. “You feel… good.”

He began to move, gently at first, kissing her between each thrust, whispering her name like a prayer. She clung to him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he knew—deep in his marrow—this wasn’t just sex. This was the beginning of everything.

His control frayed as she moaned beneath him, her nails biting into his shoulders, her lips at his throat. He clung to his control like it was the last thread holding him together—but the moment she cried his name, it snapped, unraveling into something primal and unstoppable.

She met him thrust for thrust, losing herself in him, and when she shattered a second time around him, his own climax tore through him like a spell cast from the gods.

He buried his face in her neck, heart pounding, body trembling, and held her like she was the first thing he’d ever truly earned. And the only thing he’d never let go.

Hermione lay curled against him, her bare body flush with his, their limbs tangled in satin sheets that still carried the scent of their love. Draco had one arm wrapped around her shoulders, fingers stroking idly through her hair, while the other rested low on her back, holding her as though he feared she might vanish.

He didn’t speak at first. He just held her.

Hermione’s breathing had steadied, but her lashes were still damp from the tears she hadn’t meant to cry—tears not of pain, but of release. Of healing. Of being truly seen for the first time.

“Are you all right?” he finally whispered, brushing his lips against her temple.

She nodded, her voice thick. “I… I didn’t expect to feel so much. It wasn’t just physical. It was everything.”

Draco tightened his hold. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “It was everything for me, too.”

He shifted slightly so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her curls wild against the pillow, and her brown eyes—gods, her eyes—were still wide with wonder. As if she was seeing the world anew. Or maybe just him.

“I wasn’t sure I deserved this,” she said quietly, tracing a line across his chest with her finger. “You. Us.”

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You deserve the world, Hermione. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again.”

A soft, shaky laugh escaped her. “That’s quite the vow, Malfoy.”

“I meant every word,” he replied. Then softer, “You were incredible. Brave. Open. You gave yourself to me with trust I don’t think I’ve ever earned—but I swear, I’ll never betray it. You’re safe with me.”

Something shifted in her eyes then—something deeper than gratitude, more profound than affection. It was belief. She believed him.

“I’ve never felt this safe before,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Draco swallowed hard, trying to rein in the emotion swelling in his chest. “Then we’re doing something right.”

Hermione nestled closer, letting herself be gathered entirely into his arms. She tucked her head beneath his chin and exhaled, the last of her tension melting away. He could feel the quiet rhythm of her heart slowing against his chest, steadying in time with his.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

He held her until her breathing deepened, her body soft and pliant with sleep. Only then did he dare to close his eyes, one hand still stroking her spine in slow, anchoring circles.

And for the first time in a long, long time… Draco Malfoy felt whole.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione stirred as the sunlight filtered in, her legs tangled with Draco’s. She blinked up at him, already awake and watching her like she was a sunrise he'd been waiting for his whole life.

“You didn’t sleep?” she murmured, voice still groggy.

“I did,” he said, brushing her hair off her face. “But I kept waking up just to make sure this wasn’t a dream.”

Her throat caught at that, and she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“We’re real,” she whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He leaned in, kissing her fingertips one by one. “I won’t let you.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she would ever stop being amazed by the man she now called her husband. Draco Malfoy had once been the embodiment of cruelty in her youth—but now? He was gentle, protective, funny in ways that surprised her, and, as of last night, entirely devoted in ways that made her heartache in the best way. She sometimes wondered how different their lives might have been if they'd met under better circumstances. But no… everything they’d been through had led to this. And she wouldn’t change a thing.

Hand in hand, they walked into the breakfast room. The clatter of silverware paused the moment they stepped through the doors. Every head turned. Their friends were already there—and clearly waiting.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed instantly.

Harry and Ron blanched, as if someone had just offered them a detailed play-by-play of the previous night. Ron made a strangled noise and stared intensely at his teacup.

Theo, Blaise, and Ginny, however, stood with perfect synchronization and broke into loud, theatrical applause.

Draco groaned. “Really?” he hissed. “In front of the queen?”

Unbothered and amused, Hermione’s gran sipped her tea and said cheerfully, “Oh, I’ve been thoroughly entertained by Lord Nott’s antics. The next royal banquet, I think I’d quite like him seated at my side.”

Theo positively beamed. With a flourish, he executed a sweeping, courtly bow. “It would be my honor , Your Majesty. And I do request a glitter cannon for my entrance.”

Lucius scoffed loudly from across the table—an entirely un-aristocratic snort—and muttered something under his breath about standards collapsing .

The Queen chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Of course, you may be nearby as well, Lord Malfoy. Your company is quite… entertaining , too.”

Lucius’s spine straightened as if she’d knighted him. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am honored beyond words.”

Across the room, Narcissa rolled her eyes so subtly only Draco caught it. He smirked.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief, laughing. Between Theo and Lucius, the Queen of England had clearly been charmed into submission. God save the country , she thought wryly.

The table was laden with a full English breakfast, the smell of warm scones and bacon filling the room. Hermione sank into her seat beside Draco, her fingers still twined with his under the table. This—this moment of peace, surrounded by friends and family—felt like the perfect ending to their wedding. Soon they'd be heading back to Hogwarts, but for now, she wanted to linger in this slice of comfort.

When breakfast wrapped up, her Gran and Grandpa pulled both her and Draco into tight, lingering hugs.

“Promise you’ll keep safe,” her gran whispered into her ear. “Minister Shacklebolt will keep us informed, but if you need anything —you let us know. Immediately.”

Draco nodded solemnly. “We will. I promise.”

Lucius and Narcissa stepped up next. They were more reserved, but no less sincere.

“Don’t worry, dears,” Narcissa said, smoothing a wrinkle on Hermione’s sleeve with the ease of someone who had raised boys but always wanted a daughter. “Lucius is working closely with Harry, Ron, and Dawlish. His... extensive network will get to the bottom of this. And we won’t stop until every last one of them is in Azkaban.”

Lucius nodded once, then turned to Draco. His expression was firm. “You know what we’re up against. Don’t underestimate them. And above all… protect her.”

Hermione bristled slightly, instinctively defensive—but Lucius surprised her. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, steady and paternal.

“Not because you’re incapable,” he said, his voice quieter, more genuine than she'd ever heard it. “But because you deserve someone who will always have your back. Malfoy men protect the ones they love. That’s not weakness. That’s honor.”

The tension in her chest eased. She smiled at him, and he pulled her into an unexpected hug—stiff, awkward, but sincere.

When they stepped out into the crisp morning air a few minutes later, Draco laced his fingers with hers again. Their friends followed close behind, laughter and teasing echoing from the corridor, but Draco leaned in and whispered just for her—

“I hope you're ready for round two of chaos, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Hermione grinned. “As long as you’re beside me? Always.”

They walked forward together, hearts full and heads high—ready for whatever came next.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unbeknownst to the joyful group celebrating in the Scottish castle, far away in a shadowed chamber, figures cloaked in black robes and silver masks sat around a long, stone table. The air was thick with tension—charged with quiet malice and the hum of dark intentions.

A hooded figure broke the silence. “Sir, everything is in place. We have our in. We move forward on your command.”

At the head of the table, a tall figure leaned forward, fingers steepled, voice smooth and cold as ice. “Excellent.”

Chapter Text

After returning to Hogwarts, Hermione and Draco discovered that their belongings had been relocated to the Married Quarters. Hermione recalled from Hogwarts, A History that these rooms had once been a customary compromise—allowing married students to finish their schooling without disruption.

She was simply grateful to be finishing at all.

During one of their quiet evening conversations, Draco had told her he planned to apply to Cambridge—to follow her there and pursue his Potions mastery. When she’d hesitantly asked if he was only choosing that path because of her, he had been quick to reassure her: estate management could be learned from his father, but academic brilliance was more fun with someone who challenged him.

Hermione adored those evenings alone with him. Whether curled up on the couch or sprawled across the rug with books and tea, she found Draco to be an excellent study partner—and even better company for the kind of intellectual debates that usually left others running for cover.

But life didn’t have a chance to feel settled before Mabon arrived—and with it, the looming wizarding wedding and coronation ceremony.

Professor McGonagall had excused Hermione, Draco, and the rest of their little group from classes for the rest of the week, though Hermione was already mentally drafting schedules to make sure they didn’t fall behind. Wedding or not, N.E.W.T.s weren’t going to ace themselves.

First, however, she had to survive the pomp and circumstance headed her way.

The magical wedding was to be held at Malfoy Manor, in the garden where the ley lines converged. Narcissa had insisted the location would strengthen not just their marital bond, but also their connection to the royal titles they were about to accept.

Hermione had visited the manor over the summer as part of her ongoing sessions with her Mind Healer. It was there she’d first seen the transformation. Narcissa had gutted the house—physically and emotionally—purging every inch of it that held memories of the Dark Lord’s occupation. In its place, she’d built something grand, elegant, and warm.

What had once been a mausoleum now felt like a home.

Hermione thought there was something profoundly poetic about hosting the ceremony there. A reclamation. A rebirth.

It just felt… right.

The poetic serenity around the ceremony was deeply reflected in the gown choice Narcissa and Pansy had helped design for this ceremony.  Hermione’s gown was a vision of Mabon itself—an elegant celebration of balance, harvest, and transformation. Made from enchanted moonlight silk tinted with the hues of early autumn, the fabric shifted gently between soft cream, burnished gold, and pale russet as she moved. It shimmered with warmth rather than brilliance, echoing the fading glow of sunlight as the world tipped toward the darker half of the year.

The A-line silhouette flowed like falling leaves around her, modest but regal, with a subtle train edged in hand-stitched phoenix feathers and oak leaves, charmed to dance ever so slightly on their own, as if stirred by a breeze no one else could feel. The embroidery on her bodice was stitched with threads of copper and deep wine-red, forming protective runes and ancient Celtic knotwork symbolizing unity, magic, and the turning of the seasons.

The neckline rested gracefully off her shoulders, and her sheer, bell-shaped sleeves were adorned with glimmering constellations charmed to mirror the autumn equinox sky above the Malfoy Manor garden. Each star seemed to pulse softly, alive with ancestral magic, and a reminder of the ley lines humming beneath her feet.

Draped over her shoulders was a ceremonial cloak made from velvet as rich as harvest soil—deep forest green on the outside and lined in amber silk. Its clasp was shaped like a golden apple sliced in half, revealing a rune-inscribed core, symbolizing wisdom, legacy, and the fruit of choices well made.

Her coronet was a masterpiece of wandwood and gemstone—branches of rowan and elder twisted together and accented with enchanted citrine, amber, and polished garnet. The stones glowed gently in harmony with her magic, radiating strength, protection, and purpose.

Every detail of the gown and ceremony paid quiet homage to change, resilience, and the steady magic of the earth. In this moment, as she stood between worlds—maiden and wife, student and ruler—Hermione Granger-Malfoy was not just stepping into her future. She was rooted in it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco stood tall in ceremonial wizarding robes that struck a perfect balance between tradition and renewal. The base was a tailored set of deep midnight green robes, the color of evergreen shadows and old forest secrets, layered with a sleeveless overrobe of rich obsidian velvet that caught the amber garden light like dew on raven feathers.

His garment bore sigils stitched in fine thread-of-gold—ancestral Malfoy runes reworked to integrate symbols of balance and unity from older, Celtic traditions. Down the edges of the robe, leaves of gold, copper, and iron-red shimmered in quiet homage to the turning wheel of the year. His sleeves were subtly charmed to resemble the interlacing bark of ancient yew trees, knotted with woven threads of silver that pulsed with quiet, protective magic.

At his throat, he wore a clasp shaped like a dragon coiled around a branch of rowan—an emblem forged specially for the ceremony. It represented legacy, strength, and his vow to protect what they were building anew. His wand holster, usually concealed, was openly displayed at his side, fashioned from black dragonhide and embossed with runes for loyalty and fidelity.

Draped over his shoulders was a formal cloak lined in rust-red silk and trimmed in platinum thread, representing both the harvest and the lineage he carried. Its weight was symbolic—of name, of duty, and of choice. But Draco wore it not as a burden, but with quiet pride.

His hair was loosely styled, the ends brushing the collar of his cloak, and a slim circlet rested on his brow: forged of silver and burnished oak, set with a single gleaming piece of smoky quartz. It glowed faintly in the equinox twilight, attuned to the ley lines beneath their feet—marking him not just as heir of the Malfoy name, but consort to a Princess of magic.

He looked every inch the man Hermione was growing to love: not the boy bred for arrogance and control, but the one who had chosen healing, partnership, and purpose.

Draco’s brief moment of serene composure before the ceremony was shattered—rather predictably—by the explosive arrival of his friends.

“Salazar’s saggy ballsack, you look sharp!” Theo declared as he burst into the room like chaos incarnate. He took one sweeping look at Draco’s ceremonial attire and whistled low. “Hermione’s going to shred that outfit off with her bare hands. Hope the enchantments on that collar are reinforced.”

He doubled over laughing, entirely unbothered by the scandalized groans from behind him.

“Merlin, Theo, shut up,” Blaise muttered, dragging a hand over his face in exasperation.

Ron looked as if he might actually keel over. “I will hex your tongue out if you keep talking like that,” he warned, clutching his stomach like he’d been personally assaulted. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about, and now I need a Pensieve to scrub my brain.”

Theo grinned, absolutely delighted with himself. “Aw, c’mon, Weasley. You should be happy for them! True love, soul-bonding, mutual academic kink—it’s beautiful. Filthy, but beautiful.”

“Stop talking,” Ron begged. “Just… stop.”

Neville, standing near the window, shook his head with an amused smile. “You really have a gift for making people uncomfortable, Theo.”

Draco rolled his eyes but smirked as he adjusted his cuffs. “Theo, if you cause a scene during the ceremony, I will personally tie you to a broomstick and launch you into the North Sea.”

Theo grinned wider. “You say that like it’s a deterrent.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy. I brought my magical inhibiting cuffs in case he needs to be restrained,” Harry said, smirking as he nodded toward Theo.

With an exaggerated gasp, Theo clutched his chest and staggered backward like he'd been mortally wounded. “You wound me, Potter! Right in my delicate, misunderstood heart!” He collapsed in dramatic fashion onto a nearby chaise lounge, sighing like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“Trust me, mate,” Harry said dryly, “I’m far more afraid of Hermione than I am of your imaginary injuries. If anything goes wrong and she blames us, we’ll all be hexed into next week.”

Smirking at the faux-injured Theo, Neville added, “Didn’t you learn anything from the review of Hermione’s wrap sheet?”

The group chuckled in agreement, the air light and teasing. Draco just rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his mouth as he adjusted the cuffs of his ceremonial robes. His friends were an utter menace—but at least they were his menace.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted the laughter. Narcissa peeked inside, Lucius close behind her, both wearing expressions that didn’t match the festive mood.

“Have any of you seen Daphne or Astoria?” Narcissa asked, her voice composed but clearly tinged with concern. “We need them to finish getting ready with the ladies.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “No, Mother. We haven’t seen them at all.”

Theo, still draped dramatically on the chaise, sat up at once. “We just came through the lounge, and they weren’t there either.”

Ron’s face paled. “Astoria said she’d meet me once she arrived. I just assumed she was with the girls and hadn’t had time to find me yet.”

Lucius’s eyes darkened, the easy charm in his expression vanishing. “Meet us in my study. Your mother and I will check on the others. The house elves haven’t seen either of the Greengrass sisters. Something’s not right.”

The jovial air evaporated in an instant as the men hurried down the corridor, boots echoing sharply against the polished floors of the manor. Narcissa and Lucius disappeared in the opposite direction.

Moments later, the women arrived in the study, skirts rustling and heels tapping against marble as tension drew everyone taut.

Then—Draco forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t how he imagined seeing her for the first time, but as Hermione entered the room, the chaos around him faded. Bathed in a golden warmth, she looked radiant—like a bride of Mabon incarnate. The crown of autumn leaves, the rich amber hue of her gown, the soft glint of magic pulsing around her—it all stole the breath from his lungs.

Even with worry hanging over them, she was the calm at the center of the storm.

The moment concern was voiced by the Malfoys, Ron and Harry snapped into Auror mode. Years of training kicked in, replacing any lingering nerves with sharp focus.

Harry stepped forward, taking command. “Ron, Theo, Blaise, and I will head to Greengrass Estate. Lucius, stay with Hermione’s grandparents—don’t let them out of your sight. Narcissa, keep the guests calm and distracted. Neville and Draco—stay with the women.”

He held up a hand before Hermione could protest. “This isn’t about doubting your abilities. I know you'd throw yourself in harm’s way for everyone here. That’s why you need your partner. Let him have your back.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but saw the earnestness in his eyes—and the tension in the room. She let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. You’re right.”

Ron, his expression grim, added, “We’ve got half the Wizengamot, the full Hogwarts board, and most of the Ministry under one roof. They’re safe under the wards—for now—but if something’s off, we can't afford to be scattered.”

Harry nodded, already striding toward the fireplace. “We’ll floo directly back to Lucius’s study when we return. If anything happens, you’ll know fast.”

Narcissa’s voice cut in, cool and composed. “The ceremony begins in an hour. I’ll do my part to keep appearances in place. Lucius, bring Hermione’s grandparents here—they’ll be safest in the study.”

Lucius offered a tight nod and swept from the room without a word.

As the others mobilized, Draco turned and noticed Hermione beginning to pace, fingers twitching at her sides. The quiet buzz of guests in the distance felt far away—like another world entirely.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment the four men stepped through the boundary wards of the Greengrass estate, an eerie silence met them. The gardens—normally immaculate—were overgrown and wild, the once-grand manor looming ahead like a forgotten relic. A strange chill clung to the air.

Harry raised his wand. “Something’s wrong. The protective enchantments are weak—like they’ve been deliberately drained.”

Blaise muttered, “I always said Lord Greengrass was a snake. Guess he finally shed the polite skin.”

Ron’s grip on his wand tightened. “Let’s split—Theo and I take the east wing. Harry and Blaise, the west. Signal if anything’s off.”

As they breached the manor doors, the heavy silence gave way to a faint crackling—dark magic residue clinging to the walls like soot. Portraits were covered, furniture draped in dustcloths, but the tension in the air was unmistakable. They were being watched.

Ron spotted a smear of blood on the polished floor—subtle, but fresh. His gut dropped. “This way,” he whispered to Theo, leading him down a hallway lined with ancestral portraits whose eyes were eerily vacant.

“Behind this door,” Ron said, and blasted it open with a quick incantation.

Inside, Astoria was bound to an ornate chair with magical restraints that shimmered with containment charms. A masked Death Eater fumbled with a cursed Portkey.

Without hesitation, Ron launched himself forward, tackling the figure with a growl. Their wands clattered across the floor as Ron slammed the man into the ground, then rolled, retrieving his wand.

“Finite!” he barked, and the cords binding Astoria dissolved.

She gasped, shakily standing. “Ron—it was our father—he sold us. Handed us over like livestock.”

Ron’s chest heaved with fury. “We’re getting you out. You’re safe now.”

On the other side of the house, Harry and Blaise navigated the west corridor when they heard muffled thuds coming from a locked cellar door.

Harry’s wand sparked. “Stand back.”

The door exploded inward, revealing Daphne—bound, bruised, and pale. Two Death Eaters stood over her. One turned just in time to be hit squarely by Harry’s Stunner, sent flying into the stone wall. Blaise disarmed the other with a practiced flick of his wand, the man’s weapon spinning across the floor.

Harry crossed to Daphne in seconds, cutting the bindings and catching her as she slumped forward. “Daphne, I’ve got you. You're safe.”

She blinked up at him, her voice barely audible. “They stole our wedding invitations… they’re going to use them to breach the Manor wards…”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“They knew,” Blaise said, already backing toward the door. “This wasn’t a kidnapping. It was a damn heist. They're planning something bigger.”

Ron reappeared with Astoria leaning on him for support. The girls’ faces were pale, eyes glassy with the trauma of betrayal and captivity.

Harry stepped forward, wand already raised. “We get back to the Manor—now.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco and Lucius locked eyes the instant the wards faltered—an invisible ripple of ancient magic humming through the bones of the manor.

Then Narcissa burst into the study, pale and wide-eyed. “They’re on the grounds.”

Lucius’s voice was deathly calm—his battle-ready tone. “The wards have been breached.”

Before anyone could speak, the Floo roared to life in a flash of green flame. Daphne stumbled out, clinging to Harry, her face streaked with blood and ash. Astoria followed seconds later, unconscious in Ron’s arms, her head lolled against his chest.

Pansy surged forward without hesitation, wand already alight. “Put them down here—I’ve got them.”

Draco didn’t waste a breath. “Pansy, stay with them. Prioritize stabilizing Astoria—Daphne’s breathing, but shaken.”

“Lala!” he barked.

The house-elf popped into the study with a crack. “Master Draco, sir?”

“Bring Miss Parkinson everything she needs. Medical potions, cleansing charms, trauma salves—now.”

Lala nodded and vanished instantly.

“Luna,” Draco turned to the calm blonde standing quietly near Hermione’s grandparents, “get them to the far corner. We’ll ward the office—no one gets through once it’s sealed.”

Luna drew her wand and gave a crisp nod. “They’ll be safe.”

Draco’s eyes found Hermione’s across the room, and she met his gaze with steady resolve. Whatever was coming, they would face it together.

Ron straightened from where he’d gently laid Astoria down, eyes blazing. “Narcissa, start quietly evacuating the guests. Don’t panic them—just move them room by room toward the inner hall. The entire bloody Order is here tonight. The Death Eaters have no idea they’ve just walked into a trap.”

Lucius stepped to the fireplace, wand already out. “We hold the line. No one touches this family.”

The air pulsed with ancient enchantments, magic rising like a storm on the cusp of breaking.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just beyond the hedgerow of ancient yew trees that skirted the Malfoy Manor estate, cloaked figures moved with eerie coordination.

The leader of the group—his mask carved in cruel angles—raised a gloved hand. “The wards fell. The wards fell. ” His voice was low, reverent, like a priest at the altar.

“They used the Greengrass invitations to bypass the leyline barriers,” one sneered. “Fools practically handed us the keys.”

A ripple of agreement murmured down the line.

Another Death Eater, smaller in stature but hunched like a vulture, hissed, “The old bloods are weak. Celebrating love and unity like it’s strength. We’ll rip the heart out of their new order tonight.”

The masked leader turned toward the manor, where golden light shimmered from within the sprawling garden dome. “No Ministry guards. No Auror perimeter. They think they’re safe in ceremony and sentiment.”

“They’ll never see it coming,” someone chuckled darkly.

But one man at the end of the line hesitated. He tapped the hilt of his wand nervously, casting a quick glance back toward the shadowed forest. “It’s too quiet.”

The leader’s mask shifted. “Quiet is power. Quiet is ours. When we strike—”

A violent burst of magic shattered the night silence like a drumbeat.

Someone screamed—one of theirs.

An unseen shield wall exploded to life in crackling gold, revealing layered warding traps intricately spun around the manor’s perimeter. Anti-Disapparation. Confounding loops. Portkey dampeners.

And above it all, a sleek rune-flare sizzled high into the sky.

“An Order flare,” one hissed, mask faltering.

The leader’s voice lost its confidence, now sharp with urgency. “Hold positions! Regroup! We’re—”

But the garden doors of the Manor opened.

And the Order of the Phoenix stepped out.

Wands raised.

No hesitation.

Only fury.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The blast of magic outside cracked like thunder. Draco barely had time to nod at his father before he and Hermione bolted from the study, wands drawn and eyes hard.

The golden garden—once prepared for celebration—was now a war zone bathed in flickering torchlight. Chairs were overturned, floral arches scorched. Guests were evacuating swiftly under Narcissa’s careful coordination, slipping through hidden passages as spells lit the sky in streaks of red, gold, and green.

Hermione took position at Draco’s right without a word.

A masked figure lunged from behind a marble column—Hermione’s wand cut through the air. “Incarcerous!” Thick vines erupted, binding the assailant midair before slamming him into a hedge.

Draco spun and fired, “Stupefy!” —a second Death Eater crumpled near the reflecting pool.

From the far lawn came Theo, robes flaring dramatically as he skidded in beside them. “Would’ve been here sooner, but I had to hex a bastard off the buffet table. Sacrilege.”

“You brought wine to a wand fight?” Hermione muttered, glancing down at the bottle in his other hand.

“Battle hydration,” he said with a wink, before sending off a Bat-Bogey Hex so vicious the attacker dropped their wand screaming.

To their left, Ginny and Blaise were a fierce duo—Ginny’s curses crackled with Weasley fire, while Blaise moved like a shadow, silent and lethal. George, Molly, and Arthur Weasley were stationed near the side gate, defending a cluster of stunned guests. Percy barked out defensive incantations while shielding a group of younger witches with surprising precision.

“Shield wall, now!” roared Kingsley Shacklebolt as he led a squad of Order members up the eastern flank, voice like rolling thunder. His spells were graceful and devastating—arcane light swirling around his cloak like a storm.

Professor McGonagall strode onto the battlefield like an ancient goddess of war, hair pulled back, tartan robes sweeping the earth. With a sharp flick of her wand, a line of animated statues sprang to life from the manor’s perimeter, roaring forward like armored knights.

“Lucius, hold the west!” Kingsley bellowed, pointing toward the manor steps.

Lucius Malfoy, regal even in chaos, raised his cane and wand in tandem, sending a blast of controlled fire down the steps—igniting the ground beneath three cloaked figures. His silver hair shimmered, and beside him, Arthur joined in without hesitation. The two old rivals fought in seamless tandem, like history had no hold in a time like this.

Draco’s focus snapped forward. A Death Eater raised a wand at Hermione—
“Avada Keda—”
“Sectumsempra!” Draco’s spell tore through the air, lacerating the attacker just as a shield flared between the curse and Hermione.

Hermione didn’t flinch. She pivoted in sync with him, her wand already raised.
“Reducto!”
The blast hurled the Death Eater backward, shattering the stone rim of a nearby fountain.

A second curse flew at Draco from behind.
“Protego!” Hermione barked, spinning to intercept it.
He turned on instinct and covered her side with a shield of his own.

Back-to-back now, wands raised, their breathing ragged but steady.
“I’ve got your back,” she said, eyes scanning the chaos.
“You always do,” Draco replied, without needing to look.

They moved in tandem—her flames scorching a path forward, his curses pinning targets from behind. Where one stepped, the other followed. It was magic born of rhythm and trust—two minds, one purpose.

A figure charged them—blade raised, mask slipping. Theo intercepted it with a roar, “Expulso!” The explosion sent the attacker flying backward into a stone pillar.

“I am not losing this waistcoat for anyone,” Theo muttered. “You try laundering blood out of silk.”

Ginny darted over with scorch marks on her sleeve. “North side's clear! George is helping barricade the guests.”

“Good,” Hermione said. “Because this ends now .”

Another wave of attackers broke from the tree line—dozens masked, hungry.

Draco took Hermione’s hand.

“We end it together,” he said quietly.

And with Theo flanking them, Ginny dueling like a wildfire, Lucius holding the manor steps, Kingsley leading a line of Order, McGonagall commanding stone warriors, and the Weasley family scattered across the grounds like a web of defense—the soon to be soulbonded pair stepped into the final stage of battle.

Not just a couple. Not just a ceremony.

But a war—and they were ready.

As another surge of dark-cloaked figures stormed from the edge of the orchard, the air grew heavy with hostile magic. The sky above the manor rippled with spells, some cracking like lightning, others whispering curses as they slithered through the air.

Hermione’s chest heaved with adrenaline. Her hair had come loose, tendrils wild around her face as she raised her wand again.

“Draco—twelve o’clock!”

He turned, barely catching the green glint of another killing curse flying toward them. “Protego Totalum!” he bellowed, shielding them both just in time.

Hermione spun to his side, their backs pressed together now, casting in tandem without needing to speak. They moved as one—flawless, fierce.

And then—

Something shifted.

As their magic flowed, their joined spells began to hum in unison—threads of their respective power curling outward like vines and flame. Where her spells sparkled with golden heat, his glinted like molten silver. They didn't clash. They intertwined —spiraling upward in the center of the battlefield.

A radiant column of energy burst forth from where they stood, towering into the sky like a beacon. Gold and silver wove together, illuminating the entire lawn with a pulsing warmth that drove back the unnatural chill of the Death Eaters’ curses.

Time seemed to hesitate.

The fighting slowed for just a breath, all eyes drawn to the sky.

The auric light expanded, washing over the wards, strengthening them. Every ally it touched felt a surge of renewed energy—wounds easing, nerves calming, magical reservoirs refilled.

The symbol of the bond—an ouroboros of flame and starlight, Draco’s and Hermione’s combined crest—hovered above them, glowing and spinning gently like the heart of a constellation.

Kingsley’s voice broke through the stunned hush: “The bond has awakened.”

McGonagall, voice low and reverent, murmured, “They’ve become anchorpoints. The old magic answers to them now.”

Lucius faltered mid-duel, eyes wide as he gazed toward his son—something like awe flickering across his face. Narcissa, standing in the manor archway, pressed a trembling hand to her heart.

And the Death Eaters finally understood.

This wasn’t a wedding.
This wasn’t a ceremony.
This was a crowning —not of title, but of power. Of unity. Of love forged through war and reckoning.

With a cry that echoed like a bell through stormlight, Hermione raised her wand high. Draco mirrored her. Their magic met in a blast that flattened the next wave of enemies and re-ignited the charge from every corner of the lawn.

And just like that, the tide turned.

The battle was a storm unraveling.

Spells cracked through the night air, curses hissed like venom, and screams of pain and fury echoed across the manor grounds. Smoke curled along the grass, mingling with the golden-silver shimmer still radiating from the bond Hermione and Draco had awakened.

And then—

Silence fell, sharp and sudden.

Only one figure remained in black.

He was cornered, robes torn, mask askew—desperation etched into every trembling movement. A cruel wand wavered in his grip as he faced a semi-circle of the resistance. Ginny and Neville flanked him, wands steady. Lucius and Theo stood close behind, their expressions unreadable. Kingsley stepped forward like judgment incarnate, his presence heavy with power and history.

But it was Hermione and Draco who approached last.

Together.

Their steps were calm, purposeful. No rage. No glory. Just quiet resolve.

The man’s wand hand twitched. “You think you’ve won—”

“You lost the moment you touched someone we love,” Hermione said evenly.

Draco didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The Death Eater raised his wand, a final, ragged cry of hatred on his lips.

Before he could cast— Stupefy.

The red beam struck him dead center.

He crumpled.

Hermione lowered her wand, heart pounding.

There were no cheers.

No victory screams.

Just a long exhale—collective and weary.

Harry stepped forward, wand still ready, and conjured magical bindings around the unconscious man. “That was the last one,” he said quietly.

Around the battlefield, the others began to lower their wands. The Order. The professors. The guests-turned-fighters. The Weasleys stood in a loose cluster, bruised but intact. Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed in a tight line, her hand gripping her tartan shawl over her heart. Kingsley simply nodded once and began giving quiet orders.

Above them, the ouroboros of gold and silver flickered once—and faded into starlight.

Draco looked down at Hermione.

“We made it,” he said softly.

Hermione, shaking with adrenaline and disbelief, whispered, “We really did.”

And as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, casting light over the wreckage of war, the couple stood in the center of it all—alive, together, unbroken.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucius muttered a sharp incantation—one he hadn’t used since the darkest days of his past. With a crackling pulse of magic, the masks of the fallen Death Eaters disintegrated, vanishing into ash.

Draco and Lucius scanned the exposed faces around them, their expressions hardening in sync.

A shared, grim understanding passed between father and son.

“These are all new recruits,” Draco said, voice low and tense. “Not a single rogue from the old inner circle.”

Lucius nodded, jaw tight. “This wasn’t the final strike. It was a distraction. A show of force.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he looked toward the horizon, smoke still curling from the edges of the manor grounds.

“This wasn’t the end of the war,” he said quietly. “It was just the beginning.”

Chapter Text

As the smoke thinned and the shattered remnants of Malfoy Manor's once-pristine gardens came into view, Hermione stepped forward—tattered gown clinging to her frame, curls streaked with ash and blood. She didn’t hesitate.

“Lucius,” she called, her voice cutting cleanly through the rising panic, “reinstate the blood wards and revoke all wedding-invite modifications—now.”

She pivoted smoothly. “Healers and those with healing skills to the South Lawn. Focus on triage—start with the unconscious, then those bleeding heavily.”

“Harry, Ron—protective dome. We need full perimeter coverage.”

“Anyone mobile, help move the injured toward the triage zone. If they can’t be stabilized, prepare them for immediate transport to St. Mungo’s.”

Her eyes swept the crowd, already organizing themselves around her words. “Draco, with me—we're re-securing the wards across the estate.”

She spoke with no wasted energy, her tone firm but calm—each directive anchoring the chaos like stakes in the ground. No one questioned her. They didn’t need to.

And as she turned, wand drawn and eyes sharp, Draco felt the truth land hard and clear:
She wasn’t just his partner.
She was a commander. A force of nature. And in this moment, the entire world was right to follow her lead.

People moved quickly—muscle memory from the war not so long ago kicking in. Dawlish had already called in trusted Aurors, and the young Death Eaters were swiftly rounded up and escorted to Ministry holding cells.

Before long, only friends, family, and the Order remained. The air was heavy with soot and magic, but there was relief beneath it—a sense of survival.

Once the grounds were deemed secure, Lucius returned with Luna and Hermione’s grandparents, carefully ushering them from the study. Pansy followed close behind, steadying a pale but upright Astoria and Daphne. Both sisters looked shaken, but alive.

When Luna caught sight of Draco and Hermione, her entire face lit up with the kind of dreamy joy only she could wear in the middle of such wreckage. She stepped toward them, barefoot in the grass, eyes glowing with something ancient.

“Oh, the magic chose you both,” she breathed. “There’s nothing more powerful than a soul bond consecrated on Mabon. The veil is thinnest, the earth listens—and your souls were chosen for greatness.”

Her voice was soft but unwavering, reverent in a way that made even the scorched garden feel sacred.

Everyone still present exchanged uncertain glances. The tension hadn’t fully lifted, and Luna’s words only deepened the silence.

Hermione, still catching her breath, stepped forward, her voice cautious. “But, Luna… we haven’t had the ceremony yet.”

Luna just smiled, wide and knowing, as if Hermione had missed something obvious. “Oh, this kind of soul bond doesn’t need a ceremony. Not when the magic chooses to intervene.”

She stepped closer, her gaze soft but unshakably certain. “It snapped into place the moment you stood together in the fight. The bond is forged—not by wands, not by ritual—but by choice. And you both made it.”

Then, with a small, delighted laugh: “Yours is the strongest yet. Draco’s silver, your gold… perfectly attuned. Magic hasn’t seen balance like that in centuries.”

A stunned hush settled over the gathering. McGonagall blinked rapidly behind her square spectacles, the ghost of a smile tugging at her stern mouth. Kingsley nodded slowly, as if affirming what he already suspected. Molly clutched Arthur’s hand, her eyes glassy with emotion, while George muttered, “Blimey,” under his breath.

Theo let out a low whistle, eyes wide. “So you two really did outdo the rest of us. Figures.”

Ron blinked back his shock, glancing between Hermione and Draco like he was seeing them for the first time. “Well… that explains a lot.”

Pansy, still supporting a shaken Daphne, smirked through the worry. “I always said it would take cosmic intervention to get you two to stop dancing around each other.”

Hermione looked to Draco, her lips parting in a silent question, but he was already watching her like the rest of the world had gone dim. “I felt it,” he murmured. “The moment we stood back-to-back.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her expression open and reverent. “So did I.”

And just like that, the last of the chaos seemed to fade—replaced by something older, deeper, and quietly triumphant.

As the golden weight of Luna’s declaration lingered in the air, Hermione’s gaze drifted across the gathering—and caught on a quieter moment unfolding.

Astoria was limping slightly, but determined, as she crossed the lawn toward Ron. The moment he saw her, his strong, broad arms opened instinctively, and she stepped into them like she’d been waiting her whole life. Ron held her tight, protective and tender, as if just letting her go again might break him.

He looked down at her like she was the moon itself, glowing in his night sky. And Astoria, with a tired, aching smile, rested her head against his chest as if it were the safest place left in the world.

The scene might’ve been private—almost sacred—if not for Theo, who had never once let "timing" get in the way of commentary.

With a mischievous grin and a voice far too loud for the moment, he turned to Narcissa and declared, “Well, would you look at that? Looks like you’ll be getting another shot at wedding planning after all. Who wants to start a betting pool? I’ve got five galleons that Weasley proposes by the full moon.”

A few chuckles rippled through the exhausted crowd—just enough to ease the tension.

But Luna, ever unbothered by Theo’s chaos, tilted her head and offered him a dreamy, radiant smile. “Oh, Theodore,” she said, voice light as air. “Do you mean our wedding?”

Theo froze. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like a malfunctioning automaton.

“I—I meant—wait, what?”

Luna’s smile only widened as she floated past him, utterly serene. “You’ll understand soon.”

Theo turned slowly to Pansy, eyes wide with panic. “Did she just… propose? Did I just get surprise-engaged?”

Pansy smirked. “Looks like your chaos finally met its match.”

Behind them, Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, the sound lifting through the garden like a breeze. Even Draco cracked a smile, watching his friends begin to rebuild—one ridiculous, awkward, beautiful moment at a time.

Draco leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of Hermione’s ear. “I have a sinking feeling I’ll be the one escorting Theo to Gringotts tomorrow. Probably to supervise his dramatic demands and whatever absurd heirloom he insists on retrieving.”

Hermione snickered softly. “You poor, noble soul. I don’t envy you one bit.”

Before Draco could quip back, a hush fell over the group as the Queen stepped forward, regal and composed, though her eyes shimmered with deep emotion.

“I, for one, am deeply grateful for the courage shown here today,” she said, voice steady and strong. “You all fought not just for this land, but for the future of both our worlds. And now I understand—truly—why my granddaughter felt compelled to stand on the front lines of a war that many thought wasn’t hers to fight.”

She turned to Hermione and Draco, her expression softening. “In the face of such bravery, and with the ancient magic affirming what the heart already knows, I can think of no more fitting moment to crown our new Prince and Princess.”

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as the weight of her words settled. The coronation wasn’t just a ceremony—it was a symbol. A joining of legacies, a bridge between worlds, and a promise born of fire and loyalty.

The golden light of early evening streamed through the enchanted glass canopy, casting shifting sunlit patterns across the marble dais. The devastation of the gardens had been transfigured—flowers blooming anew with magic, the scent of lilac and spice drifting softly through the air.

Draco and Hermione stood side by side atop the steps, both still bearing the marks of battle—torn sleeves, smudged skin, and eyes too weary for this kind of pageantry. But the crowd wasn’t looking for polished perfection. They were looking at two leaders, chosen not by blood alone, but by fire, sacrifice, and the undeniable pull of ancient magic.

The Queen stood before them, flanked by Minerva McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt—symbols of both worlds unified in support. In her hands, she held two circlets: one silver, etched with runes from Avalon; the other, golden with phoenix feathers woven between its delicate arcs.

“The Crown recognizes more than lineage,” the Queen said, her voice carrying across the hushed crowd. “It recognizes valor. Loyalty. Wisdom. And love.”

She turned first to Draco. “You stood not in the shadow of your past, but in defiance of it. You defended what was right, not what was expected. I name you Prince of this realm—not as heir to legacy, but as architect of peace.”

She lowered the silver circlet onto his head. For a moment, magic pulsed in the air—cool and sharp like starlight—and the crowd gasped as it shimmered, binding to him.

Then she turned to Hermione, her gaze softening.

“And you—who held this world together with nothing but your voice and conviction—may your mind always lead your heart, and your heart never fear its strength. You are Princess not by royal decree, but by the will of ancient forces and the choice of your own power.”

She placed the golden circlet upon Hermione’s curls. Warmth rushed through the air—like the first true light of Mabon—and magic responded. Sparks of golden flame danced momentarily around Hermione’s shoulders before fading.

A hum rippled through the earth beneath them. The soul bond acknowledged again. This wasn’t just ceremony. It was confirmation.

From the crowd, Theo leaned toward Blaise, whispering loudly enough for several people to hear, “Do you think I could get a tiara if I save someone dramatically next time?”

McGonagall didn’t even turn. “Only if you can pronounce ‘responsibility’ without flinching, Mr. Nott.”

Laughter scattered through the crowd, softening the moment with affection. Draco offered his hand to Hermione. She took it without hesitation.

As they turned to face their people—wand-wielders and royalty alike—a swell of magic lifted into the sky above the manor, signaling unity.

The war was not entirely over.

But for the first time, it felt like a future was beginning.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Far off in a darkened chamber, the Death Eater slammed his fist against the stone table, the crack echoing through the cavernous space.

“How the fuck was the Order there—and we didn’t know it?” he snarled, voice rising to a roar. Shadows flickered across the masked faces seated before him. “It was our chance. A perfect trap. We could’ve wiped out half the Ministry’s sympathizers in one strike. It was held at Malfoy Manor , for Salazar’s sake. Why the hell were they there and we weren’t prepared?”

A shaky voice dared to respond. “S-sir, I think… I think the Order has accepted Lucius Malfoy again. He was seen fighting beside Arthur Weasley—”

“ Crucio. ”

The scream that followed didn’t faze anyone in the room. It simply rang out, bouncing off cold stone walls until it became part of the atmosphere.

When it ended, the silence was more dangerous than the pain had been.

“I want better intelligence. Now. We lost all of our new recruits today. If I see one more failure like this…” His voice dropped into a hiss. “I’ll make the Dark Lord look merciful .”

No one dared speak again.

Chapter Text

When Hermione and Draco finally made it back to his rooms in the Manor, he pulled her into a wordless embrace the moment the door shut behind them. He just held her—arms locked tight around her frame, grounding himself in the simple truth that she was here. Alive. With him.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t speak. She just wrapped her arms around him in return, anchoring them both.

After a long moment, he slid his hands up to her upper arms and leaned his forehead against hers. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

“I was terrified of losing you.” His grip tightened slightly. “You’re brilliant and terrifying and too damn reckless when it comes to protecting everyone but yourself—but I can’t stand the thought of not having you after just becoming your partner.”

Hermione brought her hands up to gently cup his face. “I understand that fear,” she said softly. “I feel it too.”

He tilted her chin up with a hand so gentle it trembled, needing to look into her eyes—those warm, defiant eyes that had always seen straight through him. She was his true north. His lighthouse in the storm.

“I know you may not feel the same yet,” he said, voice raw, “but after today, I have to say it. I love you. I have loved you for some time. And with this threat hanging over us—I couldn’t let another moment pass without telling you what’s in my heart.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away. Instead, she smiled with quiet certainty as she brushed her fingers along his cheeks, her touch gentle, grounding.

“Draco, thank you for trusting me with that.” Her voice caught, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I’m falling in love with you too. I may not be all the way there yet, but you… you’re stealing my heart faster than I thought possible.”

His breath hitched—just once—before he closed the space between them and kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was deep. Intentional. As if he was trying to convey every unspoken vow through the press of his lips. She melted into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, letting herself be wrapped in the quiet ferocity of their connection. The battle had shaken them, but in this moment, in this room, there was only this: intimacy, honesty, and a future beginning to take shape between them.

He pulled back, a look of quiet bliss softening his features. “With this new soulbond… I can feel your magic. It’s like it’s caressing mine.”

Hermione’s smile was radiant. “Mine feels like it’s wrapped in yours—held in a warm, loving embrace.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do you think we could explore your library tomorrow? Maybe try to learn more about this type of bond? I feel like we’ve been given a gift—and I want to understand the full extent of its potential.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “After I escort Theo to his vault? Yes, my princess. I can’t think of a better way to spend the day than locked away in the library with you.” There was no teasing in his voice—only sincerity and a hint of joy at the thought.

Hermione groaned against his chest, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt. “You have no idea how much I love hearing you say things like that.”

With a wicked grin, he stepped back just enough to sweep her into his arms. “Come, wife,” he said, voice low and playful. “I think it’s time we wash the battle off each other.”

Draco carried her through the threshold of the bathroom as if it were a bridal suite, his arms strong and sure beneath her. The flick of his wand summoned warm, bubbled filled water into the sunken marble tub—scented steam rising with hints of lavender and vanilla.

Hermione slid from his arms with a smile, her bare feet touching the cool floor. Their eyes met, and the laughter from moments before faded into something quieter—something reverent.

He reached for the clasp of her tattered gown with careful fingers, slow and deliberate. “May I?” he asked, voice husky but gentle.

She nodded, her breath catching as the fabric slipped away, leaving her bathed in golden candlelight. She reached for him in turn, unfastening the closures of his ruined robes, layer by layer, until he stood before her—vulnerable and real.

They stepped into the water together, letting it embrace them like the magic pulsing between their souls. Hermione sank into Draco’s lap, her back against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her as if anchoring himself there.

For a while, neither of them spoke. His fingers drifted over her arms, her shoulders, slow and soothing. Her head rested against his collarbone, heart steady with his.

Finally, she whispered, “Is this what safety feels like?”

He kissed her damp curls and murmured into her skin, “No. This is what home feels like.”

Soon, Draco reached for the luxurious shampoo he’d special-ordered just for her—the one Pansy had sworn was perfect for curls. He’d watched his mother tame Theo’s wild mane for years and now mimicked the same care with his wife’s unruly, glorious curls. With patient, reverent fingers, he massaged the suds through her scalp, gently working out the debris of battle.

Hermione sighed under his touch, leaning back into him.

He followed with a rich conditioner, combing it through strand by strand, wanting every curl to thrive. Her hair was secretly one of his favorite things about her—untamed, unapologetic, and entirely hers.

Next, he took a warm cloth and lathered it in a soft, vanilla-scented gel, using slow, careful strokes to cleanse the remaining traces of dirt and blood from her skin. He made no rush of it, treating each patch of skin like a promise. She closed her eyes and simply let herself be cared for.

When he was done, she turned to him—wordless but steady—and began to return the same tenderness. She washed him with the same reverence, not as repayment, but as a reflection of what they were building: a quiet, sacred trust, sealed in every deliberate gesture.

There was no awkwardness. No need to speak. Just the shared rhythm of two people choosing each other, over and over, even in silence.

As her fingers glided over his chest in quiet, unhurried circles, Hermione looked up and met his gaze—steady, open, unguarded. There was nothing teasing in her touch, nothing flirtatious in her eyes. Just truth. Just him.

Draco reached for her hand and pressed it to his heart.

“It’s never beat like this before,” he said, voice low, a little hoarse. “Not for anyone. Not even when I thought I knew what love was.”

Hermione didn’t speak right away. Instead, she brought her forehead to his and let their breath mingle—warm and damp between them. “You’re not the only one who’s terrified of how deep this runs,” she whispered. “But I want to stop being afraid.”

His arms wrapped around her, water shifting quietly around their bodies as he pulled her into his lap. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

They kissed—not with urgency, but with reverence. Each movement slow, exploring, rediscovering. This wasn’t about need. It was about knowing. About memorizing the shape of something fragile and powerful and wholly new.

Her hands roamed the lines of his back. His fingers tangled in the damp curls he’d just tended with care. And when he whispered her name like a vow, she answered it with a kiss that said, I choose you, too.

The night didn’t rush them. It simply held them in warmth and steam and the steady beat of something ancient blooming between their joined souls.

Their kisses deepened—no longer just about passion or lust, but about something rooted in survival, in affirmation. They needed to feel— prove —that they were still here, still tethered to each other in the aftermath of chaos.

Draco pulled her closer into his lap, their bare skin slick and warm from the water, and pressed hungry kisses down her throat. When he found the delicate spot where her shoulder met her neck, he nipped gently, a possessive, playful claim.

Hermione whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut as she arched into him, every nerve in her body awakened. Draco leaned down to capture one of her nipples in his mouth, lavishing it with careful attention while his fingers mirrored the rhythm on the other. His touch was reverent but unrelenting, as if worshiping each part of her he’d once only dared dream of having.

She moaned, low and breathy, when he switched sides, and her hips began to roll, chasing friction that would ground her in him. But Draco was in no rush. Tonight wasn’t about racing toward release—it was about lingering in the spaces that reminded them they belonged to each other.

When he returned to her lips, she melted into the kiss, every barrier between them stripped away.

His hand glided between her thighs, and as his fingers parted her folds, she gasped at the intimate contact. “Please, Draco,” she whispered, breathless, desperate not just for pleasure, but for him.

He slid one finger inside her slowly, curling just enough to find the sensitive place that made her hips twitch. Her moans grew louder, more urgent, and he added a second finger, stretching her with careful reverence. His thumb circled her clit in a gentle rhythm that had her trembling against him.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, watching her come undone with awe. “So responsive. So mine.”

She bucked harder into his hand, chasing the edge. “Yes—right there, Draco. Don’t stop.”

“Never, Princess,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With a broken cry of his name, she shattered—her muscles clenching around him, pleasure rippling through her like waves. He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, every movement a promise: you’re safe, you’re loved, you’re mine.

And in that shared moment of vulnerability and ecstasy, their bond felt deeper than magic—it felt eternal.

Hermione collapsed against him, her body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, her heart thudding steadily against his chest. Draco held her close, wrapping his arms around her as if she might slip away if he let go. For a long moment, they simply breathed—foreheads pressed together, skin slick, magic humming quietly between them like a satisfied exhale from the universe itself.

She lifted her head, cupping his face, her eyes dark with tenderness and need. “Draco… I want more.”

His lips parted. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she straddled his hips fully, taking him in her hand, and with a quiet gasp, she sank down onto him. Her body welcomed him instantly, and the bond between them sparked so vividly they both froze, shuddering together.

Draco’s hands gripped her waist, reverently guiding her down until he was fully sheathed in her heat. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I can feel your magic… wrapping around mine.”

Hermione nodded, eyes glassy with sensation. “It’s like you’re inside my soul.”

They began to move together, slowly at first. Each thrust wasn’t just physical—it was magnetic, spiritual. Their magic danced and tangled with each motion, gold and silver twisting together like threads being woven into something ancient and eternal.

Draco sat up, needing to be closer, to kiss her, to hold her, to remind himself she was real and here. Hermione clung to him as their rhythm deepened, her hips meeting his with rising urgency, every connection an echo of the bond pulsing between them.

She cried out his name when he angled just right, her hands buried in his damp hair. His teeth grazed her collarbone as he whispered promises between breathless groans.

“I’ve never—fuck—never felt anything like this,” he gasped.

“Me neither,” she moaned, her body tightening around him. “I’m close again—Draco—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His thumb found her clit, rubbing gently as their bodies surged together, skin against skin, magic against magic. She came with a cry, her walls pulsing around him as if pulling his very soul into her.

Draco followed seconds later, growling her name against her mouth as he spilled into her, the bond igniting like a starburst behind his eyes. Their magic exploded in a shimmer of silver and gold, rippling out across the room like a protective seal.

They collapsed together in the bathwater, still connected, hearts hammering, magic slowly settling like falling stardust around them.

When Hermione finally spoke, it was in a whisper. “That wasn’t just sex.”

Draco kissed her temple, voice equally hushed. “No. That was the bond making us one.”

She smiled softly, wrapping her arms around him. “Then I never want to be anything else again.”

Still tangled together in the warm bath, their breath gradually slowed, their bodies molded to each other in the stillness that followed. But the air around them wasn’t still.

It shimmered.

Hermione’s fingers drifted across Draco’s back, but her eyes widened as a glow spread beneath her fingertips—soft, golden tendrils that looked like living ink, curling into ancient runes before fading into his skin.

“Draco… look,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, and where their bodies had touched, the same runes now glowed faintly on her too—silver, delicate, as if moonlight had etched itself across her collarbone.

Their joined magic pulsed again—slow, warm, like a second heartbeat shared between them. Hermione could feel it inside her chest, wrapped around her very core. “It’s not just a soul bond. It’s sealing,” she murmured, awestruck.

Draco’s brows drew together, not in fear, but in quiet reverence. “We’re becoming… tethered in more ways than one.”

As he brushed a hand over her lower abdomen, the magic sparked again—a protective warmth spreading beneath his palm. “It’s protecting you,” he said softly. “I can feel it. This bond—it wants to keep you safe.”

Hermione nodded, entranced. “I’ve read about this. In rare cases, soul bonds born during Mabon can evolve… especially when consecrated by intimacy and mutual love. The magic doesn’t just bind. It sanctifies.”

They were silent for a beat, listening to the water’s ripple and the soft hum of magic that hadn’t yet faded.

Then Hermione, half laughing, half breathless, added, “I think we just performed the most ancient wedding rite known to wizardkind.”

Draco grinned, drawing her close again. “Then I guess I’m yours—mind, magic, and everything in between.”

Hermione looked at him with stars in her eyes and a whisper of something ancient humming in her blood. “And I’m yours.”

Above them, the runes pulsed once more—and then faded, absorbed into their skin, their magic, their story.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Hermione burrowed deeper into the warmth of Draco’s arms. He tightened his hold instinctively, as if unwilling to let go of their shared cocoon. He pressed a kiss into her wild halo of curls and whispered, “Enjoy a lie-in, love. I’m off to babysit Theo at his vault.”

She chuckled sleepily, the sound muffled by the pillow. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

Draco dressed with his usual elegance—immaculate from polished boots to pressed cuffs—and made his way to the Gringotts rendezvous, already bracing for whatever chaos Theo would unleash.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Theo was vibrating with energy, pacing in front of the group like a general before battle. Blaise leaned against a marble pillar, the picture of bored calm. Harry, Ron, and Neville looked somewhere between entertained and alarmed. Draco raised a single eyebrow as if to ask, Why am I here again?

Before anyone could answer, Pansy arrived with the force of a tempest.

She marched up to the group and pointed dramatically at Theo. “First of all, I agree—the Gryffindors know Luna best. The snakes are your moral support, and Salazar knows you need it. But let’s not kid ourselves—you desperately need me. Fashion is non-negotiable.”

She crossed her arms with such imperious finality that not a single soul dared argue.

Ron leaned toward Harry and muttered, “I definitely didn’t have enough tea for this.”

Theo merely smirked. “Watch and learn, Weasel. Your turn's next.”

With a flamboyant wave, he declared, “Off we go, gang! To Gringotts!”

And just like that, the oddly assembled entourage of friends and chaos swept into the wizarding bank.

The goblin led them down the narrow, winding tracks deep beneath Gringotts. Torches flared as they passed, and Theo practically bounced in his seat.

“I swear to Merlin, if he’s bought a dragon to guard his collection, I’m leaving,” Ron muttered.

Draco didn’t flinch. “He’s not that reckless.”

Harry snorted. “You haven’t seen him bid at a black-market auction.”

As the cart jerked to a halt, the goblin grunted, “Vault 769. Mr. Nott, your wand, please.”

Theo handed it over dramatically, like he was crowning a king. “Try not to be too impressed,” he told the group. “I was a collector before I was a menace.”

The massive doors creaked open.

Inside, the vault looked like chaos had thrown a gala. Gilded trunks, shelves stacked with rare tomes, enchanted weapons, floating glass cases of jewel-toned potions, and an entire rack of cloaks shimmered under protective stasis charms. In the center sat a velvet-upholstered armchair…on a dais…beneath a chandelier.

“You have a throne in your vault?” Neville asked, stunned.

“I have taste, Longbottom,” Theo replied, hopping off the cart and sweeping into the space. “Now, to business. We’re here for a ring.”

Blaise raised a brow. “Just the one?”

Theo didn’t answer. He walked straight to a small, heavily warded trunk resting beneath a hovering stasis charm.

“This,” he said, quieter now, “is what we came for.”

Even Pansy, who’d been admiring a dangerously sharp-looking brooch, paused.

Theo opened the trunk with reverent care, revealing a delicate ring nestled in sapphire-blue velvet. The band was gold, subtly etched with runes, crowned with a deep blue stone that pulsed like a star caught in twilight. Two crescent moons flanked the gem, catching the vault’s light with an ethereal shimmer.

“I had it made during the war,” Theo said, still looking down at it. “When Luna was imprisoned at Malfoy Manor.”

The humor drained from his voice, replaced by something raw and quietly aching.

“I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t fight the ones who dragged her there. But I… I did what I could. I brought her what little comforts I could smuggle in. Blankets. Food. Quiet conversations when no one was listening. I reminded her she wasn’t alone. That someone remembered she existed.”

His fingers brushed the ring like it was sacred.

“And during that time, I had this forged. Every rune is a protection. I poured my magic into it—so if I couldn’t get to her, it could still be there in my place. It’s attuned to her. When it touches her skin, it glows. It always did, even through the cell bars.”

A beat of silence stretched out.

Pansy blinked. “Shit, Nott. That’s… not what I expected.”

Ron muttered, “That’s not what anyone expected.”

Blaise gave a small, knowing nod. “He’s always been like this. Just buries sincerity under several layers of sarcasm and designer robes.”

Theo huffed a laugh, but the tenderness didn’t leave his face. “I loved her even then. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

He lifted the ring from the velvet, and as it touched his skin, it shimmered faintly—a soft, silvery glow like moonlight on still water.

Draco, arms crossed, nodded once. “It’s strong. She’ll feel it.”

Theo looked up, grinning. And behind that grin was the echo of a younger boy—the one who’d snuck blankets and hope into a prison cell. “She already does.”

“Alright then,” said Pansy, swiping at the corner of her eye like it was just dust. “We’ve got a wedding to plan, a lunatic in love, and robes to design. Let’s get out of this glittering death trap before Ron has a panic attack.”

Ron gave her a flat look. “Vaults aren’t supposed to have velvet pillows.”

Theo’s grin widened. “You just don’t understand luxury.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Far above the winding vault tracks of Gringotts, in the airy guest wing of Malfoy Manor, Luna sat cross-legged on a cushioned window seat, gazing out at the dewy morning garden. The soft light spilled across her bare feet and tangled hair like a blessing. A teacup floated lazily beside her, forgotten.

And then, she felt it.

A soft warmth bloomed across her chest—no, deeper than that. Like moonlight wrapping around her heart. She inhaled sharply, eyes blinking once, then twice. Her fingers drifted to the silver chain around her neck where a small rune charm—gifted by Theo long ago—rested. It pulsed.

Magic stirred beneath her skin. Familiar. Resonant. Unmistakable.

Theo.

She stood slowly, barefoot on the cold floor now, as if drawn toward something invisible. Her breath hitched as she closed her eyes and simply felt it—like his laughter echoing in her bones, like the ghost of his fingers brushing hers during stolen moments. But stronger. Clearer. Present.

The ring.

He’d finally touched it.

A smile curled over her lips, fragile and glowing. She hadn’t seen it—never even asked about it—but she had known , in the deep, unspoken way that love taught you to know impossible things. He had made something for her. Poured magic into it. Given it shape.

And now it was awake.

“I feel you,” she whispered, voice threading into the morning light like a secret spell. “I feel you, Theo.”

Chapter Text

Luna didn’t rush. That wasn’t her way. But there was purpose in her steps as she moved through the corridors of the Manor, sunlight trailing in her wake like a second skin.

She stopped by her room only to slip into something simple: a soft, silvery-blue dress that shimmered like starlight, the fabric whispering as it kissed her skin. Her hair, still wild from sleep, was gently tamed with a twist of her wand—just enough to let the curls tumble in soft waves down her back. She added nothing else. No jewelry, no shoes. The ring would be more than enough.

She caught her reflection briefly in the gilded mirror by the door. And though her gaze held all the usual Luna-ness—dreamy, distant, whimsical—there was something new too.

Resolve.

He had carried her magic with him for a long time. Wrapped it in runes. Tucked it inside velvet. She had felt the echo of his love long before she named it. And now? Now she would walk toward it, toward him, with open eyes and an open heart.

As she drifted down the staircase toward the drawing room, a few heads turned. Pansy blinked and elbowed Blaise. “She looks like a fucking prophecy.”

“She is a prophecy,” Blaise murmured back.

But Luna didn’t notice. Or perhaps she did, and simply didn’t care. She had felt the ring awaken. The bond between them—twisting through time and magic and memory—had pulled taut.

He would be back soon.

And when he was, she would be ready.

Theo barely made it past the Manor’s wards before Luna was already there, waiting for him at the edge of the garden.

She stood barefoot on the dewy grass, haloed in late-morning sun, her silver-blue dress rippling in the breeze like moonlight caught in motion. The moment their eyes met, something shifted. The air tightened. The runes on the ring pulsed once—bright enough that Theo felt it in his bones.

He stopped in his tracks, breath stolen.

She stepped forward, gaze steady. “You carried me through that place. Even when I couldn’t see the sky.”

He swallowed hard. “You were the only thing that kept me from going dark. I had to find some way to protect you… even when I couldn’t reach you.”

Luna lifted her hand, palm open between them.

“Then reach me now,” she said softly.

Theo closed the distance, every part of him trembling like a string drawn too tight. As he slid the ring onto her finger, the moment the metal touched her skin, a warm, silver glow spread from the band—spilling up her arm like a blooming constellation before softening into a gentle shimmer. Luna inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering shut. The magic didn’t just recognize her—it welcomed her.

Theo cupped her face, reverent, undone.

“I thought I’d imagined it,” she whispered. “The magic. But it was always real.”

“It was always you.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. Their magic hummed between them, threads of silver and soft blue coiling through the air like smoke. Neither needed to say another word.

But Luna, of course, did anyway. She smiled against his cheek. “You’re still a menace, Theodore Nott.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping tightly around her. “And you’re still my moon.”

Behind them, in a second-floor window, Draco turned to Hermione and simply muttered, “Well, fuck. That’s actually romantic.”

Hermione grinned. “I know. You’re going to cry at the wedding.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Narcissa had, of course, ensured the house elves prepared a lavish celebratory brunch—complete with Theo’s favorite jam-glazed scones and Luna’s beloved enchanted fruit compote that changed colors with the weather. The dining room had been transformed into a sun-drenched haven, with crisp linens, floating candles shaped like wildflowers, and softly playing harp music charmed into the air like background birdsong.

When Theo and Luna entered—hands entwined, eyes still glittering with the magic of the morning—they were met with cheers, whoops, and a flying croissant that Pansy promptly blamed on Ron.

Narcissa swept across the room and wrapped Luna in a warm embrace. “I’m absolutely thrilled to have another daughter-in-law. My heart is so full to finally have more girls in this family!” She turned to Theo and gathered him into her arms, ignoring the dramatic flailing of his limbs. She smoothed his curls with motherly affection. “And you, my dear boy—you’ve always been another son to me. Watching you find your happiness fills me with such joy.”

To everyone’s complete astonishment, Lucius stepped forward—awkwardly—but resolute. He gently hugged Luna with an earnest, “Welcome to the family, my dear,” before turning to Theo. He extended his hand and shook it firmly, voice a bit rough as he added, “I am proud of you.” Draco, watching carefully, was nearly certain he saw unshed tears glistening in his father’s eyes. If he said anything, though, Lucius would surely disinherit him.

They gathered around the long table, still laughing as champagne flutes filled themselves and plates magically restocked. It was Theo, of course, who broke the calm with his signature mischief.

“My money’s on the next Weasley engagement,” he said, raising his glass.

Neville arched a brow, smirking. “Which Weasley?” He not-so-subtly glanced at Ginny and Blaise, who were sitting very close. As in thigh-touching, fork-sharing close.

Ginny didn’t miss a beat. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t already proposed. Blaise is just slow at answering.”

Blaise looked up calmly from his eggs Benedict. “I’m weighing dowry options.”

Ron groaned. “I didn’t drink enough firewhisky for this conversation.”

Astoria, ever the composed counterpoint, delicately dabbed her mouth with a napkin and said, “Don’t worry, Narcissa was born to plan chaos. She practically curated us.”

Narcissa, glowing with pride as she looked around at her utterly unmanageable table of magical misfits, lifted her glass. “I would do anything for my children. You are all mine—every snarky, brilliant, ridiculous one of you. I just want to see you happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Pansy sniffled loudly. “Ugh, don’t make me cry over eggs.”

Draco nudged Hermione with a smirk. “This is a mistake. We’re letting the children outnumber us with emotions.”

Hermione whispered back, smiling, “And yet, you haven’t stopped grinning since we got here.”

Theo raised his glass high. “To soulbonds, scandal, weddings, and whatever disaster Ginny’s planning next.”

“Cheers!” rang out around the table, echoing through the hall.

And for a moment—between the laughter, the teasing, the sparkle of magic in the air—they were just young and in love and alive.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione glowed—inside and out. After the chaos and peril of the day before, this moment felt like sunlight on bruised skin. The warmth in the room, the love between friends and family, was a balm to the soul. It reminded her why they kept fighting—why they had to. Because this was worth protecting. They were worth it.

Today was a gift—a pause between storms. A chance to soak in joy before they returned to the work of healing the world.

She grinned as she caught Blaise and Ginny slipping out a side door, fingers brushing, heads tilted in laughter. Neville, cheeks faintly pink, leaned down to whisper something to Pansy, who for once didn’t bite back. Instead, she smirked and let him lead her toward the greenhouses. Daphne and Harry were seated together, heads bent over a glossy stack of magazines, engaged in what looked like an adorably intense debate over some kind of decor. Ron and Astoria wandered outside arm in arm, the picture of unexpected ease.

Theo and Luna… well, Theo was staring at her like he might spontaneously combust, and Luna’s dreamy smile suggested she was encouraging it. Hermione didn’t need Legilimency to guess where that pair was heading.

Draco turned to her with a soft smile and extended his hand. “I believe I promised you a date in the library.”

Before they could slip away, Narcissa appeared—graceful and unbothered, as if she'd apparated straight from a couture runway.

“I had the elves pull all the books we have on soul bonds forged under Mabon magic,” she said, her tone far too innocent for the twinkle in her eye. “I thought the two of you might want to… research.”

She winked.

Hermione blinked. Draco cleared his throat. And with perfect poise, Narcissa turned and swept out of the room, Lucius following behind with the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Hermione had never set foot in the Manor’s legendary library before, though she’d read about it—whispers of its prestige echoed through both academic journals and scandalous gossip columns. It was said to be the largest private wizarding collection in all of Europe.

Secretly, she'd always imagined something like the library the Beast gifted Belle in her favorite Muggle fairytale. How poetic would that be? The reclusive prince with a hidden heart of gold… and the girl who loved books more than breath. Lately, she found the parallel to Draco rather apt.

Now, standing before the towering obsidian double doors inlaid with delicate silver filigree, her heart pounded with anticipation. She could feel the magic humming behind the doors, old and wise, like the building itself knew it held treasures. Draco looked back at her with a knowing smirk, then pushed them open with a dramatic sweep.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. And then, a delighted giggle bubbled from her throat as she stepped over the threshold.

“This is…” she whispered, craning her neck upward, “…even better.”

The library rose a full three stories high, each level wrapped in elegant balconies with wrought-iron railings. Sliding ladders and spiral staircases connected the levels, inviting exploration. Endless rows of shelves stretched in every direction, holding books bound in dragonhide, linen, velvet, and gold-leafed parchment. It was bigger— much bigger—than even the Hogwarts library.

Generations of Malfoys had curated and protected this knowledge, preserving arcane texts, magical theory, political history, and forgotten lore. This wasn’t just a library. It was a living legacy.

Scattered throughout the space were cozy alcoves and sumptuous sitting areas—some arranged around ornate desks for study, others outfitted with plush velvet chairs and chaise lounges in deep greens and silver accents. Small orbs of enchanted light hovered near reading nooks, casting warm glows perfect for long hours lost in pages.

Everything about it was perfection. A dream wrapped in paper and ink.

Hermione couldn’t help herself—she threw her arms around Draco’s waist, laughter spilling from her lips as wonder shimmered in her eyes. His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, arms closing around her instinctively.

“I didn’t think I could be swayed by something so… material,” she breathed against him, voice full of awe. “But you may have just proven me wrong. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful—or so magical—in my life.”

Draco’s smirk was thoroughly smug, his voice low and rich as it vibrated through her. “The Manor now recognizes you as Lady Malfoy. Which means this library—and all its secrets—are yours. Its wards will open to you. Its magic will trust you.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with something like reverence.

“But,” he added, arching a brow with mock solemnity, “do try not to forget your husband while you’re buried under a thousand dusty tomes. I’d hate to be replaced by parchment.”

Hermione laughed and pulled him into a searing kiss, her fingers twining in the fabric of his shirt. “I could never forget about you,” she whispered against his lips. “Not even if this place had the lost tomes of Atlantis.”

Grinning, he laced his fingers through hers and led her deeper into the library, toward a long table already prepared for them. Rolls of parchment were neatly stacked beside gleaming inkpots and freshly plumed quills. Several thick volumes awaited, carefully selected and set aside—no doubt Narcissa’s doing.

“Ready to uncover the mysteries of our bond, Lady Malfoy?” he asked, gesturing gallantly.

Hermione sat down, heart full and mind alight. “With you? Always.”

Hermione sat down beside Draco, brushing her fingers over the topmost book with almost reverent curiosity. “ Soulbonding Through the Ages: Arcane Tethers and Ancient Truths, ” she read aloud. “Merlin, even the titles are seductive.”

Draco smirked. “You’re going to cheat on me with a book, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she teased, cracking it open with a flourish.

They worked in companionable silence at first—Hermione scanning passages, Draco flipping through a text on magical convergence points. The sun streamed in through high arched windows, catching motes of dust in golden suspension, and all was peaceful—

Until one of the older tomes gave a violent shudder and flung itself open on the table with a loud bang! A blinding flash of light erupted from its pages, engulfing them both.

Hermione yelped as greenish-blue sparks danced up her arms, and Draco toppled out of his chair with a startled curse. “Bloody hell —!”

When the light faded, Hermione blinked and looked down… only to find her quill floating midair and sketching on its own. It had drawn an exact likeness of Draco—shirtless, smirking, and dramatically surrounded by swirling roses.

“WHAT is this?” she shrieked, snatching the parchment as Draco leaned over to inspect it.

“Is that… me? In romance-novel cover art form?” he said, thoroughly amused.

The book in question snapped shut with a smug-sounding thunk and glowed faintly gold on the spine. Hermione read the title, aghast: “Magical Muses and the Art of Soul-Inspired Visualization.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “It’s enchanted to react to the bond—to show how I see you.”

Draco’s grin turned wicked. “So, this is how your subconscious sees me? Shirtless, smoldering, and surrounded by roses?”

“Apparently,” she muttered, cheeks blazing.

He leaned in close. “You flatter me, Lady Malfoy.”

She rolled her eyes and batted him away, though her smile lingered. “You are never going to let me live this down.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

They laughed together, the magic still fizzing faintly between them like champagne in the air. Hermione reached for another book, warily this time. “Alright,” she said, clearing her throat, “let’s try one without special effects.”

“Or with better ones,” Draco said, still grinning as he righted his chair.

Hours slipped by in a golden haze of parchment, ink, and whispered revelations. The rustle of turning pages echoed like sacred music in the vast quiet of the Manor library, and the dust of ancient knowledge seemed to settle on their shoulders like blessing. Stacks of open tomes surrounded them, parchment sprawled across the table covered in neat handwriting—Hermione’s in elegant loops, Draco’s in sharp, precise strokes.

They worked as one, pausing occasionally to cross-reference a rune or argue gently over a translation. But there was no tension in it—only the kind of deep, effortless collaboration that felt like breathing in tandem.

Eventually, Hermione leaned back, stretching her spine with a small sigh of contentment. Her fingers swept across the gathered notes, eyes scanning their findings. “Draco,” she said quietly, voice laced with awe, “this is incredible.”

He glanced up from a tome on magical resonance, brow raised. “You’ve cracked something?”

“I think we both did,” she said, lifting a sheet of parchment. “Every source agrees. The kind of bond we’ve formed—especially forged under the magic of Mabon and with the emotional intensity we shared—it’s not just symbolic. It’s... foundational.”

She paused, pressing a hand to her chest. “Draco, do you realize we now share access to our core magic? Not just a tether—an actual flow. We’re feeding each other. Constantly.”

He went still. The candlelight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes as they searched hers.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she said, setting the parchment down gently, “that if one of us expends too much magic, the other’s magic automatically stabilizes it. It keeps circulating between us. It’s a closed loop.”

His gaze dropped to their hands resting on the table—barely an inch apart. Slowly, he slid his palm to touch hers.

“So we can’t burn out,” he said quietly, voice roughened by emotion.

Hermione nodded, her breath catching. “It’s nearly impossible for us to be depleted. You are my wellspring. And I’m yours.”

Draco didn’t speak right away. Instead, he turned his hand to thread their fingers together, eyes locked on hers. “That night in the bath,” he murmured, “I felt something shift. I didn’t have the words for it then—but I felt… anchored. Like my magic had a home again.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered. “I felt it too. Like I’d been... frayed at the edges for years. And then suddenly, I wasn’t.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We’re bound, not just in ritual, or in love—but in essence . You carry a part of me now. And I carry you.”

A pulse of warmth surged between their clasped hands—soft, golden, and unmistakably magical. It danced across their skin, sank into their bones, and curled like smoke around their hearts.

She closed her eyes. “No wonder I’ve been sleeping so well.”

Draco chuckled lowly, but it was full of wonder. “No wonder my Patronus doesn’t flicker anymore.”

They stayed like that for a moment, heads bowed together over candlelight and ancient text, letting the enormity of it all settle around them like a second soul.

Draco’s thumb stroked softly along Hermione’s knuckles as they sat in that sacred silence—hearts aligned, magic humming between them like a shared breath. The candlelight flickered, catching in her curls, casting her in gold. He wondered if this was what awe felt like. Not fear or reverence for some distant power, but awe as a man watching the woman he loves becomes the center of his universe.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, and the emotion swimming in them—love, wonder, trust—made his chest ache in the best possible way.

Her lips curved into a soft smile as she turned to face him more fully. “Do you realize,” she said, trailing a hand along the side of his jaw, “that this is the first time in my life I feel like I don’t have to carry everything alone?”

His breath caught. He swallowed hard, then tilted his forehead back to hers.

“You never will again,” he promised.

Hermione leaned in slowly and pressed her lips to his—a gentle, reverent kiss that deepened with every shared breath. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow, soul-stilling, and somehow more powerful than anything they’d shared in the heat of desire.

Their bond flared again between them, but this time it wasn’t glowing with wild magic—it pulsed with calm. With belonging.

Draco’s hand slid to the small of her back as he pulled her gently into his lap, never breaking the kiss. Her arms looped around his neck as their magic swirled, thickening the air with warmth. The library seemed to hush further, the ancient tomes themselves holding their breath for this moment.

“I could spend forever with you like this,” he murmured against her lips, voice hoarse.

“You already are,” she replied.

Their kisses grew more languid, more indulgent—like they were writing sonnets with mouths and breath and touch. Draco’s fingers traced along her spine, memorizing every line. Hermione’s lips found his jaw, then the hollow of his throat, pressing promises into skin. The magic curled tighter, intimate and sentient, like it knew they weren’t just lovers—they were soul-bound.

No need for urgency. No need for proof.

Just presence .

And in that sanctuary of velvet-bound books, parchment, and promise, Hermione and Draco didn’t just fall deeper in love.

They rooted there—tethered by magic, memory, and the kind of joy that couldn’t be undone.

Chapter Text

After several glorious days of blissful peace at the Manor, the gang returned to Hogwarts, while Harry and Ron resumed their duties as young Aurors. Before parting, Harry had pulled Hermione aside to reassure her. He and Ron were now fully focused on digging into the information extracted from the captured Death Eaters.

“We’ll keep you and Malfoy in the loop,” Harry had promised. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. No one’s going to wreck the peace we’re starting to build.”

Hermione believed him. If anyone could bring order to chaos, it was her boys.

Back at school, word of the wedding battle had spread like Fiendfyre, thanks in no small part to The Daily Prophet’s coverage. But instead of scandalizing the union, the paper had praised the way Slytherins and Gryffindors fought side-by-side. Even the most stubbornly grudge-bearing students found themselves without a snide retort. Slowly but surely, interhouse unity was blooming—fueled not just by the dramatic spectacle, but also by the unmistakably real friendships (and relationships) between snakes and lions.

Still, some rivalries were more stubborn than others.

Which was how things came to a head at the first Quidditch match of the season: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

Hermione, never above bending her moral compass in the name of a good cause, decided Gryffindor’s new Seeker deserved every edge she could offer—including a strategic distraction.

After breakfast, while the players made their way down to the locker rooms, Hermione ducked into the their shared quarters and raided her husband’s side of the wardrobe. From the back of the closet, she retrieved one of his older Quidditch jerseys—the one with his name stitched across the back in silver thread. She paired it with sinfully tight emerald leggings that looked entirely too Slytherin for a Gryffindor, and completed the ensemble with charmed Converse sneakers—now pulsing with Gryffindor red and gold, a miniature lion roaring across the toe caps.

She made her entrance down the staircase with practiced ease, hips swaying just enough to be distracting. Waiting below were her non-Quidditch-playing friends, who promptly burst into laughter at the sight of her.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Pansy groaned. “We’re going to lose. There is no way Draco’s going to focus with you in his jersey and leggings painted on by Merlin himself.”

Hermione blinked innocently. “Pansy! Are you implying this is some kind of ploy? That I’m cheating ? I’m simply supporting my husband. As his loving wife.”

Neville slung an arm around her shoulder, grinning. “Right. Supporting him. In leggings so tight I can hear the fabric begging for mercy. We’re absolutely celebrating in Gryffindor Tower tonight.”

Hermione playfully swatted his chest. “Traitor.”

“Realist,” Neville shot back. “You may have just broken Malfoy’s brain.”

Theo walked past, gave Hermione a once-over, and muttered, “We’re doomed.”

Even Astoria let out a low whistle and gave her friend a high five. “You’re going to cause a riot.”

Hermione just smirked. “All’s fair in love and Quidditch.”

Draco was mid-stretch, broom resting against his shoulder, when the buzz in the stands shifted. He glanced toward the crowd—and promptly froze.

There she was, descending the stairs like she owned the bloody stadium. His jersey hung off her shoulder just enough to be scandalous, the silver Malfoy name glinting in the sunlight. Emerald leggings clung to her legs like second skin. And those shoes—charmed to roar with Gryffindor pride—were practically mocking him.

His stomach dropped. His heart, unfortunately, did not get the memo and tried to punch its way out of his chest.

Next to him, Blaise let out a low whistle. “Mate. You're absolutely going to fly straight into a goalpost.”

Draco tore his eyes away—barely—and tried to gather the shredded remains of his focus. It wasn’t easy. Especially when Hermione caught his eye from across the pitch and blew him a kiss.

His broom dipped. His grip slipped.

“Malfoy!” barked the Slytherin captain. “We’re starting in five—get your head on straight!”

Draco cleared his throat and straightened, schooling his face into its usual cool mask. But as he mounted his broom and rose into the air, his eyes kept drifting back to the edge of the pitch—where his wife stood smugly between houses, chaos personified.

He grinned despite himself.

Later, as they hovered before Madam Hooch for kickoff, Ginny shouted at him, smirking.

“She told me she was going to wear it,” Ginny said casually. “I warned her it was weaponized.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Tell her it worked.”

Ginny tilted her head, amused. “You’re not mad?”

He smirked. “Oh, I’m furious. And planning very creative revenge.”

He glanced down again. Hermione winked.

He almost missed the whistle.

Draco soared in smooth arcs around the pitch, eyes alert, analyzing the field with practiced precision. It only took a few minutes to confirm what he’d already suspected—Gryffindor’s new Seeker was laughably underqualified. No wonder his cunning wife was pulling out all the stops. Hell, he almost missed Potter.

Almost.

He kept one eye scanning for the Snitch and the other on the chaos below. Ginny Weasley was utterly thrashing Blaise, weaving through the air like a red-haired tempest, scoring goal after goal with practiced ease. Draco snorted when he noticed Blaise wobble slightly mid-turn.

Poor bastard had a textbook case of hormonal distraction. Ginny was dominating the field, and Blaise was sporting the world’s most obvious boner about it.

Then everything shifted.

Without warning, the bludgers froze mid-air—eerily suspended in place like marionettes whose strings had suddenly gone taut. Draco’s muscles tensed, instincts roaring to the surface. Before he could shout a warning, the bludgers surged back into motion with new and terrifying intent.

One veered toward him, pulsing with unnatural speed and rage. The other locked onto Ginny.

The game devolved into chaos.

The beaters from both teams swung desperately, but the bludgers were no longer following the rules of physics or play—they were following targets. Draco dodged one by inches, its hiss beside his ear raising the hair on his neck. He saw Ginny zigzag away from her pursuer, but it was gaining. Fast.

Then the gasps from the crowd broke through the air like thunder.

Draco whipped his head around just in time to see it—a direct hit. The bludger slammed into the back of Ginny’s skull.

Time fractured.

She hovered for one frozen heartbeat… then began to fall.

Blaise didn’t hesitate. He dove with everything he had, broomstick shrieking against the wind as he arrowed toward her. Hermione stood from the stands, wand flashing, casting a slowing charm—but Ginny was plummeting too fast.

Draco’s heart stopped.

Then Blaise reached her. He wrapped her in his arms just before they hit the ground, twisting his body to absorb the blow.

They skidded hard, tumbling, motionless when they stopped.

Still dodging his own cursed bludger, Draco didn’t have time to process it. He heard Hermione yell from the stands— “Fly toward me!” —and he didn’t question it. He dove, trusting her completely.

As he passed her seat, he felt the familiar pull of her magic. Then— CRACK —an explosion of force behind him. He was flung forward slightly, caught in the shockwave.

She’d blown up the bludger.

He slowed midair, dazed, blinking down at his hand—where the Snitch gleamed between his fingers. He’d caught it in the dive. The match was over.

When he landed, Hermione was already at his side, hands everywhere, frantically checking for wounds.

“I’m fine, love. I swear,” he soothed, brushing a kiss to her temple. “But we need to get to the hospital wing. Now.”

Still pale with fear, Hermione nodded, and together they sprinted across the pitch as the stands dissolved into a cacophony of gasps and buzzing confusion.

By the time they reached the infirmary, Theo, Daphne, Pansy, Neville, Astoria, and the rest of their circle had already gathered—concern etched on every face. McGonagall stood with Madam Hooch, both grim and watchful, their expressions like thunderclouds.

Hermione surged forward. “Headmistress, those bludgers weren’t just rogue—they were cursed. Targeted. Someone meant to hurt them.”

McGonagall raised her hand, eyes sharp with restrained fury. “I agree. I’ve already summoned Potter and Weasley. This wasn’t a prank—it was a calculated attack.”

Madam Pomfrey swept in, apron flaring behind her like a banner of war. “They’ll both be fine,” she said briskly. “Miss Weasley suffered a severe concussion, but she’ll make a full recovery. Mr. Zabini sustained extensive breaks and dislocations in his shoulders and back. We’re regrowing the shattered bones—but he will live.”

A stunned silence fell.

Then Daphne, ever dry, quipped, “So Blaise really was Ginny’s knight in shining armor?”

Pomfrey didn’t even blink. “Mr. Zabini saved Miss Weasley’s life. I suggest gratitude over gallows humor.” And with that, she swept away, robes billowing.

McGonagall’s expression remained unreadable as she added, “Let Mr. Zabini know that Slytherin has been awarded 50 points for valor.”

Theo let out a low whistle. “Blimey, Headmistress! A Slytherin getting hero points? That’s usually reserved for your Gryffindor cubs.”

McGonagall arched a brow. “Don’t get used to it, Mr. Nott.”

She turned to Hermione. “And 50 points to Gryffindor—for Mrs. Granger-Malfoy’s quick thinking.”

Theo grinned. “There it is! I knew a Gryffindor couldn’t walk away without a heroic glow-up.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “Thank you, Headmistress. May we see them?”

McGonagall nodded firmly. “Yes. I’ll let you know when Potter and Weasley arrive.”

As the group slipped behind the curtain, hearts pounding and minds racing, a sobering truth settled like dust around them: this wasn’t just about lingering grudges.

Someone was still trying to tear their world apart—and this time, they were aiming straight for the heart.

The curtain rustled again as McGonagall returned, flanked by Harry and Ron. Their faces were drawn, expressions hard as granite.

Hermione stood immediately, Draco at her side. “What did you find?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “The Ministry finished reviewing the interrogation reports last night. There’s confirmation—a mole tipped off the Death Eaters. Someone with high-level access, likely inside the Ministry itself.”

A tense silence followed.

Ron stepped forward. “They stole a copy of the wedding guest list and the ward schematics. And who was managing that information?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Percy…”

Harry held up a hand. “He’s not involved. But someone accessed the files while he was away. They used them to bypass protections. Only a few people even knew that information existed.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Then we have an inside job. Which means we start narrowing the suspects.”

“There’s more,” Ron added grimly. “The enchantments on the bludgers weren’t just dark—they were mastercrafted. Layered arcane signatures. Whoever did this knew exactly how to slip past Hogwarts' wards.”

Draco's expression went cold. “There are only a handful of Death Eaters with that kind of precision. Rodolphus Lestrange. Dolohov. Yaxley.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Ron nodded. “Two of those—Lestrange and Dolohov—are still at large.”

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said. “That gives us a real lead.”

Draco gave a terse nod. “Happy to help, Potter.”

Harry turned back to Hermione. “They attacked at Hogwarts. Publicly. They’re not just going after blood traitors—they want to force scandal. Divide you. If they can shatter what you and Draco represent—”

“They win,” Hermione finished, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “Well, they won’t. Not while I’m breathing.”

Harry’s eyes softened with pride. “We’ve arranged extra auror protection—quiet shifts, both Ministry and Order-aligned. We’ll be watching your public appearances, especially the ones tied to your royal obligations. You won’t face this alone.”

Ron stepped up beside him. “We’re monitoring every floo, every owl, every scrap of Ministry parchment. They try this again, we’ll be ready.”

Draco reached for Hermione’s hand, squeezing it. She squeezed back, a current of defiance passing between them.

Harry gave a faint, proud smile. “This was more than an attack—it was a message.”

Hermione’s voice was iron. “Then let them keep sending messages. We’ll keep answering.”

Harry nodded once. “Together.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ginny woke with a low groan, pain blooming through every joint and muscle like an echo of impact. Her skull throbbed, her ribs ached, and her legs felt like lead. She blinked up at the dim ceiling of the infirmary, the dark hush of late night cloaking the room in shadow.

Bludgers.

Flashes came back—black spheres, spiraling fury, the crack of wood, the crowd’s screams. And falling.

She inhaled sharply and winced. That explains the pain.

A muffled sound broke the quiet. Another groan. Male. Close.

She shifted gingerly and turned her head. In the bed beside hers, a figure lay mostly motionless—tall, dark, unmistakably Blaise.

Confusion bloomed through the fog of pain. What is he doing here? Why is he hurt?

She slowly sat up, biting back a hiss of pain. Bracing herself on the nightstand, then the edge of the chair between them, she managed a few shaky steps toward his cot.

His eyes were open, glassy but aware, tracking her as she moved.

“Blaise?” her voice rasped, more breath than sound.

He blinked, then smiled faintly, lips barely curving. “Hey, Red. You shouldn’t be up. Get back in bed. You look like a concussed Thestral.”

Her chest tightened, a strange, fluttering ache forming behind her ribs. “Blaise, what happened?”

He exhaled, the sound a mix of amusement and pain. “If I tell you, will you promise to lie down after?”

She nodded, wobbling where she stood. “Yes. Cross my heart.”

He gave a mock-sigh, even that expression looking like it cost him. “The bludgers were cursed. One went for you. Hard. Hit you square in the head mid-air. You passed out instantly.”

She sucked in a breath. He continued before she could interrupt.

“You were falling. No control. I was close enough. I dove. Caught you just before you hit the ground.” He gave a rueful grin. “My spine and a few dozen bones broke your fall.”

Her lips parted in horror. “You... You took the entire impact? Blaise, you could’ve—”

“Died?” he finished quietly. “Maybe. But I didn’t. And I’d do it again.”

She sank down into the chair beside him, eyes locked to his. “You saved my life.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a pain in my arse, Weasley. But I’m rather attached.”

She stared at him, trying to reconcile the sarcastic Slytherin flirt she’d sparred with for years with the broken, beautiful boy who had nearly died to save her. “You’re in pain... because of me.”

He reached for her hand—slowly, clumsily—and squeezed. “I’m in pain because I couldn’t let you fall. Red, I can’t imagine a world without your ridiculous laugh and your fire and your Gryffindor recklessness. If it meant keeping you in it, I’d break every bone again.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away with a stubborn sniff. “You bloody romantic idiot.”

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, lingering a moment as warmth bloomed between them. “Thank you.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles. “You’re welcome. Now get some rest, woman. We both need to heal. So when I finally ask you out properly, you don’t have an excuse to duck out of it.”

Ginny’s lips curved into a smirk. “Is that what this was? Some dramatic play to get a yes from me? Heroic sacrifice for a date?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his voice low and warm.

She rose, swaying slightly, but her eyes sparkled in the dark. “You’re lucky I like dramatic Slytherins.”

She paused at the edge of her bed, glancing back. “Though, for the record… that boner on the pitch wasn’t subtle.”

He groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Bloody hell, I can’t even move and now all my blood’s rushing elsewhere.”

Ginny laughed softly and climbed into bed, nestling into the covers with a content sigh. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll make it up to you.”

Blaise groaned again, a low growl of both pain and promise.

Ginny turned onto her side, watching his silhouette against the moonlight. “You saved me, Blaise. That’s something I’ll never forget.”

His voice was soft, full of meaning. “I always will.”

Sleep claimed her not long after, but her dreams were filled with starlight, stolen kisses, and the slow, steady pull of something deeper than either of them had ever expected—something that started on a Quidditch pitch and might just lead them both exactly where they needed to go.

Chapter Text

Pansy Parkinson had, of course, landed herself as Chair of the Hogwarts Halloween Masquerade Ball Committee—and she was thriving . Planning, designing, executing… she secretly (or not-so-secretly) loved it all. She had a vision, she had a scheme, and above all, she had purpose. This year’s mission had been simple: find happiness for her friends. Somehow, in the process, that goal had evolved. It wasn’t just about happiness anymore—it was about love .

And tonight’s masquerade? It was going to seal the deal.

Pansy had even pulled some strings to get special permission to invite Harry and Ron— technically not students anymore, but war heroes? That made things easier. Besides, Astoria and Daphne needed official dates, and Pansy wasn’t about to let some technicality get in the way of romance. Ron and Astoria were shockingly functional (and oddly sweet), and as for Harry and Daphne? Pansy had suspicions —ones she fully intended to confirm by midnight.

But at the moment, it wasn’t her matchmaking skills that had her heart fluttering.

She cast a covert glance at the man arranging her enchanted jack-o'-lanterns and floral displays. Neville Longbottom, dirt-smudged and radiant in the afternoon light, was placing an enormous, ebony-colored plant beneath the archway. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with soil, veins prominent from exertion. He looked annoyingly, devastatingly good.

And then he smiled— at her . Wind-tousled hair, twinkling eyes, that warm, grounded ease that made her stomach flip. She forgot to breathe.

Neville walked over and bent down for a soft kiss that still managed to make her toes curl.
“All the plants meeting your expectations, Pansy?” he murmured, her name like a velvet spell.

She shivered. Merlin , the way he said her name. Who would’ve thought she , Pansy Parkinson, would be falling— hard —for Neville Longbottom?

She caught her breath and pulled herself together. “They look amazing. Thank you for helping me bring this to life.”

He chuckled, brushing some dirt off his hands. “I just brought the greenery. Your vision made it easy. You knew exactly what you needed.”

She blinked. Was that a double meaning?

It was definitely a double meaning.

Because she did know what she needed. Him.

Recovering quickly, she gave him a sly, confident smirk. “Well then, Mr. Longbottom, I suppose the others can finish up here. I still need to show you your costume for tonight—and I could really use your opinion on mine.”

She took a step closer, eyes glinting with suggestion. “And as luck would have it, our dorm’s empty.”

Neville’s grin widened. He leaned in close, his breath warm at her ear.
“Lead the way, my flower.”

Pansy didn’t need to be told twice.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air shimmered with candlelight and enchantment as Hermione stepped into the transformed Great Hall—and for a breathless moment, she forgot to speak. She clutched Draco’s arm without thinking, her fingers curling around his sleeve in quiet awe.

The room had become something out of a gothic dream. Velvet black drapery billowed from the rafters like ravens’ wings, charmed to flutter with unseen wind. Jack-o’-lanterns levitated overhead, their carved eyes glowing soft amber, illuminating tables adorned with obsidian roses and silver candlesticks. Fog curled along the edges of the floor, like the very breath of magic itself.

At the far end, a grand archway of twisting black thorns glittered with starlight enchantments, and from the center of the ceiling hung an enormous enchanted raven—its wings outstretched mid-flight, feathers shifting between ink and midnight blue.

Pansy really outdid herself, Hermione thought with a blink. No—awe isn’t the word. This is art.

Behind the elegance, there was something deeper at play. This wasn’t just a ball. It was a statement. A declaration. A dream turned tangible.

It was her dream.

Draco leaned closer, voice low against her temple. “Not bad for your first year as royalty.”

She tilted her masked face toward him, her raven-feathered mask brushing his cheek. “This wasn’t me. It was all of us.”

And it was. She saw it now—threaded through the crowd like magic itself.

Luna twirled past in a floating gray gown that shimmered like fog over a lake, her mask made of real silver feathers. Theo followed in her wake, laughing as he let her spin him under one of the hovering chandeliers. He wore a matching mask, but his smile was unhidden, warm.

Ginny arrived in a fitted crimson gown, her curls piled high like a flame, Blaise beside her in tailored black. His mask was theatrical, almost phantom-like—but the way he looked at Ginny? Nothing hidden there.

Near the refreshments, Ron twirled Astoria with surprising grace. She wore deep green velvet and a gold-dusted half mask, and the way she leaned into him—hand resting over his heart—said everything words couldn’t. Harry, in a dark navy suit and feathered mask, stood beside Daphne, whose gown dripped silver and shadow like liquid moonlight. They weren’t touching, not quite—but Hermione had always been better at reading what wasn’t said.

And then, there was Pansy.

Hermione smiled as her friend glided past in a dramatic black lace gown with a high collar and intricate beadwork that glittered like starfire—every bit the gothic muse. Her mask was shaped like a raven’s face, complete with a sculpted beak and jeweled feathers. Neville was at her side in dark forest-green robes that had living vines curling subtly through the embroidery, and his wooden half-mask was carved with the image of an ancient tree, grounding her wild elegance.

Hermione’s own gown was a rich, stormy gray with black feathers curling around the bodice and spilling across the layered skirt. The neckline plunged just enough to feel powerful—not scandalous—and her mask, feathered and edged with tiny onyx stones, echoed the raven’s wingspan.

Draco, of course, looked devastating. His robes were obsidian velvet with a silver waistcoat etched with subtle runes. His mask was stark—just black, smooth, elegant, with sharp cheekbones and silver trim that mirrored his cufflinks. If she was the dreamer tonight, he was the blade in the shadows. Her sword, if she needed one.

She scanned the room again—students, professors, ghosts even—mingling, laughing, dancing.

No one asking about bloodlines.
No one judging a last name.
Just… magic. And hope.

Her throat tightened.

This— this —was what they’d all fought for.

“Granger,” Draco murmured, “you’re crying again.”

She let out a quiet laugh and blinked up at him. “You know, you could at least pretend to use my actual name after marrying me.”

He smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I do use your name. Just the one you’ll always be to me.”

Before she could retort, the band began playing a slow waltz—haunting and rich, a perfect match for Poe’s aesthetic.

Draco didn’t ask. He simply extended his hand, and she took it.

As they moved across the floor—her body molded against his, his hand firm at her waist—Hermione let herself fully feel it. Not just the beauty of the night, but the weightlessness that came from knowing none of this had been handed to them. It had been earned .

One battle at a time.
One choice at a time.
One heart at a time.

“Do you see it?” Hermione whispered.

Draco arched a brow. “See what?”

“This is what peace looks like,” Hermione whispered, her gaze sweeping across the candlelit hall. “It’s exactly what I spoke about this morning during the Samhain address to the Wizengamot—when I said that reconciliation isn’t just a possibility, it’s a responsibility. This is our purpose as royals… what we’re meant to protect and build. Unity. Healing. A future worth fighting for.”

Draco turned to her, struck silent not by the words themselves—but by the conviction in her voice. He had heard her speech earlier that morning, standing off to the side in his formal robes, watching her challenge centuries of prejudice with her chin high and eyes steady. But here, amid the glittering masks and unexpected laughter of old enemies, her vision was no longer just rhetoric—it was real. Tangible. Achieved, if only for a night.

She hadn’t merely dreamed of change. She had lived it, demanded it, created it. And somehow, impossibly, she had brought him with her.

This , he realized, as his fingers brought her hand to rest against his heart, was the world she was building—and Merlin help him, he wanted to be worthy of it.

Then he kissed her hand, not as a performance—but as a vow. “Then let’s protect it. For as long as we can.”

She nodded, her heart full. “Together.”

Above them, the enchanted raven gave a single slow beat of its wings, and black feathers fluttered down like snow.  Around them, couples twirled through the candlelit hall, shadows cast long by flickering jack-o’-lanterns and raven-winged chandeliers. The string quartet played a haunting waltz, its melody steeped in longing and promise.

They swayed together, breath syncing, heartbeats quieting.

“I heard your speech,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But this… watching you tonight… I finally understand it.”

She looked up at him, eyes glistening behind her delicate lace mask. “Understand what?”

“What it means to choose love over legacy. Peace over pride.” He leaned in, forehead resting gently against hers. “You make that choice look easy.”

Her smile trembled, real and reverent. “It’s never easy, Draco. But you make it worth it.”

And under the starlit illusion of ravens soaring across the ceiling, amid ancient wounds slowly healing and new stories beginning, Draco Malfoy kissed Hermione Granger like it was a vow. Not of the past. Not of obligation.

But of the future.

And somewhere deep inside Hermione’s soul, a wound she hadn’t known she’d been guarding… finally healed.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not far from the glittering ballroom where laughter and hope bloomed, darkness was already blooming in answer.

A red-haired man stood unnaturally still in the shadows of an abandoned manor, his glassy eyes vacant, his tone eerily flat. Before him loomed a circle of masked figures, their presence cloaked in magic and menace.

“In her speech,” the man intoned, as if reciting from memory, “the princess declared that reconciliation was not merely a possibility, but a responsibility . She called on the Wizengamot to end blood discrimination permanently. The prince stood beside her—silent, but visibly aligned with her vision.”

He stepped forward, movements mechanical, and handed a sealed scroll to the tallest masked figure. “These are the members who nodded in agreement. Those who clapped. Those who hesitated to challenge her.”

The masked leader accepted the parchment with a slow, gloved hand. He unraveled it deliberately, eyes scanning the names with predatory interest.

“Well done, Mr. Weasley,” the man murmured, his voice like oil over ice. “This information will serve our cause most... violently.”

The red-haired man's lips twitched, but not into a smile—his face remained blank, caught in the grip of a powerful Imperius Curse.

“You will continue to report,” the leader said, folding the scroll with care. “Attend their meetings. Hear their whispers. But you are nothing to them. Just a good little Ministry mutt. Fetching what you’re told.”

Laughter rippled through the masked men—cold, hollow.

None noticed the faint flicker of pain behind their puppet's vacant stare.

The leader turned, his voice now sharp and commanding. “Gentlemen, our princess believes she’s building a future. Let’s show her how quickly hope can burn.”

He raised the scroll like a banner. “The time for whispers is ending. It’s time they remember what fear feels like.”

With a crack of magic, they vanished into the night.

Chapter Text

The term was flying by, and the looming shadow of end-of-term exams marked the final stretch before the holidays. For the NEWT-level students, this was the critical turning point of the year—where academic performance began shaping their future paths. These exams didn’t just end term; they opened doors, offering conditional acceptances to prestigious post-Hogwarts programs while final NEWT results were pending once they were taken at the end of the year.

Hermione and Draco had both submitted applications to Cambridge, determined to walk parallel intellectual paths. Neville, still with soil under his nails and passion in his heart, was deep in discussions with Professor Sprout about a Herbology apprenticeship. Pansy, ever the aesthete, was torn between magical fashion houses in France and Italy. Oxford had extended quiet interest in Theo—not just for his mind, but for the way he hoped to heal others minds with it. Daphne had her sights on magical law, her arguments as sharp as her eyeliner.

Blaise, naturally, had inherited several vineyards and was in talks with extended family about apprenticing in magical viniculture. Ginny, with fire in her veins and glory in her stride, had practically been stalked by scouts from the Holyhead Harpies. And Luna, ethereal as ever, had been accepted into a correspondence course to become a certified magizoologist.

But the greatest surprise came on a quiet morning at breakfast.

Astoria approached the gang’s table, fingers clutching the strap of her bag, nerves dancing in her eyes. She paused before Hermione, then sat down with unusual formality.

“Hermione,” she began softly, “I’ve been speaking with Professor McGonagall about something that’s been bothering me. There’s a massive gap in our world—there’s no real education for magical children before Hogwarts. Nothing formal. Nothing supportive. I’ve decided to drop some of my NEWT courses next term to focus on studying child development and educational structures.”

Hermione blinked, stunned.

“My goal is to open a nursery and early learning school for wizarding families,” Astoria continued, gaining confidence with each word. “I want to help working mothers—working parents—feel like they don’t have to choose between family and purpose. McGonagall said this kind of thing is common in the Muggle world. Is that true? Would you help me develop a wizarding model to propose to the Hogwarts Board and the Wizengamot?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Then, without a word, she leapt from the bench and pulled Astoria into a fierce bear hug.

“Are you joking? Astoria, this is brilliant ! Yes, of course—I’d be honored to help. Actually, I’d like to be a patron.”

Astoria's eyes lit up, relief and pride blooming on her face. “Thank you! I love children—and I know we’ve all talked about changing the patriarchy, but how can we do that if there’s nowhere safe or supportive for the next generation while their parents work?”

Hermione grinned, her mind already racing with possibilities. “Then let’s build it. Let’s make sure the next generation of witches and wizards starts on a better path than many of our peers ever had.”

A rare moment of pure joy bloomed in her chest. For so long, it had felt like she was pushing for change alone. But now—now she saw the movement growing around her. This wasn’t just her dream anymore. Her friends, her allies, were stepping forward, each planting seeds of transformation in their own way.

But peace never lingered long.

Suddenly, a silver stag bounded through the air, halting at the headmistress. A heartbeat later, a Jack Russell terrier burst into the Great Hall, streaking straight toward Hermione. The patronus messages were targeted—silent, precise, and dire.

Hermione met McGonagall’s eyes across the room. One look was all it took.

“To the Headmistress’s office. Now,” Hermione ordered, her voice low and commanding.

No one questioned her. Draco stood first, already moving at her side. Their friends—Pansy, Theo, Luna, Blaise, Daphne, Astoria, Neville, Ginny—followed without hesitation. McGonagall swept after them, her robes billowing behind her as they left the startled murmurs of the Great Hall behind.

They had just reached the stone gargoyle guarding the office when the fireplace erupted. From the green flames stumbled Harry and Ron—bloodied, bruised, and breathless.

“Fucking Salazar,” Theo hissed, his voice cracking with shock as Daphne ran to steady Harry and Astoria knelt by Ron, already casting diagnostic charms.

Harry, gasping, managed, “They—they breached the Ministry. The Wizengamot… It was an ambush. Five justices—dead. The ones who supported Hermione’s reconciliation legislation. It was a massacre.”

Ron swallowed thickly. “These weren’t fanatics or amateurs. These were the real ones. The old guard. The ones we used to fear.”

A shadow fell over Draco’s expression. “Rodolphus,” he said grimly. “He was the one who broke the wards. He never spoke much, but he was the right hand of the Dark Lord’s second-in-command—his own wife. He’s a master of ancient magics. Cunning. Calculating. And unlike the Dark Lord—he’s not mad. That makes him far more dangerous.”

Pansy nodded grimly. “My father used to speak of him. He said Rodolphus had a cruelty that made even the Dark Lord wary. He believes only the purest bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight deserve to exist. Everyone else is expendable.”

Neville muttered, “Bloody hell. I’m so fucking tired of the Lestranges.”

Blaise let out a humorless snort. “I second that. Completely.”

Luna stepped forward, her eyes unusually sharp. “What do you need from us?”

Before anyone could answer, the fireplace flared again—and out stumbled Kingsley Shacklebolt and John Dawlish, both soot-streaked and shell-shocked. Their eyes swept the room in relief as they registered the students—all alive.

Hermione stepped forward. Her hand tightened around Draco’s. She didn’t wait for permission. She simply led .

“Minister,” she said, looking Kingsley in the eye, “Draco and I will be issuing a joint statement immediately. We’re going to condemn the attack. And we’re going to make it very clear that we’re not retreating. The movement for reconciliation will continue, and we will not cower behind Hogwarts wards. We’re doing this in Hogsmeade.”

Harry and Ron both opened their mouths to protest, but Hermione raised a hand. “We must be seen. Hiding will only make them bolder.”

She turned to Luna. “You’ll write the article for every major publication. Dennis Creevey can take the photographs.”

Then, to McGonagall, “Headmistress, I suggest we reactivate the safety protocols from fourth year. After Voldemort’s return.”

Ginny, voice sharp with purpose, added, “And let’s reach out to the DA and the Order. Aurors are spread thin—we need people we trust to form patrols.”

Kingsley nodded. “Excellent. I’ll contact Arthur and have him mobilize the Order.”

Neville chimed in, “I’ll send out a message to the DA members still here. We’ll meet in the Room of Requirement in an hour.”

Draco’s voice was steady but cold. “Potter. Weasley. Dawlish. Minister. After the statement, you should speak with my father. He knew Rodolphus well—they were forced to work together often. The Dark Lord never trusted my father, so Rodolphus was assigned to keep him in line.” His voice cracked slightly. “He’ll know how his mind works.”

Hermione squeezed his hand, grounding him. “We’re not alone in this anymore.”

One Hour Later – Outside the Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

Wartime enchantments were spreading across the castle, old defenses snapping back into place. Within Hogwarts, professors and students were preparing. Outside it, a new front had formed.

Hermione stood tall, Draco beside her, their friends behind them. Luna adjusted her quill, Dennis raised his camera. The world was watching.

Hermione stepped forward.

Her voice rang out—clear, resolute, and unafraid.

“Earlier today, five members of the Wizengamot—champions of progress—were murdered by known Death Eaters under the leadership of Rodolphus Lestrange. It was a targeted act of terror meant to strike fear into the heart of our society. They seek to divide us, to turn us against one another once more. But we will not yield.

“My husband and I stand here to say—we are not going anywhere. We will not allow this world to spiral back into shadows and bloodlines. We will not bow to fear.

“We are the generation that ended a war. And now, we will build the peace. True peace. Not one built on silence and shame—but on justice, unity, and accountability.

“We call on all of you—witches, wizards, creatures of magic—to take a stand with us. Let your voices be louder than their violence. Let your courage drown out their cruelty. They are few. We are many. ”

She reached for Draco’s hand, raising it with her own. His expression was proud—fiercely so.

And in that moment, the wind shifted. This wasn’t just Hermione Granger.

This was a leader .

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drawing room at Malfoy Manor was far from the cold and imposing chamber it had once been. The air was scented faintly with fresh lilac and dragon balm, a soft fire crackled in the hearth, and the family crest above the mantle had been subtly altered—the serpent now entwined with a blooming vine, symbolizing rebirth.

Hermione stood near the hearth, flanked by Draco and surrounded by their close friends—Harry, Ron, Pansy, Neville, Theo, Daphne, Blaise, Astoria, Ginny, and Luna. Tension simmered under the surface, but the energy wasn’t fear. It was determination.

Lucius Malfoy stood across from them, hands clasped behind his back, his expression serious. Narcissa sat nearby, a calm force beside him, her hand resting on the arm of the settee. Her eyes lingered on Hermione with quiet admiration.

“You’ve taken a bold step,” Lucius said, his voice low and deliberate. “Speaking so publicly in Hogsmeade was not without risk.”

“It was necessary,” Hermione replied evenly. “The people need to see we aren’t hiding.”

“And you were right to do so,” Narcissa added gently. “They needed to see courage. They needed to see you .”

Lucius nodded. “I agree. The reconciliation effort—this vision of yours—it’s not just noble, it’s vital. And it terrifies men like Rodolphus.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on each of them. “They fear what peace built on equity truly looks like. Because they have no place in it.”

Hermione straightened. “Then we’ll build it anyway.”

A glimmer of something proud crossed Lucius’s face. “Then allow me to help.”

He moved to an ornate writing desk in the corner and pulled out a long, leather-bound dossier. The crest stamped on the cover wasn’t the Malfoy family’s—it was a disused mark once used by the Ministry’s Magical Intelligence Department, long defunct.

“I began tracking Lestrange's patterns when whispers reached me that he had reactivated old blood oaths. There are at least six families bound to him by ancestral magic. He’s using sacred alliances and fear to gather strength under the surface. But he’s not just building an army. He’s shaping an ideology—one colder, quieter than the Dark Lord’s.”

He handed the dossier to Draco, who passed it immediately to Hermione.

Theo whistled low. “This is… extensive. You’ve been doing this on your own?”

Lucius gave a slight smile. “Narcissa and I never stopped watching. We lived through what happened the last time the wrong ideology went unchecked.”

“And we will not allow it again,” Narcissa added, her voice resolute. “Not when there’s a chance to build something better—something you, Hermione, have given people hope for.”

Hermione swallowed hard. For a moment, the firelight blurred slightly in her vision. Then she turned to the room.

“Then let’s use this,” she said, lifting the dossier. “We’re not just students anymore. We’re the next architects of our world. And we’re not going to wait for another war to be declared—we’re going to dismantle it before it begins.”

Harry stepped closer. “The Auror office will back you. I’ll talk to Kingsley—we’ll act on the intelligence. Quietly. Surgically.”

Ron nodded. “And we’ll start mapping out potential targets and allies. Maybe we get ahead of this.”

Pansy, perched on the arm of Neville’s chair, smirked. “Good thing I’ve got connections in the high society gossip chain. I’ll know who’s suddenly throwing secret galas.”

Neville’s eyes narrowed at the documents. “And I can work the Hogwarts grounds for protective flora—if they try to touch the school, they’ll regret it.”

Lucius’s eyes shone with restrained pride. “You’re sharper than we were at your age. You have vision and values.”

“You’ve got a war room now,” Draco said quietly, looking around them. “And this time, we’re the ones setting the rules.”

Hermione turned to Lucius and Narcissa. “Thank you—for trusting us. For standing with us.”

Narcissa gave a soft smile and stood, brushing Hermione’s cheek with a motherly touch. “No, dear. We’re following you. ”

And for the first time since the attacks began, Hermione felt something steadier than adrenaline—something that tasted like momentum.

Like revolution.

The war council had dispersed, the clink of tea cups and rustle of parchment replaced by silence. The manor was dim now, enchanted sconces casting gentle golden pools of light as the moon crept past the high windows. Hermione and Draco slipped away from the others, weaving down the quiet corridors until they reached the solarium.

It was a favorite room of Narcissa’s—glass walls, star-drenched, filled with night-blooming flowers and the faint perfume of jasmine and moon lily. A velvet settee sat beneath a towering window, and it was there that Draco pulled her gently down to sit beside him.

For a long moment, they didn’t speak.

Hermione leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers curling in the sleeve of his robes. “I should be exhausted,” she murmured. “But I feel… like I’m vibrating inside.”

“You’re running on fire,” Draco said softly, wrapping an arm around her. “You always do when there’s a cause. It’s maddening. And it’s magnificent.”

She gave a small laugh against his chest. “Lucius called me an architect tonight.”

“He’s not wrong.” He brushed her curls back from her cheek. “What you’re building—it’s not theoretical anymore. It’s taking root. You’ve lit something in all of them.”

“I’m scared, Draco.” She didn’t dress the truth up. Her voice was raw, quiet. “Not of the danger, exactly. But of what happens if I fail. If we lose this before it has a chance to breathe.”

“You won’t.” He tipped her chin up, making her look at him. “Because you don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore. You have me. You have them. And hell—my parents just pledged their loyalty to you over bloodlines and legacies. If that’s not a sign of a changed world, I don’t know what is.”

Hermione blinked, lips twitching. “Your mother called me dear .”

Draco smirked. “She likes you better than me, let’s be honest.”

Hermione’s smile faltered slightly, and her hand found his. “And you? Do you believe in it, Draco? In this ?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I believe in you .”

He kissed her then—soft and deliberate. It wasn’t a kiss of passion or urgency, but of anchoring. A reminder of the ground beneath them, of the life they were choosing to build, even if it was on shaky earth.

When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “When this is over, when we’ve won—let’s build that world from the bones of the old one. And let’s fill it with books, and laughter, and Sunday breakfasts with far too many friends crowding our kitchen.”

Hermione closed her eyes, whispering into the space between them, “And nurseries with wild-haired babies who’ll never have to fight the wars we did.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “Exactly.”

They stayed there for a long time—silent, entwined, watching the stars stretch endlessly overhead.

And beneath that moonlight, for just a breath, peace didn’t feel like a dream.

It felt like a promise.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tension was palpable before they even entered the hall.

Hermione and Draco arrived hand-in-hand, flanked by their friends—each of them quiet, eyes darting toward the stacks of freshly delivered Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly copies fluttering in the hands of students and staff. The rustle of parchment was nearly deafening.

And then silence.

Heads turned.

The front page headline was impossible to miss, inked in bold black and framed by moving photos from Hogsmeade:

"The Prince and Princess Declare War on Hate: Malfoys Lead the Call for Reconciliation After Terror Attack"

A photograph showed Hermione standing tall, fierce in her speech, Draco at her side—shoulders square, expression unreadable but unwavering. Behind them, the wreckage of the morning after was visible, but so was their resolve.

Other headlines followed:

“A New Order: The Heirs of Light Refuse to Back Down”
“Wizengamot in Mourning: Five Justices Slaughtered in Terrorist Attack”
“DA and Order Members Mobilize to Support School Security”

Across the hall, reactions varied. First years looked frightened. Some seventh years were whispering behind hands, reading aloud quotes from Luna’s article that had already gone international. Professors exchanged glances. McGonagall sat at the High Table, her gaze firm and proud as it landed on Hermione and Draco.

As they took their seats, Daphne shoved a paper toward them. “You’re everywhere. Witch Weekly did an entire spread on how Draco didn’t flinch during the speech and how your hand was on her back the whole time, steady as stone.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course they noticed that. ”

Pansy snatched a copy from a fourth-year, flipping it open to a glossy feature titled "Love in a Time of War." She read aloud with mock drama, “ The Malfoys of tomorrow may be rewriting their family legacy, and it starts with her—the Muggle-born firebrand with a vision for peace and the wizard who dares to stand beside her. ”

Hermione groaned, face in her hands. “That is not the point.”

“But it is the point, darling,” Blaise said, buttering toast. “Optics matter. Power couples and politics go hand in hand. And you two? You're the future, like it or not.”

Theo tapped the headline thoughtfully. “You’ve officially drawn the line in the sand, Granger. They’ll come harder now—but so will your allies.”

Just then, owls swept in for the mid-morning delivery. An unusually large grey one dropped a rolled scroll in front of Hermione, sealed with the international Wizengamot crest.

Draco looked over her shoulder as she cracked the wax seal.

“ The French Magical Court stands with your initiative and will be drafting a resolution in support of inclusive education standards… ” Hermione read aloud, eyes widening. “They’re backing us.”

Neville sat straighter. “That’s a major domino. Others will follow.”

But before they could react further, a second owl delivered a different kind of message—this one ominous. A small box addressed to Hermione, with no seal. No magical protections.

She opened it cautiously.

Inside was a blackened feather. And nothing else.

Draco immediately went rigid. “Don’t touch it.”

Pansy cursed. “A raven’s feather. That’s symbolic. They’re using your own theme against you.”

Hermione’s voice was steel. “Let them. They’re trying to make this a game of fear. But I’m done being afraid.”

And as she burned the feather with a flick of her wand, the ashes curled in the air—drifting toward the high, enchanted ceiling.

Above them, the magical sky slowly shifted from grey to gold.

Chapter Text

Hermione paced the length of the small room she and Draco had been given to prepare for the Diagon Alley reopening ceremony. Her dress robes swished with every step, the rhythm of her pacing uneven—less out of vanity and more out of nervous energy. This wasn’t just a speech. It was a declaration of progress, a defiance of fear, and a beacon for what the wizarding world could become.

After the war, rebuilding had begun at Hogwarts—the symbolic heart of their society—and now, finally, it had shifted to Diagon Alley: the economic and cultural core of magical Britain. Hermione had worked tirelessly with shop owners, lawmakers, and community leaders to ensure this wasn’t just reconstruction—it was reformation. And now, in time for holiday shopping, she had been chosen to give the grand reopening speech.

But even as hope bloomed in the cobblestoned streets, anxiety bloomed in her chest.

What if something went wrong?
What if the Death Eaters saw this as a target too tempting to resist?

She tried to shake the thoughts, but they clung to her like cobwebs.

Earlier that morning, Lucius had met with the core group—Kingsley, Dawlish, Harry, Ron, the gang, Order representatives, and a few trusted Aurors—to finalize security plans. Hermione knew the strategy was solid, even brilliant. But no plan was foolproof, and she couldn’t silence the fear that innocent people could still get hurt.

Her mind had been spiraling until Narcissa Malfoy, ever composed and regal, had taken her gently by the shoulders and drawn her into a quiet embrace.

"My dear," Narcissa had murmured, her voice like velvet steel, "you are so brave and compassionate. That compassion is your greatest strength, not your weakness. Please remember—none of us were coerced into this. We are choosing to stand with you. We are choosing to face evil differently this time. You helped us all see that a better world was possible. And now, we are choosing not to repeat history.”

The words had wrapped around Hermione’s soul like a warm shield. She held onto them now, repeating them silently as she paced.

She was interrupted by strong arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against a familiar chest. The warmth of Draco's body, the steadiness of his breath, and the comfort of his scent grounded her immediately.

“I can literally feel your anxiety seeping out of your every pore,” he whispered against her curls, “and it’s starting to spark static off your hair. I think you just shocked me.”

Hermione turned in his arms and mock-glared. “Excuse you, Malfoy. I have no pores. Pansy’s K-Beauty potions have eliminated all evidence of pores. I’m practically a porcelain doll.”

He laughed—a deep, rich sound that vibrated through her—and she couldn’t help smiling as her heart rate began to slow.

“Seriously,” he said softly, brushing a curl from her face, “we’ve got this. I’ve got your back. And so does everyone else. We’ve prepared. And even if they do try something... we’re not the same people we were last time. We’re stronger. And we’re rebuilding not just buildings—but beliefs. You dreamed this future into existence, and now we’re all helping build it.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away. “Thank you, Draco. For believing in it. In me.”

They stood forehead to forehead, eyes closed, anchoring each other. The quiet thrum of their magical bond sparked between them—intimate and ancient. Hermione could feel it growing stronger with every united step they took.

“I feel it too,” Draco murmured.

A knock interrupted the moment. Kingsley entered with his usual no-nonsense expression softened by the beginnings of a smile.

“All right, you two. I’ll start with a few words from the Ministry—boring, political things—and then it’s all yours. There’s a huge crowd. But let’s be honest: they’re not here for me. They came to see their princess.”

Hermione flushed but smiled back. “Thanks, Kings.”

“You’re inspiring hope and resistance in the same breath, Hermione. Let’s go show them what leadership looks like.”

The sun shone down on Diagon Alley as if even the weather itself knew what this moment meant.

Every brick had been scrubbed clean. Ollivanders stood tall again, its sign swinging in the breeze, with Garrick Ollivander and his enthusiastic new apprentice—Lee Jordan—ready to match wands to witches and wizards. Madam Malkin’s new window display sparkled with shimmering robes made in collaboration with up-and-coming designers from across bloodlines. Fortescue's was serving peppermint bark sundaes. The Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes storefront looked like it had exploded in glitter and joy.

And best of all, new shops had opened—some by Muggleborns, others by half-bloods, still others by squibs given magical grants to participate in the new wizarding economy.

This wasn’t just Diagon Alley restored.
It was Diagon Alley reimagined.

Kingsley stepped up to the podium and offered heartfelt words about unity, reconstruction, and the Ministry’s commitment to progress. The crowd applauded politely.

Then it was Hermione’s turn.

She stepped up to the podium, tall and unwavering, and glanced across the crowd. There were her friends—Harry, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Neville, Astoria, and Daphne. The DA. Members of the Order. And even Lucius and Narcissa standing shoulder-to-shoulder with shopkeepers and children.

“My fellow witches and wizards,” she began, her voice ringing clearly, “I stand here today the same as you—not as someone above, but beside you. I stand here as someone who dreams of a world where we all thrive.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“Eight years ago, I stepped foot into Diagon Alley for the first time. I was eleven. Muggleborn. Terrified. Alone. But when I looked around at the magic, I knew—I had found my home. Even if the world wasn’t quite ready to see me as belonging.”

She paused, letting the memory anchor her words.

“And now, I look at this street—the heart of our magical economy—and my heart soars. Because this isn’t just a reopening. It’s a rebirth. Today, we celebrate not just the shops and cobblestones, but the people behind them. People of every background. Every blood status. This is what reconciliation looks like.”

The crowd shifted, leaning in.

“We are building a magical society where opportunity is not dictated by lineage, but by love of craft and pursuit of purpose. Today, every galleon spent here is a vote for that future. A future of equity . A future of growth . A future where no child feels like they don’t belong.”

Cheers began to rise.

“So yes—eat, drink, and be merry! Support your neighbors. Share your joy. Because we are not just surviving—we are thriving . And I, for one, plan to spend a scandalous amount of my husband’s galleons on books I don’t need and chocolate frogs I’ll regret later.”

The crowd erupted into laughter and applause.

Draco stepped beside her, beaming with quiet pride, and with Kingsley flanking them, they lifted the oversized golden scissors. The red ribbon across the alley fluttered as they sliced through it.

Immediately, enchanted confetti burst into the air, Weasley fireworks lit up the sky, and Diagon Alley officially reopened to thunderous cheers.

And for a moment—just one golden, shining moment—Hermione allowed herself to believe that hope was winning.

With the ribbon cut and the crowd dispersing into a festive buzz, Hermione felt herself being swept into the current of celebration. She let it happen—just for now. Beside her, Draco offered his arm like they were back at a formal gala, but his smile was boyish and crooked, the kind of grin she used to only see in stolen moments.

“Ready to bankrupt me?” he teased.

“Gladly,” she replied, linking her arm through his. “And with joy in my heart.”

They strolled through the bustling street, stopping first at Flourish and Blotts. The shopkeeper beamed at her and handed her a specially curated stack—books on magical economic policy, wandlore equity programs, and a brand-new illustrated edition of Hogwarts: A History with marginalia from former students, including hers. Draco rolled his eyes and added all of them to their growing purchases with mock agony.

Next, they stopped at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where Fred and George greeted them with exaggerated fanfare and handed Hermione a “Hope Starter Kit” filled with glitter bombs, rainbow smoke pellets, and a mug that read: Princess Granger-Malfoy: Hope’s Favorite Weapon.

Laughter came easy. The air was light. But as she stepped out of the shop, a sudden chill passed over her—not magical, just… unease. She scanned the crowd. Nothing looked wrong, but her instincts prickled. Just for a second.

Draco noticed. “Don’t let them steal this day from you,” he said quietly, stepping closer, his tone protective but not overbearing.

“I’m not,” she said, and meant it. “But I won’t forget, either.”

As they passed Florean Fortescue’s, a little girl tugged at Hermione’s robes. “Are you really the one who helped make all this happen?”

Hermione crouched, smiling. “No. We all did. Every person who showed up today helped build this.”

The girl beamed. “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Hermione felt her throat catch. She looked up at Draco, who mouthed, I told you so.

As the warm energy of Diagon Alley swirled around them, Hermione tugged gently on Draco’s hand. “Alright, time to get serious. We have gifts to buy.”

Draco groaned dramatically. “Serious? I thought we were celebrating. This sounds like work. ”

Hermione smirked. “You know, the faster you help me, the faster we can go to that little wine bar Astoria told me about.”

His eyes lit with interest. “Lead the way, Princess Granger-Malfoy.”

First Stop: Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment

For Theo, they found a custom-made brass pocket watch etched with constellations that moved with the night sky.

“Because even in chaos,” Hermione said, “he likes to feel like he has control over time.”

Draco raised a brow. “That’s disturbingly poetic.”

“For Theo, it fits.”

Next: Scribbulus Writing Implements

For Daphne, Hermione picked out a wand-carved fountain quill made from moonstone and acromantula silk thread. Draco added a monogrammed journal bound in deep emerald leather.

“She’ll pretend it’s just for notes,” Hermione said, “but I bet she uses it for spell theory.”

“Or to write scathing letters to the Daily Prophet,” Draco added.

Twilfitt and Tatting's – Special Holiday Selection

For Pansy, Draco took the lead—he had a better sense of her style. He chose an enchanted midnight-blue velvet cloak that shimmered slightly with stardust and repelled red wine spills.

“She’ll weep with joy,” Hermione teased.

“She’ll pretend not to like it for ten minutes and then wear it for the rest of the year,” Draco replied smugly.

Flourish and Blotts, Part II

For Neville , Hermione found a rare Herbology tome: Flesh & Flora: The Magical Properties of Carnivorous Plants . Draco, after much debate, added a sleek holster for wand and pruning shears.

“Is it practical?” he asked.

“It’s Neville,” Hermione said. “He’ll cry.”

Magical Menagerie

For Astoria, they selected a plush Kneazle kitten enchanted to purr soothingly whenever held—a sensory tool she could use during stressful days.

“Soft magic for a soft heart,” Draco murmured. Hermione kissed his cheek for that one.

Borgin & Burkes (now under new ownership)

Draco took a surprising turn into the once-infamous shop, which now sold ethically reclaimed artifacts. He found Blaise an enchanted goblet set that adapted wine temperature to perfect sommelier standards.

“Unapologetic snobbery,” Hermione said, nodding. “He’ll love it.”

Somewhere Between Diagon and Knockturn – The Curious Curio Caravan

As they turned down a side alley lit by floating lanterns shaped like jellyfish, Hermione slowed in front of a peculiar, patchwork-painted cart with a crooked sign that read:

"The Curious Curio Caravan – For the Eccentric and Enlightened"

Draco arched an eyebrow. “This screams Luna.”

Hermione’s eyes twinkled. “Exactly why we’re here.”

Inside, the cart was a treasure trove of oddities: humming teacups, maps that rearranged themselves depending on your dreams, and charmed slippers that let you walk six inches above the ground.

“She would love all of this,” Draco whispered, half in horror, half in wonder.

Hermione was already scanning the shelves with thoughtful eyes. “We need something that’s not just strange. Something that feels like her.”

After a moment, the shopkeeper—a bearded wizard in mismatched robes and Crocs—beckoned them toward a glass dome on a velvet pedestal. Beneath it sat a crystal vial suspended in midair, swirling with a soft, silvery-blue mist.

“This,” he said, “is bottled moonlight, captured the night the war ended. It glows brighter in the presence of truth.”

Draco blinked. “Is that real?”

Hermione smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Luna will believe it.”

They bought it immediately, and as they were leaving, Hermione added a second item—an invisible ink quill that only wrote in riddles unless the writer was speaking from the heart.

“I’ll never understand her,” Draco muttered affectionately.

“You don’t have to,” Hermione replied, linking her arm with his. “You just have to love her the way she is.”

Quality Quidditch Supplies

For Ginny, Hermione found the latest Chaser-grade gloves from Germany—custom fit, featherlight, and hex-resistant. Draco added a sleek broom-care kit, engraved with her initials.

“Because if she wins the World Cup and her broom squeaks, she’ll hex us,” he said.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Again

For Ron and Harry, they grabbed a two-man prank dueling set—instant mischief with safety spells built-in.

“You do realize we’re encouraging terrible decisions,” Draco muttered.

“Of course,” Hermione said brightly. “It’s Christmas.”

Silk, Satin, Spells and Sophistication's – Family Suite

For Narcissa, Hermione chose a set of delicately enchanted gloves stitched with blossoms that bloomed in winter air.

“She said she missed gardening,” Hermione explained.

“She’ll be touched,” Draco said, quietly proud.

For Lucius, they chose a rare wand holster made from Demiguise-hide, one with subtle defense wards woven in.

“This is also to remind him he doesn’t have to stand on the sidelines anymore,” Draco said. Hermione slipped her hand into his. “He doesn’t want to.”

Final Stop: Muggle-Liaison Boutique

Hermione paused in front of a small tucked-away shop that catered to Muggleborn families. Inside, she picked out a heated blanket enchanted to never overheat and a photo frame that could rotate between magical and non-magical photos. One would hold a picture of her and Draco standing in front of the Three Broomsticks, smiling against falling snow.

“For my grandparents,” she said softly. “So they can see the world I chose, and know I’m safe in it.”

Draco pressed a kiss to her temple. “Let’s add a note. From both of us.”

Lucius and Narcissa met them near the main square, where enchanted snow drifted lazily through the air and carolers floated gently overhead on broomsticks, serenading shoppers below. After warm hugs and a brief exchange of plans, they decided to split up—Narcissa whisking Draco away to help him find a gift for Hermione, while Lucius offered his arm to Hermione with an elegant, familiar flourish.

Together, they strolled along the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, the rebuilt storefronts glowing cheerfully in the golden afternoon light.

Lucius moved with quiet, composed grace at Hermione’s side as she dipped in and out of shops—scanning windows, inspecting shelves, occasionally debating aloud whether Draco would appreciate a rare magical botanical text or a charmed compass that always pointed toward home.

A deep, amused chuckle escaped him as she exited her fourth shop with yet another neatly wrapped parcel in hand. “My dear, I can only conclude that you, alone, intend to revive the British wizarding economy using Malfoy galleons as fuel.”

Hermione laughed, cheeks pink from the cold and the compliment. “Unfortunately, I know part of the ‘gig’ is having the press follow and dissect our every move. So I’m making sure they see it clearly: that I don’t just talk about rebuilding the world—I live it. I shop at new shops, support reformed businesses, encourage all blood statuses. Every purchase is a statement.”

Lucius gave a slow, approving nod, his voice thoughtful. “You’ve transformed ideals into action. That takes more courage than most can summon.” His eyes softened as he glanced at her, and his voice lowered. “You are doing an admirable job, Hermione. And I say this not as a politician or a purist reborn, but simply as a man proud to call you family. I am proud to claim you as a Malfoy.”

Hermione’s breath caught slightly in her throat. That simple affirmation, from the man who once stood on the opposite side of everything she believed in, wrapped around her like a second winter cloak—warm and protective.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion she hadn’t expected. “That means more than I can say.”

They continued on, side by side, until Hermione stopped short in front of a modest but beautifully curated storefront that had just reopened— The Timekeeper’s Trove. Inside, among the intricate magical timepieces and stasis charms, she found it: a handcrafted pocketwatch that showed not only time, but memories. A flick of the dial and it replayed a frozen, glowing moment—laughter, a kiss, a quiet shared breath.

She knew instantly it was the perfect gift for Draco.

As Lucius paid the shopkeeper with a knowing smile, Hermione held the wrapped box to her chest. She felt it then—how far she had come, and how full her life now was. She had fought for a future she once barely believed in, and now, she was surrounded by love, by family—both chosen and inherited—and by the hope of something lasting.

This Christmas, she wasn’t just surviving.

She was home.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ron and Astoria strolled hand in hand through the cobbled heart of Diagon Alley, their fingers laced tightly together despite the chill. Around them, the newly reopened shops glowed with festive charm, glittering window displays twinkling with enchanted snow and holiday magic. Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet had been trailing all of the prominent couples for hours, quills scribbling furiously as they tried to capture this image of unity and rebirth in the wizarding world.

But Ron wasn’t thinking about headlines. He was too full of pride and gratitude—grateful that this stunning, brilliant witch beside him had chosen him , and proud of the man he was becoming.

He’d done the work— real work. With Hermione and Harry’s encouragement, he’d sought a mind healer after the war. There, he’d confronted not only the trauma of battle but the deeply buried resentments he’d carried toward wealthy pure-bloods—resentments that had once been easy to justify in the face of war and oppression. But in the quiet after the storm, he realized that if he wanted the sacrifices he’d made to mean something, he had to stop judging people by their bloodlines or bank accounts. He had to let go of the bitterness that no longer served him.

And Astoria... she had made that healing not just possible, but necessary. She was worth every inch of that growth. She was his reason to move forward.

Heart pounding, Ron slowed to a stop in front of Beyond Magic’s Jewelry and Design , the frost-touched window aglow with enchanted trinkets and custom heirlooms. He took a breath, turned to her, and clasped both of her hands in his own.

“Astoria,” he began, voice slightly tremulous, “you are everything I ever dreamed of having in my life. Kind, clever, radiant—with a heart bigger than anyone I’ve ever met. I know you’re used to... well, finer things than I can offer. But I’ve got a steady job, I’ve invested the galleons I got with my Order of Merlin First Class, and I can promise you a comfortable, if not extravagant, life.”

He smiled sheepishly. “But what I lack in wealth, I’ll make up for with love. Loyalty. Laughter. And lots of help in the kitchen. So what I’m trying to say is—I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you'll have me?”

Astoria blinked as her eyes welled with tears, her smile soft and sure. “Oh, Ronald,” she breathed. “You don’t have to offer me riches—I’ve already lived that life. I was raised in a cold home, with parents who saw me as a duty, not a daughter. My dream isn’t gold-lined. It’s warm and loud and messy and filled with love. It’s... us . I don’t need anything but you. Just you.”

He pulled her into a kiss—gentle, sure, and full of reverence.

When they pulled apart, he grinned and whispered, “Then I can’t wait to show you what I had made. I didn’t have a Weasley courting bracelet to pass down, so I commissioned one just for you. I want everyone to know—we’ve chosen each other.”

With excitement dancing in his eyes, he guided her into the store. The clerk greeted them with a bright smile, clearly prepared for this moment. The boutique’s co-owners—one a self-described blood traitor, the other a Squib from the disgraced Avery family—had fused magical craftsmanship with Muggle artistry to create something unique and powerful.

Ron retrieved a small velvet box. Inside was the bracelet.

Astoria gasped.

The delicate golden chain was inlaid with filigree daffodils and gladiolus flowers, dotted with aquamarine and peridot gems—tiny but brilliant.

“Ron,” she whispered. “Daffodils and gladiolus—those are our birth flowers. March and August.”

He smiled. “Yeah. Our birth months. Side by side. Partners in everything.”

He fastened it around her wrist with steady fingers, and she immediately threw her arms around him.

“This,” she said fervently, “is the most beautiful piece of jewelry I own. It’s more precious than anything buried in a vault in Gringotts.”

Ron laughed, the sound hearty and honest. “Good, because I can’t compete with ancient emerald tiaras.”

They walked out of the shop glowing.

As they strolled arm in arm, Astoria glanced at her bracelet, then said lightly, “Speaking of vaults... Lucius has been helping Daphne and me reclaim ours. With our father on the run, everything had been frozen. But Lucius found a loophole through an obscure Line Preservation Act. It means Daphne and I can each inherit independently as heiresses.”

She nudged Ron playfully. “She’s got her eyes on a certain Black estate. Which means I’ll probably get the Greengrass one. So... we’ll have a lot of rooms to fill. Hopefully with red-haired children who can’t stop talking and break everything.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. He stared at her. “Merlin, I love you.”

Astoria simply beamed and tugged him forward.

They rejoined the group at Sips and Secrets , a chic new wine bar Astoria had insisted on trying. When they stepped through the door, sun catching the gold on her bracelet, the whole gang noticed immediately.

Daphne’s eyes widened. “Astoria. Is that what I think it is?!”

Astoria giggled. “Yes.”

Daphne shrieked and leapt to embrace her, twirling her sister with joyous abandon. “I love it! I’ve never seen anything like it—is it official?!”

“It is. Ron designed it himself. The flowers and gems represent us. Together. As partners.”

The women sighed in unison: “So romantic,” “so thoughtful,” “beyond perfect,” “where is mine ?”

Harry leaned over and muttered to Ron, “For fuck’s sake, mate. You’re making the rest of us look like trolls.”

Ron clapped him on the back. “Grow your emotional intelligence, Potter. It’s all the rage.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Draco barked a laugh. “Never thought I’d hear that from Ron Weasley.”

Narcissa hugged Astoria gently. “Congratulations, my dear. We’re so proud of you.”

But the greatest surprise came when Lucius stepped forward and extended a hand to Ron. “Then I suppose this makes it official. Welcome to the family, Ronald. You’ve done well by Astoria. And I’m pleased she’s found someone worthy of her.”  He chuckled as he added, “If anyone had told me I’d one day offer my “adoptive” daughter’s hand to a Weasley, I’d have hexed them. But here we are.”

Ron choked on a laugh caught in his throat, but proudly shook the older wizard’s hand firmly. “Thank you. That means a lot. I’ll take care of her—she deserves the world.”

Hermione watched the scene unfold, her heart full to bursting. Two men who once couldn’t be in the same room without threats now stood united—not just in tolerance, but in acceptance. In love’s name, they were healing old wounds. Burying old grudges. Moving forward.

Love, she thought, really could change everything.

The cozy hum of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, and warmth settled over their circle.

Then Arthur’s weasel patronus burst into the room, glowing and urgent.

“Percy was imperiused. All plans have been compromised. Meet at Mungos.”

The smiles faded instantly. Wands were drawn. Fear sharpened into purpose.

Their perfect day had been pierced—but they were ready.

Together, they moved.

Chapter Text

They rushed into the Emergency Department of St. Mungo’s, skidding to a halt as they caught sight of the Weasley family already gathered near the large glass doors. Arthur was seated on a bench, holding a trembling Molly in his arms. Her sobs were muffled against his chest, her wand lying forgotten at her side. Bill and Fleur sat nearby, pale-faced and rigid, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white. Fred and George were pacing, their usual synchronized swagger replaced with haunted eyes and twitching fingers. Fred’s fist opened and closed like he was fighting not to punch the wall.

The moment they saw the group arrive, George stopped pacing and turned, face ashen. Fred joined him, and together they walked toward the others, shoulders drawn tight with dread.

George’s voice cracked. “It’s bad.”

He looked straight at Hermione, his eyes searching hers like he needed her brilliance to fix the impossible.

“They say he was under an Imperius Curse,” he continued, voice thick. “A long time. One powerful enough to lock down his entire mind.”

Fred picked up, swallowing hard. “The curse... it’s like he’s been trying to claw his way out. They think he’s been fighting it for months—maybe longer. When he finally managed to break through… the backlash—it caused his brain to bleed. Swelling, ruptured synapses.”

A choked silence fell.

“They’ve... put him in a magically induced coma,” Fred finally said, barely above a whisper. “They’re trying to stop the swelling, keep the damage from getting worse. But they don’t know… they don’t know if they can wake him.”

The air was sucked out of the room. A quiet horror settled over them like a suffocating fog.

Pansy reached out blindly and grabbed Neville’s hand, her usual sharpness gone, her face tight with sorrow. Luna’s ethereal expression faded into something sharp and focused, her blue eyes watering as she stared at nothing. Daphne clutched Theo’s arm. Even Blaise, usually the picture of polished disinterest, ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

Draco pulled Hermione closer, his eyes darting around the room as if trying to calculate a way to undo it all. Hermione’s eyes prickled with tears she refused to shed. Her mind buzzed with worst-case scenarios and statistics, but none of it mattered. This wasn’t something she could fix.

Narcissa, silent beside Lucius, gently nudged her husband forward. It was subtle, but deliberate.

Lucius cleared his throat. “I know… many of you may not trust me,” he began, his voice steady despite the tension. “Frankly, I understand. But I may be able to help.”

A few people stiffened. Ron’s brows shot up. Bill’s hand twitched toward his wand. Fleur narrowed her eyes protectively.

Lucius pressed on. “This stage—right now—it’s critical. Healers are trained in magical medicine, yes, but not in what this is: invasive, parasitic mind magic. I’ve studied it… used it. And, more importantly, I’ve reversed it. On Severus. Regulus. And even Draco, during the war.”

All eyes turned to Draco, who gave a small, solemn nod.

“I can enter Percy’s mind,” Lucius continued, “using a blend of Legilimency and Transfiguration. I can attempt to repair the neurological damage. But time is short—if I wait too long, the damage will harden.”

Silence fell like a dropped gavel.

Molly looked up from Arthur’s shoulder, her eyes bloodshot and wet. Her lip trembled, and she blinked at Lucius as if seeing him for the first time—not as the enemy, but as a last hope.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please try. Please save my boy.”

Lucius bowed his head slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

Arthur stood, then placed a firm hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “You’ll have our permission. I’ll go with you to authorize the procedure.”

They turned to find the healer, while Narcissa crossed the room and gently took Molly’s hand. The older witch stiffened, startled—but then squeezed back. A silent truce forged in grief.

Lucius was escorted into the spellwork chamber, and time warped into molasses.

The room fell deathly quiet. No one dared to speak. Every shuffle of a shoe or sniffle echoed like cannon fire.

Hermione watched through the glass as Lucius raised his wand. The air shimmered with concentrated magic. Delicate strands of silver and gold light stretched from his wand to Percy’s temple, threading into the unconscious man’s skull. Sweat beaded on Lucius’s brow, but his expression was resolute, intense.

Theo watched with wary awe. “That’s… some of the most advanced spellwork I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

Draco nodded tightly. “He’s been perfecting it for years.”

The brain scan above Percy’s bed pulsed—at first angry red, then slowly fading into streaks of orange and yellow. Hermione held her breath. So did everyone else.

Lucius’s hands were trembling now. His wand flicked in tight, precise movements. The magical threads intensified—silver fire weaving into Percy’s aura like embroidery.

A final wave of magic passed from Lucius’s wand, and the brain scan shifted to green.

The healer gasped. “Merlin’s bones… I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Lucius staggered back. Draco was at his side in a flash, steadying him.

Lucius wiped his brow, his voice rough but calm. “The key… is to understand the pathways of thought. Legilimency shows you where the trauma lies. Transfiguration lets you guide the synapses into regeneration. But you only get one shot. The damage sets in like rot if you wait too long.”

Molly burst into sobs again—but this time of relief—and threw her arms around Lucius Malfoy. His eyes went wide in alarm, but he didn’t pull away. He just stood there as Molly sobbed into his expensive robes, murmuring “Thank you” over and over.

Narcissa came forward, slipping her arm around Molly’s back. She whispered something soothing, and the two women stood holding each other—two matriarchs who had once stood on opposite ends of a war now joined in something harder: peace.

Arthur turned to Lucius, jaw tight. He didn’t speak—but he held out his hand. Lucius took it, and they shook. The room felt the shift. Something ancient had cracked and fallen away.

A weak voice broke the silence.

“Mum? …Dad?”

Molly and Arthur spun and ran to the bedside. Percy’s eyes were half-lidded, blinking slowly. His voice was hoarse but clear.

“Oh, my baby,” Molly wept, cradling his face as Arthur pressed a kiss to his temple.

There were gasps and muffled sobs. Ginny burst into tears, clutching Harry’s arm. Fleur clung to Bill, who was openly crying now. Fred leaned on George like his legs had given out.

Hermione turned to Draco, her eyes shining. “He’s awake.”

But her joy caught when she noticed Harry had stepped away—shoulders hunched, head bowed, deep in conversation with Dawlish. Something in Harry’s stance made the hair on her arms stand.

When Harry returned, the joy shattered.

“We need to move,” he said grimly. “Emergency meeting in the War Room. I’m calling in the Order, the DA, and every Auror I trust. Every plan, every secure location—everything’s compromised.”

The relief drained from their faces like blood from a wound.

Arthur gave a solemn nod. “Go. We’ve got Percy.”

The group turned as one, determination replacing their grief. There was no time to celebrate—not yet. The world was tilting again, and the darkness was already pressing at the edges of the light.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group gathered at Malfoy Manor was large—too large for comfort, given the gravity of the situation. The usually majestic drawing room, with its gilded moldings and high-arched windows, felt claustrophobic. Conversations were sparse, clipped. Tension clung to every surface like dust that couldn’t be wiped clean.

Harry stepped forward, the room falling quiet around him. He stood straighter now than he had in his youth—every inch the Commander the war had shaped him into.

“We still don’t know how long Percy was under the Imperius Curse,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “But after speaking with Lucius, our worst suspicions are confirmed. The man behind this is likely Rodolphus Lestrange.”

A collective flinch moved through the room like a pulse. Fred muttered a sharp curse. Blaise’s gaze darkened, jaw clenched. Pansy let out a quiet, incredulous breath, while Fleur reached instinctively for Bill’s hand.

“Lestrange is brilliant,” Harry went on. “And deranged. He’s skilled in mind magic—skilled enough to keep someone like Percy under for Merlin knows how long. We’ve suspected a mole in the Ministry for months. But this? Percy—an Imperiused Undersecretary? It’s not just a breach. It’s catastrophic.”

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the words strike her chest like spells. Her mind, always quick, was already scanning scenarios, calculating risks, playing out consequences like dominoes falling in every direction.

Percy sat beside me. Handed me files. Laughed about bureaucratic nonsense… all while under someone else's control.

Her thoughts spiraled faster. Lestrange might’ve read every memo I ever sent. Every report on post-war justice. Every letter about muggleborn protections, about magical creature rights…

What if he’s weaponized our ideals?

Next to her, Draco stood still. Too still. She didn’t need to look to know his mask was up—cool, dispassionate, polished marble. But she felt the tension vibrating off of him. She could practically hear his thoughts beneath the silence.

They’re going to come after us harder now. Hermione’s name is stamped across half the proposals they’ll target. And mine? Mine’s the excuse they’ll use to say she’s compromised.

Across the room, Kingsley stepped forward, his normally calm presence now infused with restrained fury. “Even Voldemort never gained this level of access,” he said, voice like flint. “This breach… this is international. I’ll be contacting the ICW and every allied Ministry before sundown. If we don’t control the narrative, Britain will lose what fragile trust remains.”

Daphne murmured something to Theo, who gave a grim nod. Luna stood with her eyes fixed on the hearth, silent, but her posture sharp. Neville flexed his fingers near his wand, gaze locked on Harry.

Hermione rubbed her temples, eyes stinging. “We’re exposed,” she whispered more to herself than anyone. “Every initiative. Every safeguard we built... all compromised.”

Beside her, Draco’s fingers brushed hers. Just once. Light enough to be missed, but it grounded her. She didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until then.

Lucius stepped forward, voice smooth and clinical. “We must assume every reconciliation effort—every diplomatic overture—has been manipulated. If this spreads too quickly, public trust collapses. And Draco and Miss Granger will become walking targets for every opportunist seeking a scapegoat.”

The silence that followed was stifling. Someone—maybe Astoria—let out a faint gasp. Ron’s expression had gone tight. Ginny looked furious.

Lucius continued, unwavering. “They need to remain only in locations layered with the strongest protective enchantments—blood wards, Fidelus, ancestral shielding. Here, Grimmauld Place, possibly Shell Cottage if reinforced.”

Harry nodded. “We’ll cycle trusted guards between locations. Wards, concealment charms, full shielding rotation. No one goes unguarded.”

Lucius inclined his head slightly. “Once Percy stabilizes, I may be able to enter his mind. If the Imperius was anchored using high-level occlusion methods, typical healing magic won’t undo the damage. We’ll need someone who understands both the mechanics of legilimency and the intent of the curse.”

From the corner, Draco watched his father speak with clinical detachment. There was no gloating in Lucius now. Only cold precision and terrifying competence.

Funny , Draco thought. The same mind that once plotted genocide is now planning rescue missions.

A bitter taste rose in his mouth.

What a world. What a damned world where this is what redemption looks like.

Hermione’s eyes darted to him, and for the briefest moment, they met. The exhaustion in her gaze gutted him. She was still analyzing, still strategizing—but there was fear underneath it all. The quiet kind. The kind people carried when they’d already given too much.

You shouldn’t have to be this brave all the time, Granger.

Ron stepped forward now, hands jammed into his pockets. “I’ll talk to my parents. And Percy. Once he’s stable, I’m sure they’ll agree to the memory dive. We need to know what Lestrange took.”

He paused, then looked around—at Harry, at Fred and George, at his sister.

“This isn’t just about one man. This affects all of us. And it threatens everyone we love.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into deep water.

Theo exhaled slowly. “We’re not just cleaning up a mess anymore,” he said quietly. “We’re in the middle of a new war.”

And this time, no one disagreed.

The war room had finally emptied. Only a few half-drunk goblets of wine and parchment-littered tables bore witness to the chaos that had just unfolded.

Hermione sat curled up on the velvet window seat of the drawing room, forehead pressed against the cool pane of glass. Her breathing was even, but her hands betrayed her—tugging at the sleeves of her jumper, twisting the fabric until it stretched and bunched.

Draco closed the door quietly behind him. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

He simply crossed the room and sat opposite her, his body folding into the shadows, posture deceptively relaxed.

“You’re spiraling,” he said softly.

Hermione didn’t look at him. “I’m cataloging.”

“Same thing,” he said, tilting his head. “But go on, what’s top of the list?”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “Percy’s breach… it compromises the diplomatic protocols I’ve spent the last few months constructing. We don’t know what Lestrange read, copied, sold—Merlin, we don’t even know who else is complicit.”

She finally turned to face him. Her eyes were sharp, blazing with frustration, but rimmed in red.

“And now we’re stuck,” she added bitterly. “We can’t move forward, not without risking lives. The reconciliation efforts. The outreach programs. My entire proposal for Muggle-Born Protections.”

Draco reached out and gently pried her fingers away from her sleeve. He laced their hands together, grounding her. “We’re not stuck. We’re stalled. Temporarily.”

“I don’t want to be protected,” she whispered after a long silence. “Lucius is right, but I hate it. I hate the idea of hiding. I hate that my voice—that our voices—are being used against us.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “I know.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. His shoulders were taut beneath the soft linen of his shirt, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. There was only steel in his gaze, and a quiet, furious protectiveness.

“Do you ever…” she began, then faltered. “Do you ever wonder if it’s all going to come crashing down again?”

“Every bloody day,” he said. “But then I remember that we already survived the collapse once. And this time? We’re not alone.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I hate that you’re good at this now.”

He smirked faintly. “I hate that I have to be.”

They sat like that for a moment, silent, forehead to forehead, fingers entwined. The flickering fireplace cast golden shadows around them. The air still held the tension of war councils and whispered threats—but here, just for now, there was safety.

“I’m scared,” she admitted finally.

Draco swallowed hard. “Me too.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her—softly, reverently—as if anchoring them both to the only truth they had left: They were still here. And still choosing each other.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in the grand parlor of Malfoy Manor, her eyes fixed on the towering Christmas tree that shimmered with enchanted snowflakes and golden lights. The ornaments gleamed like tiny memories—fragile, flickering, impossible to hold still. It was breathtaking, and yet a hollow ache lingered in her chest. The kind that no beauty could soothe.

She barely noticed the soft footsteps behind her until a presence settled quietly at her side. Narcissa slid her arm through Hermione’s, warm and deliberate.

“My dear,” she said gently, “what weighs on you so heavily?”

Hermione exhaled, a sound pulled from the very center of her chest. “It’s just… every Christmas, there’s always something. Another war. Another loss. Another absence.” Her voice softened. “I was thinking about my parents. About the memory charm. I still wonder if it was the right thing. I gave them new lives to keep them safe… but I also erased myself from their world. And for what? Here we are again, in the shadow of another conflict.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Lucius moved beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. It was not stiff or hesitant, but steady—reassuring in a way she hadn’t expected from him.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “you made an impossible choice, and it was the right one. The sacrifice you made for them saved their lives. And it’s cruel, yes, that life keeps demanding more of you. But know this: you are not alone anymore. You are ours now.”

Narcissa’s grip on her arm tightened slightly before she turned and pulled Hermione into an embrace—elegant, soft, and filled with an emotion that caught Hermione completely off guard.

“We would never presume to replace your parents,” Narcissa whispered into her hair, “but I hope your heart has room for us too. You’re not just Draco’s wife. You’re our daughter. You belong here—deeply and fully. And we will never let the darkness take that from you.”

Hermione couldn’t stop the tears that welled in her eyes. She returned the hug with a fierce grip, as if holding onto something she hadn’t realized she was missing until it was suddenly, achingly there. Lucius's hand remained at her shoulder, grounding her, his silence speaking volumes. His presence no longer carried the cold detachment of an aristocrat but the steady, quiet strength of a father who had learned—slowly, painfully—how to open his heart.

She hadn’t even known how much she needed this. Parental love. Not tolerance, not obligation. Love. Draco had become her anchor through everything, but this… this unexpected warmth from Narcissa and Lucius was mending a part of her she hadn’t acknowledged was still fractured.

Just beyond the doorway, Draco stood silently, watching.

His breath caught at the sight.

Hermione, radiant in her vulnerability, wrapped in the arms of the two people he had once feared would never accept her. And his parents, so changed—softened not by defeat, but by the choice to grow. He had known they were capable of love, but seeing them give it—freely, without condition—to Hermione made something crack wide open in his chest.

They didn’t know it, but they had just given him the one thing he’d longed for more than any title, any inheritance, any glory: a family who saw Hermione for who she truly was. A family that wasn’t just redefined by love, but rebuilt by it.

And for Draco Malfoy, that was the greatest Christmas gift imaginable.

It was funny how a year could change everything.

Last Christmas, Malfoy Manor had been a cold fortress of shadow and silence—its hallways echoing with strained silences and the ghost of war. The walls had held more secrets than laughter, and joy had felt like a foreign concept.

But this year? This year, the Manor was alive .

The scent of cinnamon and fir trees filled the grand halls. Candles floated above the gathering in elegant golden sconces, casting a soft glow over velvet table runners and holly-wrapped banisters. Wreaths enchanted with twinkling starlight shimmered on every door. A massive, shimmering tree stood proudly in the parlor, nearly reaching the carved ceiling, its ornaments charmed to sing in tiny, melodic hums.

Narcissa had insisted on a Christmas Eve celebration for what she fondly called her “chosen family”—a term that made Hermione blink the first time she heard it, then tear up the second.

The guest list was gloriously chaotic. Theo, dapper in dark emerald robes, was already two glasses of elf-made wine deep and attempting to charm mistletoe to hover over unsuspecting couples. Luna, glowing in silver and barefoot as usual, kept correcting the spellwork midair, arguing that the mistletoe deserved to choose who it hovered over. The result? It kept flitting between Daphne and Harry, and then hovering stubbornly above Pansy and Neville, much to everyone’s amusement—and Pansy’s vocal protest.

Draco highly suspected that, in addition to playing hostess, his mother was quietly sowing the seeds of engagement proposals. He’d caught her slipping sideways glances at Astoria’s left hand more than once, and her pointed suggestion that “winter weddings are terribly romantic” had made Blaise practically choke on his champagne.

But despite the meddling, the joy in the room was illuminating.

The drawing room was transformed with thick rugs, oversized pillows, and warm fireplaces crackling in every hearth. Everyone had brought something to contribute—dishes, drinks, small thoughtful gifts—and Narcissa, abandoning all pretense of aristocratic distance, floated through the evening offering seconds and warmly chiding Theo for trying to spike the eggnog further.

The gift exchange was pure, chaotic delight.

Ginny squealed as she opened a personalized broom-polishing kit from Daphne, complete with charmed cloths that sparkled in her team’s colors. Daphne shrugged, looking smug. “I pay attention.”

Neville received a rare magical plant from Luna—one that bloomed only when someone near was in love. It blossomed immediately when Pansy leaned her head on his shoulder, and he turned crimson under the attention, mumbling something about “unexpected cross-pollination.”

Blaise gave Astoria a first edition of Modern Witch Aesthetics and Potionry, annotated with snarky marginalia. She rolled her eyes but kissed his cheek. “Your handwriting is still appalling.”

Ron surprised Pansy with a tiny crystal snake—enchanted to curl up and snore lightly when she set it beside her books. She blinked, then smirked. “Alright, Weasley. One point to Gryffindor.”

Theo gave Luna a hand-bound notebook with drawings of every creature she’d mentioned that year. She opened it with uncharacteristic quiet, her fingers brushing the paper reverently. “You remembered all of them.”

“I remember everything you say,” Theo said simply. Luna kissed his cheek, and for once, he had no comeback.

Even Harry, who looked as if he’d expected to feel like an outsider in this circle of mostly Slytherins, was relaxed—genuinely laughing with Daphne and Ron as they watched Draco attempt to teach Hermione how to charm her wrapping paper to fold itself (which ended with a glitter explosion and a snowman sticker stuck to his forehead).

Then came the feast.

Narcissa had outdone herself—or, rather, the Manor’s house-elves had, under her affectionate direction. The dining table stretched the length of the room, adorned with floating candles, floral centerpieces of enchanted poinsettias, and plates that refilled themselves with a simple tap. There were roast pheasants, candied root vegetables, spiced pumpkin soup, wild cherry compote, Yorkshire puddings, and enough sweets to make even Fred and George jealous.

Lucius gave a toast, raising his glass slowly.

“This home has seen its share of darkness,” he began, “but tonight, it is filled with light. You are the reason for that. You’ve brought laughter back to these halls and love to our family. It is a rare thing to be given a second chance—to rebuild. Thank you for choosing to do so here.”

His eyes flicked to Hermione and Draco, and for just a moment, his voice hitched. “Merry Christmas to our future. And may it be brighter than any past we've survived.”

As the room raised their glasses, Draco reached for Hermione’s hand beneath the table, curling his fingers around hers. Her smile was quiet but radiant.

“This is different,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Hermione turned to him. “Different good?”

Draco glanced around at the people laughing, arguing playfully, stealing kisses under mistletoe and leaning into one another with the casual affection of a bonded tribe.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with something unspoken. “Different perfect.”

Narcissa stood at the threshold of the drawing room, her champagne flute untouched in her hand. The golden lights from the floating candles shimmered softly across the floor, casting the room in a dreamlike glow. Laughter echoed like music—unrestrained and full of life. It was a sound Malfoy Manor had not known for decades.

She watched them—her guests, her family—lounging on velvet cushions, sipping cocoa, sneaking bits of dessert with childish mischief. Luna was braiding a ribbon into Theo’s hair while he pretended to scowl. Daphne and Harry were mid-argument about Auror fashion. Hermione leaned comfortably against Draco, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her with casual reverence.

Narcissa’s heart ached in a way that was unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

She had once feared this. Feared change. Feared that allowing in anything outside the strict mold of bloodlines and tradition would cost them their legacy.

But what legacy had she truly inherited? An empty house. A son afraid to trust. A husband whose silence echoed louder than his words.

No, this— this —was legacy.

Loyalty forged not by blood, but by choice. Laughter that filled in the cracks of old grief. Her son, softened and brightened by love. A daughter-in-law who had once been branded enemy but now sat at the heart of their family, bringing balance and brilliance into every room she entered.

Narcissa took a sip from her glass, letting the warmth of the wine ease into her chest.

She glanced toward Lucius, who stood just across the room, quiet and contemplative. Their eyes met. He nodded once—small, but sure—and she saw in that simple gesture what he could never quite say aloud.

We did this. We let it in. And we were right to.

She walked forward, joining the circle. Ron pulled Astoria onto the floor to dance with him to a magically playing carol. Ginny and Blaise shouted encouragements. Pansy groaned theatrically and flopped onto the couch beside Neville.

Hermione looked up as Narcissa sat beside her and offered her a gentle smile.

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly, unprompted.

“For what, dear?”

“For… all of this. For letting us in.”

Narcissa touched her hand. “We didn’t let you in, Hermione. You carved a space here with every ounce of your heart. We were just wise enough not to fight it.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Narcissa Malfoy allowed herself to simply be in the joy of the moment. No pretense. No perfection. Just warmth.

Just love.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The snow outside Malfoy Manor glittered like frostbitten stars, but inside their room, the warmth was dizzying. Pale light spilled through enchanted windows, kissing the edges of Hermione’s curls where they tumbled across her bare shoulder. She stirred beneath the sheets, slow and soft like a secret being kept.

Draco had been awake for a while—watching her, breathing in the impossible reality that she was here, his wife, tangled in his bed and his life. There was a quiet reverence to mornings like this. Something sacred. Sacred, and entirely his.

“Merry Christmas, Granger,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep, letting his fingers drift down the exposed slope of her back.

She shifted, then smiled, eyes fluttering open. “Mmm, Malfoy. You’re warm.”

“I’m many things,” he said, bending to press his mouth to her shoulder, “but let’s not start with warm. I’d prefer devastatingly handsome. Or sinfully talented. Or—”

She rolled over with a snort, bare and lovely and flushed in the morning light. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you married me.” His grin curled as he caught her hips and flipped her effortlessly beneath him, their legs tangling in silk sheets. He kissed her slowly, with sleepy certainty, letting the weight of everything they’d been through melt into the space between their mouths. “You sure you don’t want to unwrap your first present?”

Her brows lifted, amused. “Is it you?”

“Obviously.”

And then he sank down, hips pressing gently against hers, his cock already hard and aching between them. “But I also got you something else,” he murmured into the curve of her neck, where her pulse fluttered. “Something from the vault. From my family. For you.”

He reached to the nightstand, retrieving a black velvet box—the kind that hadn’t seen daylight in decades. When he opened it, Hermione gasped.

Inside was a necklace, antique and delicate—an goblin-forged silver filigree choker with a single opalescent stone at the throat. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with ancient magic.

“This,” Draco said, “was enchanted centuries ago to protect Malfoy wives from being taken against their will. It repels Dark magic, masks magical signatures, and if someone tries to force you somewhere, it will burn them.”

Hermione blinked, her fingers trembling as she reached for it. “It’s… beautiful.”

“It was last worn by my great-great-great-great-grandmother. And no Malfoy woman’s ever needed it since. But it’s yours now.” He brushed her hair aside and fastened it at her throat. The magic adjusted instantly to her skin, the gem glowing faintly pink against her collarbone.

Her eyes filled. “Draco…”

“You don’t have to earn protection,” he whispered. “You deserve it. You always have.”

She cupped his cheek, kissed him again—this time not slow, not sleepy, but fierce. Draco moaned into her mouth as her nails bit into his back, dragging him closer. His hand skimmed down her thigh, then under, lifting it around his hip.

“I want you,” she breathed, already arching against him. “Now. Right now.”

He grinned—feral and reverent. “Your wish…”

He slid inside her in one long, aching thrust. Her gasp hit him like a spell, and he held there a moment, forehead resting to hers, both of them caught in that breathless, shuddering pause—where past and present and pain and love all collided in something holy .

“…is my command.”

He moved slowly at first, savoring the way she clutched at him, how her breath stuttered when he angled just right. Every shift of his hips dragged a sigh from her lips. She was everything—tight, hot, trembling beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair and her mouth desperate against his jaw.

“Fuck,” he rasped, burying himself deep again, “you feel like… like home.”

And she did. More than the Manor. More than gold or legacy or power. She was his home, his war, his peace.

Hermione scraped her nails down his spine. “Don’t stop. Just—don’t ever stop.”

He kissed her hard then, his rhythm picking up. One hand braced by her head, the other slid under her thigh, lifting her open wider for him, deeper. The necklace pulsed between them as their sweat-slicked bodies moved in sync—magic against magic, breath against breath.

Their love wasn’t gentle. Not today. It was possession and promise, reverent and raw. Every thrust said I choose you , every moan said I still can’t believe you’re mine.

She tightened around him, gasping his name, her walls fluttering.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice cracking. “I need to feel you lose it for me, love.”

She shattered—head tossed back, hands gripping him, thighs trembling. And the look on her face, flushed and tear-pricked and open, pulled him right over the edge with her.

He came with a groan against her neck, grounding himself in her scent, her skin, her everything.

They lay tangled in silence after, hearts pounding together like a single drum.

When she could speak again, Hermione shifted slightly and reached for something beside the bed. “Your turn.”

She handed him a flat box wrapped in deep blue paper. Draco opened it slowly, curious.

Inside was a pocket watch.

But not just any pocket watch. As soon as he picked it up, the magic recognized him.

“Touch the center,” she whispered.

He did—and saw it. Memories. Moving images playing in the air: the moment he first kissed her, the way she’d looked when she said asked him to be her groom, the private grin she gave him across the classroom or meetings or corridors.

“You can store memories in it,” she said. “Your favorites. Moments that you want to carry. Always.”

His throat closed. He hadn’t cried since the war, not really. But his eyes burned now.

“You’re… impossible,” he said hoarsely. “Do you know that?”

She kissed him again. “And you love it.”

“I really fucking do.”

He rolled her onto her side again, spooning her gently.

The necklace at her throat glowed warm. His watch pulsed softly in his palm.

He held her tighter.

They were at war again, maybe. But this morning—wrapped in silk and magic and each other—they were invincible

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dressing room at Malfoy Manor had been charmed to glow with a soft golden hue, the light catching on crystal perfume bottles and hairpins like sun on frost. Narcissa stood behind Hermione, gently adjusting the fall of her curls in the mirror as they both got ready for the New Year’s Eve Ball at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione wore a deep winter green gown that shimmered with subtle enchantments—a color Narcissa had insisted suited her best. The neckline dipped elegantly, revealing the necklace Draco had gifted her on Christmas from his family vault, a piece of spell-laced heirloom protection now resting on her throat with pride.

"You look radiant," Narcissa murmured, smoothing a curl over Hermione’s shoulder. “Draco won’t stop staring. He’s utterly undone by you.”

Hermione laughed quietly, cheeks pink. “He looked pretty undone earlier this morning.”

A shared glance in the mirror. A raised eyebrow from Narcissa.

“Ah,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Well. I did always say he had good instincts.”

They both chuckled, but as the laughter softened, something quieter lingered beneath it.

“I never imagined,” Hermione said softly, “that I would be here like this—with you. Feeling... safe. Cared for.”

Narcissa's hands stilled for a moment, then gently rested on Hermione’s shoulders. “You earned this peace, Hermione. And it’s overdue. You’ve always been the kind of daughter any mother would be proud to claim. I just wish I’d seen that sooner.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, her throat tightening. “You didn’t just see it. You fought for it.”

And that was the truth. Narcissa hadn’t simply accepted her—she had defended her, stood by her, built something new with her. That kind of love—the chosen, intentional kind—meant everything.

Narcissa brushed her fingers beneath Hermione’s eyes, careful not to smudge the makeup. “Let the world see what we’ve built tonight,” she whispered. “And when you walk into that ballroom, don’t just represent reconciliation. Represent victory.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry was nervous.

Bloody hell, he wasn’t this nervous when he’d marched into the Forbidden Forest to die.

But tonight— tonight —his heart felt like it was thudding against his ribs with enough force to break them.

He stood near the top of the grand staircase in the newly transformed Grimmauld Place, the manor that had once suffocated him with blood hatred and deceptions was now gleaming with light and life. Daphne had helped him restore every inch of it, not just structurally but emotionally. They’d turned it into a sanctuary—a home. The kind of place where new traditions could be born. Where laughter replaced grief. Where love could take root and flourish.

And he was about to ask her to spend forever in it with him.

The New Year’s Eve Ball she’d orchestrated was nothing short of breathtaking. Enchanted snow drifted from a star-lit ceiling that shimmered with constellations. Floating candles and charmed crystal orbs cast golden light across the ballroom. Music drifted in like a spell—live string quartets with jazz undercurrents, thanks to Theo and Luna’s artistic meddling.

Daphne had done this.

Daphne, who had stolen his whole heart with her quiet brilliance and fierce fire. She was already interning under Robards and preparing to take her seat in the Wizengamot as the prosecutor, and Harry had no doubt she'd become one of the most formidable legal minds of their generation. She didn’t just love him—she challenged him, complimented him, believed in him.

He caught sight of her across the room, laughing with Pansy and Hermione, her sapphire dress clinging to her curves like it had been spelled onto her. She looked like a secret only he knew how to hold.

They just fit . Harry hunted the dark. Daphne fought it in court. They were a team. And now, he wanted them to be something more.

Family .

The ring was in the pocket of the dress robes she had picked for him—deep forest green, tailored to highlight his shoulders. She’d known, somehow, that tonight would be important.

And it was.

The ballroom buzzed with warmth and elegance as the couples swayed across the floor. Lucius and Narcissa glided together like nobility reborn, graceful and poised. Theo and Luna danced with wild, whimsical energy—his hand steady at her waist as she twirled barefoot, her dress trailing moonbeams. Blaise held Ginny with a roguish smirk as she mock-led him through a ridiculous Muggle-style swing dance, red hair flying as she laughed.

Neville and Pansy were surprisingly tender—her head on his shoulder, his hands strong and steady as he spun her. Ron and Astoria slow danced near the orchestra, her head tipped up toward him, smiling like she couldn’t believe she’d gotten so lucky. George and Angelina, Fred and Katie—each in their own orbit, each glowing. Bill and Fleur shimmered in each other’s arms like a fairy tale still unfolding. Arthur and Molly danced as if no time had passed since their wedding.

And then there was Draco.

Harry caught a glimpse of him across the room—his eyes weren’t on the crowd, but on Hermione, who was talking animatedly with Daphne. She was flushed from dancing, curls wild, her mouth moving in a smile that Harry recognized. It was the smile she’d once reserved for books and challenges, but now, she gave it to Draco.

And Draco, of all people, looked soft . Not weak—just undone in the way people are when they realize they’ve finally been seen, and chosen, and loved anyway.

This was the world they’d fought for.

Not just one without Voldemort, but one where they could live —fully, freely, joyfully.

Harry could hardly breathe as the clock began to tick closer to midnight. Kingsley gave a short speech, followed by Hermione’s gentle toast in memory of fallen comrades and in gratitude for survival. Everyone raised glasses. Magic shimmered overhead.

And then, as the room quieted and the enchanted clock struck midnight, the moment arrived.

Harry stepped forward, heart in his throat. Daphne turned to him, brows lifting in surprise as the crowd gave him space. The lights dimmed, and soft instrumental music swelled from nowhere—he had enlisted Luna and Theo for that bit of dramatics.

He took Daphne’s hand, kissed her knuckles.

“Daphne,” he began, voice shaking despite the hours he’d rehearsed this in his head, “you’ve helped me build a home out of a haunted house. You’ve given me peace when all I knew was war. And you’ve shown me that love doesn’t have to be loud—it can be quiet and powerful and constant. Like you.”

She blinked, lips parting.

“I don’t want to go another year without knowing you’re my family. Not just in practice. But officially. Forever.”

He dropped to one knee, drew the ring from his pocket, and held it up.

“Will you marry me?”

Gasps. Cheers. A few muffled sobs—probably Molly.

But all Harry could see was Daphne. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes glassy with tears.

She didn’t speak. She launched herself at him.

“Yes!” she laughed, holding his face in both hands, kissing him so thoroughly he forgot his own name. “Yes, yes, yes!”

The room exploded in applause. Fireworks erupted just outside the enchanted windows. Draco clapped a hand to Harry’s shoulder as he stood, whispering, “Well done, Potter. Merlin, I thought I’d have to propose for you if you froze up again.”

Harry laughed, dizzy with joy, and pulled Daphne against his chest.

Grimmauld Place—once filled with bitterness and blood—now echoed with music, laughter, and love.

And Harry knew, deep in his bones, that this— this —was what victory looked like.

Chapter Text

Lucius stood in what had once been one of the lesser parlors of Malfoy Manor—now reenchanted, repurposed, and solemnly dubbed the War Room . Ornate walls once lined with tapestries now held strategy maps. The chandelier had been charmed to shimmer with enchanted updates—ward statuses, safehouse locations, coded alert systems. It was a room that pulsed with movement, magic, and something even more unexpected: purpose.

Never in his life did Lucius Malfoy imagine he would host the epicenter of a resistance movement within the ancestral seat of his bloodline. The irony was not lost on him. Malfoys had always survived by aligning themselves with power—whatever form it took. But this? This was different. This time, they weren’t aligning with power—they were helping build it. Rebuild it. Restore it. And for the first time in decades, Lucius felt pride not in his name’s legacy—but in what that name might now come to mean.

The room was filled with every key figure in this war effort: members of the Order of the Phoenix, senior DA members who had stepped into leadership since the school days of rebellion, and the handful of Aurors that Potter trusted enough to bring into the fold. They had come willingly, solemnly, with unspoken understanding: that they were putting their trust in him . Lucius Malfoy. That was a bitter pill for some—he saw it in their eyes—but necessity and truth had a way of forcing old allegiances to evolve.

In the center of the room, Percy Weasley lay pale but composed on a charmed chaise conjured for comfort. He looked thinner than Lucius remembered—haunted, but not hollow. There was fight in him still.

Lucius crouched beside him, speaking low and clearly so all could hear.

“Mr. Weasley. I will be stunning you briefly. The unconscious mind resists less. It will allow me to trace the magic of the Imperius Curse more effectively, and observe the memories it touched. I will not veer beyond those bounds. And let me be very clear—no one in this room believes you are to blame. You are the victim. This process is to protect others, not punish you.”

Percy swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Truly.”

With a flick of his wand, Lucius cast the stunning spell. Percy’s body relaxed, and the silence in the room grew heavy. A moment later, Lucius leaned forward, his wand poised at the young man’s temple.

“ Legilimens ,” he whispered.

The dive into Percy’s mind was swift and surgical.

Lucius found himself walking the echoes of corrupted memories—darkened by the oily presence of Imperius magic. The telltale fog of compulsion clouded details, obscured timelines. He moved carefully, inspecting each significant interaction Percy had endured while under the curse: meetings with high-ranking officials, secure communications, even one horrifyingly detailed memory of an international security briefing.

Yes. Information had been passed. High-level documents and verbal reports that would, if interpreted correctly, be devastating to national and international wizarding security. But—

Lucius paused.

Inconsistencies.

Wrong location markers. Altered timestamps. Names that were one letter off. Coordinates that looked close, but not quite precise. And Percy’s subconscious— was that resistance?

Yes. There it was. Flickers of strain in the spell. The magical residue of counter-will. The curse had forced him to speak—but Percy had fought back in the only way he could: by corrupting the data just enough to render it dangerous, but not lethal. In one memory, Lucius saw him flinch ever so slightly before reporting a number. A mental override. Imperius could control the body, but not always the soul.

Lucius pulled out of the memory stream with precision and dropped the spell. He caught Percy’s body gently as it jerked once, then settled. The young man remained unconscious, but calm.

Lucius stood slowly, turning to face the room.

“He did speak under Imperius. That much is true,” he said, his voice steady, commanding. “And the information passed on was significant. However—” he glanced toward Arthur, then to Harry, “—Percy was resisting. Even under the curse, he fought. And in that resistance, he altered what he relayed. Misinformation. Mistimed details. The Death Eaters don’t know that yet, but it means they are acting on compromised intelligence.”

A collective breath was exhaled.

“They’ll likely realize the gaps soon,” Harry said grimly, stepping forward. “Which means we need to act before they correct course.”

Ron’s jaw was tight, but his eyes were proud as they flicked toward his brother.

“They used him,” he muttered. “And he still managed to screw up their plans.”

Lucius nodded, gaze shifting once more to Percy. “He may have saved us more than we can yet measure.”

For a long moment, the room was silent—strategy and sorrow hanging together in a delicate balance. Then Hermione stepped forward, her fingers already flicking through parchments on a nearby table.

“We need to reanalyze what they think they know. If we can anticipate what direction they’ll move in based on the compromised intel, we might just stay ahead of them.”

And with that, the war room erupted into motion once more.

Lucius lingered behind, eyes fixed on Percy Weasley’s still form. Not many would know the kind of courage it took to resist that curse—not just once, but consistently. Silently. At great personal cost.

The tide was shifting.

And Lucius Malfoy was ready to make damn sure they reached the shore.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco stood beside the table, arms crossed, as the group poured over the documents and magical projections, reanalyzing the intel extracted from Percy’s cursed memories. Despite his cool posture, his mind was racing.

The room buzzed with purpose. They weren’t just reacting anymore—they were planning.

He hadn’t always understood Gryffindor courage. For most of his life, he’d called it recklessness, arrogance, or sheer idiocy. But watching the way Percy Weasley had fought against the Imperius Curse—how he’d risked his own sanity to send Death Eaters off-course—Draco felt a shift within him. A grudging admiration. Respect.

Hell, respect for all the Weasleys. They had stood on the right side of this war before most others had even seen it coming—and they had borne the ridicule, the cost, and the casualties of that stance. Now, they were at the table, helping lead the next phase.

Ron, of all people, had stepped up with sharp-eyed strategy. His red hair looked wild and windblown from hours of pacing and planning. “Alright, gang. Looking at this timeline—what the Death Eaters think they know—we’ve got an opportunity. A real one.”

He tapped a parchment with a bold X drawn in deep red ink. “The International Wizarding Convention for Equity Among Magical Creatures and Folks. It’s in Britain this year. They’ll see this as a threat—legislation, unity, diplomacy. Everything they hate.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “It’s ambitious.”

Ron grinned. “Exactly. If we stage it as the next major policy shift—and make it seem like the cornerstone of the All Magical Creatures Inclusion for Society Benefits program they think is launching—we might be able to draw them out. All eyes on the Ministry. High security. High stakes. And if we do it right —they’ll walk into the trap thinking they’ve already won.”

Harry leaned in, concern clouding his expression. “It’s a solid plan. But the problem is, the conference is still a month away. That’s plenty of time for them to start questioning the accuracy of Percy’s intel. One slip, one inconsistency, and they’ll back off before we even begin.”

That’s when Draco saw it—that flicker in Hermione’s eyes. That dangerous flash of inspiration. His stomach dropped.

He knew that look. It had cost her sleep, safety, blood.

She turned her head slowly, voice steady with command, honed from years of leading Harry and Ron through chaos. “We need to reinforce the illusion that the intel is spot-on . We can’t let them doubt it for a second. And I know how.”

She pointed to a date circled on the documents. “This. A supposed launch of the Muggle-born integration initiative.  Foundation to my royal platform.  It’s two weeks from now, and the memory tied to it was pulled from my own diplomatic responsibilities. If we stage it exactly as that memory outlines—ceremony, press coverage, security—they’ll believe everything else in the intel package is legit. We pull that off, they won’t suspect a thing.”

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs. “You want to what ?” His voice was low, incredulous. “You’re suggesting we use you —your role, your body —as bait just to reinforce a timeline? You want to sacrifice your safety for optics?”

Hermione didn’t even flinch. She gave him a look that could have frozen fire.

“I am not a damsel in distress,” she said evenly. “And we can’t keep playing defense. We need to end this. We need to win.”

He opened his mouth—anger, fear, and love churning into a single breath—but she reached up and gently placed a finger over his lips.

“We will be smart about it,” she promised, eyes locked on his. “Calculated. No heroics. But don’t forget— I’m the one who killed Fenrir Greyback.”

Every Slytherin in the room froze. Even Lucius blinked.

A stunned pause.

Then Theo whispered with mock horror, “Bloody hell, mate. How do you sleep at night? She could slit your throat and bury your body in a forest and no one would question it.”

Harry snorted, breaking the tension. “Honestly? With her on our side, Voldemort never really stood a chance.”

Laughter spread around the room—tight, worn, but real.

Draco didn’t laugh.

He just stared at his wife, her shoulders squared, her jaw set, her eyes still blazing with righteous fire. She didn’t even know it, but in this moment, she had become the center of their resistance. The symbol of what they were fighting for .

And maybe that’s what terrified him most.

He stepped back, jaw clenched, but made a silent vow: he would protect her—even if she didn’t want protecting. Even if she refused to be anything but the sword itself.

If she was going to lead this offensive, then he would make sure she had an army behind her.

And no one would lay a hand on Hermione Granger-Malfoy and live to tell the tale.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks passed in a blur of planning, paranoia, and sleepless nights. Draco had readied enough Polyjuice Potion that he had brewed and saved in his stores to dose a small army—because that’s exactly what they were building. Thanks to Lucius and Harry's coordination, a solid offensive operation had taken shape.

Top duelists from the Order and DA volunteered to pose as Muggle parents, Polyjuiced with strands of hair collected from real Muggles in King’s Cross and London parks. The “children” were disguised members of their close friends—Blaise, Ginny, Theo, Neville, Luna, Astoria, and even Daphne—transfigured with glamours or dosed with potion to match real children’s appearances. Draco’s stomach clenched at the sight of their small frames and wide, nervous eyes. It made it too real.

They all insisted they had to do it. “It’s Hermione’s platform,” Ginny had said firmly. “We’re not sending her in alone.”

Lucius and Narcissa sat front and center at the faux Muggle-born Integration Ceremony. Ministry banners billowed over the raised stage in Diagon Alley. Aurors were posted around the perimeter—Kingsley’s finest—though Draco barely trusted anyone not already at the war table.

Kingsley stood at the podium, beginning the welcome address. His baritone rolled through the magically amplified air, filled with practiced warmth and political polish. The fake families nodded, eyes wide, expressions full of awe and nerves.

Draco stood just behind the curtains, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles were white. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck despite the winter chill. Ron and Harry flanked the stage like silent sentinels, watching the perimeter with razor-edged focus.

Then it was Hermione’s turn.

She stepped forward with grace and fire—dressed in diplomatic robes with the enchanted, protective silver choker glinting at her throat, her curls pinned back to reveal her fierce, determined face.

“Welcome to the magical world!” her voice rang out with conviction. “I know how exciting and terrifying this moment must feel. Not so long ago, my parents and I stood in your shoes—astonished by a world we never knew existed. But today, you are not alone. You have us. We are building a new future together, one where all magical beings are celebrated, where inclusion and safety are not ideals, but rights.”

She smiled—warm, honest.

“The world you’re entering is in the midst of transformation, and your children—our children—will help shape its future.”

The explosion struck behind her like a thunderclap.

The stage shuddered as the large Ministry banner burst into flames—shimmering embers raining down. Screams erupted. The illusion shattered in a heartbeat.

Hermione didn’t falter.

“Aurors—positions!” Kingsley barked.

Draco launched forward, throwing a shield charm over his wife as Death Eaters Apparated directly into the square, their black robes billowing, faces twisted into masks of violence. These weren’t amateurs. This was the Inner Circle.

Both Lestrange brothers, Jugson, Rowle, Travers, Mulciber, Yaxley, Selwyn, and Antonin Dolohov, alive and lethal.

The air cracked with hexes, blasts of light flashing in every direction. A curse tore through a vendor cart, showering the square in flaming sweets. The disguised “children” shed their glamours, wands drawn, falling into formation. Ginny dove into a duel with Travers, sparks flying as she and Luna wove spell and counter-spell in tandem.

Neville shielded Pansy—Polyjuiced to look like a curly-haired, freckled girl—while battling Jugson two-on-one. Daphne flanked Ron as he barked orders, coordinating the response like a battlefield general.

Draco fought beside Hermione, spells flying from his wand like wildfire. For a moment, everything blurred: fire, screaming, the acrid scent of ozone and ash. Then he saw it—

A masked Death Eater raised his wand, aimed directly at the “child” nearest the fountain—Pansy in disguise.

Draco recognized the curse before the incantation even left the attacker’s lips: Sanguino Ignis .

He didn’t think. He didn’t shout.

He moved.

With a thunderous crack, he launched himself forward, colliding with Pansy and throwing her to the cobblestones as the curse struck his back. He didn’t scream—just let out a breath like his soul had been punched through.

His body arched, convulsing. Blood boiled in his veins, blistering, burning from the inside out.

“ DRACO! ” Hermione screamed.

Without hesitation, she seized his collapsing form and Apparated them both to St. Mungo’s, splintering space with the desperation of her heart.

Healers flooded the emergency ward the moment they arrived.

Burning. Internal. Magical fire laced through his bloodstream. The curse was ancient, forbidden. Even dark wizards rarely used it—too cruel. Too permanent.  Victim to incapacitated to give intelligence.

Draco writhed on the cot, his skin glowing in places, blood seeping through his robes, through his pores.

Hermione’s hands were on his face, her own robes soaked in his blood. “Please— please —you fix him. You fix him now!” she sobbed.

They tried. Every countercurse. Every siphoning spell. Cooling charms. Sacred draughts. The flames dimmed. Flickered. But they never died.

Finally, a Healer with kind, trembling eyes met Hermione’s gaze.

“We’ve slowed it,” she said gently. “But we cannot stop it. It’s too deep. The curse is unraveling his internal organs. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malfoy… You should call his family. You should say goodbye.”

Hermione sat beside him in the quiet room the Healers left them in. His breaths were shallow now, skin pale and damp with sweat. Narcissa was crumpled in Lucius’s arms. Pansy was sobbing on Neville’s shoulder. Theo stood statue-still, hands clenched. Blaise, Harry, Daphne, Astoria, Ron, Ginny, and Luna—each silent, shaken.

But Hermione knelt alone by the bed, her fingers brushing over the blackened remnants of his robes, over the choker at her throat that still hummed faintly with the protective wards he'd embedded into it months ago.

Her hand found the place above his heart. There, where it beat slower now. There, where it once beat fiercely.

And she whispered out loud for the first time, through tears so hot they burned her cheeks:

“I love you.”

The words broke something open.

A sob ripped from her chest. She bowed over him, forehead against his ribs, shoulders shaking as the room spun in a storm of grief.

Outside the room, no one spoke.

Inside, time stood still.

Chapter Text

Hermione could feel his heartbeat slowing beneath her cheek—soft, fading, like a lullaby slipping into silence.

All around her, the room trembled with grief. She could hear Ginny’s quiet sobs stifled against Blaise’s chest, Luna whispering prayers to forgotten gods, Theo cursing under his breath like he could bargain with fate if only he were eloquent enough. Daphne held Harry’s hand too tightly, as if squeezing hard enough might stop time from marching on.  Astoria buried her tear-stained face into Ron’s embrace. Neville stood protectively behind Pansy, who trembled in place, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, unable to speak. The woman Draco had saved with his life couldn’t even say thank you.

Hermione’s own breath hitched.

On the other side of the bed, Narcissa and Lucius clutched their son’s hands—Narcissa’s head bowed, Lucius frighteningly still. The quiet dignity they’d clung to their whole lives was fracturing under the weight of loss. Lucius looked as though he might shatter if he blinked. Narcissa’s fingers dug into Draco’s palm like she could anchor him to the world if she held on tightly enough.

And Hermione—she had nothing left but love.

She pressed her cheek closer to his chest. Willing him to hear her. Feel her. Stay.

All the things she hadn’t said yet—it was agony. The regret. The fear. The sharp edge of time wasted.

Why hadn’t she been braver?

Why had she let logic, or pride, or fear of how fast it all moved, keep her from saying the one thing that had always been true?

She kissed the hollow of his collarbone, voice trembling but sure. “I love you.”

She said it again.

And again.

A mantra. A plea. A lifeline.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Somewhere deep within her, something ancient stirred. A flicker of connection—like the first spark of a wand being chosen. It tugged at her magic, at her soul. The Mabon bond.

Her bond with Draco.

It flared—wild and bright—as if answering her heart’s call.

Hermione gasped, but didn’t stop. Her tears fell freely, mixing with the blood and ash on his skin. Her words weren’t just words anymore—they were a spell. A sacrifice. A salvation.

Golden light bloomed from her chest. Then from his.

It didn’t just shimmer—it throbbed with power, like their very souls were wrapped in a living heartbeat. The light spread, curling around the bed, illuminating the stone floor, and lifting their entwined bodies in a soft, glowing arc.

She barely heard Ginny whisper, “Look! Look at the diagnostic—his vitals—”

Luna’s voice rang with awed certainty. “It’s their bond. It’s Mabon’s gift of ancient magic. Her love is anchoring him. His sacrifice sealed the magic. It’s the deepest kind of power—love freely given. The old kind.”

Theo pressed a hand to his chest and murmured, “I can feel it. Bloody hell, I can feel it. It's ancient. Sacred.”

Lucius stared, mouth parted, like he was witnessing something too profound for his calculating mind to name. Narcissa collapsed into his side, gasping between sobs as her eyes locked on the light cocooning her son.

Hermione followed instinct, not intellect.

Fairytales had always held grains of truth. Power in love. In sacrifice. In the kiss that awakens.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his—gently at first, then with every ounce of love she had. Love for his arrogance, his bravery, his sarcasm, his protectiveness, his scars, his stubborn hope. She kissed the boy she once hated and the man who'd become her future.

The room exploded with silver and gold light.

It wasn’t soft or gentle—it was blinding, surging, radiant. It knocked Luna into Theo, made Ginny gasp and shield her eyes, and forced Ron to take a step back. A ripple of magical shock spread through them all, buzzing against their skin.

And then—quiet.

A moment suspended in eternity.

The diagnostic charm above the bed turned green.

Blood stopped bubbling beneath his skin.

The burns faded.

The air cleared.

Draco Malfoy—bruised, scarred, half-ruined— breathed .

Slowly.

Then again.

His eyes fluttered open.

He blinked once. Twice.

And then those storm-grey eyes locked onto hers, like he was seeing her soul and choosing to stay tethered to it.

A raspy, broken whisper escaped his lips. “I love you too, Granger.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The manor was too still.

Draco was finally resting in one of the manor’s upper recovery suites, stabilized by Healers from St. Mungo’s and surrounded by layers of enchantments Lucius had personally cast. The rest of their circle had trickled out over the past hour, exhausted but relieved. Hermione hadn’t moved from the chair beside his bed until he drifted into a peaceful sleep, his hand warm in hers.

Now, she found herself in the solarium, eyes fixed on the rose garden beyond the glass, but seeing none of it.

The soft click of delicate heels echoed behind her. Narcissa’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, pale and regal even in the faint moonlight.

Neither woman spoke for a long moment.

Hermione finally broke the silence, voice hoarse. “I thought we lost him.”

Narcissa stepped closer, her movements quiet and composed, but Hermione could sense the tremor she fought to hide. “So did I,” she murmured.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “If…if that magic hadn’t worked, if I hadn’t said it in time—”

“You did,” Narcissa interrupted gently. “You did say it. And he heard you.”

Hermione turned to face her. “How do you know?”

A ghost of a smile touched Narcissa’s lips. “Because I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that. Even barely alive, he came back because you called him.”

The words stole Hermione’s breath. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of all she had carried for weeks—for months. “I love him,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe when he accepted my crazy plan. Maybe the strategy sessions. Maybe when he kissed me at our wedding like he’d waited his whole life to. But I love him. And I was so afraid to say it out loud.”

Narcissa crossed the room and sat beside her.

“For years, I feared that loving someone would be a weakness,” the older witch said. “I raised Draco to be strong, composed, proud—so he wouldn’t break under the weight of our name. But then you came in, and for the first time, I saw him soften. And I realized… love isn’t a weakness. It’s the only thing that ever saved any of us.”

Hermione looked down at her lap, hands trembling. “He nearly died protecting someone else. I couldn’t—I can't go through that again.”

“You will,” Narcissa said, voice firm and maternal. “Because you’re stronger than fear. And because that’s what we do when we love a Malfoy—we fight like hell to keep them tethered to us.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. “How did you survive all those years? The war. The fear.”

Narcissa reached over and tucked a loose curl behind Hermione’s ear. “I found something worth protecting. And then I made sure the world couldn’t take it from me.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable—it was full. Sacred.

Two women from opposing worlds, once drawn together by necessity, now bound by something deeper: love for the same stubborn, complex man, and the choice to stand and fight for him, again and again.

Narcissa rose. “Come. Let’s get you refreshed so you’re ready to see him when he awakes.”

Hermione followed her out, feeling steadier somehow, like she'd been passed a torch she hadn’t realized she was already carrying.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The War Room pulsed with a heavy silence.

The long obsidian table bore a host of weary but resolute faces: the entire Weasley family, Kingsley, Harry, Luna, Neville, and the once-villainized Slytherins who had long since shed their inherited sins. Every chair was filled. Every soul prepared to do what it took.

Lucius stood at the head of the table, his silver-blond hair catching the low, flickering magical lights. His fingers steepled beneath his chin, the deep lines of recent grief still etched into his aristocratic face, though something colder, older had returned to his gaze—something sharp and dangerous.

“I must ask one final time,” Lucius said, his voice deceptively mild, but rich with implication. “Are you certain you want me to proceed? What I am about to do…is not something you can scrub clean with a few court testimonies and good intentions.”

Harry snorted. “Lucius, if you think that’s going to scare us off, then you clearly haven’t spent enough time with your daughter-in-law. Or her friends.”

A ripple of wry laughter passed through the room.

Kingsley leaned forward, his bearing radiating authority. “We’ve exhausted every legal route. Dolohov is the only one we managed to capture alive, and time is running short. They’ve already begun leveraging ancient magicks. If they succeed, this world won’t survive the second wave. We need their names, their movements. Their strategies. Now.”

Fred and George grinned like deviant devils from opposite ends of the table.

“Oh Lucy, my dear,” Fred said, twirling his wand like a dagger.

“You should see what we do to people without legilimency,” George finished.

Lucius raised a single brow. “Charming.” He turned to Kingsley with the precision of a man used to being feared. “So, to be perfectly clear, you are requesting that I breach Antonin Dolohov’s mind, using advanced and invasive Legilimency, until I extract the intelligence you require—consequences to his mental state be damned?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said without blinking. “We are not interested in rehabilitation. We are interested in an end.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “So be it.”

They moved to the dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor.

It was colder down there—eerily so. The torchlight flickered weakly against stone carved in the age of blood magic and war. Dolohov was shackled in a chair bolted to the floor, bound by enchanted irons designed to suppress magical surges, twitching curses, and the occasional scream.

Lucius entered like the ghost of an empire—refined, slow, composed. His wand hand gloved in dragonhide. His face unreadable.

Dolohov looked up, lip cracked and bloody, and managed a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he rasped. “I always knew you’d come crawling back to your kind. Blood calls to blood, eh, Malfoy?”

Lucius’s smile was surgical. “That’s adorable, Antonin. I suppose delusion is a mercy in times like these.”

He circled the chair like a predator appraising its kill. “But let me be perfectly clear. I have not come here for you. I’ve come for your secrets. And once I have them, I will leave you broken, whimpering, and no longer relevant.”

“You don’t have the spine,” Dolohov sneered.

Lucius paused, slowly removing his glove finger by finger. “You mistake my civility for softness. A mistake you’ve made before, I believe. Perhaps when you begged Voldemort not to kill you after that failed extraction in Belarus?”

Dolohov’s expression twitched.

“Ah,” Lucius said mildly. “So I see that still stings.”

“You betrayed the cause,” Dolohov spat. “You betrayed him. ”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “He betrayed the art of power. Surrounding himself with dull-eyed sadists and pure-blood fanatics who couldn’t charm their way out of a broom cupboard. Like you.”

He leaned forward. “Do you know what makes you a footnote, Antonin? You lack vision. You were always muscle masquerading as ideology. Just a sharp wand and a louder mouth.”

Dolohov tried to lunge, but the chains snapped taut and held. Lucius didn’t even flinch.

“I don’t need to torture you with hot irons or dark hexes. That would be messy. Unfashionable.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “No, I’ll simply unmake you with your own memories.”

Lucius lifted his wand, voice like velvet dragged across a blade.

“Legilimens.”

Dolohov's scream was silent, contained within the dungeon's layered wards, but it echoed in every spine. His head jerked back with a crack, eyes rolling as Lucius flooded his mind with a tide of icy precision.

Memories tore open. Hidden cells. Shadow councils. Rites performed under the black moon. A ciphered list of operatives. The Brotherhood’s leadership—rotating, secretive, armed with ancient curses and bound by a blood oath older than even Voldemort’s rise.

Lucius forced him further—past firewalls of pain, through locked doors sealed with infernal sigils.

Until finally…

The Brotherhood’s master plan was laid bare.

Lucius released him abruptly. Dolohov sagged in his chair, drenched in sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

Lucius straightened his coat. “Thank you, Antonin. You’ve finally done something useful in your miserable life.”

He turned on his heel and exited the dungeon without a backward glance.

In the War Room minutes later, Lucius entered with his shoulders squared like a king returning from conquest. The room fell into expectant silence.

He unfurled the intelligence onto the magical map table with a flick of his wand—sigils glowing, names appearing in blood-red script, dates locking into place around the International Wizarding Conference.

“They’re planning a full-scale, coordinated strike at the opening ceremonies,” Lucius announced. “And they believe our defenses are fractured and exhausted.”

He looked around at the assembled alliance—the Weasleys, Kingsley, the DA, and the redeemed Slytherins.

“Let’s prove them wrong.”

Chapter Text

Draco sat in the library of Malfoy Manor surrounded by parchment, ink stains, and the loudest, most chaotic study group imaginable. Being married to the Hermione Granger meant none of them were allowed to slack on their NEWTs coursework—not even in the middle of a magical war. Hogwarts or not, Hermione had declared the academic standard would not fall on her watch.

Even Harry and Ron had begrudgingly joined in for a few study sessions—though Ron still grumbled about homework more than he did about Death Eaters.

But today, Draco’s attention wasn’t on the essays or the protective rune diagrams. It was on Pansy.

She was unusually distracted, picking at the corner of her Transfiguration notes and biting the inside of her cheek. Her posture was too stiff, her smile too forced. Draco had known her nearly his whole life. He knew the signs.

With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs in the way that drove Hermione mad, and called out casually, “Okay, Pans. Spill. Get all your guilt out now before you combust and ruin my concentration.”

Pansy blinked, feigning offense. “Excuse me?”

He gave her a smug look. “You heard me. Drop the act and lay it all out. Get the guilt vomit over with so I can finish this bloody arithmancy chart.”

He was poking the bear, and he knew it. But that was the only way to get through to her when she bottled things up. Sure enough, her cheeks flushed with fury.

“How dare you,” she snapped. “Guilt? You think it’s guilt ? You jumped in front of a curse that was meant for me, Draco! You were dying . And we—” her voice cracked, “we almost lost you . You idiot! You absolute, self-sacrificing, reckless idiot.”

Her hands were clenched. Her eyes were glassy. “And now I’m supposed to pretend everything’s fine because Granger has some fairytale bond-magic that saved your sorry arse? You were dead , and it was my fault !”

The room had fallen completely silent.

Theo let out a slow, impressed whistle. “Yikes.”

Draco stood slowly and walked to Pansy without a word. Before she could stop him, he pulled her into a tight bear hug. She tried to squirm, but he held firm.

“I’d do it again,” he murmured into her hair. “For any of you. You’re my chosen sister, Pans. Of course I’d protect you.”

Her fists clutched at his jumper as she began to sob in earnest, the tension draining from her in gasping sobs.

“But I can’t lose you,” she whispered into his chest. “You’re my brother too.”

“And I’m not going anywhere,” he said gently. “I’m here. I’m alive. We’re not letting the bastards win. We’re not letting fear rule us.”

He felt arms around him from behind—Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Astoria joining the hug without a word. One by one, they pressed in, silent support brimming with unspoken love.

From across the table, a suspicious sniffle was followed by a snarky voice.

“Aww,” drawled Ginny, pretending to wipe a tear. “Look at my favorite lions plus Luna. The snakes do have feelings. Merlin help us all, we might actually be alike.”

Then she grinned wickedly and shouted, “Hugs for everyone! ”

Laughing, she led the rest of the group into the fray, toppling over the chairs as Ron, Harry, Luna, Neville, and Hermione joined the embrace.

Pansy burst into laughter through her tears. She didn’t even try to fight off Hermione’s hug when she pulled her in.

“For what it’s worth,” Hermione said softly, brushing a curl out of Pansy’s face, “I’m glad he saved you. I couldn’t bear to lose him. But I can’t lose you either, Pansy. Not my new best friend.”

Pansy blinked, caught off guard.

“Ha! Red! Did you hear that?” she called over Hermione’s shoulder.

Ginny smirked, arms still around Luna and Neville. “I’ll let you have it—just this once. You clearly need the win.”

The group erupted into laughter again, and slowly, they peeled apart and sank back into their seats. The mood had shifted—lighter, steadier.

Draco looked around the room—at the people who had become his home, at the wife who had literally saved his life, at friends who had chosen each other over and over again. He felt a flicker of something he hadn’t dared feel in years.

Hope.

“I’m okay,” he whispered to himself. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for once, he believed it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time moved swiftly—too swiftly, it seemed—and Hermione now stood in the War Room at Malfoy Manor, shoulder to shoulder with her father-in-law. The room buzzed with quiet, strategic intensity. Scrolls littered the tables, charmed maps floated midair, and a dozen enchanted quills annotated updates in real-time. After weeks of healing and preparation, they had reached the edge of the final act. The stage for battle was nearly set.

The Opening Ceremony of the International Conference on Magical Equity was just days away.

Kingsley, in his usual tireless diplomacy, had worked with every major international magical delegation. Most governments—though skeptical at first—had agreed to send their top Auror security units to the event. The symbolic weight of global unity against blood supremacy had tipped the scales in their favor.

Still, Lucius Malfoy, ever the tactician, had proposed something more daring: a pre-ceremony maneuver to draw the Death Eaters out. One final trap.

Dolohov’s capture had been kept quiet outside of trusted circles—until they announced that he would be tried publicly before the international delegates. The messaging was deliberate: Britain was no longer beholden to its corrupt, prejudiced past. It would show the world that justice could be served, even against its own.

The twist? Narcissa Malfoy had been named Chief Witch to oversee the trial.

The announcement had sent shockwaves through the press. The regal Lady Malfoy, long thought to be a political relic or socialite, was in fact a fully credentialed magical law master—something she'd quietly completed years before Draco was born. “For fun,” she'd quipped when asked. In truth, it had been her silent rebellion, her own path of preparation.

Now, her appointment served a dual purpose: symbolic justice… and bait.

Lucius had uncovered through Dolohov’s fragmented memories that the Brotherhood would find it intolerable to watch one of their own sentenced by a Malfoy—especially this Malfoy. It would be too much of an affront to ignore.

Hermione and Draco would serve as official witnesses and non-voting trial members. That had also been publicized. To the Death Eaters, it would look like the ultimate betrayal—Malfoy kin publicly condemning their own.

Exactly the reaction they were counting on.

Beneath the surface of ceremony, the real operation churned. The DA and Order of the Phoenix would be disguised as international delegates, glamoured and in full battle readiness. Harry and Ron were coordinating with the spellcasting corps to seal the venue with anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards the moment the Death Eaters arrived.

Every move had been calculated. Every piece of the board prepared.

The trap would be set before the official conference even began.

Hermione’s thoughts buzzed like a live wire as she ran her fingers along the edge of the table, anchoring herself in the moment. She felt Draco’s presence enter the room, his magic brushing against hers in quiet reassurance. When she glanced back at him, he gave her the barest nod—steady, certain. But the fire in his silver eyes burned with the same message she carried in her bones.

It ends now.

Lucius finished outlining the last layer of contingency plans and turned to the room. “Make no mistake—this will be our final opportunity to end this Brotherhood before they vanish underground again. We draw them in. We expose them. And this time… we finish it.”

The silence that followed was heavy—but filled not with fear. It was anticipation. Readiness.

Hermione looked around the room at her found family—scarred, seasoned, brilliant. Theo and Luna exchanged a nod across the war table. Blaise adjusted the cuff of his cloak like he was dressing for a gala, not a battle. Neville’s wand hand was already twitching, Pansy whispering a steadying charm under her breath.

Harry locked eyes with her and gave the smallest smile. “We’ve all come too far to falter now.”

Ron cracked his knuckles. “Let’s make it count.”

Hermione exhaled, her voice calm, but carrying. “Then let’s do this. Let’s end what they started.”

Outside the frosted windows of Malfoy Manor, snow began to fall—soft, silent, serene. A deceptive peace.

Inside the War Room, the storm was rising.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night before the trap was set felt heavier than most. Despite the warmth of the fire in their private chambers, Hermione couldn’t keep the anxious chill from curling under her skin. The plan was dangerous. Reckless. They were attempting to bait the most elite and lethal Death Eaters left—men and women who had honed their cruelty like a blade.

But tonight, Hermione didn’t want to think about strategy or fear. She just wanted to feel her husband.

She pressed herself into Draco’s side, her head resting over the steady beat of his heart, and let her fingertips dance lightly over the planes of his chest. His arm curled instinctively around her, anchoring her without question.

She wanted to show him something. Wanted to remind herself what it meant to be loved like this—safe, cherished, whole.

Before doubt could win, she took a breath, gathered her Gryffindor courage, and gently straddled him.

Draco blinked up at her, surprise sparking to heat in his silver eyes. That look alone ignited something low and molten in her belly.

In one smooth motion, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her down into a kiss that was all tongue and hunger and home.

His voice rasped between kisses, “Does my princess need something?”

Hermione leaned back slightly, locking her gaze with his. “Yes and no.” She traced her fingers down his jaw. “Tonight, my prince…”—his eyes visibly darkened at the title—“…I want to show you how deeply I love you. How completely I trust you.”

She sat tall, with regal grace, and began to undress. One piece at a time, she bared herself to him. And gods, the way his eyes tracked her movements—hungry, reverent, adoring—made her feel like a goddess.

Draco let her tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest. She kissed down his throat, her tongue flicking along the edge of his collarbone, trailing fire as she explored him. He let her take the lead, his arms behind his head in a posture of surrender—though the fire in his eyes made it clear he was anything but passive.

She slid lower and tugged down his pajama pants and boxers, baring all of him to her gaze. He was stunning. Thick, hard, beautiful.

She blushed a little, her voice soft and sincere. “I read about this in Witch Weekly’s ‘How to Please Your Wizard’ series… but I want you to tell me what feels good. I want to learn you. All of you.”

He cupped her chin with a tenderness that nearly broke her. “Love, there’s no wrong way to want me. You being with me— that feels good. But we don’t do anything unless you want it.”

“I do,” she said, with conviction. “I feel safe with you. Seen. Loved.”

With that, she lowered herself between his thighs and slowly licked the head of his cock, swirling her tongue around the crown. His breath hitched. Encouraged, she took him deeper, careful with her teeth, sucking gently and sliding her hand to stroke the base.

His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his fingers twitching in the sheets. “More pressure,” he breathed. “You won’t hurt me.”

She obeyed, using her mouth and hand in tandem, building a rhythm as she experimented with different strokes and angles. She watched him come undone—watched his control fray as he clenched the sheets, resisting the urge to thrust into her mouth. Her own arousal grew with every groan he gave her. Power. Pleasure. Love.

Before long, his hand curled in her hair, gently but urgently pulling her off him. His eyes were wild, his voice strangled. “No. Not like this. I’m not coming down your throat tonight.” He grinned wickedly. “Tonight, I finish buried in your perfect, wet cunt.”

The heat of his words sent a tremor down her spine.

“And in the spirit of experimentation,” he added, voice dark and hungry, “I think it’s time you ride me.”

Hermione nodded, desire overtaking every last shred of hesitation. He helped her settle above him, and she reached down, guiding him to her entrance. She was so wet she sank down onto him with ease, gasping at the stretch, at how he filled her completely.

She started slow, rolling her hips as she found her rhythm, and he gripped her waist, jaw clenched in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel divine.”

With a devilish gleam in his eye, Draco sat up, his mouth latching onto her nipple, suckling in rhythm with her movements. One hand found her clit and teased in slow, torturous circles. She moaned, body quaking, losing her rhythm as pleasure consumed her.

He thrust up into her when she faltered, guiding her through it, chasing both their peaks with sharp, practiced motions.

Her orgasm came fast and hard. “Fuck, Draco—FUCK!” she cried, shattering around him.

He held her tightly as she convulsed, hips never slowing. A few more thrusts and he came deep inside her, groaning her name like a prayer. Her body clenched greedily around him, milking every drop as she trembled with a second, smaller aftershock.

Panting, sweaty, and tangled, they stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Hermione whispered first. “No matter what happens tomorrow… I love you. I wouldn’t change a thing that brought me to you.”

He opened his eyes and cupped her face. “I love you more than magic itself, Granger. This is just the beginning. We will have our happily ever after.”

He cleaned them both gently, reverently, then tucked her into his side. Neither of them thought they would sleep deeply, but that night wasn’t for rest.

It was for grounding.

For loving.

For holding onto the light before facing the dark.

Afterward, they lay tangled in warmth and whispered breaths. But sleep came only for her.

Hermione had fallen asleep with her head curled into his chest, one leg tangled over his, her soft curls wild against his collarbone. Draco Malfoy lay still, unwilling to disturb her peace. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, protectively, as if his body knew what his mind refused to say aloud: he was terrified.

He could still feel the imprint of her earlier passion—her mouth, her hands, her heat—like she had branded her love onto his skin. And maybe she had. Maybe that was the point.

She had chosen him. All of him. Not just the polished version he'd worked so hard to present to the world. She’d seen the broken shards he’d tried to bury, kissed the scars he thought she’d flinch from. And in return, she gave him the kind of love he’d only ever read about in old poetry volumes hidden at the back of the Malfoy library.

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, memorizing the curve of her brow, the lashes that fluttered in her dreams. His wife. His miracle.

He swallowed hard. Tomorrow could steal everything.

He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, that crawling, acidic fear he’d learned to ignore as a child in a war-torn house. But this time, it wasn’t his life he feared losing. It was hers . And the thought of the world existing without Hermione Granger-Malfoy in it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.

The soft gold glow of the bedroom candles shimmered over her bare skin like magic itself was wrapping around her. Their bond—the ancient power born from Mabon, sealed in truth and sacrifice—was quiet now, but alive. It pulsed gently, a thread of connection he could feel at the base of his magic. Anchoring him. He could still feel the bond humming between them—like silver thread sewn under his ribs, ancient and alive.

He shifted slightly and reached for his wand, casting a silent protective charm over their bed. Not that it would stop what was coming—but it made him feel like he could do something.

His thumb traced lazy circles on her hipbone.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But gods, I will spend the rest of my life earning the right to be yours.”

The fire popped in the hearth, and Hermione murmured something in her sleep, her fingers twitching against his chest.

Draco let out a breath and stared at the ceiling, listening to her steady breathing, grounding himself in the sound.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, he would protect her in the only way he knew how—with magic, with love, with stillness.

And if the morning brought war, then let the battlefield know: Draco Malfoy was done running.

They had tried to take everything from him before. They would not take her .

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat upright beside Draco in the high-backed chair reserved for non-voting tribunal members, her fingers tightly laced with his beneath the table. The courtroom—transfigured from the international atrium—was staged to perfection. To the world, it looked like a historic judicial proceeding. But those seated in the gallery were not delegates—they were battle-tested members of the Order and DA, hidden beneath glamours and ready to strike.

The trap was set.

Her stomach twisted. No matter how much they had prepared, no matter how thorough the planning had been, it didn’t silence the primal terror coiling in her gut. This wasn’t politics anymore. It was war, and they were lighting the final match.

Narcissa sat in stately plum robes at the Chief Witch’s bench, every inch a Malfoy matriarch—but tonight, a symbol of justice. Her wand was hidden in her sleeve, but her eyes were deadly sharp. Lucius stood near the rear archway, poised like a general waiting to strike. Around the courtroom, glamoured allies sat in elegant robes, faces calm but tense: Ginny, Luna, Theo, Blaise, Neville, Pansy. Harry and Ron flanked the entrance with wands already subtly drawn. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass sat just behind the witness box—still, silent, and burning with a quiet fury.

And then the doors opened.

Harry and Ron entered with Antonin Dolohov restrained between them, shackles dampening his magic, eyes still wild. They chained him to the cold iron chair encased in a magical containment field.

Kingsley stood. “Antonin Dolohov,” his voice boomed, “you are on trial for murder, treason, torture by magical assault, illegal use of dark magic, and conspiracy to destabilize the international magical order—all to the first degree. How do you plead?”

Dolohov smirked, lips curling like he knew something they didn’t.

“I. Plead. Guilty,” he said—and then the trap sprang both ways.

The atrium exploded with sound and motion. Dark-robed figures Apparated directly into the chamber, bypassing the protective wards with some new, twisted countercurse. But their smug entrance faltered. Their confidence evaporated the instant spells began flying toward them—not from defenseless bureaucrats, but battle-hardened veterans.

Hermione barely had time to think.

The air exploded.

She and Draco rose as one, shields already cast. Spells flew like lightning. The courtroom turned battlefield. Glamours dropped. Robes were shed. The Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army met the dark surge head-on.

Hermione leapt to her feet beside Draco, wands raised in perfect synchronicity.

“Reducto!”

“Stupefy!”

“Protego Maxima!”

Lucius, wand flashing, dueled with brutal precision, hexing one attacker into unconsciousness with a flick and blasting another into the far wall. Narcissa, never one to be underestimated, conjured a shimmering wall of light that knocked back three Death Eaters at once.

And then—

“Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione turned just in time to see the jet of green aimed straight at Lucius. He moved—gods, he still moved like a man half his age—dodging with ease and firing back a retaliatory curse that crumpled his opponent with a smirk. “Please,” he said, voice rich with disdain, “the Dark Lord taught me better than that .”

Neville and Pansy stood side-by-side, fending off two masked recruits clearly intoxicated by dark magic, reckless and unstable. Ginny moved like a firestorm, her wandwork cutting through enemy lines with terrifying grace. Luna stood behind her, weaving powerful charms and banishments in a whispery voice that belied their force.

Theo and Blaise protected the left flank, coordinating hexes with a grim ease that only came from years of survival. Sparks of green and violet clashed around them as they dispatched Death Eaters one by one.

Then a new presence filled the room—icy and familiar.

“Girls,” hissed a low voice, and Hermione turned to see an older man in black robes pushing through the chaos. “Come now, surely blood will speak louder than your misjudged loyalties.”

Gareth Greengrass.

Daphne and Astoria froze, and for a moment Hermione saw it—the years of fear, of silence, of scars hidden by fine manners and school robes.

“You don’t belong with them,” Gareth growled. “You are Greengrasses—pure, refined, superior. You don’t fight for half-bloods and mudbloods.”

Daphne’s wand was steady. “You stopped being my father the day you aligned yourself with a monster.”

“You lost us when you raised your wand against Mum,” Astoria spat, stepping forward with her sister.

Gareth raised his wand, but he was too slow.

Twin cries of “ Confringo! ” split the air.

A golden fireball from Astoria. A slicing arc of magic from Daphne.

The spells hit Gareth full in the chest, launching him backwards through a column. He collapsed—wandless, unconscious, and broken. The sisters stood over him, breathing hard, eyes shining with emotion and purpose.

“We belong here,” Daphne said coldly, turning back toward the fray.

Hermione’s chest ached with pride and pain. No one was untouched in this war.

Suddenly, she heard it—that hiss of a curse born from hate.

“Avada Kedavra!”

She turned just in time to see the jet of green light careen toward Neville. Rodolphus Lestrange, tall and deranged, stood grinning like death itself.

“BOY!” he snarled. “You’ll meet your end like your pathetic parents—screaming and useless!”

But Dedalus Diggle moved first.

He dove in front of the curse.

His body dropped.

Hermione’s world shrank to a pinpoint.

Draco’s hand found hers, and something ancient answered.

Their bond didn’t just stir—it ignited .

Silver and gold light burst from their skin like starfire. Rodolphus turned, sneering, and sent the Killing Curse at Hermione.

It didn’t land.

A glowing shield—solid and incandescent—erupted from their joined magic. The curse disintegrated midair.

Draco’s voice was steady. “Now.”

Together, they raised their wands and cast.

“ Lux Tempestas! ” Hermione cried.

“ Ignis Ultima! ” Draco followed.

The spells collided midair and formed a vortex—bright, whirling, and divine. The room was filled with wind and light, their bond magic overflowing its bounds.

Rodolphus raised his wand too late. The magical torrent struck him with a sound like thunder and he collapsed.

Still holding hands, the pair turned together. Around them, Death Eaters tried to retreat, regroup—but Draco and Hermione raised their wands again, glowing brighter with every heartbeat.

Together, they poured their pooled power outward—waves of silver and gold that struck every last masked figure. There was no pain. Just finality.

Death Eaters dropped in unison—stunned, unconscious, broken of wand and will.

Silence fell like ash.

Smoke curled in the air. Spent magic shimmered and faded.

And for the first time in years, there were no more enemies standing.

Hermione swayed and collapsed into Draco’s arms.

He caught her.

“It’s done,” she whispered.

He kissed her temple. “We’re free.”

The silence after magic was always the loudest.

The kind that rang in your ears, filled the hollows behind your ribs, and left a ringing ache in your bones. The light from Hermione and Draco’s combined spell still shimmered in the air—gold and silver tendrils slowly dimming like the dying glow of celestial stars.

Hermione sagged in Draco’s arms, the weight of what they’d done crashing into her all at once. Not just the spell. The war. The grief. The hope. The fact that the nightmare might finally be over.

“We did it,” she whispered again, as if daring the universe to confirm it.

Draco didn’t answer. He was too busy scanning the battlefield—because even when the enemies had fallen, he didn’t feel safe until he saw every friend standing.

“Ron?” Hermione croaked, twisting to look.

“Over here!” Ron called, limping toward them with a gash on his arm and Ginny half-carrying him. “Bloody hell, ‘Mione, remind me never to stand too close to you two when you do that again.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco said dryly, tightening his arm around Hermione.

Harry appeared behind them, dust and dried blood on his face, but his eyes were bright. “It’s over,” he said aloud. “It’s really over.”

“Mostly,” said Theo, who helped Blaise limp in, supported on his shoulder. “We still have a lot of unconscious dark wizards to process.”

“Let them sleep for once,” Luna said dreamily, gently healing a scrape on Pansy’s face. “Dreams may be the only light they’ve earned.”

“Where’s—” Hermione looked around wildly. “Astoria? Daphne?”

“Here,” came Astoria’s voice, clear but raw. She and Daphne stood a little apart, staring at the unmoving form of their father. Daphne’s wand was still clenched tight. “We’re okay,” Astoria added more softly.

Lucius crossed the room like a phantom, robes scorched, hair disheveled—but still radiating power. Narcissa met him halfway, her Chief Witch robes now speckled with ash and blood. They held hands without a word, and then turned toward Draco and Hermione.

Narcissa dropped to her knees before them, clasping Hermione’s hands. “You saved us,” she whispered, voice choked with awe and reverence. “You saved everyone.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came. Just a sob.

The room finally moved. Ginny knelt beside her. Luna curled next to Theo, resting her head on his shoulder. Blaise slumped against a pillar. Daphne and Astoria finally turned away from their father’s crumpled form and crossed the floor.

And Neville.

Neville was on his knees next to Diggle’s body, tears silently streaking his face.

Hermione pulled from Draco and rushed to him. She wrapped her arms around Neville, holding him like she had held Harry when Sirius fell, like she had held Ron after Lavender’s funeral. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Draco slowly turned back to the center of the room, gaze resting on the fallen.

Dolohov. Rodolphus. Dozens more.

“It’s over,” he whispered again. This time, he believed it.

He felt a tug in his chest—faint, ancient, golden.

Their bond.

Hermione felt it too. She rose slowly, walked to him, and wordlessly curled into his arms.

And for the first time since childhood, Draco Malfoy let himself feel safe.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One week later:

The Ministry was too quiet.

For a building that had once throbbed with panicked energy, brimming with suspicion and fear, the silence now was... heavier. Not with dread, but with the weight of decisions to come.

Hermione sat beside Draco at the head of the new Interim Unity Council—formed after the fall of the final Death Eaters. Their bond had saved the magical world. Now it bound them to a larger duty: to fix it.

Kingsley stood before them, more tired than anyone had seen him, even in the worst days of the war. “With the Brotherhood shattered and the last of the Inner Circle either dead or in custody, we face a choice.”

“Do we rebuild the old world?” he asked, voice grave. “Or do we make something better?”

“We must make something better,” Hermione said, rising to her feet, fire in her eyes. “If we simply replace faces but keep the same corrupt structures—the same blind courts, the same unchecked blood supremacy—we guarantee another war within a generation.”

There were murmurs around the table. Some approving. Some cautious. Some weary.

Lucius—resplendent in restored finery, now officially exonerated after his role in bringing down the Brotherhood—tilted his head with mild amusement. “And who would you suggest shape this... brighter future, Mrs. Malfoy?”

Hermione smiled, calm but unyielding. “People who’ve been burned by the old one. Survivors. Fighters. Healers. Teachers. A council composed of every House, every blood status, every magical people. Together, creating a round table. No more secret deals. No more sacred families. Law, not lineage.”

“And oversight,” added Draco smoothly. “Because the last time a ruling body claimed absolute power ‘for the good of the people,’ it gave us Umbridge.”

More murmurs. A few chuckles.

Daphne, newly appointed Head of the Department for Magical Equality, nodded. “We’ll have pushback. The Wizengamot is fractured. The old guard wants to maintain its power under new names.”

“Let them push,” Astoria said sharply. “They’re not the only ones who know how to fight anymore.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The Prophet’s already running op-eds calling us the ‘Founders Reborn.’” He rolled his eyes. “Bit dramatic.”

“Accurate,” muttered Theo under his breath.

Hermione turned to Kingsley. “We can’t waste this chance. People believe in us—DA, Order, Slytherins who defected. The world watched what we did. We have the moral weight. But we must act before fear makes them forget.”

Kingsley exhaled slowly. “Then it’s unanimous. We dissolve the old Ministry structure. We draft a new charter. And this council will oversee the transition—led by you two.”

Hermione blinked. “Us?”

“You’re the symbol of it,” he said. “A Malfoy and a Muggleborn. Light and dark. Magic forged in fire and bonded in love. People trust you. Even the ones who never thought they would.”

Draco squeezed her hand under the table.

“We’ll do it,” Hermione said softly. “Together.”

And so the real work began—not of war, but of rebuilding.

Not of spells cast, but of laws rewritten.

Not of defeating darkness... but of refusing to let it rise again.

Chapter Text

Time had a funny way of slipping past when hearts were full and futures were calling. After returning to Hogwarts, the gang had immersed themselves in a blur of final coursework, late-night studying, championing legislative reform, and, most importantly, simply being together. Between pushing new equality laws through the Ministry and still managing to turn in essays on time, the spring months bled into June like sunlight stretching lazily across the horizon.

Their last official Hogsmeade visit had arrived—and this one felt different. Sweeter. More vivid. Harry and Ron had managed to sneak away from Auror training, just for the weekend, citing “official business” (and a not-so-subtle plea from Hermione). The group, complete again, had congregated at their favorite corner of The Three Broomsticks, butterbeer in hand and laughter spilling freely.

Hermione leaned into Draco, her fingers gently curling around his. She let her eyes drift over the group—her chosen family—and felt her heart swell. There was no war looming, no urgent meeting or battle plan. Just the joy of now, and the shimmering promise of tomorrow.

Neville had proposed to Pansy that morning with a ring made from an enchanted seedling, kneeling beneath the ancient birch tree beside Black Lake. Her shriek of “Obviously, you absolute dork!” had echoed all the way back to the castle.

Just moments ago, Ron had fumbled his way through a surprisingly heartfelt proposal at Madam Puddifoot’s, producing a ring hidden inside a teacup. Astoria had burst into tears, tackling him in a flurry of curls and kisses while the poor shopkeeper nearly fainted.

Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that Blaise had something similarly dramatic planned for Ginny—especially given the mysterious “tour of family estates in Italy” scheduled for the week after graduation. And Theo and Luna? They sat slightly apart from the group, heads together, murmuring quietly, likely naming clouds or discussing the merits of enchanted fungi.

Meanwhile, Daphne and Harry had gone from friendly sparring to full-blown debate about the international prosecution of dark artifact smugglers, parchment napkins now covered in hastily drawn legal strategies and footnotes.

It was chaos. It was perfection.

Pansy, ever perceptive, caught the wistful look on Hermione’s face. She clinked her butterbeer bottle against the table, demanding attention. “Oi, everyone. Raise your glasses—yes, even you, Potter. This one’s for Granger.”

Hermione blinked. “Me?”

Pansy gave her a look. “Obviously. For being the swotty little nightmare who somehow rewrote not just our essays but all our lives. For dragging us—sometimes kicking and screaming—into a better future.”

Hermione flushed, but Pansy wasn’t done.

“You made us believe we deserved happiness. Even us damaged, dramatic, occasionally homicidal Slytherins. This year? It’s been the best of my life. And it’s because of you.”

A murmur of agreement swept the table.

“I second that with obnoxious Gryffindor enthusiasm,” Theo chimed in, dramatically placing his hand on his heart. Luna, radiant and dreamy beside him, reached over to tangle her fingers with his.

Ginny flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You snakes just didn’t realize how much you needed us lions.”

Draco chuckled, eyes soft as he looked at his wife. “Well said, Red. Even if I resent how accurate that is.”

Their futures shimmered just on the horizon. Ron and Harry would finish Auror training that summer, already earmarked for leadership roles in the reformed magical security division. Theo had been accepted into Oxford’s prestigious Mind Healer program, while Daphne would join him for her magical law mastery—one of the first Slytherin women ever accepted. Pansy was headed to Paris to begin her fashion apprenticeship at La Sorcellerie, and Neville would work under Professor Sprout, set on revolutionizing magical botany.

Blaise’s vineyard apprenticeship in Italy was a touch more decadent—though conveniently close to Ginny’s Holyhead Harpies training facility. Astoria had shocked them all by being accepted into the University of Glasgow’s Muggle teacher program. “If I’m going to rewrite magical primary education,” she’d declared, “I need to know how Muggles do it first.”

Hermione and Draco were staying closer to home: she had begun her dual Healer and Magical Research mastery at Cambridge, while Draco prepared for his Potions mastery, already innovating with cross-cultural healing draughts.

Astoria’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I’m so excited for what’s ahead. But it’s hard to imagine not seeing you all every day.”

Daphne leaned into her. “It’s terrifying.”

Neville reached across the table and laced his fingers with Pansy’s. “Then let’s make a promise. Holidays, yes. But also monthly meetups. No matter where we are in the world.”

“And letters,” Hermione added, with a pointed look at Ron, Harry, and Pansy, who at least had the grace to look sheepish. “And we respond to them.”

Luna’s voice rang softly, but with certainty. “We’ll be closer than ever. These bonds we’ve built... they’re soul-deep. This isn’t the end—it’s the next chapter. And it’s beautiful.”

Everyone fell silent, feeling the truth of her words settle over them like sunlight.

They clinked glasses and smiled through misty eyes. Chosen family. Forged in war, sealed with love, and carrying the future in their hands.

Together.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Great Hall had never looked more majestic.

Banners of all four houses draped from enchanted rafters, glistening in soft gold light. Where once war-torn speeches and battle cries had echoed, now there was laughter, pride, and a tangible hum of new beginnings.

Hermione sat near the front with her fellow returning eighth-years and seventh-years, her hand entwined with Draco’s. They were both in custom Hogwarts robes stitched with their house colors—Draco's Slytherin green glinting beside the rich burgundy trim of Hermione’s Gryffindor. The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of them. Unity. Growth. Peace.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward to begin the ceremony, her eyes suspiciously bright. “To the Class of Returning Eighth Years and Seventh Years,” she began, her voice thick with emotion, “you are not just students. You are the architects of a future rebuilt from ashes. Your perseverance, passion, and power have reshaped the very meaning of Hogwarts. I am beyond proud.”

Applause thundered through the hall.

Ginny nudged Hermione with a grin. “Bet she’s got a tissue in her sleeve.”

“Bet you cry before the ceremony’s done,” Hermione whispered back.

“I’m betting Blaise cries,” Theo added from behind them. “But only because Ginny threatens to leave him if he doesn’t."

Blaise rolled his eyes. “I am extremely in touch with my emotions, thank you very much.”

Laughter rippled among the group.

Neville was called up first to receive his certificate. As he walked the stage, there was a surge of applause so strong it made him turn crimson. Pansy gave a wolf-whistle that earned her a mock-glare from Professor Sprout—and a wink from McGonagall.

When it was Pansy's turn, she strutted up the aisle with mock drama, blowing kisses. "Thank you, thank you, I’d like to dedicate this to my future in Paris and the woman who finally made me study—Hermione bloody Granger.”

That earned a standing ovation and more than a few snorts.

Theo nearly tripped up the steps, holding up his diploma like it was a Quidditch Cup. Astoria cried softly into Daphne’s shoulder, which made Daphne cry, which made Ginny cry, which finally made Hermione admit she was crying too.

When Hermione’s name was called, the Great Hall went still—and then erupted in cheers. She hadn’t just returned—she had helped rebuild Hogwarts, reframe magical law, and rewrite the very fabric of the wizarding world.

Her speech was short but heartfelt.

“This school saved me once. Then war tore us apart. But together, we healed. Not because of one spell or one moment—but because of love, friendship, and relentless hope. We are the generation that chose a different future. I’m proud of all of us.”

As she stepped down, Draco pulled her in and kissed her, full and unbothered, to the wild cheers of both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike.

When Draco was called to the stage, he walked tall and proud. No sneering Malfoy mask. Just a man—husband, potions master-in-training, war survivor—earning his place in the world he chose to fight for.

Lucius and Narcissa sat in the back, beaming with pride. And when Draco caught his father's eye, he saw something that once seemed impossible: peace.

The ceremony ended with McGonagall calling their group “a once-in-a-century class” and summoning enchanted doves that turned into sparking fireworks.

As students spilled into the grounds, laughing and hugging, Draco looped his arm around Hermione’s waist. “So,” he said, kissing her temple, “what now, Mrs. Malfoy?”

She turned to him, radiant. “Now we live the lives we fought for. Together.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today was the day.

Draco could hardly believe it as he stood with Hermione at the wrought-iron gates of Camelot Castle—their home.

Not a temporary stay. Not a Potter-assigned hideaway or a Hogwarts dormitory. But theirs . As in married-couple, master-of-the-manor, sacred-bloodline-bonded theirs .

The gates shimmered with old magic, silver runes etched into the archway pulsing faintly as they awaited Hermione’s touch. She stepped forward, wand steady, and pricked her finger—just a drop. The moment her blood touched the runes, the gates creaked open with a melodic hum, like a choir of ancient voices sighing in relief.

Hermione turned to Draco. “You ready to be added to the wards?”

“As long as father doesn’t get added in with me.”

She smirked. “I make no promises.”

Behind them, Lucius Malfoy was having what could only be described as a full-body moment .

“My gods, ” he whispered, hand pressed to his chest, eyes wide and reverent as he took in the castle rising above them. “It’s more breathtaking than the portraits depict. Look at those turrets! And the defensive wards humming along the eastern walls—they’re Celtic in origin, I’d bet my wand on it. Narcissa, can you feel the ley lines? They’re singing .”

He dropped to his knees in the gravel path, utterly overwhelmed.

Draco side-eyed Hermione. “He’s weeping. Is he actually crying?”

“I think that’s a full-blown spiritual event,” she whispered.

Narcissa, not missing a beat, rolled her eyes and gently patted her husband’s shoulder like a school matron indulging a particularly enthusiastic Ravenclaw. “Lucius, darling. Hermione’s grandparents are waiting at the entrance. Try to maintain some dignity.”

Lucius shot up like a wand was lit under his robes. “The Queen! And Prince Consort! Merlin’s bones—my tie— do I have a tie? ”

He all but sprinted toward the entrance, attempting to bow, straighten his robes, and preen all at once. It looked vaguely like a controlled swan dive.

Draco leaned close and muttered, “We’re never getting rid of him.”

“I heard that,” came Narcissa’s musical voice, unbothered. She turned with a knowing smile. “Give him a grandchild to obsess over and he’ll leave your house in peace. For a while. Maybe. ”

Both Hermione and Draco froze like mannequins in Madam Malkin’s window.

“I—I—” Draco stammered.

“Traumatized,” Hermione finished for him. “Utterly traumatized.”

Narcissa walked off with a graceful laugh. “Good. Builds character.”

They turned to follow her, still slightly red-faced, as the castle rose before them.

Camelot Castle was a fairytale made real—its towering spires kissed the sky, ivy trailing up stone walls that shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. Enchanted windows caught sunlight and refracted it like stained glass even on cloudy days. The drawbridge was long gone, replaced by a welcoming path lined with silver-lantern trees that lit when someone stepped near them.

The inside was a perfect marriage of ancient elegance and modern warmth. There were great halls and stone fireplaces, certainly—but the walls had been freshly enchanted to display moving murals of their family history, and subtle charms ensured warmth, light, and comfort throughout. The sitting rooms had floating tea trays and cozy hearths. The kitchens were massive, manned by an army of fiercely devoted house-elves—descendants of Merlin’s own staff, apparently, and vehemently opposed to being freed.

Draco still remembered the incident when Hermione first offered them clothes. The resulting protest was so spirited, it made S.P.E.W. into a negotiation campaign. The eventual agreement—optional freedom, paid monthly accounts, and mandatory holidays—had satisfied everyone, though not before one elf threatened to curse Draco into a porcupine for Hermione even considering gifting them socks.  Obviously, they couldn’t curse her as the actual descendent. 

As they walked through the front garden—lush with magically blooming roses and the soft trickle of crystal fountains—Hermione’s grandparents waited with regal ease beneath a stone arch.

“Gran! Grandpa!” Hermione beamed. “I’m so excited you’re here.”

Her Gran pulled her into a hug, humor dancing in her eyes. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world. And I must say—I'm rather looking forward to watching your new father-in-law try to impress us. It’s the sort of theatre that comes once in a generation.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You’re encouraging him!”

“Absolutely,” her Gran said, entirely unapologetic.

Inside, the castle only got more magical. The library, in particular, made Hermione gasp. Towering shelves held volumes so old their bindings glowed with protective enchantments. And in the center—set beneath an enchanted dome of stars—stood a marble pedestal containing Merlin’s personal collection, available only to his bloodline.

Lucius wandered in behind them, took one look at the shelves, and dramatically collapsed onto a velvet chaise.

“Is he—” Hermione asked.

“He’s fine,” Narcissa replied calmly. “He’s where Draco gets his flair for dramatics.”

Draco only shrugged. “Accurate.”

And as they stood in their new home, surrounded by family and history, Hermione leaned her head on Draco’s shoulder and whispered, “This is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Of everything.”

Later that evening, after the excitement had faded into a quiet hum of unpacking trunks and Lucius lecturing a tapestry on wand etiquette, Hermione found herself alone in the library—her sanctuary. She was running her fingers along the spines of ancient tomes when her fingertips brushed over a strange seam in the shelf that hadn’t been there before.

“Huh.”

She leaned in, squinting. There—etched in Old Welsh runes, barely visible even to her trained eye—was a small engraving. She whispered a translation charm and read aloud, “ Truth is gifted to the seeker of love. Blood of mine, open thyself to wisdom long sealed. ”

Before she could reach for her wand, Draco appeared behind her, voice low and amused. “You know, love, most people just pick books to read. Not unlock hidden compartments.”

She rolled her eyes, then tugged his hand into hers. “Touch the engraving with me.”

Together, their fingers pressed against the rune. Gold and silver light—identical to their bond’s magic—flared where their skin met the wood. The shelf shimmered, and then with a soft click , slid open to reveal a hidden alcove. Inside sat a floating scroll, sealed with Merlin’s crest.

Hermione’s breath caught. “This… This is his personal magic.”

Draco, reverently, took the scroll and handed it to her. “You should read it. You’re his heir.”

She broke the seal gently, and as the scroll unrolled, glowing ink formed flowing script across the parchment. The magic responded to her voice as she read aloud:

To the blood of my blood,
If this message has found you, the castle has accepted you. That alone is proof enough of your worth.
You may find the world slow to change. But love—true, fierce, soul-bound love—has always been the greatest magic of all.
Protect it. Let it guide you. And when the world doubts, let your union remind them that legacy is not built on purity, but purpose.
The castle is yours now. As is the power within it. Use it to heal, to challenge, to teach. And never forget: you are not alone.
With pride,
Merlin

Hermione blinked rapidly. Even Draco seemed at a loss for words, his fingers tightening around hers.

After a long silence, he said softly, “You know what I think?”

She tilted her head toward him.

“I think the old man would’ve liked you.”

Hermione smiled, tears glistening in her lashes. “He gave me you. I think I already like him plenty.”

And high above them, the starry dome glowed just a little brighter.

The scroll’s magic hadn’t faded—it pulsed gently with light even after Hermione finished reading. Then, as if guided by some invisible thread, the words rearranged themselves into a map.

Draco leaned over her shoulder. “That’s… a floorplan of the castle.”

Hermione nodded. “Look. That spiral—beneath the eastern tower. That section wasn’t on the original blueprints.”

Without a word, they followed the path through winding corridors, ancient tapestries, and increasingly older stone. At the end of the passage was a solid wall of gray slate. But the magic thrummed in their veins again. Hermione pulled out her wand, but Draco stopped her.

“Wait. Let’s try this first.” He took her hand and said softly, “Together?”

They placed their palms flat against the stone, and their bond magic flared to life again—silver and gold crackling at the edges. With a deep groan , the stone wall melted away like mist, revealing a spiraling staircase that led down into flickering torchlight.

At the base of the steps, they entered a wide chamber carved into the very bedrock of the hill. Dust hovered in the still air, but everything shimmered with a latent energy. On pedestals and shelves floated artifacts of incredible power: a blade humming softly in its sheath, a mirror whose reflection twisted slightly off-time, and an orb of starlight caged in vines of living crystal.

Hermione gasped. “This… this is his legacy. His vault.”

Draco walked over to a wooden case etched with Celtic runes. “These are all keyed to bloodlines. This one has your magical signature glowing on it.”

Hermione moved to it and slowly opened the lid. Inside was a circlet—slender, delicate, glowing faintly gold. As she reached out, runes lifted into the air.

Crown of Aetheria – grants wisdom in council and truth in speech. Gifted to the ruler who binds heart to justice.

Hermione trembled. “It’s… made for the heir.”

Next to it, Draco noticed a wand. Unlike anything either had seen, it seemed grown rather than carved—living oak intertwined with dragonbone and humming with balance. As he touched it, the vault responded with a pulse of energy, and a soft voice echoed from the chamber itself:

The consort’s strength lies not in conquest, but in courage to protect the flame. Wield it only when your heart burns for another.

They stood in stunned silence.

Hermione looked at him, teary-eyed but radiant. “This isn’t just history. It’s our future. This vault—it’s not a museum. It’s a gift. A promise that we’re meant to protect something bigger than ourselves.”

Draco nodded. “And we will. Together.”

As they turned to leave, the torches along the wall burned brighter, illuminating a final inscription above the door:

When power rests in love, no darkness can endure.

Hermione leaned into Draco, her head resting against his chest as he tilted her chin up and pressed a kiss to her lips—slow, reverent, and full of promise. The magic in the chamber responded like a living thing, humming around them in a warm, golden pulse. It wasn't just residual enchantment from Merlin’s artifacts; it was their magic—their bond, their legacy—echoing off ancient stone walls and into time itself.

When they broke apart, Hermione’s smile was soft but certain. Her fingers twined through Draco’s as they walked hand-in-hand out of the vault, the doors sealing behind them with a low, satisfied hum. She glanced up at him, her heart so full she swore it might spill out in stardust.

This was only the beginning.

Their love had survived war and loss, defied generations of prejudice, and been tested by the weight of history—and it had emerged not only intact, but incandescent. Side by side, they carried the wisdom of the past, the strength of the present, and the daring hope of the future.

And that future would be theirs to shape.

With every choice they made, every law they rewrote, every child would be raised in love and magic, they would sow seeds for a world no longer bound by bloodlines or old fears—but built on compassion, courage, and the kind of love that rewrote destinies.

Their children would one day walk these halls, guided not by legacies of war, but by the peace their parents carved out with fire and forgiveness.

Hermione looked forward once more, the sunlight from the corridor ahead gilding their path.

Yes—together, they would build a future worth remembering. One full of magic, love, and a legacy that would last for generations to come.

Chapter Text

Crash! Bang! Ahhhhhhh!

Lucius Malfoy sprinted toward the source of the cacophony, his slippered feet nearly sliding across the polished marble of the East Wing corridor.

What in Merlin’s name had he been thinking?

Allowing himself to be convinced —no doubt under the influence of too much post-dinner firewhisky and Narcissa’s coy smile—that the two of them could manage all their grandchildren (by blood and by chosen family). At the same time? By themselves ?

It had sounded noble in theory: give the grown children a chance to enjoy their annual friends’ reunion, free from parenting duties for one blessed afternoon. Bonding. Cocktails. Laughter. A quiet estate.

Instead, the Manor had become a war zone.

The Malfoy twins, Scorpius and Lyra, naturally led the charge. They were the eldest and, in Lucius’s opinion, had inherited far too much of their mother’s “uncontainable curiosity” and their father’s “strategic brilliance.” That combination had resulted in an overturned potion cabinet, a levitated settee, and at least one house-elf sobbing into a dishrag.

Then there were the Weasleys’ seven —Salazar, Astoria had not been joking when she declared she’d have her own Quidditch team.

Add in the Zabinis’ four, the Notts’ identical triplets, the Potters’ two, and little Posy Longbottom, and the Manor wasn’t hosting a playdate—it was harboring a small magical militia.

Lucius was already disheveled beyond recognition. Some unidentifiable sticky goo—possibly troll bogies, more likely strawberry jam—was plastered into his silver-blond hair. His once-crisp trousers had been smeared with chocolate, paint, and something suspiciously glowing. One sock was missing. His cravat had been repurposed as a leash for a charmed stuffed dragon.

He didn’t know whether to hex something or cry.

Narcissa entered the room at a graceful stroll, looking utterly unbothered, a serene smile on her lips and Posy Longbottom perched comfortably on her hip, chewing on a rattle shaped like a mandrake root.

Lucius’s eye twitched.

“Lucius,” she said calmly, taking in the destruction—and her husband’s completely wrecked appearance. “What on Earth is going on in my manor?”

Posy let out a delighted squeal and patted Narcissa’s cheek.

Lucius straightened (as best he could), cleared his throat with as much dignity as he could muster, and opened his mouth to respond—

“Sticky jam,” Narcissa noted with a raised brow. “And is that... pudding in your hair?”

Lucius looked skyward. “Possibly.”

Her lips twitched.

Then, with no warning, Narcissa’s expression turned sharp as she stepped forward and raised her voice with the kind of power that had once silenced entire committee meetings. “ Grandchildren! ”

Twelve sets of wide eyes swiveled toward her. Toy wands paused mid-air. Someone’s potion flask fizzled into silence.

“I have a surprise,” Narcissa announced, now smiling like a benevolent queen. “Outside. In the gardens. Every single one of you will get to make your very own magical ice cream. ”

Cheers erupted. Squeals of excitement. A rush of tiny feet and a few mini-broomsticks zooming toward the French doors that led to the grounds.

Lucius blinked as the chaos moved outdoors like a stampede.

He turned to his wife, wide-eyed. “How did you do that?”

She gave him an amused look, shifted Posy to her other hip, and murmured, “I taught Slytherins, my love. You just have to know what currency motivates your house.” Then, smirking, she kissed his cheek and followed the tiny army into the gardens.

Lucius stood there in stunned reverence.

“I still don’t know how you do it,” he murmured. “But I bow down to your power.”

From the garden came the sounds of shrieking joy and magically mixing ice cream. Somewhere, a phoenix-shaped sundae was taking flight.

Lucius Malfoy, patriarch of one of the most formidable bloodlines in magical history, smiled as he watched his wife with their chaotic, wonderful brood.

This , he thought, is the life I never knew I wanted. And it is perfect.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Ministry atrium was bathed in golden sunlight, the enchanted glass ceiling casting warm beams over the marble floor. Reporters buzzed near the entrance—cameras flashing, enchanted quills scribbling furiously. But the real heart of the atrium was forming near the stage, where a gathering of extraordinary people had begun to arrive.

Harry Potter—the youngest Head of the Auror Department in magical history—was first to appear, cradling his daughter on one arm and issuing sharp but calm orders through a mirror shard in his other hand. He was followed by Daphne Greengrass-Potter, dressed immaculately in deep blue, her posture confident and composed. Now the lead prosecutor for the Wizengamot, Daphne’s recent victory in the corruption trials had reshaped magical legal precedent.

Ron Weasley strolled in, slightly windblown and still dusted with ash from a field assignment. He gave Hermione a cheeky wink before beelining toward Astoria, who arrived moments later with three small students in matching robes—her first graduates from the Magical Montessori School of Britain . The school’s crest shimmered with the motto: Curiosity is Magic.

Luna Nott made her entrance in full Luna fashion—her robes stitched with beetle-wing threads, her hair pinned up with what may or may not have been a live flutterby. She was mid-sentence about Thestral herding rituals when her husband, Theo Nott, appeared beside her, slipping an arm around her waist and a kiss to her temple. Now a renowned Mind Healer, Theo greeted the crowd with quiet grace, while Luna hummed and scribbled notes for her next Quibbler piece.

Pansy Parkinson-Longbottom swept into the atrium like it was a runway, wearing a dramatic emerald cloak from her latest WitchWear line. Her designs had just been featured in Vogue Magique . She waved to Neville, who stood surrounded by international herbologists discussing his newest greenhouse breakthrough: hybrid Mandrake-Remedy roots that helped reverse curse damage—an ingredient used in the lycanthropy cure they were there to celebrate.

Ginny Weasley-Zabini arrived with fanfare, cheeks flushed from a morning Quidditch match. She greeted the crowd with a grin before pressing a laughing kiss to Blaise’s cheek. Cool and collected in a tailored robe, the vineyard tycoon handed her a flute of glowing rosé from their Tuscan vineyard, his enchanted vintage a perfect match for her fire.

And there, just a few steps from the podium, stood Draco Malfoy—elegant in formal robes, silver cufflinks gleaming. His arm rested around their daughter, Lyra, while their son Scorpius scribbled intently in a leather-bound notebook, already dreaming in runes. Draco had made a name for himself as a master potioneer, his trauma-recovery brews revolutionizing modern magical medicine. But today, he stood not as a healer, but as Hermione’s husband—unshakable in his support.

With her circle complete and her loved ones assembled, Hermione Malfoy stepped up to the podium. Dressed in deep plum Healer’s robes, the crest on her chest shimmered—a blend of Camelot’s sigil and St. Mungo’s caduceus. Her crown was subtle, her presence unmistakable.

She took a breath, let her gaze sweep over the crowd—and began.

“Our work is not finished,” she declared, her voice sure, steady, and unmistakably hers. “But today, we celebrate how far we’ve come. The magical world is no longer divided by blood—it is strengthened by bonds. By love. Equity. And truth. And today, we mark a new future with a cure for lycanthropy—one that restores agency and hope to magical beings long denied both.”

Applause thundered across the atrium, echoing like bells through the Ministry halls.

Later, in a private rooftop garden—an enchanted oasis Draco had built for Hermione during their early royal duties as an escape—the celebration continued. The garden bloomed with silver-bell flowers and floating lanterns, lit by ambient Camelot magic. Children darted between legs and laughter: mini Malfoys, Potters, Weasleys, Longbottom, Notts, and Zabinis—raised like cousins, bonded for life.

Pansy popped a bottle of champagne. “To Hermione,” she declared with a smirk. “The swotty princess who made peace fashionable and continues to change the world, one research breakthrough at a time.”

“To friendship,” Harry added, lifting his glass.

“To futures we never dared to dream, but somehow found anyway,” Luna murmured, eyes distant and knowing.

The fireflies shimmered gold and silver overhead, ancient magic woven into their glow. Hermione looked at the circle of love surrounding her: her family, her friends, her soulmates in this shared life.

They had not only survived the war.

Together, they had rewritten history.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was thick with anticipation as the Malfoys, Potters, Zabinis, Notts, Weasleys, and Longbottoms waited in the castle’s drawing room—transformed over the years into a cozy hub of family gatherings. Plush sofas, whimsical artwork from the kids, and shelves overflowing with books and magical oddities gave the space a well-loved feel.

They were sipping wine from the Zabini vineyards—some nervously, some simply to take the edge off. It was a momentous evening. The last of their children, Posy Longbottom, had just boarded the Hogwarts Express this morning, and now they were waiting to hear which house she’d be sorted into.

“I still can’t believe we’re here,” Hermione said softly, leaning into Draco on the settee. “The last of them.  I’ve already written to the Headmistress offering her weekly deliveries of Zabini wines.”

Draco smirked. “It only took many years and an army of chaos to reach this point.  I’m sure the Headmistress will need the wines with the whole brood there now.”

Hermione chuckled at the thought of Hogwarts being overrun by their children, and the magical mischief they were sure to find.

The house distribution had become a point of family pride—and occasional playful rivalry. Lyra and Scorpius Malfoy were in Slytherin, unsurprisingly. The Weasley brood—Ron and Astoria really had created a quidditch team—were all firm Gryffindors. The Nott triplets had been sorted into Ravenclaw, which delighted Theo and Luna to no end. The Potters and Zabinis were split right down the middle between Gryffindor and Slytherin. And now, all eyes (and wagers) were on Posy.

“She’s a Ravenclaw,” Theo declared confidently. “She out-logic-ed me into letting her eat dessert before dinner last week.”

Ginny chuckled into her glass. “Bold move. That sounds like a Gryffindor to me.”

Pansy huffed, clutching a cushion. “She’s clever, persuasive, observant, and ambitious. If that child doesn’t go into Slytherin, I’ll be floored.”

Luna, always serene, added dreamily, “She listens to things others don’t… it’s a Slytherin gift, if ever there was one.”

And then, with impeccable timing, Professor McGonagall’s patronus—an elegant silver tabby—flickered into the center of the room. All conversation halted as the magical cat stood tall and spoke in the Headmistress’s familiar, crisp Scottish brogue:

“Posy Longbottom has been sorted into Slytherin. Lyra Malfoy has already pulled her under her wing. Congratulations.”

A stunned silence held for a heartbeat—then chaos.

Pansy let out a full-throated, emotional wail. “My baby! The last one! And she’s in Slytherin!”

Neville beamed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Told you she had it in her.”

Laughter bubbled around the room as Blaise clinked his glass against Ron’s. “Well, that seals it. The House of Slytherin may never recover.”

“Lyra’s going to be thrilled,” Draco noted, clearly proud. “Another little snake to mentor.”

Ginny leaned into Blaise, smirking. “Better them than me. My two are enough Gryffindor for a lifetime.  Slytherin needed the extra boost.”

Hermione let her gaze drift across the room. These were the people who had seen her through war, peace, healing, and growth. Their children were scattered across Hogwarts now, thriving. Lyra, Scorpius, the Potters, the Zabinis, the Nott triplets, the whole red-headed Weasley squad… and now Posy, the last little bird to fly the nest.

Her eyes met Draco’s. He was watching her with that same quiet reverence he always had when she wasn’t paying attention. She reached for his hand, fingers curling into his.

“They’re going to be okay,” she whispered.

He smiled. “They’re going to be brilliant.”

A breeze from the open windows stirred the curtains. Somewhere outside, the faint notes of a lullaby charm drifted from the enchanted garden. Laughter rose again around them as glasses refilled and memories resurfaced.

The war was long behind them. Their children now carried the legacy forward.

And Hermione knew, in her heart, that love—bold, enduring, transformative—had truly rewritten their story.

Later that night, long after the laughter had faded and the wine had run dry, Hermione and Draco found themselves alone in the garden of Camelot. The enchanted fairy lights twinkled softly above them, casting a golden glow over the ivy-covered stone walls and the roses that bloomed in all seasons.

Hermione sat barefoot on a cushioned bench, her head resting on Draco’s shoulder. His arm was around her, fingers lazily tracing circles on her arm. The silence between them was not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Complete.

“Do you remember,” Hermione began softly, “when we first met at Hogwarts? When none of this felt possible?”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “You mean when I was still brooding and bitter, and you were glaring at me like you’d rather be hexed than sit in the same room?”

She nudged him gently with her elbow. “You were infuriating.”

“You were impossible.”

They grinned together, the memory warming the cool night air.

Hermione turned to look up at him. “And now look at us. Married. Parents. With friends who feel more like siblings. With… peace.”

Draco’s expression softened. He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “You gave me a second life, Hermione. One I didn’t think I deserved. And every day I wake up and still can’t believe you’re mine.”

Hermione blinked back the sudden mist in her eyes. “I didn’t give you anything you hadn’t already fought for. We did this. Together.”

Draco leaned in, kissing her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips—a kiss that was slow and reverent. When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“We have a good life,” he whispered.

“The best,” she agreed. “And it’s only beginning.”

From the castle, they heard faint laughter—probably Blaise and Ron arguing over who’d fallen asleep first on the sofa. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed midnight.

Hermione closed her eyes. “Whatever tomorrow brings, I’m ready.”

Draco pulled her closer. “As long as I have you, I always will be.”

And under the quiet stars, with ancient magic humming gently around them and love threaded between every breath, they stayed like that—two souls who had fought fate and rewritten history, now wrapped in the kind of peace they’d once only dreamed of.

Together. Always.