Remember Us As War But

Remember Us As War (but call us forgiveness)
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/26806840.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott, Harry
Potter/Ginny Weasley
Characters: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, George Weasley, Ron
Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Parvati Patil, Luna Lovegood, Daphne
Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Hannah Abbott, Blaise Zabini
Additional Tags: Forced Marriage, Ensemble Cast, Post-War, Population Law, HEA,
Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst,
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy,
Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Minor Character Death,
Magical Pregnancy, Fertility Issues
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Remember Us As War
Stats: Published: 2020-10-04 Completed: 2022-06-11 Words: 168,536
Chapters: 39/39
Remember Us As War (but call us forgiveness)
by Anyaparadox
Summary
Following the devastation of the Battle of Hogwarts, The Wizarding Population Growth Act
is put into effect. All witches and wizards will be matched with their most compatible partner.
Failure to comply will not be tolerated. Survival is key.
Hermione reminds herself of this. Survival. She can fix this, if only she can survive. The war
has made this a task she is equipped for. Marrying Draco Malfoy will hardly be the worst
thing she's ever endured.
Notes
Hello! Welcome to my first Harry Potter fanfiction :) I have tried to tag as many possible
warnings as possible - but I must say, this fic is happier than I made it sound, for the most
part. It is also an 'ensemble' fic; there will be certain chapters that feature little Dramoine,
however, the main plot revolves around them. Please ask if you have any concerns.
This title was inspired entirely by Nikita Gill's incredible poem "I Named Us Grief" which I
have included below. Please check out her work.
Please drop a line if you enjoyed reading. Additional tags at the bottom of chapter 1.
See the end of the work for more notes

An Unexpected Letter
Chapter Notes
Additional tags for this story present at the bottom of this chapter with a "Possible
Spoilers" tag. Please read if you are concerned.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I Named Us Grief
I call us part dread, part song
part story, part wrong.
We built our castles in each other
out of splintered spine and blood.
We met in grief and
were held together by its mud.
Took crowns made of bones
placed it on each others heads.
We loved each other with
fragments of ourselves that were dead.
This is why we couldn't rely

on the promises that we spoke.
Perhaps in a different time
I would have named us hope.
Perhaps in a different universe
we would not meet so battleworn
And I would call us forgiveness,
and not remember us as war.
- Nikita Gill -
August 2nd, 1999 - Monday
The tawny owl tapping on her window is both huge and insistent. Hermione stares at him
briefly through the glass above her kitchen sink, unsure if she should allow the strange bird
entrance. Still, it’s hardly in her to be rude, so she slides the glass open and the owl drops the
rolled parchment unceremoniously. He stares her down with one doleful orange eye, and
Hermione gives him a small treat she keeps on her windowsill. He coos gently at her before
taking off again.
Hermione frowns; owls only leave before picking up the return mail if the owner specified
they required no response. Hermione waves her wand gently over the parchment roll, testing
for any harmful or dark curses. She’s quick to draw her wand these days; years of war and
battle making her suspicious. Constant vigilance.
The letter in front of her, however, is harmless. Simple parchment, strung with an emerald
green ribbon, and a crest that makes goosebumps break out over Hermione’s skin.
Two snakes twined together around an M — she’s never received a letter with this crest
before, but she still knows it, can feel it in her bones. It brings to mind cruel laughter and
long white-blonde hair.
Malfoy.
Her hands shake as she breaks the seal and opens the roll. If her name wasn’t at the top of the
letter she’d believe the owl had somehow mistakenly delivered this to her. Nevermind that
her small cottage is completely unplottable, fidelius charm intact with only Harry as secret
keeper. She doesn’t even have the Floo connected — it’s a wonder Malfoy’s owl could even
find her. It must have been searching for hours.
She unrolls the parchment slowly, trepidation filling her.
“To Miss Hermione Jean Granger:
I must first thank you for standing at my trial, and at my mother’s, a year ago. I know that it
was only Potter’s and your testimony that kept us from Azkaban. Her freedom for the past
year and four months has meant a great deal to me.
I would also like to apologize for the way I treated you in Hogwarts and for my choices in the
war. I have no excuse. You are a brilliant witch, and I regret that I ever made you feel
inferior.
Sincerely,
Draco Lucius Malfoy ”
Hermione sets the letter on her counter with trembling fingers. She can feel herself shaking
like a leaf; unsure if it’s shock or fear that rushes through her veins.
Hermione had realized long ago that Draco Malfoy was raised to believe that blood purity
directly related to the value of a witch or wizard. She doesn’t need a vivid imagination to
understand the father Lucius Malfoy must have been. Hermione had long forgiven his
schoolyard taunts and bullying. He was a child. They had all been children, fighting a war
that they didn’t deserve to fight.
There was very little room for hatred in her heart any longer.
Still, she had never imagined a day when she would hold an actual apology letter from Draco
Malfoy. Never imagined he would ever thank her for standing at his trial; a decision that had
caused both her and Harry a great deal of grief. Never imagined him ever penning a letter
so proper, so unlike every cruel thing he’d ever snarled at her.
She couldn’t stop staring at the last sentence. You are a brilliant witch.
Though she has never doubted her intelligence, and always surrounded herself with those
who valued her, the words hit her as hard as a punch. The 11-year-old girl in her memory,
still shaking after first hearing the word mudblood, still somehow wondering if her blood
affected her magic and value, is silent.
Tremulously, Hermione lifts the letter to her heart. A great weight seems to fall from her, and
she carefully takes the letter to a small chest in her office. She locks it away, a secret that only
she holds. Hermione imagines that Draco Malfoy would prefer it this way; proof of his heart
held under lock and key in the last place anyone would look.
September 13th, 1999 - Monday
She had no intention to send a response to Malfoy’s letter. Instead, for almost a month,
Hermione keeps the letter hidden away in her small cottage, out of sight but never quite out
of mind.
She throws herself into work with the same passion she always shows, forms and
applications for House-Elf Relocation never spending over two days on her desk. She’s
determined to make a change from inside the system, and although S.P.E.W hadn’t gone
exactly to plan, she still carries a torch for all the House Elves in the wizarding world who
deserve more.
The world needs it now; rumblings of discontent seem to follow her everywhere she turns.
Abandoned businesses have been slow to return, Hogwarts is facing lower enrollment than
even during the war, and people are still afraid. Hermione is determined to make a change,
and it compels her to begin where her passions lie, with non-human magic users.
Still, when the clock hits 11:55 Hermione jumps up. She often works through lunch, but
today she rushes down to the cafeteria.
Eagerly she seeks the lunch table she shares with Harry whenever he’s not off on Auror
business. Draped across the table is a copy of the Daily Prophet, and she moves to toss it
away like the trash she feels the Prophet is.
Splashed across the front page are large black words and a moving image of a casket
dropping into the ground. ‘Malfoy Matriarch Dead at 45’.
Her heart drops abruptly when she recognizes Draco Malfoy’s shadowed face in the moving
image. She snatches at the paper, reading furiously as she plops into her usual seat.
Narcissa Malfoy dead at the incredibly young age of 45. No written cause of death. Draco
Malfoy listed as the only surviving member of the Malfoy line.
Hermione has no love for Lucius Malfoy, but she recalls when he was found dead in his cell
in Azkaban only six months to the day that the war had ended. Though they hadn’t released a
cause of death, it hadn’t been hard to deduce that he had slowly withered away in his jail cell
until his body finally gave in.
She had not celebrated, nor grieved, or even spared a thought for the remaining Malfoys.
Now, though? Now a pang of sadness fills her that she cannot seem to shake for Draco
Malfoy, orphaned at only twenty. Hermione hadn’t known how Draco felt about his parents,
but it’s no secret in the wizarding world that Narcissa Malfoy loved her only son. It’s
arguably the crucial point that had kept her from Azkaban. Her love for Draco had inspired
her to deceive Voldemort and subsequently save Harry Potter’s life.
She stares a moment longer at the shadowed face in the photo; it’s familiar in that she recalls
the angular lines, pointy chin, and sneer lingering at his lips. The white-blonde hair is a dead
giveaway, but Hermione can’t help but linger over his eyes — grainy in the photo. She
wonders if he’s sad.
“What’s that?” Harry’s voice tears her away from her whimsical thoughts as he approaches
their table.
She clears her throat, “The Prophet is reporting that Narcissa Malfoy is dead.”
Harry seems shocked for a moment before he recovers and sits down in front of her.
“That’s… actually a shame.” He seems sincere, “Can’t believe she only got a year and four
months of freedom.”
His words ring in her ears, echoes of Draco Malfoy’s letter: “Her freedom for the past year
and four months has meant a great deal to me.”
Had he known she was dying?
For a split second, Hermione debates telling Harry about the letter Draco Malfoy sent her
only the month prior. It’s all on the tip of her tongue, about to spill out, but Harry pushes the
newspaper away and sets a steaming coffee in front of her.
“Coffee, two creams and one sugar,” Harry’s green eyes sparkle, “for my favourite witch.”
Hermione laughs, “What about Ginny?”
“Don’t tell her I said it,” Harry faux-whispers, “but you’re both tied for the favourite.”
Hermione chuckles and sips the coffee, studying her best friend over the rim. There is
nothing, no mountain or ocean or monster, that she would not conquer for him. His messy
black hair and green eyes are as dear to her as her own.
It’s not common that they take lunch together, their respective jobs eating away at all their
free time. The memo he had sent to her desk in the Department for the Regulation and
Control of Magical Creatures that morning had been most welcome, and she had leapt at the
chance to see him.
Ron hadn’t been available, which had come as no surprise, though Hermione finds she misses
him. It’s only been three months since he had left his Auror training unfinished at George’s
behest. She and Harry hadn’t blamed him. Restoring Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to its pre-
war glory and getting George back on his feet had been a priority. The world needed a few
more practical jokes and laughter.
It came as no surprise that working alongside George in a joke shop suited Ron. He had
always loved the inventions the twins had cooked up, and the mischief they had managed.
Ron had enjoyed Auror training, too, and Hermione had known he would have excelled at
being an Auror. He had a logical mind, a sharp eye for strategy, and was no stranger to the
battlefield.
Still, Hermione was glad he had decided on a different path. The war had taken its toll on
him, the same as all of them, and Hermione couldn’t stand to watch the constant trial of
hunting down dark wizards chip away at Ron’s spirit. It had been his inherent joyfulness that
had dragged her and Harry through some terrible times.
“I miss Ron,” Harry says, toying with the lid of his teacup, “We haven’t seen him in ages.”
Hermione smiles, “I was just thinking the same thing. I’ll owl Molly, I know it’s her birthday
at the end of October, so perhaps we can get Ron involved in some sort of birthday party
planning.”
“That’s over a month away!” Harry objects, “It’s only September!”
Hermione smirks, “One can never be too prepared, Harry Potter.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but fondness radiates out of him, and Hermione can’t help but smile
helplessly back at him.
They talk of meaningless things; her cottage, and whether she had finally gotten her parents'
old house sorted. She asks after Ginny’s quidditch career, and if Harry is enjoying his newly
minted full-fledged Auror status.
“Shacklebolt is stressed,” Harry says in a low voice, “I think the public and the Wizengamot
are putting the pressure on him.”
Hermione scoffs, “What is he supposed to do? Single-handedly recover the economy and the
magic population after a devastating war?”
Harry shrugs, “I suppose that is what they expect.”
“There’s nothing but time that can solve this, Harry.” Hermione cautions, “The best the
Wizengamot could offer is perhaps incentives for small business owners? They could offer
more business loans to non-human magic users!” Suddenly Hermione us rejuvenated, filled
with purpose.
Harry smiles good-naturedly, but it’s easy to see he doesn’t share her fire, “I don’t think
they’ll go for it, Hermione.”
“But — but imagine!” Hermione despairs, “Do you know how many werewolves probably
have incredible business ideas, or could increase the labour market?”
Harry nods somberly, “I’ve always agreed that the general treatment of werewolves is
abhorrent, and unfortunately it’s only gotten worse since the war.”
“Greyback,” Hermione all but growls the name, furious in the injustice. The wizarding world
is quick to drag Fenrir Greyback into every conversation regarding werewolf rights — his
infamy falls before all werewolves now, a shadow of cruelty and sadism. How quickly it
seems people have forgotten Remus Lupin; his kindness and gentility, and the ultimate
sacrifice he made to have peace. He had spent his entire life fighting against Voldemort, and
it had made no difference in how the world saw werewolves. Hermione’s fury over this has
sustained her through hundreds of meetings regarding Werewolf Social Supports and the
Werewolf Inclusion Act.
Harry agrees but swiftly changes the topic so Hermione doesn’t become bogged down with
her fury. They chat about Molly Weasley’s upcoming early birthday party, and decide they’ll
plan to invite Bill and Fleur home, and Charlie, though they doubt he’ll take the time to
return from Romania. Perhaps they can request an international Floo call.
Their lunch flies by, and Hermione drags herself almost unwillingly back to work. She can’t
stop thinking about the Prophet article she had read. The thought of Draco Malfoy, alone in
the behemoth of a manor, haunted by all the horrors that had happened there.
Hermione picks up a quill, summoning a piece of parchment. She shoves her forms and
memos away from her and starts drafting a response to the letter she had sworn never to reply
to.
She takes over an hour scribbling away until she’s satisfied, then copies her completed draft
over to a clean parchment. She rolls it neatly, tying it with a spare red ribbon in her desk.
Unlike the Malfoys, she has no family crest, so she simply uses a spell to create a small wax
seal to hold it together.
She heads to the ministry owlery — it’s much smaller than Hogwarts, containing only a few
owls free for any ministry employee. She chooses a small, nearly black owl with large yellow
eyes, and affixes her letter to his foot.
“Please take this to Draco Malfoy.” Hermione requests, “He doesn’t have to reply, so you can
return once you’re done.”
The owl shoots into the air, and Hermione watches his form fade until she can no longer see
him, and even then she lingers, her own words mocking her in her memory.
“ To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,
I’m sorry for taking so long to respond to your letter. For your actions in school, I must tell
you I forgive you. We were children, and I cannot bear to hold a grudge for that. For your
actions in the war; well, I imagine that you didn’t have much of a choice, though I suppose
that may be of no comfort. If it grants you any peace, know that I don’t blame you.
I read the news of your mother’s passing this morning. I am very sorry for your loss. I wanted
to tell you it was no hardship for me to stand at her trial, as her actions in the war allowed
my best friend to live. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with her after the war ended —
I’m truly sorry you didn’t have longer.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger”
Chapter End Notes
Additional Warnings (POSSIBLE SPOILERS): Pregnancy, Infertility, Unwanted

Pregnancy, and Pregnancy Loss are mentioned throughout this story. I will put warnings
on those specific chapters where needed.
The Rape/Non Con tag is present, but I wanted to assure others that there is no explicit
writing of rape or non-con; however, within the 'marriage law' concept there is reference
to it happening in general. At NO point will I write this happening from a characters
POV.
Lastly: there is references to suicide in this story, both in passing and in more explicit
detail later on. I will also put additional warnings on these chapters.
An Early Birthday Gift
Chapter Notes
Hello! I am updating a little sooner than planned simply because it's about to be
Canadian Thanksgiving! So no update coming your way this Sunday, but perhaps
Monday or Tuesday. For now, enjoy this large chapter. Please leave a comment if you
enjoyed it.
October 21st, 1999 - Thursday
Despite the fact that the Burrow had to be rebuilt after the war, very little has changed.
There's less clutter, to be sure, as many of the Weasley's small knick-knacks disappeared in
the flames. It also helps that none of the children except Ron live at home anymore, and even
Ron is in the process of finding his own flat.
The kitchen is still small, and backs onto a large green field where Hermione will often watch
the Weasley's and Harry play quidditch. It's one of Hermione's favourite places in the world.
It's always bustling with energy, and laughter rings from the windows even as they apparate
to the front stoop.
Molly nearly lifts her in enthusiasm when she hugs her; fussing over her appearance.
Hermione hugs her back just as tightly, the closest thing she has to a mother left. She's
eternally grateful that despite her and Ron not working out romantically, they had remained
friends, and that Molly and Arthur Weasley had barely blinked when the relationship had
crumbled.
Sometimes Hermione wondered if it was because they had already lost too many children; a
disastrous attempt at romance was hardly about to estrange another.
"Happy early Birthday!" Hermione cries, and Harry gloms onto their hug, squeezing them
tight.
"Blimey, Mum," Ron's voice echoes from the kitchen, "let them breathe!"
Hermione beams at Ron and dashes towards him, embracing him tightly. He laughs into her
ridiculously messy curls and spins her slightly.
"It's been way too long, Moine," he mumbles, blue eyes sparkling, "tell me, how are the
House Elves?"
Hermione laughs, "They're good, thanks for asking. Closer to equal status every day,
hopefully. How is the shop?"
Ron's face lights up and before she knows it he's describing the newest Quidditch line he's
invented that George had okay'd — it's been flying off the shelves, literally. He describes
their "Weasley Whips" and "Bludger BonBons" and Hermione lets herself drift for a moment,
content in his radiating happiness.
"Ron, I'm so proud of you." She says, finally. He flushes a deep red, but he nods slightly.
Harry calls them over to the table — already crammed full of people. Arthur sits at the head
closest to the door, Percy on his right and Ginny on the left. Bill and Fleur had made it for
Molly's early birthday party and sat at the opposite end of the table. Percy and George faced
them, leaving the spots open for the usual golden trio.
"No Bill?" Harry questions.
Molly sighs, "No, unfortunately, he's busier than ever in Romania. He sends his best though!"
Dinner is roasted chicken with baked potatoes, and Hermione rivals Ron for how much gravy
she can pile onto her meal. It's been ages since she's had a home-cooked meal, and Molly
Weasley is no slouch in the kitchen. They had offered to make dinner or order in to celebrate
her birthday, but she had insisted that cooking was her pleasure. The table buzzes with happy
murmurs, and Hermione remembers a time not so long ago that everything had felt hopeless.
She had never thought they would get back here.
"Mrs. Weasley, this is delicious," Hermione compliments.
Molly waves her off, "You're too kind, dear."
It's Harry who finishes his meal first and floats the empty plates to the sink, performing a
quick household charm to start the washing. Hermione is momentarily impressed, as
household charms had never been something Harry had excelled at. Ginny is beaming,
however, and it occurs to Hermione that Harry might be showing off just a little.
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry starts, once all the plates are away, "we've a present for your
birthday."
Molly's eyes shine for a moment, "You didn't have to do that, darlings."
Ron shrugs, "We did, Mum. Last year we had just finished the war and were still rebuilding,
and this is the first time it's felt halfway normal."
Arthur reaches over and clasps his wife's hand, "Molly, we all love you very much."
Hermione takes that as her cue and pulls her wand out to levitate the object they had hidden
in the closet. It's covered in dark velvet, and Hermione leaves it near the table so Molly can
unwrap it herself.
Molly stands slowly, and all the conversation halts, as though they are collectively holding
their breath. She slowly heads to the velvet cover and drags it off, exposing a shining
mahogany grandfather clock.
Her gasp is soft but audible, and she slowly lifts a reverent hand to touch the glass face
gently. It's got ten spindly arms, each spelling out a name. Instead of the time, the clock
reads: Safe at Home, School, In Transit, Work, Hospital, Mortal Peril, Bed, Lost, Shopping.
"Merlin," Molly Weasley breathes, "It's just like my old clock."
Her old clock that she had carried everywhere with her until it had succumbed to flames.
Hermione was glad only that Molly never had to see Fred's hand slowly slide to lost.
Arthur stands and moves to her trembling form, "George had the idea, love. We knew the old
one so well, so we had it designed in Diagon Alley, but then it was Hermione who took it to
get charmed. Took us ages. Turns out it was a very unique clock."
"It was," Molly says, finally turning to them. She has tears in her eyes, "It is. This is… this is
beautiful. Too much."
George shakes his head slowly from the other end of the table, "No, Mum. It's not too much.
You deserve it."
Molly smiles, "And you added a few names. I love it. Harry, dear, and Hermione, I had
always wanted to add you to my old clock."
Harry flushes, "Yeah, Ron insisted you'd want it."
Molly smiles, a full broad smile they had hardly seen since the Battle of Hogwarts. "This is
the best birthday gift ever, my darlings. Thank you."
She doesn't mention that every single hand on the watch is pointed to Safe at Home; a parade
of names: Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Harry, Hermione, Percy, Bill. The only exception is
Charlie, alone and aimed at Work. It's the first time since their third year at Hogwarts that
Mortal Peril has no hands pointed towards it. It's a welcome sight.
The moment is broken only by a loud thumping noise outside their kitchen window, where a
snow-white owl now perches. For a heart-stopping moment, Hermione thinks it's Hedwig,
come back to life.
Percy moves to the window and lets the strange owl enter, unclasping what appears to be a
satchel of letters. The owl takes off without a moment's hesitation, and Percy frowns down at
the pile of parchment in his hand.
"They're letters from the ministry," Percy states, "quite a few of them."
He tosses a rolled-up letter to George, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and keeps one for
himself.
The letter sits heavily in Hermione's hands. She's not sure what's coming, but dread washes
through her, and she knows she's not the only one to feel it. Harry is so accustomed to his life
falling apart that his hands don't even shake as he unrolls his parchment, the first to even
break the seal.
He sucks in a breath at what he finds and grits his teeth. Half of Hermione wants to tear her
own letter open and read, but she's spellbound, watching horror and disappointment flit
through her friend's green eyes. He turns to Ginny momentarily, looking as though he's been
punched.
"I — I don't know what to say," Harry says, "I'm… I'll read it. I'll read it for you."
The warmth of the Burrow seems to fall away as Harry reads, and Hermione wants to sink
through the floor. All of this — all the fighting and pain and death, and this is what it's come
to.
"To Mr. Harry James Potter:
As you may be aware, we are facing many challenges to the wizarding world as we know it.
Our economy has fallen 73% in the past five years, our school registrations have dropped by
a third, and the birth rates of witches and wizards have been more than halved. On top of
this, the many losses we suffered during the Second Wizarding World have made for an
almost impossible situation. In an effort to regrow and rejuvenate our world, the Ministry of
Magic hereby declares the 'Wizarding Population Growth Act' or WPG in effect.
The WPG mandates that all witches and wizards from ages 19 to 40 that are eligible will be
matched with a compatible partner. Rest assured, your partners will be drawn from a pool,
and compliment your personality and magical signature. A marriage between you and your
partner must be completed within 30 days from your assignment. A child must be conceived
within the first year of marriage, or, in the case that it becomes necessary, other fertility
options or treatments may be pursued.
If a witch or wizard cannot procreate, the marriage may be annulled or maintained,

depending on preference. If annulled, a new match will be provided. If the original match is
maintained, a surrogate or donor may be used.
Your assigned partner will be provided 24 hours from now. The matches have already been
made, and the people of the wizarding world will accept the names they have been given. We
recognize this is a difficult choice, but for the greater good of our wizarding world, we must
persevere.
No elopements or marriages will be allowed, recognized, or honoured in the next 24 hours.
Regards,
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

Babajide Akingbade, Supreme Mugwump of International Confederation of Wizards
Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot"
The silence that falls as Harry's voice fades is dark. After a moment, all that is heard is the
scrambling of hands-on paper as every letter is unrolled. Hermione's own copy lays in her
limp fingertips, every word the same as Harry read, other than the greeting, spelling out her
own name.
Arthur's face is as red as his hair, "How dare he? How dare Kingsley? We fought with him.
We're friends."
Percy is the first to shake his head, "I don't think it's Shacklebolt, dad. I think he didn't have a
choice. The names listed at the bottom? This law has the backing of the Wizengamot and the
International Confederation of Wizards."
Harry turns to Ginny in a flash, "We'll run. I can get an illegal portkey, we'll go. I'll marry
you, Ginny Weasley. I won't marry another."
Ginny's smile is marred by tears, "I'd marry you, too, Harry Potter, but they won't
acknowledge an elopement. They say so in the letter. We'd never be able to come home."
Ron turns to Hermione as the others erupt in conversation. His eyes are downcast, and his
voice is soft as he speaks. "Hermione, I know it didn't work out between us, but if I'd known
this was coming… I would have married you."
He means it, too. She's not surprised; Ron's loyal to a fault, and though they aren't in love
with each other, they do love each other. A marriage to Ron wouldn't even be so bad; at least
she knows him. At least he's kind.
She could get any name. It could be anyone.
"It's not your fault, Ron," she slides a hand into his, "we didn't know. There's nothing we can
do."
The words are lies in her mouth because she's already planning. She stares across the table at
Harry, who has no eyes for her, only Ginny. Hermione has seen Harry Potter in every state:
thrilled over his first broom ride, exhilarated but terrified while fighting a dragon, and with
grief etched into his face with loss, even still and cold with death. She's never seen him look
like this.
Hermione won't rest while the ministry steals the happiness that Harry has found. Whatever it
takes, whatever it costs her, she'll fix this.
Mrs. Weasley is weeping at the head of the table. Not loud sobs, just silent tears tracking
down her cheeks. All the warmth and happiness from only a few minutes prior has been
stolen.
"Come back tomorrow at 5 PM," Molly implores them all, "let us be together when these
letters arrive."
"Sure, mum." Ron whispers, still staring at the letter, now crinkled in his fist. Hermione nods
along. She has nowhere else to go, and she needs to know whose names they all receive.
Bill and Fleur cling to each other as they stand slowly. They make their way to Molly and
hug her tightly, whispering in her ear. They are headed back to Shell Cottage, which they
made their permanent residence after the war. Hermione has never been jealous of them
before, but she stares at the way Fleur has tucked herself into Bill, the way he clasps her to
his side. They have escaped this law; they are in love.
It's something the rest of them might never have.
They say their goodbyes shortly after Bill and Fleur depart, wishing Molly a happy birthday,
though the magic of the evening has disappeared. Hermione notices that the hands on the
clock still point to Safe at Home, though she feels like they should have moved.
She hugs Harry and Ron goodbye and then apparates with a crack.
She lands on the front lawn of a large house. She's been here before, though rarely. Few in the
wizarding world have this much access, however, and Hermione intends to use every
advantage she has.
She slams her fist on the white door, not pausing in her barrage even when she hears
footsteps.
The face that greets her is almost unrecognizable. Kingsley has developed deep lines in his
forehead, marks of grief and stress. He looks clammy, and when his eyes fall onto her, he
appears as though he is carved of stone.
"Hermione Granger," he intones, "I should've known you'd come."
Hermione grimaces, "Kingsley, I won't insult you by assuming that you approved of this
ridiculous WPG act."
Kingsley closes his eyes slowly, pain flitting across his face. "I do not. I am also affected by
it, you know. I'm 38 this year. I'll be receiving my name assignment tomorrow, the same as
you."
Hermione nods slowly, "I'm sorry to hear it."
They stare at each other, and it reminds Hermione of so many meetings during the war. She's
always respected Kingsley. He's no fool, and he's always treated her as an equal.
"If you're here for me to change your name, I can't. I can't help you at all."
Insulted, she fires back, "I'm not here for me, don't you understand?"
Kingsley frowns, but it clears almost as instantly, "Ah. I see. You're here for Harry."
Hermione takes her own pride and dignity out of the equation. She's already said she'd do
anything for Harry, and she'll prove it.
"Listen to me, Kingsley. You cannot do this to Harry Potter. You owe him. The entire
wizarding world owes him. I'm begging you. Do whatever you have to do, pull whatever
strings you have, but make sure he receives Ginevra Weasley's name tomorrow."
Shacklebolt sighs, "I can't, Hermione, don't you think I would have tried to get myself out of
—"
"You don't fucking matter, Kingsley," Hermione snaps, the expletive exploding from her lips,
cutting off his words. His face registers hurt, but she's already moved on. "You don't matter.
You're a grown man, a grown man who has known happiness and safety and just, well, more.
Harry Potter is the best of us, the best of the entire wizarding world, and right now you are
the only person I know who can make sure he didn't sacrifice everything: his parents, his
schooling, his friends, his name, his reputation, his life — for nothing. Can you imagine his
parents' reaction to this? Imagine Lupin or Sirius? You're telling me they died to protect him,
only for us to spit in the face of his bravery? Don't repay the debt we all have this way,
Kingsley. Do the right thing."
Hermione's words are knives, and she aims them where it matters. Kingsley seems smaller
than she's ever pictured him in her head, and for a moment she feels guilty. He's done his best
with the garbage hand the war had dealt him, and Hermione is grateful for everything he has
managed. She knows his hands were tied, but she hates it.
He exhales, "I'll try, Hermione. I make no promises."
Hermione nods, "It's the best that I could ask from you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
She whirls on her heel and takes only two steps before turning back. Kingsley Shacklebolt's
dark eyes watch her from his doorframe.
"Also," Hermione hisses, deadly, "you should know that if he gets a name that is not Ginny
Weasley's tomorrow, I'll burn the entire Ministry down. This isn't a threat, it's a warning for
you to run. Give him Ginny, Shacklebolt, or prepare for war."
She apparates with a crack.
Her cottage is dark other than a small glow from her end lamppost when she apparates to the
front lawn. Weariness drains her soul, and she slogs towards the green front door, only to find
a letter on her porch. It's familiar, only in that she's seen the wax-sealed crest that holds it
closed once before.
Snakes around an M, sloppily pressed this time, as though it was done in a hurry. Hermione is
so sick of opening letters.
She enters her house, the front door opening into a cozy living room on the right and kitchen
on the left. Everything is muted earth tones and soft, the safest haven Hermione could create
after the war. The lamps ignite with wandless magic, and Hermione plops into an overstuffed
armchair that reminds her of Gryffindor tower.
She unrolls Malfoy's letter to find a hastily written script. Hermione can't recall Draco
Malfoy writing anything in a hurry in her life. She wonders if it's a reply from her letter a
month ago, acknowledging his mother's death.
"Granger,
I assume you've received the letter from the Ministry. Consider this warning a portion of my
debt repaid.
Crabbe, Goyle, Montague, Rowle, Selwyn, Dolohov, Yaxley, Travers, Rookwood, Jugson,
Avery, or Marcus Flint.
If you receive any of the names I have written, ignore your Gryffindor bravery for once in
your life and run. They are Death Eater families and you are in danger.
There may be others. If you receive a name you are unfamiliar with, proceed with caution. Do
not share this letter with anyone.
Regards,
Draco Malfoy."
Hermione rolls his letter again and sits on her couch, drained. Malfoy's warning bounces
around her skull, and Hermione wonders if she should have fought harder for herself. If she
gets a relative of Dolohov, she'll take Malfoy's advice and run for the hills. Her side twinges
in remembered pain of his curse in the fifth year, and all the complications it had caused.
Hermione has never been the type to pray, but she desperately hopes she gets a name she
recognizes. Someone patient; someone who will understand when she wakes and can't leave
her bed because her shaking is so bad. Someone who shuts doors gently and moves slowly
and doesn't ask why she has no parents.
Although she's never harboured a romantic inclination towards any of the Weasley's other
than Ron so long ago, she almost hopes she gets one of them. It would be easy to marry
George, or Percy, or even Ron. There'd be no passion, she's sure, but they wouldn't be
unhappy. There would be understanding. It might even be the best-case scenario.
Her tears are abrupt, and Hermione lets herself fall into painful hysterics. Her soft carpet still
hurts when she falls to her knees, and she cries as she hasn't cried since the war. She sends up
silent prayers, willing to be selfish for this moment.
Please, let it be someone kind.

A Familiar Name
Chapter Notes
Thank you all for your kind comments and kudos on this story, it truly means so much to
me. This chapter is the first time we see a rotating point of view... so without further
ado, here is George Weasley :)
October 22nd, 1999 - Friday
George arrives at the burrow earlier than any of the others. The shop had been less busy than
usual today, a sombre air hovering over every customer. The Wizarding Population Growth
Act was all anyone could discuss. George had seen customers whose fury over the entire
thing could have rivalled his own, and some customers who were grateful that the Ministry
was ‘finally doing something about the post-war recession’. Usually older, or already
married. Nothing to lose.
George shakes his head of the day’s trial and tries to prepare himself for the evening ahead.
For the millionth time in only a few hours, he wishes Fred were alive.
Fred would have fought the WPG. Fred would have fought this with every molecule of his
being and George — well… George is outraged, he is. He’s furious on behalf of his family,
his siblings, but he just…
George doesn’t want to marry a stranger, of course. But he doesn’t have it in him to fight
another war without his brother.
“George,” his mother greets when he walks through the door, “good to see you, dear.”
George easily hugs Molly Weasley, noting that she has a frown on her lips, and all the stress
that had disappeared in the months following the war seems back in full force.
Her new clock is sitting in the spot of honour against the wall where her old clock had once
stood. Though most of the Burrow had burned, they had salvaged most of the structure, and
the layout remained the same as before.
All the names on the clock are accounted for, most pointing to Work or In Transit. George
reads the names of his family, and swallows down the pang that hits him when Fred’s name is
nowhere to be found.
They had debated adding it to the clock, but Bill had been practical, stating it would hardly
be helpful to have Fred’s clock hand permanently stuck to Lost. Hermione had mentioned
that the charm may not even work, as the clock hands were charmed using each individual’s
magical signature, and Fred… well, he was gone.
“Where’s Dad?” George asks.
Molly Weasley bustles around the kitchen, looking busy with a dishcloth in her hand. She’s
not dusting anything in her travels, just wringing the cloth between her fingers every few
moments.
“Oh, just in the garden. I think he just needed a moment.”
George grimaces. Of all the Weasley clan, his father boasts the calmest temper. It never bodes
well when Arthur Weasley is enraged to the point where he must pace around his garden.
“Hope he’s not working himself up too much,” George mutters.
Percy’s arrival interrupts his mother’s response, and before they can even greet him,
Hermione slips in the door behind.
She looks tired, George notes. Her normally curly hair sits in a subdued knot on top of her
head, and she’s stuck a pencil through the strands. On any other day, George would
purposefully muss her curls, only to watch her careful pony fall out and shoot off in all
directions.
“Where’s Dad?” Percy asks, an echo of George’s earlier question.
“Garden,” he answers at the same time as Molly.
Hermione frowns out the window, “Should we go get him?”
“No, dear,” Molly assures, “He’ll be in soon. Charlie owled us to tell us he got permission
from a Floo call after the letters tonight, and Arthur wouldn’t miss this.”
“Charlie got a letter?” Hermione is aghast, “He’s in Romania!”
George rolls his eyes, “He’s still a citizen here, though. They probably sent them to every
registered witch and wizard in England.”
Percy heaves a sigh and plops down at the table in his regular seat, “Not only is this entire
WPG a pile of dragon dung, but it’s also an administrative nightmare.”
George rolls his eyes at Percy’s words and catches Hermione’s eyes, bringing a laugh to her
lips.
“Hello, kids,” Arthur’s voice is welcome and calm when he opens the back door, and George
is happy to see his dad with his usual smile on his face.
“Hi, Dad,” Percy choruses, and Arthur joins him at the table.
By 4:57 PM everyone is sitting straight-backed and stressed at the table, and Harry rushes
through the front door with Ginny at his side.
“Harry, Ginny, you barely made it in time!” Hermione cries, and Harry hugs her quickly
before finding his seat. Ron follows them in much more sedately and has barely perched into
his spot before an owl swoops through the open back door.
The parchment isn’t rolled into a scroll this time; instead, they are in envelopes, sinisterly
coloured a deep black. Molly dutifully hands out each letter, a grimace on her face though she
says nothing.
When everyone is sitting, staring at their respective black envelopes in front of them as
though they are Howlers, destined to explode in their faces, it is Percy who shows his
Gryffindor courage.
“I’ll go first,” he says.
It’s a kindness, George knows. Percy has no significant other. Though he’d be foolish not to
know his entire future hangs on what he will read in the envelope, it doesn’t feel quite as
devastating as Harry’s or Ginny’s might be. George realizes suddenly that his own status is
the same.
“Daphne Greengrass,” Percy says finally, “I don’t think I know her.”
“Slytherin,” Ron nearly spits.
Hermione sighs, “She was in our year. She was in Slytherin, yes, Ronald, but that doesn’t
mean she’s evil. I don’t remember her being mean.”
Percy nods, his face is paler than he’s ever seen it. George grabs at the black envelope in his
hands, dread spreading through his limbs. He just wants to get it over with, and he nearly
tears the entire envelope in half in his haste, so unlike how Percy had neatly ripped the seam.
"George Fabian Weasley
has been found a favourable match with
Parvati Diya Patil.
Congratulations."
George can feel his head spinning as he reads the words — the parchment itself is as black as
night, with ivory ink across the page. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen, and the letters swim
in front of his gaze for a moment.
“Parvati Patil,” he finally chokes out, “could be worse. She was a Gryffindor, I’ve met her.”
He recalls she had long black hair and smooth dark skin, and a soft voice. George can’t
remember ever actually speaking to her, just hearing her in passing. She’d been in the same
year as Ron, so he had never shared classes with her.
“Parvati’s nice,” Ron says, interrupting his musing, “pretty, too.”
George frowns. She probably had been pretty in Hogwarts, but it has suddenly occurred to
George that he will have to know her. He has to meet her and talk to her, and kiss her. And he
has absolutely no choice about it.
“Oh bugger,” Ron’s voice interrupts George’s thoughts again and he looks up. His youngest
brother is clutching his opened envelope and looking like he’s seen a ghost. Hermione’s face
is pale and creased with worry, and George lets his imagination run wild over what could be
written on Ron’s parchment.
“I got Hannah Abbott,” he says, “and she’s nice, but what about Neville?! They’ve been
dating for ages!”
The table is silent at the news, and it’s Harry who finally speaks in a voice that sounds as
though he’s being dragged over gravel, “I suppose he’ll accept it.”
“Go next, Harry.” Hermione urges after Harry’s words.
George trains his eyes on Harry Potter, pushing all thoughts of Parvati Patil out of his brain.
He can feel his vision flicking between Harry and Ginny, and George prays to whatever deity
can hear him to help them out a little.
Harry and Ginny open their envelopes together, and when they glance at the black parchment,
it’s clear as day when relief breaks over their expressions. It’s like the sun rising behind storm
clouds.
Ginny bursts into tears, launching herself towards Harry, and he barely blinks at the impact of
her body.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. We got each other.” He says almost dazed.
George sighs and glances at the clock against the wall. Fred’s name isn’t there, but sometimes
he swears he can still feel him.
When he glances back, Hermione has an odd expression on her face, vacillating between
smug and despairing. George frowns at her, but she never looks away from Harry and
Ginny’s embrace.
She clears her throat and grabs her envelope.
“Alright,” she says, and slides a finger down the seam. The table falls silent and stares at her,
the last of their family to open the envelope.
George watches her read stoically, only a flicker of surprise registering. It means nothing;
George realized in Hermione’s third year at Hogwarts that of all his friends and family, she is
the best liar. Perhaps it is unkind to say that, but her poker face is impenetrable.
“I got Draco Malfoy,” she states.

Her words cause pure chaos — Ron snarls and pulls his wand as though he can curse him
from afar. George can feel rage and thunder that he hadn’t expected to ever feel again, ready
for the war he had sworn he would have no part in.
George opens his mouth to hurl threats, but Harry beats him to it.
“I’ll go to Kingsley,” Harry snaps, “I’ll fight before you spend a moment trapped in that
Manor again.”
George has never heard Hermione speak of what happened in Malfoy Manor, but he knows
that Ron still sometimes wakes screaming her name. He’s seen the scar that mars her forearm,
and sometimes, on family dinners when he feels Fred’s absence like a crater in his chest,
Hermione will appear and sit by him on the back porch. She never says anything, just presses
into his shoulder, and George feels a little less like dying.
He realizes his wand is out, and he’s ready to follow Harry into another war. He’s not the
only one — the entire Weasley clan looks ready for battle.
Hermione remains oddly calm, “Harry… Harry… it’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t have to live in
the Manor — there’s no law stating I must reside with my husband.”
“Yeah, just a law stating you have to marry the git,” Ron sneers, “do you actually think he’s
going to live in your little cottage?”
George has never been to Hermione’s house. No one except Ron and Harry has. George
envies her in that regard because he still lives above the store in the flat that he and Fred had
shared, and his entire family pop in and out by Floo as they please. Sometimes, after a busy
day of them visiting, George will stare at the empty fireplace and wait for Fred to come home
for a moment before he realizes he never will.
“I don’t know,” Hermione snaps, “let’s not panic yet. It could have been worse.”
George trains his eyes on her left fingers, settled on the table. Her pinky is trembling, and she
moves it under the table, away from his gaze.
It’s an after effect of sustained torture via the cruciatus curse, George knows. He’s seen it
before, both in friends and customers at the store. Hermione is hardly the only one who
suffers from it, though she is good at controlling and hiding it.
“How?” George surprises himself by answering her, “How could it be worse?”
Ron nods furiously, “Yeah, Mione, that man called you a mudblood for years --”
“Ronald Weasley!” Molly cuts Ron off, horror in her voice. Ron snaps his mouth shut but
doesn’t take back his words. George supposes that he’s not wrong, and Hermione knows it.
“Hermione, dear,” Arthur begins, “we won’t jump to conclusions. Why don’t you write to
Mr. Malfoy, and if he is... not... a suitable match, then we can take our case to the
Wizengamot? You may call in a favour to Kingsley — he’ll help us. He owes you that.”
Hermione nods slowly, “I’ll do that, Mr. Weasley.”
George narrows his eyes — he’s seen it. She’s lying. She’s lying to his father’s face about
contacting the Ministry, and George knows, he knows, he is the only one who has seen it.
A sputtering green flame distracts him from pursuing it further, and then suddenly Charlie’s
face is filling the fire. His long hair is loose around his fiery face, and he looks so similar to
Bill it’s eerie.
Molly rushes to kneel by the fire, “Charlie, dear, how are you?”
Charlie smiles, but he seems tired, even through embers, “I’m fine, Mum. I’ve only got a few
minutes, but I thought I should tell you who your new daughter-in-law will be.”
George watches his mother’s eyes fill with tears, and his father stands from his chair to stride
to her side. He clasps her shoulder gently, and George suddenly finds the determination
welling up inside him that he always thought he needed Fred for.
It’s so unfair — his parents have fought in two wizarding wars to keep themselves and their
family safe and free. George has watched his mother cry over her long-dead brothers, and he
has watched his father mourn over Bill’s scars, and he will never forget their screams over
Fred —
No.
George will not stand by and watch this hard-won freedom be stolen. He’ll be damned before
he watches his mother marry off every one of her surviving children into loveless matches.
“It’s Astoria Greengrass.” Charlie’s voice is monotone, so unlike his usual vivacious tone,
“Bloody hell, we’ll be drowning in Slytherins and Greengrass sisters,” George snaps before
he can hold his tongue.
Charlie frowns through the fire, “Pardon?”
Percy sighs, “I got Daphne Greengrass. We’ll be marrying the sisters.”
“Is that even allowed?!” Ron is aghast.
George rolls his eyes, “Oi, mate, c’mon. Of course, it’s allowed. They’re not marrying each
other.”
“I’ve never met her,” Charlie says wearily before Ron can retort, “I plan on owling after this
call. She’s... quite a bit younger than me.”
George thinks back to Hogwarts, but he can’t place Astoria Greengrass. He vaguely recalls
there was an older sister in the same year as Ron.
“She was the year below us in school,” Hermione murmurs, “only 19.”
George abruptly wonders if she’s scared. He knows better than most how gentle and kind
Charlie is, but all the Greengrass girl will know is that he’s a Weasley. Worse, she’ll be able
to find out he’s a 28-year-old Dragon tamer that lives in Romania full time. Not exactly a
refined pureblood aristocrat.
“I’ll write to Daphne tonight then as well,” Percy says, “that way we leave neither sister
wondering.”
Charlie nods, “At least I know I’ll like my brother-in-law.”
George winces when his mum’s choked laugh turns into a sob. His father kneels down beside
her and tightens his arm around her shoulders.
“Sorry, Mum,” Charlie frowns, “guess I should’ve listened to you and settled down years
ago.”
George thinks briefly of Angelina — they had broken up before the Battle of Hogwarts, and
though she had written to him after Fred… well, he wasn’t ready.
He’s still not ready — not for Angelina, or Parvati, or anyone.
“Listen to me, children,” Molly Weasley climbs to her feet and straightens her spine, “this
is not your fault. This is the fault of those in the Wizengamot and Ministry who are too
narrowminded to let us heal in peace. This law may bind you to a spouse you would not have
chosen, but you will always have this family as your own.”
Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, and Ginny buries her face in Harry’s shoulder, and George
clenches his fists all over again.
Charlie nods at her words, “That is a comfort. I’ll talk to you all soon.”
His head disappears, leaving a small fire burning in his place.
The silence that remains is endless. Hermione stands slowly, finding her feet on shaking legs.
“I think I’ll go home as well,” she murmurs, “I should... I should write a letter.”
Ron stands, “I’ll walk you out.”
George watches her make a quick round of hugs, squeezing his mum tightly. Ron follows her
to the door, and George snatches up his envelope with the dreaded name on it and disappears
up the stairs. No one stops him, and George escapes to Percy’s room, leaving the light off and
sitting on the bed, cracking the window just slightly.
Percy has the advantage of facing the front of the house, and George has never claimed to be
honourable. He pulls out an extendable ear — he wonders if Hermione will explain why she
was lying. If not, he’ll ask her to her face the next time he sees her.
“—I want you to try with Hannah. Maybe you can be happy?” Hermione’s voice fills his ear,
and George angles himself to glance down at the front stoop out the window. She’s facing
Ron, a few feet apart. They both look a little pale, but where Hermione seems resigned, Ron
is all fury.
“Hannah’s great, but she’s going to hate me. She’s losing Neville over this, y’know?”
George closes his eyes for the briefest moment because this is all shite. Ron — Ron is good.
Ron is the most like Arthur Weasley out of all the children, and it shows in his steadfast
nature, his loyalty. Of all of them, George had always thought Ron would be the one to find a
nice girl and have a whole new batch of Weasley kids with her.
He listens as Hermione comforts Ron, insisting he be kind to Hannah and try with her. It's
excellent advice, and George thinks perhaps he’ll use the same strategy. Approach Parvati as
a friend and find a common ground before the marriage. Too bad he hardly remembers her
at all.
George sinks deeper into Percy’s old bed, the thought of getting married swirling around in
his brain like a maelstrom. He only clicks back into his brother’s conversation when
Hermione finally releases a secret.
“Ron, I’d like it if you didn’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone, not even Harry.”
George frowns — all thoughts of marriage forgotten. He isn’t close with Hermione, not the
way Ron or Harry is, but he’s never known her to keep anything from Harry. The war had
cleaved them together, and secrets aren't something that lingers when three people live
together, survive together. They’re thick as thieves.
“What is it?” Ron’s voice asks.
George watches Hermione glance down at his mother’s patchy flower bed, glaring at the
drooping begonias. Fall has crept upon them, and everything is dying. It feels symbolic
somehow.
“Draco Malfoy wrote to me,” Hermione blurts, “three months ago. To apologize.”
George nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get closer to the window. Of all the things he
thought she would confess to, this was not it. George had imagined her sneaking into the
Ministry, threatening whoever she needed to. He had expected a fight.
“Now I’m not saying he’s a saint, I’m not even saying he’s one of the good guys, but listen —
it could be worse. He owes me for standing at his trial, and he knows it.”
“An apology is one thing,” Ron says staunchly, “a marriage is entirely another.”
George wants to applaud Ron’s words, just a little.
“You’re right, Ron. But I don’t see that I have much of a choice, here. I could run, sure, but
I’m not willing to lose the only family I have left.”
George can feel himself smiling down at their shadowed forms. He understands her
sentiments; even he would marry Malfoy before he’d ever give up his family. Hermione is
choosing the lesser of two evils — they just never imagined that marriage to Draco Malfoy
could be considered the lesser evil.
“Hermione,” Ron’s words echo in the night with earnestness, “you are the smartest witch I’ve
ever met. You can get rid of this stupid law — you can fix this. You won’t have to stay
married to him. I just know it.”
George sighs at Ron’s speech. It’s not that he’s wrong, exactly — Hermione
is incredibly bright, the brightest witch of her age, in fact, but he’s laying a monumental task
upon just her shoulders. To find a loophole to dismantle the Wizarding Population Growth
Act could take months, if not years. Hermione Granger might be able to do it, but not even
George is foolish enough to believe she can do it within the next thirty days.
The Ministry, though flawed, is rarely sloppy.
“Ron, I’m going to try,” Hermione promises, her voice in his ear, as clear as if she was
standing beside him, “I’m going to fix this, and you and Hannah can be friends, and George
can marry someone he loves, and I swear to you, I’ll fix this.”
George swallows the lump in his throat; she had thought to include his happiness? She had
always been kind; more thoughtful than the others. George almost wishes he had pulled her
name — he doesn’t love her, doesn’t even see her as anything more than an honorary sister,
but it would be so easy. They would be good and kind to each other, and ghosts from the past
could linger between them, and he would understand. She would understand.
He watches his brother pull her in for a tight hug, and he wonders what exactly it was that
tore them apart when they had dated. He doesn’t blame them — recovering from war is
hardly the place to find a budding romance, but Ron has remained tight-lipped over the real
reason.
George suspects that even Harry doesn’t know.
He goes to pull out his extendable ear as Hermione turns to leave, but at the last second,
Ron’s voice stills his hand.
“Hermione, if he hurts you, we’ll kill him.”
George has never heard Ron speak the way he is now — heavy with darkness and fury.
Before this moment, George would not have thought Ron capable of it. Yet, George doesn’t
doubt him; Ron is battle-hardened, experienced in the art of war, and prepared to kill. The
‘we’ he had spoken of must include Harry.
George supposes that the three of them — the golden trio — have done worse than this
before.
Hermione stares at Ron below George’s hiding spot, her face shadowed in the distance.
“Ron,” her voice is soft and firm, “if he hurts me, I’ll kill him myself.”
George rips the extendable ear from his own, unwilling to hear people he loves so dearly be
monsters in front of him.
Unwilling to accept that he would do and be the same.

A First Meeting
Chapter Notes
Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos! I will be posting a chapter on
Tuesdays each week (next week I will be posting two chapters, as they are both shorter).
Hope you enjoy!
October 23rd, 1999 - Saturday Early Morning
Hermione wakes to sunshine on her face, streaming in from her dark navy curtains. She
stretches luxuriously, the entire weekend looming in front of her. Her bedroom feels lazy and
gentle, and Hermione feels at ease in her haven. She purchased the cottage only a month after
the war — staying in her parents’ empty muggle house had almost driven her mad with grief,
and when she sold it she converted nearly all her muggle money into galleons and moved
herself into the wizarding world fully. She’d bought the cottage, not too far from London, and
settled in, intending never to go home again.
The cottage is small, just a single bedroom and bathroom with a kitchen and living room. The
living room is the largest section of the house, with oversized couches and bookshelves lining
the walls. The backyard opens to a small back porch, wild vines and flowers growing
abundantly. It’s safe — warded to the teeth with every protective magic she’s ever come
across, and that’s the most important part.
She’s halfway through making some eggs for herself when a tapping at her window startles
her. It’s the same tawny owl she had seen nearly three months ago, orange eyes still glaring at
her. She opens the window and feeds him a piece of bacon she had cooked. He lingers on her
kitchen windowsill, and Hermione realizes that this time he won’t be flying away from her
empty-handed.
His master expects a response.
She leans against her counter and opens her letter, the daunting Malfoy crest familiar under
her fingers.
‘ Granger,
I am hoping you are free this evening for coffee. I am fond of the muggle coffee shop ‘Java
Corner’ off of Russell Square in London. Would you be able to meet me there, at 5PM?
If it does not suit, I am open to other days or times.

I await your response,
Draco Malfoy ’
Hermione rereads his words three times before she realizes that Draco Malfoy has asked her
for coffee - in Muggle London, no less. She glances up at the intimidating owl, wondering
how on earth she will answer his letter.
Hermione flips her eggs and pulls them off her grill, levitating a new piece of parchment over
as she does so. She takes only a moment to scrawl a response to Malfoy, and she feeds
another nibble of bacon to the owl before he takes off.
She eats her breakfast, barely tasting anything. She has agreed to meet with Draco Malfoy at
the coffee shop he named — she wonders if he truly has ever frequented the coffee shop
before, or if he just pulled a name out of nowhere, thinking she’d prefer Muggle London.
Hermione takes her time showering, and instead of charming her hair, she allows it to dry in
the sunshine of her backyard, book on wizarding marriages in hand. She doesn’t expect to
find anything interesting in this particular tome, but she’s already owled Minerva to see if she
can pull anything from Hogwarts that could be of use, and until she receives a response she’s
stuck with what she has.
It’s only 3:30 PM when Hermione bundles herself into her nicest jeans and a comfortable
sweater. Admittedly, she has put more effort into her appearance than she normally would —
it’s not a date, of course, but it is the first time her future husband will see her since the day
he was on trial for Azkaban.
Hermione also desperately wants the comfort of her favourite sweater.
With mostly cooperating hair curling around her shoulders, Hermione digs out a few bills of
muggle money from her hidden away safe and locks up her cottage.
She apparates near Russell Square and allows herself the chance to meander through the
crowds. It’s been ages since she’s been anywhere near muggles, and the chaos comes as a
comfort in a small way. It reminds her of days long gone past, her father’s booming laughter,
and her mother’s perfume.
She ducks into a small bookshop and spends a few minutes perusing the selection, and when
she glances down at her watch it is 4:58 PM. Hermione scrambles to purchase the book she
had been looking at and dashes towards the coffee shop, arriving exactly six minutes late.
Draco Malfoy is already there, standing in the lineup to order. He’s wearing a dark charcoal
coat and black pants, his white-blonde hair standing out even from the back. Hermione sucks
in a wild breath and approaches him, half considering running away before he notices her.
He turns before she gets close to his back, silver eyes locking on her with the same intensity
his owl had shown only that morning.
“Granger,” he drawls, and Hermione is suddenly 14 again and ready for him to tear her down
with every icy word.
“Malfoy.”
Draco lifts a blonde eyebrow, “Want a coffee? I’m partial to the vanilla lattes myself.”
Hermione nods, “Umm, sure. That sounds good. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I see you found a bookstore, so I’m unsurprised,” Malfoy gestures at her bag, stamped with
the shop’s logo, “you always did love books.”
Hermione frowns; his words come too close to sarcasm, and she is tired of constantly being
mocked for liking to learn. Reading has saved her life on more than one occasion — in fact,
she has literally saved the entire wizarding world. She’s not ashamed of being smart.
A cutting remark is on the tip of her tongue, but Malfoy turns away from her to order two
vanilla lattes, and when he turns back he says, “It’s not bad, you know.”
“What?”
Malfoy gestures at her bag, where the cover of the book she has purchased is sticking out.
“That book. I rarely go for wizard fiction, but the characters are likable and the author’s
description of the intricacies of Centaur society was interesting.”
Hermione stammers for an answer but is once more saved when Draco Malfoy pulls out a
chair for her at a small table by a window. He sits across from the chair he had graciously
offered her, and Hermione tries to reconcile the absolutely horrid child Draco had been with
this courteous and polite man. This man who is apparently wanting to discuss literature with
her.
“I’ll read it and get back to you,” she finally says, “I’ve heard good things.”
Malfoy nods and stares out the window for a long moment, the silence falling somewhere
between introspective and awkward. She takes the time to study him; the way small white
scars speckle his knuckles on both hands, and the knee she can feel bouncing under the table.
If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was nervous.
“Granger, I didn’t write my own name on the warning I penned you because I never imagined
we’d be found compatible,” he sneers the word, “but just so you know, I’m not like them.”
Hermione narrows her eyes on him, taking in his words. His tone seems sincere, although
he’d practically spat the word compatible. She supposes it’s a hard pill to swallow to discover
your most hated classmate is your ‘perfect’ match. Admittedly, she’s having some trouble
with the thought herself.
“Not like them?” Hermione asks, scathing, “Do you mean that you won’t hunt me for sport?
Won’t chain me in a dungeon - a mudblood wife that you are ashamed of? Won’t watch as I
am tortured on your floor, screaming for help?”
It’s a low blow, and Malfoy recoils as though she has struck him. Hermione takes no pleasure
in her victory — words she has said in haste and fear. She had been planning to be civil,
to try.
“I’m sorry — I shouldn’t,” she says, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Silence reigns at their small table and Malfoy’s stone-faced expression doesn’t crumble.
Hermione thinks about apologizing again for her venomous words, but she’s tired of saying
sorry for the truth.
“I suppose it was a fair statement,” Malfoy sits back in his chair, folding his arms across his
chest. It draws her eyes to his shoulders, broader than they had been only two years ago.
“It wasn’t,” Hermione admits, “I appreciated your apology and your warning. I also realize
you’re trying to be civil. I’m just — I’m just scared.”
He stares at her, shock warring with his icy demeanour. “You Gryffindors. Always so
blunt. Always saying what you feel.”
Hermione shrugs, “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am, Malfoy.”
He sips his latte and stares her down, and Hermione forces her fingers to stop trembling long
enough to pick up her cup, sipping the drink he has paid for. It’s warm, and Hermione is
grateful for its comfort and sweetness.
“Look,” Malfoy’s voice is soft, “I realize we aren’t friends.”
“Understatement,” Hermione snorts.
Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Yes, okay. We’ve hated each other our entire lives and now we are
being forced to marry.”
Hermione swallows, “I’m just shocked the ministry would allow the Malfoy line to marry a
muggle-born.”
“The Malfoy line has nearly no sway with the Ministry any longer,” Draco says, “and if they
had inquired, I would have told them my wife’s blood status meant little to me.”
It’s the second time he has alluded to his changed perspective on blood purity. The second
time he has tried to distance himself from all the horrors of the war, and his role in it.
Hermione can hardly begrudge him the opportunity to change.
“That’s probably good, considering I’m to be your wife.” She jokes, her humour falling flat
between them. They sip at their lattes, watching each other over the rims of their cups in the
wake of her words.
“Tell me,” he says, breaking their silence, “were you still dating Weasel when the WPG was
announced?”
Hermione snorts a laugh, “His name is Ron Weasley, not weasel. And no, Ron and I ended
not long after the war. We’re still good friends, though.”
“Great,” Malfoy mutters sarcastically, “suppose that means I’ll have to see him around.”
Hermione smirks at his obvious misery, “If we’re to marry, yes, you will. Were you dating
anyone? When the WPG was announced, I mean.”
Malfoy waves her question away, “No. Tell me, how did your golden group fair in the
lottery? Potter pull a new name?”
Hermione smiles, genuinely, “Harry got Ginny. They’re thrilled.”
“Pity,” Malfoy drawls, but Hermione swears he’s saying it only out of habit and not malice.
There’s no heat behind the word.
“Percy Weasley got Daphne Greengrass. You know the Greengrass family, don’t you?”
“Oh, god,” Malfoy lets out a chuckle, “my condolences to Percy Weasley. Daph’s great, but
she makes Professor Binns look positively enthralling.”
Hermione snorts, “Actually, that might work out. Percy’s a dear friend, but he’s not exactly…
well… he’s boring as dirt.”
“A match made in Ministry heaven.” Malfoy’s voice is pure scathing scorn, and for the first
time, Hermione doesn’t flinch at his sneer. She doesn’t mind his humour when it’s not
directed at her.
“Yeah. His eldest brother Charlie got Astoria Greengrass, actually. They’ll marry the sisters.”
Malfoy frowns, “Hmm, the Greengrass family is a staunch pureblood family. Their father
will not accept those matches to blood traitors.”
Hermione snarls, “Weasley’s are pureblood!”
“The Greengrass family is older than even the Malfoy’s, and their father might have accepted
one match to the Weasley family, but both daughters? He’ll be at the ministry as we speak.”
Malfoy replies, “It doesn’t matter if the Weasley’s are technically pureblood, he believes
they’re blood traitors.”
Hermione desperately wants to pick at the comment, tear it apart. Malfoy looks spooked, his
knuckles white against his coffee cup. It hasn’t escaped her notice that Malfoy had
purposefully not spoken against the Weasley’s status, just relayed the Greengrass patriarch’s
opinion. So Hermione bites her tongue, wondering how long she can silence herself in this
sham of a marriage before she explodes.
“So you know them well?” She chokes out, letting the subject change.
“I know Daphne alright,” he explains, relief washing over his face, “she was in my year in
Slytherin, after all. I was actually betrothed to Astoria for many years — our parents
arranged it. After the war, the betrothal fell apart, mostly because my father was… not there
to sign the final contracts.”
Hermione’s brain swims with the information, “I — I’m sorry. Did you… did you love her?”
“Love her?” Malfoy scoffs, “I hardly knew her. She was simply an appropriate wife in my
father’s eyes.”
“An appropriate wife,” Hermione swallows, “I suppose I don’t fit that description.”
Malfoy’s laughter is unexpected, “Oh, Granger. Sorry, but no. My father is rolling in his
grave as we speak.”
“Good,” Hermione snaps, vicious. “I’m not sorry for that.”
He eyes her battle-ready expression, a lazy half-smile flitting about his lips, “I didn’t ask you
to be.”
Hermione scowls, his words are unexpected. She had hardly imagined a scenario where
Draco would spit in the face of his father’s ideals. It’s a welcome thought, but it doesn’t align
with the boy she thought she knew.
She gives herself a small shake and focuses, leaving Draco’s comment along for now.
“I hope Astoria and Charlie get on well, though,” Hermione insists, “Charlie is nervous
because he’s so much older than her.”
“His age will hardly be the thing her family will protest,” Malfoy mutters darkly, sipping at
his drink. Hermione is almost finished hers, and she’s shocked that she’s tempted to get
another to prolong this meeting.
“Do you know Padma Patil?” Malfoy asks, changing the subject. “My mate Blaise Zabini got
her.”
“She’s nice. I know her sister Parvati quite well, she was my roommate in Gryffindor for
years, but Padma was in Ravenclaw. Blaise might be interested to know that he’ll have a
Weasley as a brother-in-law. George got Parvati.”
“Blaise’ll have a meltdown over that, I’m sure,” Malfoy’s eyes are sparkling with humour,
“but at least he got the good Weasley. George — that’s one of the twins, right? They were
legendary, even in Slytherin.”
Hermione’s face must ripple in shock; no one has mentioned Fred in so long it hits her like a
slap. She swallows hard — it hadn’t even occurred to her that Parvati is a twin, and she
paired with George. Perhaps it will be a suitable match — something in common.
Or perhaps George will have to watch his wife and her twin, all the while his twin is gone.
“Is he dead?”
Hermione blinks herself into focus, staring at Malfoy’s artfully mussed blonde hair. “What?”
“The way you reacted,” he says, “did the other twin die?”
Hermione nods through the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”
He waits patiently while she gets herself under control, and when she no longer feels like
screaming, he clears his throat.
“Luna Lovegood.”
“What?” Hermione is lost again, “What about Luna?”
Malfoy scowls at the table, “I don’t know her. In school… well… perhaps we were mean.
She was always so weird.”
Hermione bristles. “Mean?! She spent months in your dungeon as a prisoner, and you call
it being mean?”
Hermione can feel her thighs shaking, memories of a chandelier hanging above her, maniacal
laughter and screaming in her ears. She can picture the only time she and Luna had ever even
talked about the Manor, laying face to face in Shell Cottage, the first and only time Hermione
had ever seen Luna cry.
Malfoy’s expression is bleak. “I didn’t… go into those rooms. I never spoke with her. I
only… I only remember her from school.”
Hermione watches his grey eyes bore holes in their table, signature sneer on his face, and
sucks in a breath. She’s so tired of all the damage the war continues to cause. She’s so tired of
being angry. She wonders if Malfoy’s tired of it, too.
“Luna is odd,” Hermione breathes, fear and fury roiling through her. It is Luna — the
memory of how forgiving Luna is, how she has tried so hard to be more than the sum of the
war, that prompts Hermione to share. “She loves radishes and made-up creatures and the
colour blue. She’s smart, though — smarter than half the people I know. She’s vicious in a
wand fight, and curious about the world, and she paints these beautiful pictures… you can’t
even imagine how beautiful.”
Hermione is lost for a moment, briefly recalling the day she had first seen Luna’s room in
the height of the war, golden lettering labelling them all as friends on her wall. Luna is… the
best of all of them.
Malfoy drags her from her thoughts, “well, my best friend pulled her name.”
For one horrible, horrible moment, Hermione imagines Malfoy is talking about Vincent
Crabbe. She pictures Luna — her free spirit and laughter, and sees it as though it’s a
prophecy in her brain. Slowly, Crabbe’s meaty fists and cruel words would chip away at
everything that made Luna unique, until all that remained was a pretty shell.
“Granger,” Malfoy snaps, “focus.”

Hermione chokes, “no, please Malfoy, she can’t. She can’t! Crabbe will destroy her.”
“It’s not Crabbe,” Malfoy growls, “I don’t even see Crabbe. It’s Theo. My best friend is
Theodore Nott.”
Hermione sucks in air, “Nott was a Death Eater.”
For the first time Malfoy’s face mottles in rage, and his voice, when it comes, snaps across
her like a whip. “Theo wasn’t death eater. He isn’t his father.”
“Okay,” Hermione holds her hands up in surrender, “okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”
Malfoy scowls, thunder and fury, “No, you don’t.”
They stare at each other, poison on the tips of their tongues. Hermione realizes that this
moment will be the deciding factor — how much can a Malfoy change?
He heaves a breath and the anger fades from his eyes. Hermione realizes he looks more like
his mother than he does of Lucius. It’s a blessing for both of them.
“Listen, Granger. I don’t care if she’s weird or what. He probably won’t even care either.
Just… tell me… tell me she won’t hate him. Tell me she will see more than his name.”
Hermione can’t help that she rocks backwards in her chair in surprise at his demanded
question. Malfoy isn’t looking at her anymore, his eyes trained out the window. Still, he looks
vulnerable in a way she hasn’t seen since the fifth year when she had watched him slowly fall
apart from afar.
She wonders if he feels the same way as Theodore Nott obviously does: pigeonholed and
judged by a name and persona his father created.
Hermione nods slowly. “Luna Lovegood is the kindest person I know. She won’t care what
last name Theodore carries.”
He huffs, dragging his eyes back to her, “well, at least there’s that. Theo’s had enough shit, he
deserves someone nice.”
Hermione watches him from under her lashes; he is fiddling with his cup, his expression
shuttered. All the vulnerability that she had seen is gone again, and Hermione wonders if she
had imagined the whole thing. She never would have guessed that Draco Malfoy would be
someone who cared about his friends.
“Can I ask you something?”
Hermione blinks at him, “um. Sure?”
“Why didn’t you try to get your name changed? Why didn’t you beg Shacklebolt for whoever
you wanted — the Weasel, even? You’re the golden girl, he owes it to you.”
The way he says ‘golden girl’ is snide, and Hermione frowns. “There’s nothing he could have
done. His hands were tied. He would have received his own name yesterday; even Kingsley
wasn’t exempt.”
Malfoy shakes his head, “Granger, don’t be a fool, it doesn’t suit you.”
“What does that mean?” Hermione snaps.
“It means,” Malfoy sneers, “that you are supposed to be the brightest witch of your age.
Don’t you think it’s just a little suspect that the Ministry has placed the wizarding world’s
most famous and beloved muggle-born into a marriage with not only a well-known ex-Death
eater but also one of the most staunchly blood prejudiced wizarding families?”
“Not really,” Hermione snaps, “I don’t think they care. I don’t think it’s some sinister plot,
Malfoy.”
“Then you’re an idiot,” Malfoy tells her, matter-of-fact. “The ministry doesn’t do
anything without a purpose.”
“I believe they say the purpose is to increase the magical population,” Hermione says flatly,
“I disagree with their methods and this stupid WPG Act, obviously, but it stands to reason
that if you force people to get married and conceive children you will in fact increase the
population. It’s barking mad and barbaric, but here we are.”
Malfoy lifts a hand and rubs at his chin, “I truly doubt that’s the only reason we’re suddenly
all being manipulated like lab rats, Granger.”
“Honestly, I really think they just didn’t take any of our histories into account. We’re not the
only insane match. Did you know Ron got Hannah Abbott? She’s wonderful, but she’s been
dating Neville Longbottom for almost two years. The Ministry doesn’t care about anything
except rebuilding the population.”
“The Ministry,” Malfoy murmurs darkly, “doesn’t care about anything except power, and it
never has.”
Hermione doesn’t have it in her to disagree again, especially when all evidence proves he is
correct.
Malfoy reaches into his coat at her silence, drawing out a small box. He slides it across the
table to her. Hermione stares at it as though it is a bomb meant to explode in her face.
“Granger, it’s customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift,” he taps the velvet
box gently, “I know this is hardly a traditional engagement, but I… I feel I should still follow
my customs.”
Hermione stares first at Draco Malfoy’s face, searching for any sign of mockery or danger.
Then, slowly, she reaches out and grabs the black box. “You really didn’t need to get me a
gift. I know you don’t — I know it’s not… real.”
Her words, though not a lie, are also not true. They don’t love each other — they don’t even
like each other. Still… it is real. They will be married within the month.
“I know that.” Malfoy snaps, then sighs once. “It’s yours, though.”
Hermione frowns at him, “I didn’t get you anything.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Bloody hell, Granger, open the damn thing.”
Hermione dubiously opens the box, expecting some hideous prize with a deeper mocking
meaning, and finding only a simple bracelet. The stones are a deep azure on a delicate silver
vine. It’s tasteful and lovely, clearly Goblin made and worth a fortune.
“This is too much,” Hermione insists at once, “it’s beautiful. I shouldn’t… it’s yours — ”
Malfoy waves her stumbling words away, “It holds some magical properties. I had it
inspected for dangerous curses when I pulled it from my vault, and they informed me that it
has been charmed. If you are ever in danger, you can simply touch it and call for me in your
mind. I will apparate to you — no matter if I’ve never been in the location before. It will be
like a beacon for me, apparently.”
Hermione frowns suspiciously, “Can you tell my location by it?”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, “I hardly think you’d accept such an invasion of privacy, and I
definitely have no desire to keep tabs on you.”
Hermione bites back a smile — not only is the delicate bracelet beautiful, she knows such an
object would have been priceless in the war. Yet, it had been sitting in the Malfoy vault,
unused all this time. “This is incredible. Does it do anything else?”
Malfoy shrugs, “The inspector said besides the apparition beacon it holds no other magic, but
my mother did once tell me a legend that this bracelet would allow the wearer great
protections. Probably not true, as she never wore it.”
“Not quite her style?” Hermione asks hesitantly.
To her great surprise, Malfoy chuckles. “Definitely not flashy enough.”
“It’s very lovely, though,” Hermione insists. Realistically, she knows that Draco Malfoy
could have clothed her in diamonds and not flinched at the cost, so she supposes the bracelet
is hardly anything to gawk at, but it was only a few short years ago that Malfoy would’ve
rather seen her dead before he put a family heirloom in her possession.
Malfoy watches her holding the box, and Hermione knows he is waiting to see if she’ll throw
it back in his face or accept it. She glances down at the bracelet and decides.
The Ministry may have taken her choices from her, but that doesn’t mean she can’t approach
this in her own way. She pulls the bracelet out of the box carefully and then holds out her
wrist to Malfoy. It feels very similar to laying her head upon a guillotine.
“Will you put it on me?” She asks. He stares at her extended wrist as though it is a viper
unexpectedly ready to tear him apart at any moment. She’s about to withdraw when he
catches her fingers.
His hands are softer than she would have expected, and he lays the bracelet carefully over her
skin. He fastens it gently, then pulls her sleeve over it. Hermione realizes as it’s happening
that this is the first time Draco Malfoy has ever willingly touched her. The last time she had
felt his pale skin was when she had punched him in the third year at Hogwarts.
“Thank you,” she mutters, feeling her cheeks turn a burning scarlet.
He nods, “I have to go.”
Hermione blinks at his abrupt announcement, “Oh, um, of course.”
Malfoy takes her cup to the garbage, and Hermione gathers her beaded bag beside her. He
unexpectedly waits for her, and they walk outside together. He gestures down a small
abandoned alleyway and only pauses once they are hidden behind a dumpster.
“This is a suitable spot to apparate,” Malfoy mutters.
Hermione nods, “Makes sense. Okay. Well… shall I owl you?”
The silence stretches, and Hermione snaps her gaze to Malfoy to make sure he hasn’t
somehow silently apparated away. He’s still there, but he’s staring at her with steel-grey eyes
and far closer than she expects. She barely comes to a stop in time without crashing into him.
“You said you were scared.” Malfoy’s voice is low.
“Yes,” Hermione answers, “I just — aren’t you scared?”
He reaches out, startling her with the sudden move, and Hermione prepares to flee or fight,
tensing. Instead of attacking, he lays a single finger on the bracelet, just peeking out past her
sweater.
“Don’t be scared,” he commands, then withdraws his fingers.
His apparition crack sends her careening into the alleyway wall, clutching at her wand so
hard she fears she could break it, a spell for mass destruction on the tip of her tongue. The
space where Malfoy once stood is empty. Her wrist still tingles. She takes more time than
she’d like to admit standing up straight again, forcing her legs to stop shaking before she
apparates home.
Theo's Visit
Chapter Notes
Hello! Thank you again for the comments and kudos :) This week I will be posting two
chapters due to the fact that both of them are shorter. Expect the next Thursday! Enjoy
our first peek at Theo through Draco's POV.
October 23rd, 1999 - Saturday Late Night
‘Aren’t you scared?’
Granger’s words echo in his brain the entire way to Nott manor. There is only one light on in
the East Wing when Draco lands on the front steps, and he doesn’t hesitate when he walks
through the front door.
His fingertips seem to still tingle from where he had attached the bracelet he had brought for
Granger.
‘Aren’t you scared?’
Draco slams open the door to Theo’s study, finding his friend at his desk, staring down at a
stack of parchments. Despite the obnoxious entrance, Theo doesn’t even flinch. His house-elf
must have warned him Draco had appeared.
“Draco,” Theo greets evenly, gesturing mildly to the liquor cabinet beside the fireplace.
Although Draco would like nothing more than a firewhiskey, he instead begins pacing. He
only makes it three laps before Theodore Nott rolls his eyes and glances up.
“Sit down, you miserable bastard,” Theo commands, waving his arm to summon the armchair
from the corner. “Tell me what’s got your wand in a wad. What’s wrong?”
Draco sits on the chair angrily, plopping down in a way that would have made his mother
wince, “Hermione Granger is what is wrong.”
Theo’s jaw clenches, his green eyes pained. “C’mon, mate, don’t do this. Not anymore.”
“No!” Draco snaps, surprise colouring his tone. “Not like that. She’s just… impossible.”
“You met up with her?” Theo’s voice hovers between hysterical and concerned.
Draco breathes deeply, calming himself. “Yes. We went for coffee. I just left her to come
straight here.”
“You… left her… alive?” Theo asks.
Draco jumps to his feet, “What is that supposed to mean? I didn’t fucking kill her, Nott.”
Theo laughs, “I’m joking. God, you’re impossible. I know you didn’t kill her. I’m more
shocked she didn’t kill you, to be honest. How did it go?”
Draco slowly finds his seat again, letting his blood settle over Theo’s words. Despite
knowing he had no intention of killing Granger, the image of her body, prone and broken on
marble flooring, had flashed through his mind. Not him; he wouldn’t hurt her, not now, and
probably not even back then, but he had watched. Stood there and did nothing.
Just as bad.
“It went… fine.”
“Fine.” Theo repeats, nonplussed. “You met up with Hermione Granger, the literal golden
girl. Harry Potter’s best friend. The girl you were an utter arse to for years, that you are
supposed to marry in less than a month, and you say it went fine?!”
Draco scowls. “What do you want me to say, Theo? It went… surprisingly well. We didn’t
kill each other. We had a civil conversation.”
“What did you talk about?”
“The matches, mostly,” Draco admits, “I wanted to know who her friends got.”
Theo leans forward eagerly, “Tell me Potter got someone hilarious. Like — like — Millicent
or something.”
Draco rolls his eyes, “No, he got the She-Weasel.. the one he’s been dating since… Merlin,
fourth year or something?”
“Boring,” Theodore announces, “what about Weasley?”
Draco laughs humourlessly, “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to be more specific.

Granger is surrounded by Weasleys. If you’re meaning Potter’s sidekick he got that Hannah
Abbott girl. Don’t know her.”
Theo slouches back into his chair. “All boring. Don’t you have anything fun to tell me?”
Draco smirks, “Both Greengrass sisters were matched with Weasley brothers.”
Silence reigns for a moment. Theodore Nott stands slowly and makes his way to his
firewhiskey.
“Merlin,” he breathes, “you should have led with that.”

He pours two generous glasses, setting one into Draco’s waiting hand. They don’t speak for a
moment as he collapses back into his leather chair and takes a sip. Draco watches him wince
as the burn hits his throat.
“‘Stori must ready to lose her mind,” Draco muses, “I think Daph will accept it, but Astoria
has always… aspired to be everything her father wishes.”
Nott’s expression grows dark. “Unfortunately, Daphne is the eldest. If anything, he’ll argue to
let ‘Stori stay with her match and free Daphne.”
Draco shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. Neither he nor Theo are close with the Greengrass
sisters, but they aren't fools. They are lucky enough that their fathers are dead in the ground
— Astoria and Daphne’s father lives.
“Not a bad day to be an orphan, huh?” Theo’s glib tone drags Draco out of his thoughts.
Draco laughs, missing his mother fiercely for a moment, “I suppose it’s not. Tell me, did you
meet with Lovegood today?”
Theo goes silent and still, and sets his cup down on his mahogany desk. His face is an
emotionless mask, and Draco watches as Theo calculates exactly what to share about his
meeting with Lovegood today — Draco doesn’t blame him. They’re Slytherins. He’d done
exactly the same thing when asked about Granger.
“It was good,” Theo starts, “she was… different from what I expected.”
“I warned you she’s as mad as a hatter, mate.”
Theo’s anger is instant, washing across his face and disappearing in the next breath. Draco
would have missed it, only he’d been watching for it. Waiting for it.
“Bloody hell,” Draco mutters, “you like her.”
Theo protests, “No. No, she just… she was… nice?”
He says it suspiciously. Draco narrows his eyes — he remembers thinking the same thing
only an hour prior. He’d always remembered Granger as this towering monstrosity of clever
quips, bushy hair, and nasty comebacks.
“Aren’t you scared?” Her words taunt him.
And, though her hair had been just as wild as he remembered around her head, she had sat
down and proceeded to be… kind.
Draco almost wishes she had been cruel. He was good with cruel — he was used to it, and he
knew exactly how to turn it around and strike back.
“Granger said,” Draco swallows, “she said Lovegood was nice. That she would talk to you.”
Theo brightens a bit. “Yeah. She was… wearing these ridiculous pink glasses, and insisted
that Nott Manor was the perfect location to explore for Nargles, whatever those are. She
searched all over the gardens, and the entire time she just… talked. About… nothing, really.”
“So you just followed around a rambling, crazy woman and thought she was nice?” Draco
laughs.
Theo grins, gulping down some more firewhiskey before setting his glass heavily on his desk.
“Sod off, mate. She wasn’t really rambling. She just… never really brought up anything I
hated, you know?. Just… asked me about my favourite colour, and why I liked summer, and
where my mother was.”
“What — what did you say?” Draco asks hesitantly. He hasn’t heard Theo talk about his
mother since they were boys of 9 and she had mysteriously died. Draco still bears a scar on
his eyebrow from the last time he had tried to bring her up, and Theo had chosen to
answer him with his fists.
Theo frowns, silent. Draco sips his firewhiskey slowly and lets his friend find his words.
“I told her she died,” Theo starts, “but… then I just… I told her all sorts of other things.
Things I thought I had forgotten. Did you know my mother’s middle name was Lunetta?”
Draco stares, “No… I didn’t.” The only thing he knows about Theo’s mother is that she had
long auburn hair, an affinity for painting, and that Theo’s father had killed her. Or so people
said. Nothing was ever proven, of course.
Theo sighs, “I think maybe Luna’s name reminded me of it. Anyway, I told her about how
she loved butterbeer and crepes and sunflowers, and I didn’t even know I remembered those
things about my mother until I said them to her.”
“Theo…” Draco says, words failing on the tip of his tongue. He’s never been good with
words — a cutting remark comes to him as easily as the recipe for first-year potions, but
anything else… when it matters? Words have always failed him.
“I know,” Theo says solemnly, “I know. The problem is, your witch is going to solve the
WPG and free us all, right? And I can’t keep Luna; she’s not mine.”
Draco reels for a moment — there are so many things to unpack in that statement. His
witch — Hermione Granger would be his wife.
Theo isn’t wrong — Draco can’t imagine a world where Granger would sit idly by and let
injustice stand. Can’t imagine her letting the Wizarding Population Growth Act trap her
friends and herself into a marriage — she would fight. He couldn’t even blame her for it.
And Theodore Nott — well, he had already admitted it, hadn’t he?
A single day into knowing her and Theo was already scared to lose Luna Lovegood.
Something good. Something kind.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ Her words mock him.

Draco reaches for the bottle and tops up their glasses, not saying a single word when
Theodore slams his entire cup back easily.
“You know,” Draco mutters, “she asked me… she asked me if I was scared.”
Theo settles bright green eyes on him, curiosity lighting up, “Hermione Granger asked you
if you were scared?”
Draco nods, “Yes. But not before admitting that she was scared.”
“Ouch.” Theo says, “Bloody Gryffindors, huh.”
Draco doesn’t answer, and Theo doesn’t ask — they’re Slytherin through and through, and
admitting fear or weakness isn’t something they are equipped to do.
He clears his throat. “I’m glad Lovegood’s nice.”
“Yeah,” Theo sighs, “I am, too. She’s getting a poor deal, marrying me.”
Draco stares into the amber liquid in his glass, watching it splash up the sides as he turns it
slowly. Theo — Theo has been his best friend for years, and he is good. Good in a way few
people are, anymore. But he’s still not wrong. He’s not stupid.
“She’ll be lucky to have you,” Draco tells him. It’s not a lie, not really. She is lucky; Theo
will be kind to her.
Still, Theo laughs. Drinks his whiskey. Stares out his dark window.
“She’ll be a Nott,” he finally mutters, “which is the opposite of lucky.”
“Better than a Malfoy,” Draco replies.
Theo doesn’t answer, but the truth hangs between them. Despite being forced into the
marriage, the world will see Luna Lovegood as nothing more than a Death Eater’s wife.
Hermione Granger will have it even worse.
“Aren’t you scared?”
Draco slams his cup down, and this time Theo jumps, startled. He doesn’t speak, just watches
him; his green eyes, reminiscent of stupid Potter’s, are sad. He knows the thoughts running
through Draco’s head without him saying anything.
“Aren’t you scared?”
All the time, yes.

Letter to Luna
Chapter Notes
Another shorter chapter today! Sorry for being a day late. BUT Nano starts this weekend
so I'll be writing up a storm. Expect another update Monday :)
October 24th, 1999 - Sunday Early Morning
Unlike the Saturday the day before, Hermione leaps out of bed fully awake at 7AM. She
spends the next two hours cleaning her house with small charms Molly Weasley had taught
her, reorganizing her ever-growing bookshelf, and penning a letter to Ron and Harry to invite
them out to the Leaky Cauldron after work the following day.
She doesn’t own an owl, but it’s no hardship to throw on her robes and apparate to the
doorstep of Grimmauld place. It’s dark in the windows, and no one answers her knock, so
Hermione calls for Ginny’s owl from the front step.
Julien is a massive barn owl that Harry had purchased for Ginny’s birthday following the war.
She’s lovely and partial to Hermione, so she lands easily on her arm and nudges her majestic
head into Hermione’s wild curls.
“Hello Julien,” Hermione greets, petting her softly, “I am hoping you could take this letter to
Ron at the Burrow for me. I imagine Harry is with him, anyway.”
Julien nips her fingers affectionately, allowing Hermione to tie the letter to her massive
talons. She’s off without a moment to spare, and Hermione returns home easily.
Another owl greets her on her front step, familiar orange eyes gleaming.
Hermione sighs, “brilliant. Come on in, then.”
The owl follows her gracefully, finding its perch on the windowsill where it had sat only the
day prior. It has an envelope tucked against its legs, and Hermione unwinds it easily,
Malfoy’s writing becoming a familiar scrawl to her.
‘ To Granger,
I realized I didn’t reply to you yesterday when you asked if you should owl. I apparated before
I could answer, and Theodore Nott has informed me that was rude. You are, of course,
allowed to owl me.
Theo — I had mentioned he is a friend — is doing well. I visited him last night after I saw
you. He’s shocked we didn’t murder each other instantly, by the way. I told him you probably
weren’t the type to commit murder without a six-step plan in place before you began. I
somehow doubt Potter would have survived all these years if you didn’t over plan.
Anyway, Theo said he met with Luna Lovegood yesterday morning, and though he told me
how she apparently wore these mad pink glasses to allow her to see… what was it she said…
Nargles? Daft bint, honestly, but — and don’t get yourself worked up — Theo has told me
they’ll get along. I knew you’d be pleased to hear it.
What are you doing Tuesday evening? If you are free, we could meet for dinner to further…
plan. You may choose the place, though it would be easier to go to Muggle London if that’s
acceptable to you. Word of our impending nuptials will send the Prophet into a tailspin, and
I’d like to avoid that media frenzy for now.
Regards,
Mr. Draco Malfoy’
Hermione grins at his words and schools her face into an expression far less obnoxious. She
had never imagined growing up that Draco Malfoy would be funny. Their classmates had
certainly thought he was; however, usually, his brand of humour had been cruelly aimed at
her, so she’s never had the chance to enjoy it.
It’s also easy to see he’s comfortable owling her — she wonders if that’s just how Malfoy is,
or if he finds it easier to be civil if he doesn’t have to look at her face. Hermione can hardly
blame him, as she almost feels the same way.
She summons a quill and parchment and plops down at her small kitchen table to return his
missive. She stares for a moment at the silver bracelet she hadn’t removed — it’s just as
lovely today as it was the night before, and Hermione can almost feel the weight of it on her
wrist despite its delicacy.
‘To Malfoy,
I’m so pleased to hear that Theo and Luna will get along. I hope they can at least be friends,
as it will hopefully make the Ministry’s mandate less… awful.
I would enjoy going to dinner on Tuesday. Muggle London is fine with me, though I haven’t
been there often as of late and am not sure what restaurants they offer. I like Italian food - do
you have a recommendation?
Let’s avoid the Prophet for as long as possible — forever if we can. Don’t suppose you can
think of any headline or scandal that will make our marriage look less exciting? I swear Rita
Skeeter would write an article claiming I had three other husbands and somehow still snared
you with my wiles.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
P.S: What is your Owl’s name? He is very well behaved. '
She seals the letter with a ribbon and brings it over to Malfoy’s owl, who peeks at her from
under his wing. He uncurls slowly and allows her to attach her parchment to his leg, before
taking off in flight when she opens her kitchen window.
She wonders how far he must travel — if Malfoy still lives in Malfoy Manor.
Hermione feels dizzy and abruptly realizes she’s been standing at her kitchen sink clutching
the edge as hard as she could for over ten minutes. Her fingers are white and her legs are
shaking.
It seems so close now — the memory of the Manor. Fear blankets her, the vision of the
ominous chandelier swinging above her, the sting of a cursed blade in her arm carving out her
worst fears. She can recall the mad laughter and screaming of her own hoarse voice; the fire
of the cruciatus curse in her veins.
The dread that had been missing when she had read Draco Malfoy’s name on the black
parchment storms through her now. Harry had been right only two nights prior — she’ll die
before she spends another moment a prisoner in Malfoy Manor.
Hermione forces herself to breathe slowly; watching out her window and letting her fingers
slowly release from her countertop. Malfoy’s owl is no longer even a speck in the distance,
and she forces herself to move on rubbery legs.
Staying busy is always preferable, so the rest of Hermione’s day is spent researching and
reading books, which is a fairly typical Sunday for her. She receives a letter from Ron and
Harry through Julien, where they confirm that they will meet her at the Leaky Caldron the
following evening at 6 PM after work.
It isn’t until twilight is falling that Draco’s owl returns. He curls on her windowsill, hooting
gently at her, and Hermione takes the chance to run her fingers gently over his head. Despite
his ferocious looks, he nudges her hand and allows her to pet him.
‘To Miss Granger,
My owl’s name is Taffy. He is as gentle as a lamb, though he was purchased to look

intimidating. I’m… fond of him. Do you not have an owl for yourself?
Rita Skeeter is a plague amongst wizardkind. Even if she accused you of being a philandering
witch with wiles, I wouldn’t believe a word — I’m convinced Weasel has twice the brain that
she does, which is saying something… never tell him I said that… I wouldn’t want him to
think I’ve complimented him.
How does it sound if you were to meet me outside of the same coffee shop from yesterday,
Java Corner, on Tuesday at 5:30? There is a little Italian restaurant just a short block away.
We could walk together.
Did you finish the book you bought yesterday? I’m curious to hear your thoughts on it. I’ve
been reading the newest Rolf Scamander book — beasts and creatures never were a
particular passion of mine, but he writes well. I’ll loan it to you if you haven’t already read it.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy’
Hermione realizes belatedly that Taffy the owl has disappeared from her windowsill without
a response from her. She’s spent so long curled in her chair, staring at Malfoy’s words that
she forgot to keep the owl around. She’ll have to borrow a ministry owl at work again
tomorrow to pen Malfoy a response — she can hardly wait to inform him that yes,
she had finished the book she had purchased yesterday, and it was dreadful! Though the
writing was acceptable, Hermione had been positively affronted at the author’s portrayal of
Centaur society — and Malfoy had said it was interesting! How she yearned to see his face
when she informed him it was absolute garbage.
Perhaps she would hold off on that conversation until Tuesday evening when she saw him in
person. Though, she truly would like to borrow the Rolf Scamander book he had mentioned,
so she thought she’d better send a response all the same.
Hermione summons extra parchment — she will respond to Draco in the morning, but right
now she’s interested in writing Luna a letter. It’s been far too long since they had all gotten
together or spoken, and after hearing Malfoy recount Luna and Theodore Nott’s meeting,
Hermione is worried and, admittedly, curious.
‘Dearest Luna,
I’m sorry it has been so long since I have written you. I read your article in the Quibbler last
week about Nigglypuffs — it was very well written. I must discuss them further with you the
next time we see each other, as I’m still a bit lost as to where to find them. I hope that
perhaps next weekend we could get together — I’ll try to get Ron, Harry, and Ginny in on it
so we can make it a party.
I have heard that you and Theodore Nott got paired together in the WPG act. If you are
wondering who spilled the beans to me, please don’t worry — it’s not a common rumour.
Please don’t tell anyone yet, but I’ve been paired with Draco Malfoy. He and Theodore are
apparently close friends, and so Malfoy informed me of your impending nuptials. I will offer
congratulations — though I confess, if you are at all like me, you are furious that we must
bow to this law no matter who the man is.
Luna — I must be very blunt. I hope that you are doing well. I hope that Theodore Nott is an
honourable and lovely man; however, if for any reason at all you have need of me, or you
want somewhere safe to stay, you know how to get in touch.
Your friend,
Hermione Granger’
She rolls the parchment and ties a ribbon on it, setting it alongside her work bag for the
following morning. Hermione prepares herself for bed, checking all the wards around her
house and casting extra fortification wherever needed. She takes a moment before entering
her bed to pull the familiar gold coin from her nightstand. It’s worn in all familiar places, and
Hermione squeezes it tightly, remembering her words to Luna. The charmed Galleon sits in
the bedside tables of many old DA Members, and though Hermione is grateful it hasn’t
grown warm with secret messages in over a year, she’s ready to respond or use it if need be.
She slides under her sheets, exhausted. Despite her tired and heavy eyes, she picks up the
book she had been studying regarding Wizarding Population Statistics and reads from where
she left off, letting the words and numbers consume her.
The Leaky Cauldron
Chapter Notes
Thank you for everyone who is commenting and kudos-ing, I really appreciate it :) Also
so happy you love soft Theo and the letters between HG and DM! I've been going pretty
hard on Nano so I may have another chapter for you by Friday. For now, I hope you
enjoy this chapter!
October 25th, 1999 - Monday
The Leaky Cauldron is full when she arrives, with Madame Rosmerta manning the bar. A
melancholy air that Hermione hasn’t felt since the month after the war seems to soak in
everywhere. She recognizes a few faces from work and her Hogwarts days, but she doesn’t
stop until she reaches the table off to the back right of the bar.
Sure enough, Harry and Ron are sitting there, squabbling with each other over some
quidditch matter, and despite the depressing events that have occurred over the previous
week, Hermione’s spirits lift at the sight of their dear faces.
She slides in next to Ron and elbows him, mid-sentence. He closes his jaw with a snap and
turns to her, a goofy grin spreading across his face.
“Hey Moine,” he greets, “thanks for inviting us out. It’s been ages.”
Hermione laughs, “I saw you just a few days ago, Ron.”
Harry scoffs from across the table, “You know what he means, it’s hardly been just the three
of us in forever.”
Hermione nods, giving in easily, “It’s true, it has been a while. So tell me everything. I know
you have both have been thinking about the WPG Act.”
Harry nods with a small smile, “Yeah. Hermione, I know this is not exactly the way I would
have imagined marrying Ginny, but I can’t say I’m unhappy about it. We’re having a
ceremony at the Burrow on November 6th, just two Saturdays from now. We want to keep it
small; you know how the press will go if they catch wind of my wedding.”
Harry rolls his eyes and Hermione nods, thinking how similar his words were to the ones she
had written to Malfoy only the day prior. She fiddles lightly with the bracelet tucked under
her cardigan’s sleeve. Harry reaches across the table suddenly and grabs her hand in his,
folding it closed. It’s familiar, and Hermione smiles softly at the gesture.
“I’ve asked Ron to stand with me, and Ginny was hoping you would stand with her,
Hermione. I’ve got no family other than you both, and nothing could ever mean more to me
than you both being there. Ministry mandate be damned; this day is going to be full of
happiness and bring my family together.”
Hermione chokes back a lump in her throat, desperate to speak but unable to find words.
Ron, however, has always been good with plowing through emotional situations and he
reaches out and smacks his hand on top of hers and Harry’s.
“Harry, mate, I’d say I speak for both of us when I tell you we would be honoured,” he says,
“this is the only good thing to come out of this daft Ministry WPG move, and I for one can’t
wait for you to officially be my brother.”
Hermione swallows hard, “Ron has it completely right, Harry. Nothing would make me
happier than standing with you and Ginny.”
The moment lasts nearly an eternity in her mind; suspended in the wild cacophony of The
Leaky Cauldron, her best friends in the entire world gripping her hand, the promise of forever
and family branded on her skin.
“Harry,” she says, “do you think I could invite Malfoy?”
Ron’s head swings to her, his hand falling away with an incredulous expression. Hermione
almost wants to take the words back, but she can hardly spend the next while avoiding the
topic.
“I know… I know it’s ridiculous,” Hermione manages, “but you know that I have to marry
him within the next thirty days. And it would be nice… it would be wonderful to still see my
friends.”
Ron’s jaw clenches, but Harry nods decisively, “Hermione. You are welcome to bring anyone
of your choosing to my wedding, but please promise me he will be polite. Ginny
will murder him from the alter if he says anything, and I’d rather have no death at my
wedding if it’s all the same to you.”
Hermione chokes on a laugh at his words. Ron seethes, his voice like acid in the quiet of their
booth, “bloody hell, Harry, are you mad?”
Harry half shrugs, “We have little choice, Ron. Malfoy will be Hermione’s husband, and like
you just said, we’re family. She could marry a literal ferret and I’d still have her stand with
us, wouldn’t you?”
It’s a tense moment, but Ron heaves a sigh that Hermione feels in her bones, and rubs his
forehead. “Moine, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I guess you should bring ferret boy
along.”
Hermione beams at them, “Oh, thank you both. I promise he’ll behave, even if it means I
have to hex him myself.”
Harry chuckles at her words and sips his butterbeer. “So, have you spoken to him yet?”
Hermione flops back against the wooden booth with a heavy breath, “I went for coffee with
him only two nights ago. We’ve a date tomorrow evening.”
Ron’s eyes bug, “Blimey, and I’ve only owled Hannah once.”
Hermione smacks the arm closest to her, “Ronald Weasley, did I or did I not tell you to treat
her nicely and actually talk to her?”
Harry frowns, “She’s right, mate, that’s a bit not good.”
Ron grumbles, “I was nice. She answered me only this morning. I’ll remember to write again
tonight. I suppose I should invite her out.”
“It’s worth doing,” Harry agrees, “I know you already know her as a friend, but it could be
good to discuss your plans, and where you will go from here, you know?”
“It’s true, Ron,” Hermione chimes in, “you have to know if they want a big public wedding,
or would rather an elopement, for starters. And it’s important to know where you’ll both live
after you marry, and if she wants kids!”
“Why?” Ron snaps, “Doesn’t matter if we want kids, does it? We’ve got to have them. So do
you, both of you. No choice, remember?”
Hermione snaps her jaw closed. Ron’s right, and she’s been avoiding thinking about it. The
WPG states they have one year from the letter’s issue to conceive a child. That means that
Hermione only has 362 days left. The bracelet seems to burn on her wrist, a beautiful but
constant reminder that she is no longer free.
“It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” Harry says, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, both Ginny and I want
kids. Eventually, though. Ginny was hoping for a few years on the Quidditch pitch before
kids came along. Suppose it’s not meant to be.”
Ron heaves a sigh, “It’s definitely not how any of us planned it. On the bright side, I know
that Hannah wants kids, and sooner rather than later.”
Harry whips his eyes to Ron. “What? How do you know that?”
Ron shrugs, “We talked about it once at a party. She mentioned how Neville was putting the
brakes on, that he wanted to wait until later in life, and she was ready now.”
Harry frowns as though he can’t picture Ron ever involved in a conversation with Hannah
about future children, but Ron’s eyes slide apologetically to Hermione for a moment, and she
flushes. It’s all too easy to understand that this topic must have come up with Hannah near
the end of Ron and Hermione’s ill-fated romance. Though they had plenty in common as
friends, as a couple Ron had been ready to move on from the war, ready for marriage and
kids, and Hermione had barely healed, and the thought of caring for one more person rubbed
at her scars all the wrong ways.
“That’s good, Ron,” Hermione manages, “you won’t have any trouble adhering to the
timeline on conception then.”
Ron rubs the back of his neck and glances away. Harry breaks the awkward moment easily,
“Hermione, tell us about your meet up with Malfoy. Did you discuss all the things you
mentioned?”
Hermione scowls, “Not exactly. I was surprised to find out we have similar tastes in books,
though.”
Harry’s laugh breaks up her foul mood, “Oh, Hermione. Why am I not surprised that the one
thing you did talk about was reading?”
Hermione straightens her chin, a small smile breaking through, “Well, it means we have at
least one thing in common, which frankly, was a shock to me. So that bodes well.”
“It’s not a bad thing, I suppose,” Ron agrees, “I guess it could be worse. Hannah informed me
in her letter that Neville got Pansy Parkinson. Can you imagine marrying her? You’d have
more in common with a bloody flobberworm.”
Harry cringes. Though he has often tried to be fair in his judgement of the Slytherin student's
actions during the war, he has never forgiven Pansy Parkinson’s vitriol.
“Poor Neville,” Hermione sighs, “he’s so gentle. She’s going to eat him alive.”
Ron visibly cheers, “Actually, speaking of being eaten, apparently Charlie has owled Astoria
Greengrass. He mentioned his work with dragons, and she did not take it well. I think he’s
secretly hoping she’ll visit and a Hungarian Horntail will solve his problem for him.”
Hermione laughs, “Ronald, that’s terrible. You don’t think they’ll get along, then?”
“Blimey, no. Astoria was well known in Hogwarts for being all beauty and no brains, and
from what Charlie mentioned, that was on the mark. The thought of living in Romania was
apparently ‘unacceptable’ to a girl like her.”
Harry interjects, “Unfortunately, I agree with Ron on this, it seems like they won’t be a good
fit.”
“What about Daphne? Did Percy owl her?”
Ron slaps the table, startling her, “Oh, my god, Mione — he did. It was hilarious. He sent her
an owl with an entire timeline and conversational topics. He told her he wanted to create a
‘thoroughly detailed plan of action’ for their marriage.”
Hermione cringes, “Oh no. Tell me she wasn’t awful to him.”
Harry interrupts, “That’s the thing — she agreed!”
“Can you believe that Greengrass loon sent back an even more prat-ish letter accepting his
offer and providing — and I am quoting Percy here — ‘ constructive improvements on their
action plan’. I couldn’t even stand Percy’s summary of their letters; it was so dreadfully
boring.” Ron is nearly gasping through his laughter as he recounts the tale.
Hermione giggles, “Honestly, Malfoy said to expect something like that. I had mentioned
Percy’s match to Daphne, and he said she was nice but about as boring as watching pumpkins
grow.”
Harry grins, “At least the Ministry might have gotten one thing right, then.”
“I also heard from Luna,” Hermione adds, “they matched her to Theodore Nott. Before you
panic, turns out Theodore isn’t anything like his late father, and he’s no Death Eater. I don’t
know anything else, but I invited her out this weekend, though she hasn’t answered yet.
Would you both be available Sunday?”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “it’s been a while since we’ve seen Luna.”
Ron grumbles, “Nott might not be a Death Eater, but I still don’t like it. How come none of
the DA are landing Hufflepuffs or even Ravenclaws? So many Slytherins.”
Hermione frowns at Ron’s words, surprised she hadn’t considered the connection before. The
Ministry has hardly been transparent about how they matched the couples, and though she
had inquired around the office lightly, no one seemed to know what the process had been.
She wonders briefly if she’s been looking in all the wrong places, trying to find a way out of
the marriage, a loophole. Perhaps she should dissect the how and why of the pairings.
“Ron,” she murmurs, “sometimes you have flashes of bloody brilliance.”
Ron frowns, “What? What did I say?”
“Nothing yet! But I’ve got to get going,” Hermione gulps the last of her butterbeer, “I think
you’ve given me a new avenue to research!”
Harry is only slightly quicker than Ron at connecting the dots, “You’re going to figure out
why we got paired with who we did? Do you think you’ll be able to fight the WPG that
way?”
Hermione heaves a sigh, “Honestly, I’ve no idea. I’ve been researching, but until McGonagall
owls me the books Hogwarts has on previous wizarding population and marriage contracts
between purebred families, I’ve got nothing to go on. It could be interesting to see how we
were paired — I mean, what do I have in common with Draco Malfoy of all people?”
Ron huffs, “Other than your love of books, I’d say nothing. And Hannah’s lovely — but why
wouldn’t she get Neville? What do I have that he doesn’t?”
Harry nods, “It’s a good starting point, Hermione. Let us know if you need help. I better get
going too, Ginny will be home soon.”
The Golden Trio exchange quick hugs outside the doors to The Leaky Cauldron. Harry
apparates shortly after, though Hermione lingers for a moment longer. Ron is staring at the
cobblestones at his feet, looking pensive.
“Ron,” Hermione says gently, “I really do think you should invite Hannah out. She’s
probably just as scared as you.”
“I know,” he answers, “and I’m not scared of talking to her if that’s what you’re worried
about. It’s actually… it’s actually George, to be honest.”
Hermione’s stomach drops, “George? What’s happened?”
Ron shrugs, “He’s gone off the deep end. It’s like it was just after… well, you know. Hasn’t
even written Parvati yet. You know how he lives above the shop? Well, I haven’t seen him at
all since Friday, just heard him wandering around up there. I’m worried, Mione.”
“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sighs, “I’m so sorry. We have to give him time. Perhaps you should
write to Parvati for him, say George is feeling under the weather but would love to meet with
her next week? Give him at least that much time.”
Ron nods seriously, “I’ll do that. I just… I just don’t know what the Ministry will do if we
don’t comply.”
“You think he won’t marry her?!”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s even about her in his head, y’know?” Ron stares at her
despondently, and it occurs to Hermione that he has frown lines at the edges of his mouth
she’s never seen before — so different from his usual grin.
“Ron, write to Parvati,” Hermione advises, “and tell George you did so. I’ll ask around the
Ministry what the consequences are to not following the WPG — I have a feeling it won’t be
lenient if I’m honest.”
“I think the same,” Ron agrees, “they’d be fools to introduce this mandate and then let people
escape it. Everyone would do it, otherwise.”
Hermione reaches a hand out and squeezes Ron’s bicep, “You don’t worry about it, Ron. You
just take care of George and Hannah, and you owl me if you need anything, okay?”
Ron smiles at her; it’s tired but warm, and Hermione is flung back for a moment into the days
when his smile made the world make sense again. There is no better person on this earth to
take care of George Weasley, and Hermione impulsively leans forward and wraps her arms
around Ron again.
“You know I love you, right?” She mutters, “You and Harry — you’re the most important
people in the entire world.”
Ron squeezes her so tightly her ribs creak, but she doesn’t complain. He musses her hair
when he lets her go, and Hermione scowls at the action.
“Love you too, Mione,” Ron grins, “and we’re going to fix this. Fix all of it. The whole damn
world if we have to.”
She smiles, “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Ron’s laughter echoes in her ears as she apparates home, still grinning as she lands in front of
her gate. The sight of her cottage is welcome, and Hermione swishes her wand to pre-light
the fire inside. She passes through her wards, letting the perfect feeling of safety envelop her.
There is a letter on her doorstep, a familiar crest on the front. She picks it up easily and heads
inside, setting a few small charms up to tidy the area while she walks. It feels comfortable to
plop into her favourite armchair and unroll the most recent letter from Malfoy.
‘Dear Miss Granger,
I hope your day was better than mine. This morning I received news that Tracey Davis died. I
realize you probably didn’t know her well as she was in Slytherin, but she was a friend to me
in Hogwarts. It just… seems unfair that she survived the war and is just.. gone.
Anyway. I spent the day mending my mother’s old Solarium. Though I don’t share her love of
flowers, it seems like something I should do now that Fall is truly here. It’s a pretty place, and
there are very few of those left. Perhaps one day you’ll see it.
I’ll bring the Scamander book for you to borrow tomorrow evening.
Until then,
Mr. Draco Malfoy'
Hermione lets the letter fall to her carpeted feet listlessly. Tracey Davis. She hadn’t known
her, but the reminder of death and the war sits heavily on her heart. Malfoy’s words, that it
was unfair she survived the war and yet still died — they’re true. Hermione wonders what
she died of — it’s uncommon for witches and wizards to pass away so young.
Hermione huffs a breath, pushing past the grim thought of Tracey, and moving on to the idea
of Draco Malfoy repairing a garden he had no interest in. Though he had not explicitly said
it, it wasn’t hard to imagine he was doing it for the memory of his late mother. Though
Hermione has never imagined Draco Malfoy as sentimental, it is becoming increasingly
obvious that he loved his mother.
Hermione almost wants to see the Solarium. She can only imagine its majesty — but the
thought of returning to Malfoy Manor, even now, is so abhorrent that it takes her breath away.
She knows realistically she must go there, eventually; after all, she can hardly marry Draco
and ignore the family Manor. She prays she won’t have to live there — her cottage is
comfortable and safe, and it has taken the better part of the last year to feel those things
again.
Hermione stands, ignoring the letter on the carpet. Wandlessly she ends the household charms
she had started and extinguishes her lights. She pads to her bedroom by feel alone, stripping
bare and sliding between her sheets.
In the darkness, Hermione cannot escape her whirling thoughts. Harry and Ron’s words from
earlier rest uneasily on her. A child.
She wonders if Malfoy wants children. She can’t imagine him as a father, and a fleeting
memory of Lucius Malfoy makes her blood run cold. Hermione has pushed aside any ideas of
children since long before the war, and she certainly had no intention of having them now,
before the WPG Act. Still, she has no family left to speak of, and it might be nice to have
people to come home to.
Hermione scowls in the darkness; it’s hardly the right reason to have children. A coping
mechanism to assuage her own loneliness. Though she supposes it hardly matters what her
reasoning is since they have taken her choice from her.
Sleep eludes her, and Hermione contents herself with imagining what she’ll do at work the
following morning. She has a large technical report on the merpeople population in Great
Britain that she has been postponing for a few days, and she’s determined to tackle it.
Hermione finally falls asleep with thoughts of merpeople’s rights and population growth
dancing around her brain, her new bracelet sitting comfortably on her wrist.
First Light
Chapter Notes
Hello all! So glad you enjoyed the last chapter. This one is shorter, however it's one of
my faves! I will be posting another chapter this week, since you've all been patiently
waiting for some Draco/Hermione interaction, and that's coming up next :) Enjoy!
October 26th, 1999 - Tuesday Early Afternoon
Theodore Nott had begged to be sorted into Slytherin.
It’s not that he particularly liked the house, or even really knew much about it. The hat sat on
his head, halfway obscuring his vision, and it has whispered into his ear like the caress of a
lover, ‘hmmm, what have we here. A Nott. You’re a Ravenclaw through and through, my boy,
it’s easy to tell but… hmmm… the Nott’s are always Slytherins.’
And Theodore Nott, old and musty hat on his head, realized that if he were to come home a
Ravenclaw at Christmas holidays, he’d be signing his own death warrant. His father — he
would — well.
The Nott’s were always Slytherins.
So Theo had begged, and the Sorting Hat had obliged, and a green-tied Theodore Nott had
buried that memory so deeply that leglimency could never find it. Sometimes, in the middle
of the night, safe in his Hogwarts bed, he would think about it. Think about what it would
have meant to escape to Ravenclaw.
He actually liked being in Slytherin — it wasn’t the house he wanted to escape from. His
housemates were clever and calculating, and Theo was smart. He played their games easily
and never batted an eye.
But he… he wondered what it would have been like to be called ‘intelligent’ instead of
‘conniving’. Wondered if perhaps he could have escaped his father’s hold years earlier and
missed out on lifetimes of pain.
He told no one the Sorting Hat’s words, not even after his father had gone and died and Theo
could have said anything to anyone with no consequences. As far as the entire Wizarding
World was concerned, Theodore Nott is the same as every other Nott that had ever been born:
a Slytherin.
Which is why he had nearly fallen over in shock when on the first meeting with Luna
Lovegood she had stared at him with her too-wide blue eyes, tilted her head, and frowned.
“You should have been in Ravenclaw,” Luna says, “with me. It’s easy to tell — how did the
hat miss it?”
Theo had stuttered for an explanation, a cover, anything to make the witch stop analyzing
him when it had hit him like a bolt of lightning. Luna Lovegood wasn’t crazy — she saw
everything. His first instinct upon her words was to cut her down, belittle her intelligence,
call her mad. He can’t have been the first.
So instead of doing any of those things, Theo sucked in a breath and nodded. “It didn’t.”
The corner of her mouth curled up, a secret smile Theo had never seen before, and she had
asked nothing further on the topic.
The exchange had taught him two very important things about Luna Lovegood. First, she was
smart — smarter than him, definitely; and perhaps, most rare of all, she was kind.
Theo had spent the following days piecing together everything he knew of Luna, distracted
from every task he set out to do — which is exactly where he finds himself on Tuesday
afternoon, staring at his bookshelf from behind his desk instead of working on the Nott
accounts.
A sharp crack startles him and reveals a small house-elf with surprisingly yellow eyes,
wringing her wrinkled hands nervously.
“Hello, Thelma,” Theo greets, “what’s wrong?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Master Nott,” Thelma says, “but Lady Lovegood is standing outside of
the front entrance.”
Theo stands abruptly, apparating to his front door without warning Thelma. He feels bad for a
moment, but his guilt dissipates when he hears a gentle knock at the front door.
He rushes to swing open the great door, letting in the sunshine and cool autumn air. Luna
Lovegood certainly is standing on his front step, her hair tied into a disarray of confusing
knots and braids, and overly large dragon earrings hanging from her lobes.
“Miss Lovegood,” Theo greets, “what a pleasant surprise. Would you like to come in?”
Luna tilts her head and thrusts out a small plant. “Yes, thank you. I brought you this fern.”
“Fern?” Theo repeats, grabbing what appears to be some sort of leafy bush from her hands.
“I’ve never heard of a fern.”
Luna claps her now free hands and brushes past him into his foyer, “oh yes, I expect you
haven’t. It’s a muggle plant, actually.”
Theo stares down at the leaves as though they will bite him. Though he knows most people
wouldn’t believe him, he has nothing against Muggles. His entire life his father had taught
him — trained him — that Muggles and half-bloods and muggle-borns were worse than the
dirt on his shoes, but…
Well, Theo had realized shortly after the death of his mother that his father had been wrong
about so many things. So why would he be right about Muggles?
Still, Theo doesn’t know much of Muggles — he is ignorant of their world, their attitudes,
and most definitely their plants.
“Is it… safe?”
Luna laughs, the sound like ringing bells in the halls of his home. He turns to face her and
shuts his door. Even though the sunlight disappears behind the wood, the entryway remains
dappled in bright spotlights. Theo frowns at the dancing spots until he realizes that Luna is
wearing a dress that appears to be made of hundreds of tiny mirrors.
“It’s perfectly safe, Theodore Nott,” Luna answers, “and I told you before you may call me
Luna.”
“…Luna,” Theo starts, the name far too intimate on his tongue, “what are… I mean… well, I
like your dress.”
Luna’s lips curl up into that secret smile she had shown him a few days prior. Theo thinks if
he had seen the expression on anyone else, he might believe they were laughing at him. She’s
not, though, he can tell.
“Don’t lie, Theo,” she admonishes, still smiling, “you think my dress is silly.”
Theo stares at her, once again stunned into silence. He was lying — the dress is absolutely
mad. She looks like a lampshade made of a broken mirror, and her hair is flying in every
other direction. Smoke puffs out of her dragon earrings.
“Okay,” Theo allows, “I won’t. You look lovely.”
Luna grins, and this time she doesn’t tell him he was lying. He wasn’t.
“The fern is harmless. Muggles like them to look at. They like the sun and some water.”
Theo stares at the apparently useless fern he had forgotten he was holding. It has… no
function.
“I suppose I’ll put it in the living room, then?” Theo says, almost asking.
Luna shrugs daintily, “Hermione told me once that ferns are good oxygen plants — she said
they help clear the air. I thought of your Manor.”
Theo frowns, glancing around. The Manor, although dark, is immaculate. The front entrance
is made of mahogany wood panelling and a fireplace that extends two storeys up. The rest of
the Manor is similarly resplendent, and Thelma ensures that not a speck of dust settles for
more than a minute. As far as Theo can see, Nott Manor would be considered one of Britain’s
most beautiful homes.
“Is the air… not clean?” Theo asks hesitantly.
Luna is staring around aimlessly as if taking in the same things he had just looked at. Every
time she moves, spots of light dance around on the walls.
Her blue eyes find his again and she steps closer, “oh. I see. I’ve been rude. Your house is
lovely, Theo. I only meant that I can feel the air here — you must feel it. It’s… heavy. Dark.”
Theo swallows. “I… don’t know how to fix that, Luna.”
Luna reaches out and places a hand on his forearm, soft on the dark navy shirtsleeve. He
wonders if she knows that she put her fingers unerringly over the Dark Mark branded into the
skin below; he’s not sure whether to rip her away from it, or press her fingers deeper — the
first gentle thing he’s felt in years.
“You already are fixing it,” Luna says, “I can feel it all around me. The house — it likes me.”
Theo raises his eyebrows at her, lost for words. His silence doesn’t seem to bother her
though, and instead, she turns around and walks deeper into the Manor without an invitation.
The first time she had been to Nott Manor, only a few days prior, she had only seen the
entranceway before they had gone to the gardens out back. The gardens are perhaps the most
beautiful part of the property, and Theo had only wanted her to see beauty.
Now, though, he is helpless to do anything except follow her.
Luna Lovegood walks as though she knows exactly where she’s going — unerringly,
skipping straight over the parts of the house that Theo himself avoids, and ending up in front
of the door to his study, where he had been before her arrival.
“This,” she says, resting a fingertip on the door, “this is where you should put the fern.”
Theo nods, “okay. It’s my study. I spend a lot of time here.”
“Of course,” Luna agrees, “it’s the warmest room in the house.”
Theo decides he won’t question her, though he knows the house is all the same temperature
due to a constant warming stasis charm.
He pushes open the door and Luna follows him in. He places the fern on the windowsill,
arranging it so it receives the best sunlight. Luna is sitting in the same chair that Draco
Malfoy had sat in only three days prior, her legs crossed primly. The sunlight dances over her
mirrors and Theo realizes abruptly that he has tiny spots of light and rainbows all over his
dark shirt.
“Thelma,” he blurts, and neither he nor Luna startles at the house-elf’s instant arrival after his
call.
“Hello, Master Nott,” Thelma greets, then turns and curtsies at Luna, “Lady Lovegood.”
Luna smiles serenely, “Hello, Thelma. How are you?”
Thelma startles and glances at Theo, as though judging whether he will allow her to answer
the question. It stings a little that she thinks she must ask, but Theo nods all the same.
“Thelma is very good, Lady Lovegood,” Thelma answers politely, “She hopes you are well,
too.”
Luna lights up and beams at the house-elf. “I am, thank you. Theo is letting me stay for a bit
and visit.”
Theo frowns at her, wondering at her word choice. He is letting her stay? Does she not
understand she is welcome? She is to be his wife, and though it wasn’t a choice they were
allowed to make, he would hardly begrudge her the freedom to come and go as she wished.
“Master Nott,” Thelma’s voice drags him from his thoughts, “shall I bring up some tea?”
“Tea would be great,” Theo answers, “Luna?”
Luna nods serenely, and Thelma disappears as fast as she arrived.
The silence between them is suddenly endless, and Theo summons courage he didn’t realize
he possessed.
“Luna,” he says, “you can stay as long as you want. And you are allowed to come here
whenever you want. Even if I’m not here. The Manor… Thelma will let you in.”
Luna tilts her head at him, silent questions in her gaze. Her eyes are unfathomably blue and
Theo is gone.
“Alright,” Luna agrees, “is this because the Ministry is forcing you to marry me?”
Theo sometimes wonders at her bravery; if despite her intelligence, if Luna was a Gryffindor
in Ravenclaw colours.
“No, it’s… I mean,” he chokes, “I wouldn’t say…”
Luna’s laugh distracts him from trying to force out any words to make this situation seem
acceptable. She’s got her secret smile on, and her blue eyes are dreamy.
“The Ministry is forcing you to marry me, Theodore Nott,” she tells him, “even if you’ve
realized I might not be so terrible to marry.”
Theo feels himself going red — he hasn’t blushed since the third year in Hogwarts when he’d
been so distracted by Katie Bell’s skirt riding up that he’d blown up his potion in his face like
a bloody idiot.
This time, however, his choked silence goes on longer, and he watches as Luna’s expression
falls. He’s known of Luna Lovegood for years, though he’s only known her personally for
three days, and yet… he’s never seen her look unsure.
“I mean,” she murmurs, “perhaps I’m not… people don’t always like — ”
Theo finally gets his act together and snaps, “No.”
Luna’s face flickers in surprise, but Theo grabs at the courage he had somehow found and
plows on.
“You’re fine,” he mutters, “you’re good. It’s not… well — the Ministry is forcing you to
marry me, too, you know.”
Luna frowns darkly, “The Ministry has no hold over me.”
“Oh, so you’re tying yourself to a Death Eater for fun, then?”
Theo regrets his words the moment they leave his mouth, poison on his tongue. He wonders
now how they had navigated their evening together three days prior so successfully — no
mention of the war, or their impending marriage. It had been easy and sweet. It had
been hopeful.
Still, despite his vicious tone and snappy words, Luna looks serene once again. She is a
placid pool, and Theo envies her ability to control her emotions.
“You’re no Death Eater,” she tells him.
Theo reaches as though to rip his shirt up, exposing the brand that will prove her wrong, so
wrong, once and for all, but Luna is moving before he is, and suddenly she is sitting on his
desk in front of him, legs in between his. He can see her calves, pale and soft skin leading
down into socks with pumpkins on them.
“Stop,” Luna says, and once again her fingers are gentle on his forearm. “I know what you
want to show me, Theodore Nott, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I have known Death
Eaters. I have watched them laugh as I scream, watched them lock me away in the dark. I
have killed them.”
Theo swallows and his hand that had been fisting at his cuff softens, finds hers on his forearm
and presses her gently to his skin like he had wanted to at the front entrance.
“Are you going to torture me, Theo? Will you trap me in your dungeons and let me forget the
sun?” Luna asks bluntly.
He feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room, despite the stupid fern sitting
on his windowsill.
“No,” he breathes, “No, I won’t.”
Luna’s blue eyes smile at him, “You’re no Death Eater.”

He lunges forward, unaware he had given command for his body to move, and the next thing
he knows he is holding Luna Lovegood against his body. She is smaller than he thought —
more delicate than he ever could have imagined, and she fits underneath his chin like some
sort of snap together jig-saw puzzle piece.
He is shaking — trembling the way he had done so often in the war, and Luna’s arms have
snaked around his rib cage to hold him steady. He can feel her ridiculous knots tangle against
his collarbone, and a thousand tiny mirror pieces press into any exposed skin he has.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I’m so, so fucking sorry, Luna.”
Luna sniffs, “You weren’t there, Theo. It’s not your fault.”
He holds her, even though he feels he has no right to. Even though he barely knows her at all.
“Will you marry me?”
Her voice is small and scared, and Theo hates, hates, hates that he has made her sound that
way. He pulls his head back to stare at her, and her worried blue eyes. She is chewing on her
bottom lip, and it occurs to Theodore for the very first time that he could lean down and kiss
her if he wanted to.
He realizes he does want to.
“I thought I already was,” he answers.
Luna scrunches up her nose as if she’s not sure if she’s going to laugh or cry. Instead, like
always, she is brave. “The Ministry cannot force me to do anything I don’t want to do, Theo.
I’m not like the others — I have nothing they can take.”
Theo stills — she means she can leave — Luna can run from the WPG and nothing will
happen to her. He recalls her saying her house had burned in the war, and though they still
own the Quibbler, her father isn’t in Britain any longer. He writes from abroad. Theo
imagines this means that any galleons they have are stashed away, out of the Ministry’s reach.
Luna doesn’t have to marry him.
“So why?”
Luna shrugs, “I want a home. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
She’s so honest — so bloody honest, that something in Theo’s chest cracks.
“Luna,” he whispers, “you don’t have to marry me. You can stay here — you can have a
home. I won’t trap you in marriage.”
She smiles up at him, her arms still around his waist, “I know I’m not what you would
choose, Theo. But you’re what I would choose.”
Theo’s breath leaves him at her words. He’s never been chosen. He wonders at the absurdity
of this — he’s known her three bloody days and already he thinks he’d go to war again for
her. It’s not even that he loves her —
Though he wonders — does he love her? Can he love her? —
It’s just that she’s gentle and kind and soft, and the most beautiful thing Theo has laid eyes on
maybe ever.
“You’re wrong,” he chokes, “you’re what I would choose. If I could choose — I would
choose you.”
Luna’s smile lights up the room more than her dress, and he lifts a trembling hand to rest on
her cheek.
Her voice is far away and dreamy. “So you’ll marry me?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I will.”
He kisses her then, surprising himself. It’s only him craning his neck down and pressing his
lips gently into hers, barely a whisper of pressure before he pulls back.
She looks startled, and her fingers leave her back to reach for her mouth, fingertips tracing
the cupid’s bow of her lips.
“I’ve never been kissed before,” she tells him, matter-of-fact.
Theo fights down a surge of possession at her words and schools his expression. “I should
have asked.”
Luna nods, “it’s only polite. Could you ask now?”
Theo frowns, bemused, “Umm, could I kiss you?”
Luna pulls her fingers away from her lips, “yes, please.”
And this time, when he reaches, she meets him on her tip-toes and presses her lips back into
his, winding her free arm around his neck to hold him closer. He loses himself in kissing her,
gentle chaste kisses that he’s never imagined could feel like this. Like lightning striking the
same place twice.
She opens her mouth suddenly, and he is drowning in her — she is soft, even in this, and
Theo clings to her with all the strength he has. He can’t remember the last time someone
touched him gently before Luna.
He pulls away after moments or eternity and presses his forehead into hers.
“That was a very good first kiss,” Luna informs him.
Theo laughs, “I thought so as well.”

“You…” Luna’s voice is hesitant, “haven’t kissed anyone else?”
Theo pulls back and stares at her, “No.”
She says nothing, but her fingers are suddenly at his cheekbone, tracing his jaw. Theo lets her
feel him — he’d let her touch him forever. His skin sings at the contact, and he tries to
remember the last time he’s felt this happy.
“I dreamt of you,” Luna murmurs, her voice a song, “in the dark, in the cold. I dreamt of you,
and what you’d be like.”
Theo closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to imagine her face locked away. He wants to find
anyone who ever made her feel fearful and crucio them until they are no longer a person. He
wants to become the part of him that is his father and hunt them to the ends of the earth.
“What did you dream of?” he asks, raspy.
Luna’s fingers stop on his lips, and he breathes gently on them.
“Warmth,” she answers, “mostly I dreamt about how you’d be warm.”
Theo opens his eyes to find her watching him.
“I don’t know if I know how to be what you need, Luna,” he tells her.
She shrugs. “You are what you are, Theo. You need not be more.”
Thelma reappears with a crack, and Theo’s arms tighten instinctively, but Luna doesn’t even
flinch. Large yellow eyes meet Theo’s, and Thelma gently sets the tea tray on the edge of his
desk.
“Sorry to interrupt Lord Nott, Lady Lovegood,” Thelma squeaks, terror entering her face.
Theo watches her and realizes that perhaps he didn’t do enough after the war. He had offered
the house-elves that had remained at Nott manor the chance to work for Hogwarts instead of
stay at the Nott estate — to help the school rebuild. Two of the three had taken him up on the
offer, but Thelma had stayed. Secretly, Theo had been grateful. He hadn’t wanted to live in
the Manor alone, and Thelma had been around since he had been a boy.
But now he watches the house-elf stare at him as though she expects him to sprout another
head and throw her down the stairs.
He looks like his father — he knows it. He sees it every time he looks in a mirror. Thelma
knows it, too. He wonders despairingly if Luna knows it.
“Thank you, Thelma,” he says, “you are a wonderful help.”
Her eyes fill with crocodile tears, and she bows low to hide them, “you are too kind, Master
Nott.”
He wants to refute her words — kind is not something he’s familiar with — but Luna’s head
presses more deeply into his collarbone and he releases his argument.
“Thelma,” he says instead, “you might as well be the first to know. Lady Lovegood will be
the new Lady Nott.”
Thelma snaps to attention and stares straight at Luna, with her mirror ball dress and tangly
braids and odd vacant expression. Theo wonders if Thelma can imagine the words his father
would have said if he was alive as clearly as he can.
“This is the most wonderful news,” Thelma almost whispers, “this is the best news Thelma
has heard since the last Lady Nott told Thelma she was having a baby. This is light.”
Theo gapes for a moment — he hadn’t known that Thelma had been around when his mother
had been pregnant with him, but there had only been one Lady Nott in the last twenty years.
He doesn’t have a chance to ask about it, though, because Luna’s head has craned to look at
Thelma.
“Thelma, you’re right,” Luna agrees, “this is light.”

Stuck
Chapter Notes
Friends, THANK YOU for liking Theo/Luna so much. I'm very pleased with how
they're turning out and they'll be a few more little snippets of their lives coming up. But
for today, I am pleased to present one of my fave chapters so far :)
Also, a small warning, there is a mention of suicide in this chapter regarding a non-
central character.
October 26th, 1999 - Tuesday Evening
Draco arrives outside of Java Corner at exactly 5 PM to find Hermione Granger already
standing there.
She’s wearing a black dress that hangs to the knee, with long lacy sleeves and pink flowers.
Draco realizes the only other time he’s ever seen her wear a dress was at the Yule Ball in the
fourth year. Her hair is free around her shoulders, curls somewhat tamed, and she has makeup
on. He’s suddenly glad he wore his best dress shirt.
“Granger,” he greets, and he watches her gaze find him. She smiles, which takes him by
surprise. He doesn’t think she’s ever smiled at the sight of him before.
“Malfoy,” she replies.
They stare at each other for a moment, awkwardness settling in between them. Distantly, he
realizes he should probably comment on her outfit; tell her she looks nice, or that he’s
looking forward to the evening. Whether or not it’s true, it still grates on him to say the words
— at every passing moment he expects Hermione Granger to turn on him.
Her smile falls slowly, and he knows he’s missed the window when she’s once again looking
at him the way one would a feral dog. Caution, hope, terror — an arm half outstretched,
whether to shield or pet.
“Shall we go?” he finally says.
She squares her shoulders, but instead of nodding, she blurts, “I was sorry to hear about
Tracey.”
Draco can feel every muscle in his body tense infinitesimally — he had almost forgotten he
had sent her the letter. The letter only one night prior, so full of information and hope
and secrets. He had sent it before he could think twice — and now here he was, his sworn
enemy turned soon-to-be wife armed with ammunition.
He recalls how he had greeted her: Dear Miss Granger.
Dear.
“She hanged herself,” he says. His tone is biting — it’s not Granger’s fault, but he spits the
words at her as though she was the one who tied the noose.
She goes pale, “Tracey… killed herself?”
“Do you blame her?” He sneers, “they matched her with Marcus Flint.”
Granger’s brown eyes furrow and Draco watches as her overly large brain goes into
overdrive.
“I… don’t understand,” she finally admits, “I thought… I thought Tracey and Marcus were
friends in school. They were both in Slytherin together.”
Draco wants to shake her. It’s a familiar feeling; how many times in their childhood had he
wanted to strangle her just to silence his father’s voice in his head?
His father is silent, now, though. Forever.
“Tracey’s mum was a muggle.” Draco snaps.
Granger stills, her brain coming to a halt. Draco watches her put the pieces together; the way
he had said was. She knows better than most which wizarding families were involved with
the Dark Lord, and they both know Marcus Flint walks free only because he never received a
brand to his arm.
Not for a lack of wanting, though.
“She was scared,” Hermione murmurs, “why didn’t she just… run?”
Draco lifts a careless shoulder, “Marcus wasn’t the only reason. She’d tried to off herself only
six months before.”
Hermione stares at him, mouth a grim line cutting through her expression. Her brown eyes
are pure fury and despair, and Draco finally, finally thinks they have something in common.
“This fucking war.”
He jumps at her words, the sheer surprise at hearing a curse come from Hermione Granger’s
mouth rendering him speechless. He likes the way she puts the war in the present tense.
Despite ending over a year ago, Draco knows it’s not over. Might never be over for him. He
supposes Hermione Granger might understand the sentiment. He watches her jaw clench and
her hands ball into fists, and for the first time, he notices her legs are trembling.
Crucio — his own thoughts mock him.
“Let’s walk,” he says, extending his arm to offer his elbow.
Her shaking stops and she stares at his arm the way one would a snake — yet still, she takes
it. Looping her arm around his and pressing herself closer as he takes the first step towards
the restaurant.
Draco thinks about that — the fact that Hermione Granger is pressed close to him, hanging
on his arm. He wonders what his younger self would have said. Reacted with disgust and
hatred, probably. Still, Draco may be a liar, but he’s honest to himself in his own mind. He
may have been taught to hate what Granger was, but he could never quite shake her, not even
as children. She’d always intrigued him; the muggle-born who beat him in every subject
for years. Well-loved by all, the brightest witch of her age, muggle-born; a complete paradox.
He knows what word he would have once called her, and the silent thought burns his tongue.
He can’t see her scars through the lace of her sleeve, but he knows they’re there all the same.
Watched his own aunt carve the letters into her skin in front of his eyes. He need not see them
to read the word — it mocks him in his nightmares.
“I brought you that book,” he says, throat dry, “Scamander’s one.”
He watches her light up from beside him. “Oh, thank you! I was really looking forward to
reading it.”
He realizes she’s wearing the bracelet he gave her, still clasped on the wrist where he had put
it. The sight of it against her skin eases something in his chest he didn’t know was there.
The Italian restaurant he’d chosen is nothing fancy, but he holds the door open when they
arrive. The hostess asks if they have a reservation, and he issues his name without
hesitation. Malfoy. How he used to pride himself on it.
They follow her back to a booth tucked into a corner. It’s lovely, with colourful paper menus
and a flickering fake candle. Hermione slides into the booth easily, resting her elbows gently
on the tabletop. Draco smirks at the movement, thinking for a moment how horrified his
mother would be at the sight of her elbows sitting where the food would go.
Granger sniffs and removes her arms, tucking them tightly against her abdomen, and Draco
lifts his eyes to find her watching him, hurt dwelling in her eyes. He’s offended her — and he
hadn’t even opened his bloody mouth.
He knew he should have brought flowers, but at the time it had felt so conniving. So fake, to
present his once sworn enemy with flowers. He didn’t even know her favourite kind.
They sit in stony silence while Draco casts about aimlessly for topics. He has a thousand
things he’d like to say to her; ideas for conversation that he’d been brewing for the past few
days. Now he is a blank slate — watching her watch him.
Granger, however, is not tongue-tied. “I hated the book.”
“What?” He flounders.
“Centaur society and their lives were described absolutely atrociously,” she continues, as
though he hadn’t even asked a question, “and it was completely incorrectly! And to think —
the wizarding world thinks this is good and accurate information!”
Draco finds his footing and admits, “I know very little about Centaurs.”
“Well, you can forget anything that book taught you,” she proclaims, “I’ve never read such
rubbish in my life. You must read ‘Hooves and Hands’ next — Firenze’s cousin wrote it, and
it’s a delight. I’ll loan you my copy.”
“Firenze?” Draco rubs his chin, “wasn’t that… the Divination professor?”
Hermione nods. “Yes, and although he’s a bit… well, he’s a pretentious ass if we’re honest,
but his cousin is an excellent writer.”
Draco finds himself on the verge of laughter at her words and restrains himself. “I’ve never
heard you curse so much.”
Granger stares at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you expect me to be a proper lady?”
“No,” he tells her quickly, “I didn’t. I just also expected you to be the same as you were in
fourth year. You know, the golden girl of Gryffindor who never gets in trouble.”
Granger laughs as though he’s said something hilarious, and Draco watches as she lifts the
hand with her new bracelet on it to wipe at her eyes. He can’t think of what is so funny, but
she’s not laughing at him, so he lets her be.
“Never gets in trouble,” she chuckles, “I admit, I was a bit of a teacher’s pet, but come on
Malfoy, I was constantly breaking every school rule they ever had!”
Draco raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”
“How about when I purposefully brewed Polyjuice potion in the second year? Illegally, I
might add. Or perhaps when I snuck out of Hogwarts at every opportunity? Or perhaps when
I purposefully created a secret group whose entire purpose was to learn magic we weren’t
supposed to?”
Draco sighs, “I should have known you were the one behind that.”
“Yes,” she agrees simply, “you probably should have.”
He stares her down, watching her arms tight across her stomach. He reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the Scamander book he had brought for her. He plunks his elbows on the table
in solidarity and slides it across the wood of the table. Hermione reaches forward hesitantly,
letting her body relax for the first time since she sat in the booth.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, “I’ve been looking forward to reading this. Luna met him this
summer, you know? Oh! I forgot to tell you — Luna owled me today.”
“What for?”
Hermione smiles, and it’s a genuinely sweet smile that Draco has never seen before from her,
except maybe years ago, watching the Gryffindor table from the Slytherin side. “She sent me
this beautiful letter and some lilies. They’re my favourite. Anyway, she mentioned that Theo
is nice.”
“Told you,” he mutters.
She rolls her eyes at his words, but her smile doesn’t budge. “I was thinking… well, I was
thinking maybe we could meet up with them one night. Like… a date. I guess.”
“Are you asking me out, Granger?” Draco can feel the smirk on his face, and he knows she
hates when he does that, but he can’t quite make his expression go flat.
She frowns, “I’m marrying you.”
Draco chokes on the water he’d been sipping, shock coursing through him. He should have
known; should have remembered how brave she was. Hermione Granger said whatever she
damn well pleased, and Draco both envies and hates her for the ability.
She doesn’t let him reply, she just plows on. “I mean… I am, aren’t I? That’s what this
means?” She shakes the bracelet at him, “that we’re engaged, right?”
The server arrives to take their orders and spares him from answering. He’s hardly looked at
the menu, so he orders the first thing he sees that has seafood, and Hermione asks for ravioli.
When they are once again left alone, the silence is nearly unbearable with the weight of her
question, and Draco draws his spine tall and channels every ounce of manners and diplomacy
his mother had instilled in him.
“Yes,” he agrees, “that is what that means. I just… never expected you to be so blunt.”
Her eyes are warm in the glow of the odd, fake candle. “You should get used to that,
perhaps.”
“I suppose if I’m to marry a Gryffindor, I will.”
She smiles down at the table where the book he had brought her is sitting. He’s
never joked with her before. He can’t even remember the last woman he joked with. Perhaps
Pansy, in the fourth year. Now, Hermione Granger, smiling at an old book across the table
from him.
Draco wonders if she’s trying to make the best of an absolutely impossible situation. He
wonders if she still hates him, if he’s still the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. If she
replays his cruel words from school in her head on repeat the way he does; if she’s haunted
by his actions in the war.
Suddenly, he needs to know. “Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
He sighs, “I’m not an idiot, Granger. I know you don’t want the WPG to succeed. I don’t
blame you. Aren’t you trying to fix it?”
Her small hand reaches towards her water glass, and he waits impatiently as she takes a long
drink. The condensation runs down the side and makes a ring on their table, and they both
watch it happen as though it may contain all the secrets of the universe.
“I am,” she finally allows. “I do plan on trying to take down the Wizarding Population
Growth Act.”
“So why?” He asks, “why even bother pretending we’re going to be married?”
Her scowl sets in, expression dark. “Because I’m not an idiot either, Malfoy. I can’t fix this in
thirty — no, twenty-six — days. It could take me months. It could take…”
“Years,” he finishes for her.
The word hangs over them. He’s right, and they both know it.
“The Ministry won’t allow their law to be overturned so easily,” Draco says, “and in five
years when the birth rates inevitably rise, they’ll abolish the WPG Act themselves. Get all the
glory for freeing us.”
Hermione nods, and Draco watches as her right-hand shakes on the table. It’s slight, but it’s
there. He’s used to looking for the signs; he had watched his mother’s long, pale fingers as
they had trembled. Watched as she pressed them against her thighs to stop the shaking. He
wonders briefly if Granger knows why it’s happening, then decides she must, since she’s
never been able to leave a question unanswered, even when they were children.
“I have to find a loophole within the year,” she announces, drawing him out of his thoughts.
He smirks, “I take it you don’t want to have children, then.”
Their conversation is once again interrupted when their meals arrive, and he gives her time to
collect her thoughts. The pasta is delicious, and he savours it.
“It’s not just that,” she finally whispers, spinning her fork aimlessly in her bowl. “It’s that…
it’s that there’s going to be a lot of marriages that are…”
“Like ours?” His words are acerbic, and he wishes he could claw them back into his mouth.
Instead of tensing for battle, Hermione’s shoulders sag. “No. Worse. At least we’re talking.
At least I don’t think you’re going to murder me in my sleep. Tracey… she didn’t even get
this. She’s not the only one.”
Draco sets his fork down, meal suddenly unappetizing.
“A muggle-born girl… Terry Boudreau or something? Went to Beauxbatons. Anyway, she

got paired with Dolohov’s nephew.” Draco offers quietly.
Hermione flinches when he says Dolohov’s name, and Draco narrows his eyes at the
movement.
“Is he… is he like…” She can’t even finish the sentence. A still-healing wound.
“He wasn’t a Death Eater,” Draco answers, “but he believes the same things. He was in
America for the war.”
Granger wraps her arms around herself again, her food is nearly untouched. Draco wonders if
he shouldn’t share these things with her, if he should discourage her from taking on the
Ministry. If he’s supposed to shield her from this. Isn’t that what a husband should do? Isn’t
that what a good man would do?
Merlin, how he misses his mother. She would have known.
“I know you said he wouldn’t help but have you already tried talking to Kingsley?” Draco
asks, swallowing hard.
Hermione glances up, brown eyes looking hunted. “He won’t help me. Or he can’t. Either
way, he’s a dead end.”
“He’s the Minister.” Draco practically snarls, and he watches as she shrinks back. Her hands
fist into her ribcage tightly.
He sucks in a breath and forces his temper down. “Sorry. Eat your food.”
Granger’s mouth falls open at his apology, and the urge to attack at her surprise is strong.
Before he can, she closes her mouth with an audible snap and uncoils her body, reaching for
her fork.
She takes three bites in heavy silence, and Draco follows her lead. All the words they’re not
saying hang above them; a guillotine awaiting.
Hermione grabs her water glass and takes a long sip, then sets it down with an audible thunk.
“It’s because I already called in my favour,” she whispers to him, as though sharing a secret.
Draco can feel himself frowning and fights to pull his expression back to neutral, fighting for
any composure.
“What do you mean, Granger?”

Her chin lifts, and Draco watches as she shakes off every moment of insecurity that had
plagued her over her dinner. She stares him down, unafraid, and he’s somehow flooded with
an unfamiliar pride.
Brave Gryffindor.
“When the WPG was first announced, I went to Kingsley.”
Draco isn’t stupid. Although he wants to accuse her of trying to change her name, something
about it doesn’t sit right with him. It takes a moment before he realizes what it is, and when
he does, he’s furious.
“Granger,” he spits, “tell me you did not sacrifice yourself for fucking Potter, again.”
Her eyes flicker in surprise, “How… how did you know that?”
“It’s so bloody you,” Draco scowls, “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’re the reason
Potter got his beloved She-Weasel when every other Gryffindor got matched with other
houses. Potter is the reason you got stuck with me.”
“Well, I’m sorry you got stuck with a mudblood, Malfoy.” Granger hisses her words through
her bared teeth, and Draco can feel himself rear backwards as though she’s struck him.
He learned long ago that he had no interest in fighting a losing war. There is nothing more to
say. He presses two crisp 50£ notes flat against the tabletop and stands slowly, weariness
seeping down to his bones. Regret passes over Granger’s face, but he doesn’t give her the
chance to speak.
Draco doesn’t raise his voice, just stares straight into her brown eyes. “I did not say that.
Do not put words in my mouth, Granger.”
“Malfoy, don’t—”
“Owl me when it’s time to get married.” He interrupts her, not looking back as he strides
away from the table.
The Blue Ban
Chapter Notes
Wow! Over 100 comments - folks, you have made my week. Thank you for all of your
kind words of encouragement. This chapter is admittedly short and a little grim, and to
beg your forgiveness of that I intend to post the next chapter tomorrow :) Hope you
enjoy!
October 28th, 1999 - Thursday
George Weasley wakes up with a tremendous headache. It's wholly expected and fully
deserved since he had drank what felt like an entire barrel of mead the night before. He’s
getting used to the feeling; it's the exact same way he has awoken for the past week.
This time, however, it isn’t his bladder that wakes him, but a pounding on the door.
George drags himself from his bed, passing the closed door in his hallway that never opens
anymore, through the kitchen to the front door where the pounding continues. George yanks
the door open, ready to shout at Ron until he bloody leaves him alone, only to stop short
when he sees it isn’t Ron at all.
In front of him is a woman.
Her hair is long and black, loose in soft waves to her hips. In contrast, she wears a long tight
pink dress with black boots, and George squints in the face of the neon colour.
“George,” she says, “good to finally see you. Let me come in, please. I’ll fix you a tea.”
Baffled, George holds the door open and gestures towards the kitchen, as though she’d
somehow get lost in his 600 square foot apartment.
Unerringly she makes her way to the kettle, digging in the tea cupboard before grabbing a tea
bag. She pulls out a purple mug he never uses and his favourite chipped green one, and
George lets himself plop onto the stool by the counter, watching her without feeling.
Not once has she faltered — she prepares a cup of tea: earl grey, a splash of milk, one sugar,
spoon left in. Exactly, exactly, the way he likes it. She slides the chipped green mug towards
him, her expression inscrutable.
He sips his tea mildly and watches her as she watches him. Her eyes are dark, almost as black
on the iris as the pupil, and tilted up in an almond shape. She’s quite lovely, and George is not
ignorant of the fact that he has answered the door in ratty pyjamas and an old robe. He
recognizes her, in a vague-way; as though from another time, in a familiar gold and red room.
In a hall filled with battle, curses and spells flying, smoke and death hanging in the air.
After a moment she sighs and reaches into her small purse, bringing out a small vial and
sliding it across the countertop to rest beside the tea she made him.
“Hangover potion,” she says, the ghost of a smile around her lips.
George reaches for it, un-stoppering and drinking without checking the label or colour. Her
eyes narrow a fraction at his carelessness.
“I see,” she murmurs, and for a frightening moment George wonders if she does.
Before he can discern the answer she is moving past him, walking briskly towards his
bedroom. George nearly falls over trying to get off the stool and follow her, unsure if he
wants to stop her or see what she does.
She pauses at the door that never opens and reaches a hand out, as if to press her fingertips
gently into the wood. Ghosts seem to dance around them both, and she moves impossibly
slowly.
“Don’t,” George snaps as she makes contact. After a moment, she moves on, ignoring his
curt command.
She reaches his room, finding clothes on the floor and an unmade bed. Her wand appears and
before George can say anything his room is tidying itself, and his floor is once more visible.
His clothes fold themselves and return themselves to their drawers — she doesn’t make a
single mistake in their placement.
“I realize I am an inconvenience to your grief,” she says, “but you’ll thank me.”
It finally occurs to George exactly what he’s looking at; her red lips turn up, accompanied by
a single dimple on her cheek, her skin dark and luminous.
“You’re my wife,” George announces.
She smiles, full teeth now. “Not yet, George Weasley.”
“Parvati Patil,” he shakes his head, “you shouldn’t have come.”
She tilts her head, and for a moment George watches her eyes go vacant as if she’s staring
straight through him. Parvati’s hand comes up, flutters by her throat for a moment as though
she might gasp, but no sound emerges.
“I had to,” she tells him, “else you’d be dead by tonight.”
He scowls, “well, then all your problems would be solved, eh?”

Instead of fighting back, she laughs. It’s the first cheerful sound he’s heard in his apartment in
almost two years, and the sound of it almost brings tears to his eyes. God, how he wishes he
knew how to laugh — he seems to have lost the knack for it.
Parvati sobers, but her smile remains. “Hardly all of my problems, George. Hermione would
murder me, for one. Plus, you’ve that meeting with the Chudley Cannons at the end of the
month; Ron can’t do that alone.”
He crosses his arms, flabbergasted at her words. He wonders if he should call her by her first
name since she seems to insist on using his, and the rest of his family’s. He wonders how the
hell she knows his schedule. The dark mood emanating from him doesn’t deter her, and
Parvati steps away, turning back towards the kitchen. He watches her step over the floorboard
that always creaks unerringly and disappear around the corner.
George follows her much more sedately, turning over the interaction in his brain, again and
again, trying to make sense of something nonsensical.
When he reaches the kitchen Parvati is pulling out some sandwich supplies.
“I know what you are,” George says into the silence.
Parvati’s eyes lift to his, dimple showing. “Yes. I knew you would figure it out. I always
knew you were smart, even before I saw you, but you’re fast.”
“You’re a seer.” He says it out loud, mostly to make sure he’s not imagining things. He’s
never met a seer before — there are few witches or wizards who can say they have. They’re
incredibly rare, one in every few generations. George has always questioned if they’re
even real, but there’s no doubting the woman in front of him.
“Yes.” She agrees, dark eyes still laughing.
“The floorboard,” he tells her, “it—”
She laughs, “I’ve seen you dodge it enough.”
“You’ve seen me?” George can feel a question trembling in his throat, a name that no one in
his family seems to want to speak any longer, but he can’t — he can’t get it —
“I didn’t start seeing you until the WPG announcement.” Parvati murmurs, “And leading up
to the Battle I saw… I saw a lot of things. Fred wasn’t one of them. I’m sorry.”
George feels himself sag, whether with relief that she hadn’t stood by and known, or fury that
she’s the first person to say Fred’s name in months.
“Parvati, I’m not exactly top husband material. Bit of a mess, really.”
Parvati’s lips curl into a smirk, an inside joke with herself. She doesn’t correct him, instead,
she puts the finishing touches on a sandwich and hands it to him, an olive branch extended
from her long fingers.
George takes it hesitantly.
“We’re all a bit messy,” she tells him. “But unfortunately, we haven’t got much choice.”
“Isn’t there a way to take down the WPG?” George asks her.
Parvati steeples her fingers under her chin, and George takes the moment to take a bite of the
sandwich. It settles his stomach a bit, and his headache had receded with the hangover
potion.
“Being a seer… it’s not what you’d imagine. I don’t see everything. I see flashes —
and only if they’re connected to me or those I love. I’ve never seen you in any vision until the
WPG letter fell into my hands. I took one look at the black parchment, and suddenly… there
you were.”
George frowns as he chews. “So who do you see, mostly?”
“My family,” she answers, “and big events. Really, really important stuff, sometimes. It takes
decades to master the talent, and I don’t know if there are any others alive to teach me. I
didn’t even see the stupid WPG coming.”
George lifts an eyebrow, “what would you have done if you’d seen it?”
“Tell my family to pull our galleons and run. Hide.”
“Ouch,” George says, only half-serious, “am I so terrible?”
He’s expecting Parvati to laugh, but her face is expressionless. She’s gone a little grey, as
though she might faint. Finally, she looks at him, and her eyes are wet with tears.
“You don’t know,” she answers softly. “There is worse yet, for us, out there. I’m so tired,
George.”
George sets his sandwich down and approaches her, attempting to project comfort and safety
with every fibre of his being. He’s not sure he succeeds; not with his gaunt face and tattered
robe. Not with the stink of alcohol on his breath and the grief of war etched into his skin. Not
with a shadow of twin hanging over his every movement; a dance he cannot complete.
“Parvati,” he murmurs, “tell me, what have you seen?”
She shakes her head, “It’s not so simple. I can’t just… explain for you. There are so many…
there are so many roads and twists. I don’t know!”
George shushes her, “It’s okay, it’s okay. We can figure it out.”
Parvati slams her eyes shut as if to block out the images, but she reaches one trembling hand
out and fists it in his robe. Her knuckles go white.
“Whatever you do, George Weasley, do not wear blue.”

George stares down at her tight grip on his robe, and the ridiculous words echoing in his
ears.
“Alright,” he agrees slowly, “no blue. Easy.”
Parvati opens wide eyes. “Not so simple, then. You won’t die on this day, not any longer. I
fixed it. For now.”
“How was I going to die?”
“Alone,” Parvati answers, voice strong and sure. She pulls no punches and straightens her
spine to brush imaginary lint off her dress.
George wishes he could find his voice. Wishes he could shout or cry or scream, but there is
nothing left inside of him. Alone. Of course, he would die alone; he’s living alone. One half
of a permanently destroyed whole.
Fury — fury that he had been so fucking close. So close to Fred.
Damn her.
The Apology
Chapter Notes
Wow, thank you all so much for your comments. I'm so glad you enjoyed the George
chapter and Parvati's character. Here is the long-awaited follow-up chapter from Draco
& Hermione's disastrous date :) Enjoy.
October 29th, 1999 - Friday
The fire roars across from her, a comforting crackling echoing through the living room every
few minutes. It’s a sound Hermione had enjoyed so long ago; safe in Gryffindor common
room, wrapped up in homework and friends.
Now, her quill races across her parchment, writing notes about every pairing of the WPG she
has heard of so far. The list is long, and there are absolutely no common denominators that
she can see.
Draco and Ron had been correct in a way; the majority or pairings were between different
houses. They matched very few couples within their own house. It seemed limited to George
and Parvati, Harry and Ginny, and Tracey Davis with Marcus Flint.
She needs more information.
Hermione toys with the bracelet around her wrist, thoughts whirling as she does so. Malfoy
has been silent; her windowsill empty of Taffy for the past two days.
Not only does she want a chance to apologize for being rude at dinner, but Hermione is also
not above using Malfoy’s connections for better information. The Malfoy library is vast, and
it contains countless pureblood marriage contract books.
She needs to take down the WPG. Hermione feels it like a brand in her stomach — she can’t
sit by and watch the Ministry force wizards and witches alike into a glorified breeding
program. It’s hardly better than what Voldemort had wanted.
Her quill nearly creaks under the fist she’s making. She’s so fucking sick of fighting to be
free, and every moment she thinks it’s over, she’s shackled again. Her magic quakes
dangerously inside of her, and with every passing hour of each day, Hermione feels more like
a volcano about to erupt.
Kingsley has been absent from the Ministry all week. Hermione is positive he’s floo-
ing straight into his office, but she hasn’t seen him nor heard anything from him since the
night she appeared on his lawn.
It’s no surprise; half the wizarding populace feels betrayed by him (herself included), and half
seem thrilled he finally took action. Something had to be done, apparently — businesses were
failing, citizens were fleeing, birth rates dropping…
Hermione drops her quill and fists her hands into her stomach. It’s an unpleasant habit she’s
picked up, pressing shaking fingers into her ribs. It serves a dual purpose since it calms her
racing heartbeat and reminds her to take a breath.
Forcing herself to be logical — she’s good at this. It’s how she survives.
She has exactly 23 days before she must marry Draco Malfoy. She has exactly 359 days
before she must conceive and be pregnant.
Hermione wonders if Draco sits in his house and calculates days and hours and minutes the
way she does. It’s not even something new; she picked up the habit before the war. 545 days
since Voldemort died. 837 days since her parents knew her name. 2 days and 17 hours since
she put her foot in her mouth and offended her future husband by assuming that underneath
his handsome facade, a prejudiced death eater still lingered.
Hermione lets her quill drop and pulls her feet towards herself, curling back into her
armchair. She sighs heavily; how quickly she had thrown venomous words back at Draco,
when he had been acting somewhat pleasant.
The way he had watched her — especially after she had criticized the war. It had felt like she
was staring in a mirror.
She knows what she has to do. She’s been avoiding it because she’s not entirely sure if she’s
brave enough to actually go through with it. Which is ridiculous because she has literally
ridden on the back of a feral dragon without batting an eye, all while running for her life by
camping across most of Britain, and scheming to take down a murderous megalomaniac.
But…
She swore to herself she would never, never end up in Malfoy Manor again.
Hermione forces herself to stand. She walks woodenly to her small cupboard beside her
fridge that holds her liquor, and takes a shot of muggle whiskey, straight from the bottle.
“Bloody fuck,” she mutters. Liquid courage. She turns to her door and just starts walking.
The door slams behind her as she storms away from her cottage, and before she can think too
hard about it, she fixates her mind on the imposing iron gates she still sees in her nightmares.
For the first time since she first learned to apparate she lands on her hands and knees, nausea
rushing through her. It’s less to do with her apparition skills than it is with the location, and
she glances up to see the gates she had hoped never to see again.
In the setting sunlight, the curled iron posts look somehow less frightening, and Hermione
gasps in a breath until she can clamber to her feet. She’ll be damned if she has to be dragged
inside again; she’ll go on her own two legs or she’ll die trying.
Hermione only makes it halfway down the endless driveway before a small house-elf appears
in front of her. She’s wearing a lovely purple dress and a large grey toque, and she stares up
at Hermione with nearly luminescent blue eyes. Her ears are huge and crooked.
“Hello Mistress,” she greets, “I am Juney.”
“Hello Juney,” Hermione replies, pleased to see that Juney looks well treated. “I was hoping
to speak to Mr. Malfoy.”
Juney’s blue eyes grow wide, “Master Malfoy is not expecting guests. Juney will take
Mistress to the parlour for tea and let him know you have arrived.”
Juney reaches a tiny hand out immediately, and Hermione forces herself not to recoil. She can
vaguely hear herself gasping, as though from far away. “Juney… the Parlour… is that the…
can I go to a smaller room? Somewhere different?”
Juney stares at her, and something in her voice must give her away because the tiny house-
elf’s face softens. “Mistress, Juney can take you to the library.”
Hermione nods, and Juney’s hand snaps forward before she can change her mind, spinning
them away.
The landing is smoother than her last apparition, and Hermione finds herself in a cozy library
room, smaller than she had pictured in her head. It has an enormous desk under a window,
and a warm fire blazing in the corner. Every inch of the room is painted in shades of green,
with shelves of dark wood all over. It gives the overall impression that she has just stepped
straight into a forest.
“This is Master Malfoy’s personal library,” Juney breathes, “Mistress can sit over there.
Juney will bring tea.”
The house-elf disappears, leaving her alone in Malfoy Manor. Hermione finds her way
towards the small armchair by the fire and lets herself sink into it slowly. It’s only then that
she realizes she has her wand clenched so tightly in her hand that it's leaving indents in her
palm and shooting pain up her arm.
Malfoy appears within what feels like seconds, with an expression that Hermione has never
seen on his face before. He somehow looks as though he’s seen a ghost; sallow and paler than
ever.
“Granger?” He murmurs.
“Hi,” Hermione waves half-heartedly, “I came to apologize.”
If anything, he only looks more shocked. He approaches her slowly, stopping at the edge of
his desk. He’s got his hands spread out, palms facing up in supplication.
“Granger,” his voice is low and cautious, “you didn’t have to come here.”
“Am I not welcome?” She snaps without thinking.
He flinches, but instead of running this time he just stares at her, and slowly she realizes she’s
done the exact same thing as the other night.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, “I can’t seem to stop.”
“Stop what?” He laughs. “Assuming the worst of me? Seems like that’s all I’ve ever given
you cause to do.”
Hermione swallows, “Yes, well. I still want to apologize. I do forgive you for all the years of
being a prat, and now I am trying to start over.”
For the very first time since Hermione met Draco Malfoy at eleven years old, he looks
vulnerable and sad. He drifts towards her slowly and crouches down in front of her, closer
than he’s ever come. She’s looking down into his eyes; something she’s never done before.
“Granger,” he murmurs, “we can’t start over.”
She flinches, “What? But I thought—”
“Granger, you’re shaking.”
Hermione scowls, “So what?”
“So,” Draco explains, voice still unnervingly gentle, “you are obviously terrified to be here. I
don’t blame you. You’re wearing your pyjamas, Granger. You don’t even have that little
beaded bag you bring everywhere. Did you apparate here without thinking?”
Hermione shuts her eyes so she doesn’t have to stare at him. He sees everything.
“I had to apologize.” Her reason sounds more like an excuse with every passing moment.
Draco nods, “I accept your apology.”
“Then why can’t we start over?” Even to her own ears, she sounds like she’s begging. She
wonders what Malfoy thinks of her, wearing her favourite pyjamas covered in tabby cats and
trembling. She’s hardly the picture of a brave Gryffindor. Hardly a war hero.
“Hermione, this war… we can’t just start over. We are the people the war made us to be. We
can only go on from here.”
She opens her eyes to meet his. It’s the first time she’s ever, ever heard him say her first
name. She likes how it sounds on his lips; a benediction hanging between them. She didn’t
even know Draco Malfoy could sound so gentle.
They are interrupted by a quiet crack to announce Juney’s arrival. The house-elf sets a tray of
tea and cups on the desk, complete with a small plate of cookies.
“Thank you, Juney,” Hermione whispers. There’s so little air inside the room.
Juney smiles at her, “Mistress is most welcome.”
“Juney,” Draco suddenly says, “if Miss Granger appears here again, you can bring her
straight into my library. She’s welcome.”
Juney’s wide blue eyes turn towards Hermione as if assessing her. She bows again and then
disappears.
“You didn’t thank her,” Hermione says.
“What?”
“For the tea. You didn’t thank her.”
Malfoy huffs out a breath of air. “She’s a house-elf, Granger. She doesn’t need me to thank
her.”
Hermione frowns at his words. “It’s still nice.”
A smile spreads across Draco’s face, and for a moment she thinks he might laugh at her, but
he only stands up and moves to pour a cup of tea. He pours two cups and adds milk and one
sugar to one of them, bringing it back to her.
“You should know by now, Granger. I’m not nice.”
Hermione sniffs. “I don’t believe you’re as heartless as you say, Draco Malfoy. How do you
know how I take my tea?”
Draco freezes for the smallest moment, then immediately summons a chair to sit beside her
and plops down. “Granger, you’re hardly the first person in the world to like milk and sugar
in tea.”
She scowls, but she lets it go. She sips at the cup of tea slowly, savouring the warmth and
comfort. It seems ludicrous; less than an hour ago she imagined returning to Malfoy Manor
and had barely been able to string a sentence together, and now she is comfortably enjoying a
cup of tea inside.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want Juney to take me to the parlour.” Hermione confesses.
Draco’s eyes find hers, flickering silver in the firelight. “You could have gone to the parlour.
It’s quite nice… near the front of the house, with lots of couches.”
“I was afraid… I was afraid that it was—” she can’t even get the words out before Malfoy is
interrupting her.
“It’s not,” he bites out. “That room… it doesn’t exist anymore. After… well, we closed off
parts of the Manor. Renovated everything else.”
“You and your mother?” Hermione asks.
Draco’s lips go pinched, but he answers her with a slow nod.
“I was very sorry for your loss,” Hermione murmurs. It’s true, even if there was no love lost
between her and the Malfoy matriarch.
Draco sips his tea slowly, ignoring her for a moment. Silence reigns other than the crackling
of the fire. Hermione wonders if she made a mistake bringing up Narcissa Malfoy.
“Thank you.” He finally says. “I am afraid our wedding might be a bit on the small side
though. I’m not very popular, you know?”
He says it deprecatingly, but Hermione learned to read between the lines in her second year at
Hogwarts. He has no family to speak of, and the vast majority of the wizarding world
despises the name Malfoy on principal alone.
“That’s better for me,” Hermione says softly, “as long as you let Ron and Harry come.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays at his lips. “I suspect I’d never hear the end of it
from you if half of Gryffindor wasn’t able to attend.”
His words startle a laugh out of her, and it seems to relieve Malfoy. He summons a chair to sit
beside her, and does so quietly, watching her as she tries to reign in her chuckles. Tries to
regulate her breathing, which has somehow gone a little sporadic.
“So we’re still on, then?” He asks, finally.
Hermione nods solemnly, “I suppose we are.”
Malfoy smirks and raises his teacup in a mock toast. “To the future Lady Malfoy. When shall
the date be?”
Her breath catches at the words ‘Lady Malfoy’. It’s the first time she’s ever realized she will
be part of the Malfoy family. She’s never even considered being anything other than Granger.
Muggles often keep their last names, though it’s not a practice the wizarding world has ever
adopted. She supposes she could be one of the first… stay Hermione Granger forever.
Though Granger means nothing to her any longer. She is the last one — the final Granger.
There is nothing to tie her to her surname.
Draco seems to hear her thoughts, “Granger… you don’t have to be Lady Malfoy.”
Hermione watches him, watches how it pains him to make this concession. He knows his
name is tarnished; that no sane person would tie themselves to it. For a moment, one
hysterical moment, she feels victorious. Now he must know how it feels for his name to
be dirty.
She reigns her thoughts in; terror floats amongst her veins. How vicious her thoughts can turn
in an instant. How bloodthirsty she has become.
Perhaps the name Malfoy suits her.
“Lady Malfoy is fine,” she breathes, “the name is irrelevant, the person is what is important.”
Draco says nothing, so Hermione summons her strength.
“I know who I am.” She tells him, firm and proud.
Still, he watches, silver eyes taking in every atom of her being. She wonders if he can tell
she’s lying. If he knows just by staring at her fingers and her eyes and her stupid cat pyjamas
that she’s lost. That she’s been lost for 932 days.
“As do I, Granger.”
They stare at each other. Hermione wants to pick apart his statement; does he think he
knows her?
Her teacup is empty and rattling a bit in its saucer, and though the library is warm and
welcoming, she is suddenly hyper-aware that she is in Malfoy Manor. Draco must watch the
emotions flicker over her face because he reaches out and takes her teacup from her gently.
“I want to go home, now,” Hermione tells him; breathless and near-begging.
He stands and gently reaches for her hands, twining his long fingers around them. Her hands
are clammy and she’s almost embarrassed, but he pulls her up to standing before she can
yank away from his grip.
“I don’t know where you live, Granger. Can you apparate yourself safely?”
She closes her eyes; she’s liable to splinch herself, but she’s also not willing to share her
cottage yet. Maybe not ever.
“Can… can you take me to the coffee shop?”
He doesn’t question why she would want to go there; he doesn’t even bring up the fact that it
may not even be open and she’s still in her pyjamas. Draco Malfoy, the childhood bully, and
pureblooded Death Eater who had haunted her nightmares for years, gently lets his hands
wrap around her elbows, drawing her close to him. He apparates easily, and they land in the
alleyway that is becoming more familiar by the day, the smell of coffee permeating the air.
He steadies her and then lets her go, backing up a step.
Hermione breathes deeply and opens her eyes to see him watching her. His face is impassive;
oh, but she is seeing him now, and there is a hint of worry.
“You can’t come to my house.” It’s an apology and a threat, all rolled into one.
Draco says, “that’s fine. We can meet at coffee shops and restaurants.”
“Or your house.” Hermione stiffens her spine and stands up straight, annoyed that she still
only reaches his collarbone at her full height.
“Granger,” Malfoy sighs, “I don’t think you should come to my house.”
Hermione scowls darkly, “I’m not some wilting damsel, Malfoy. I realize I didn’t exactly
think tonight through, but I’ll be fine in future. Now I know what to expect.”
“Granger,” he snaps, “it’s not because I think you’re weak, or that you’re not welcome.”
“So what is it then? Why am I being banned from your Manor, if I’m to be your wife?” She
spits the words like poisoned daggers.
Malfoy runs a hand through his white-blonde hair. “I was there, Granger. My house is toxic
— it’s bad for you. You don’t have to go there. You never have to go there, not if you don’t
want to.”
She sags briefly. Hermione realizes she’s fighting with Malfoy for no reason. She hates
Malfoy Manor. He’s offering her an out, and she’s arguing.
“Sorry,” — she waves a hand through the air, exhausted at the idea of another fucking
apology to Draco Malfoy — “I don’t want to go there. You’re right. I don’t want to argue.
What about when we’re married?”
Malfoy steps towards her, still farther than he had been in the comfort of his own library.
“Let’s worry about it later. We’ll live somewhere else. Your place, maybe. But for now, you
need to go home. Do you think you can make it?”
Hermione summons her strength to nod. She waves goodbye half-heartedly, not even uttering
another word before she disappears.
The last thing she sees is Draco Malfoy frowning, one hand slightly outstretched as if to grab
her.
Wrackspurt Meeting
Chapter Notes
First of all, thank you ALL for your comments and kudos, I am blown away and so
grateful for all your kind words. Secondly, I apologize for the delay in this chapter!
Nano got the better of me, I fear, but the GOOD news is, this story is sitting at about
70k, and will probably wrap up around 100k, so lots to go. Thanks for being patient with
the slow burn, I promise it will pay off! SO glad you're enjoying the other characters as
well. Enjoy the chapter!
October 30th, 1999 - Saturday
“Luna, I really think I should have stayed at home,” Theo says for probably the fifth time that
evening. Despite his words, he continues to follow the halo of blonde hair in front of him.
She’s moving quickly, eager to see her friends.
Oblivious to the glares of everyone in the Leaky Cauldron, watching them.
Theo knows the looks aren’t aimed at her. At best, Luna is publicly regarded as a hero who
fought in the war. At worst, people think she’s odd.
He, on the other hand, might as well be a mass murderer for all the vitriol his name brings
upon him.
“Luna,” he says again, half-begging.
She finally stops and turns to stare at him. Her hair is down and loose today, no knots or
braids to be found, though her shirt does somehow resemble a patchwork quilt. She’s got
denim overalls on top of the ensemble, and she’s hand-stitched small sunflowers in gold
thread down the sides of each leg. All in all, it’s rather adorable. Far less showy than her
mirror dress.
“Theo,” she grins, “you have to come. I want you to meet my friends.”
Theo can hardly deny her, beaming in her exuberance. Still, he wonders how much her
friends are looking forward to meeting him.
She leans forward suddenly and presses against him. It’s not quite a hug, and Theo feels
himself smiling at her almost unwillingly, but it’s hard to ignore how people are pointing and
staring.
Luna Lovegood and the Death Eater. He can almost see the headlines now.
“Theo,” her voice draws him back to reality, “people have always stared. It doesn’t bother
me. At least this time I got to choose the reason they’re staring.”
“Luna, it’s not exactly the same thing. People were staring because they just didn’t know you.
Now they’re staring because you’re chummy with a murderer.”
Blue eyes, solemn in the noise of the Leaky Cauldron. “Are you a murderer, Theodore Nott?”
“No, Luna, no, you know that—”
“Then it’s not different, is it?” She interrupts. “They still think I’m weird. Now they just think
I’m weird because I like you.”
He gives up trying to tell her what to do, and somehow she must sense it because she grins at
him. Her hand reaches out and grabs his, in full view of anyone who is looking. He can
almost feel the hair-raising on his neck; there’s no doubt they’ll be all over the Daily Prophet
tomorrow with this display.
With any luck, the Prophet will correctly assume they are part of the WPG and being forced
to marry. They reveal the same story each day as new couples appear — the newest being
Dean Thomas and Katie Bell, who despite being friendly acquaintances and housemates,
were important enough to warrant a spot on the front page.
The golden trio finally comes into view and Theo can feel his stomach sink as they all glance
at Luna and smile, and their smiles turn to shock when they see her towing him along.
“You didn’t tell them?” He hisses quietly, loud enough for Luna to hear. She just giggles and
squeezes his hand, and Theo is hardly reassured.
Surprisingly, it’s Hermione Granger who recovers first and stands, pulling Luna into a hug
and then extending her hand.
“Theodore Nott, I’m Hermione Granger.”
Theo takes her hand as though he’s grabbing a viper. “Call me Theo. I know who you are, of
course. It’s good to meet you.”
She sits back down and gestures to the benches beside her, so Luna slides in, leaving him on
the edge. He’s grateful she at least realized he wanted access to an easy escape.
“Nott,” a voice distracts him, and suddenly he is staring at a face he’s seen a million times
before.
“Harry Potter,” he says.

“These are my friends. Harry, Ron, and Hermione.” Luna announces, just a beat late into the
awkward silence. “This is Theo. My fiancee.”
Ron Weasley goes pale in the wake of her words, though none of them look particularly
surprised. Theo realizes Draco must have told Hermione already, and she had shared the
news of Luna and his match with her Gryffindor friends.
“Oh, Luna,” Harry breathes, “I’m so sorry about this terrible law.”
Luna smiles, “It is terrible, Harry, but don’t be sorry for me. We’re happy.”
Ron’s pale face takes on a shade of green, and Theo’s mild humour turns into sour anger.
He knows he’s not good enough for Luna Lovegood, Weasley doesn’t have to be
so obvious about it.
“That’s great, Luna,” Hermione grins, “I’m glad you thought to bring Theo tonight. I’ve been
wanting to meet you.”
She directs the end of her sentence to him, and he watches her. She’s fiddling with a bracelet
on her wrist. He can tell by look alone that it’s worth a small fortune, and it isn’t a hard leap
to know who gave it to her.
He glances around the table, “It’s pretty busy in here. Lots of ears.”
“You can speak freely,” Harry Potter replies, “we’ve cast a muffliato.”
“Sneaky Gryffindors,” he appraises the golden trio more closely. He supposes he shouldn’t be
surprised they show common sense; they did take down the Dark Lord.
“Where’s Draco?” Luna asks suddenly, turning to Hermione.
Hermione visibly squirms, “I uh… I didn’t think to invite him.”
Luna frowns. “Oh dear. Next time I suppose.”
“Let’s hope note,” Weasley mutters, though it’s obvious everyone heard his words.
Hermione scowls and shoots a dark glare at the redhead. “Be nice, Ronald.”
Ron rolls his eyes, but his expression softens slightly at her admonishment, as though he had
been expecting it and it comforts him.
Theo takes it all in silently. It’s there in every moment between them. Thousands of hours of
history shared within a glance or simple word.
“I’m going to the loo,” Luna announces, “I’ll bring you back a drink, Theo.”
He stands to let her out numbly, panicked that his only ally in this mess is disappearing, but
she’s gone before he can even think of a way for her to stay. He sits back down slowly,
muscles creaking with tension.
“She’s as mad as ever,” Ron Weasley mutters.
Suddenly, Theo isn’t afraid anymore. He’s angry. “What did you just say?”
Ron’s head snaps up and looks at him as if surprised that he would even speak to him. He
flushes with what could be embarrassment or anger.
“I didn’t mean it badly,” he explains, “you know how Luna is. Or maybe you don’t, yet.
Anyway, she’s a bit — ”
Theo cuts him off, “Luna is smart, and she’s kind, and she brought me here by telling me I
was meeting her friends, but perhaps she is wrong. Is she wrong?” His voice goes wintry and
dangerous near the end, and it doesn’t escape his notice that Harry Potter has one hand under
the table. He would bet his entire fortune he has at least two wands trained on him.
“No,” Hermione snaps, both hands above the table and extended to placate, “no, she’s our
friend. Ron just… has a way with words, sometimes. Ron?”
Ron heaves a breath and slowly returns both hands to his pint glass. “Sorry. Luna is great.”
Harry Potter doesn’t move, but Theo doesn’t blame him.
“So you like her, then?” Hermione says into the awkward stalemate.
Theo turns a sneer on her; secret Ravenclaw or not, he long ago perfected the art of
condescension. Draco Malfoy is his best friend, after all. He’s about to deliver a scathing
remark about the state of Hermione Granger’s fabled intellect when Luna’s voice drifts across
the table.
“Oh dear,” she says, “I think I left too early. Far too many Wrackspurts here.”
She’s holding one firewhiskey with ice, and one oddly shaped glass boot with the brightest
neon pink liquid he’s ever seen inside of it.
He stands abruptly, letting her take her spot back in the booth, and she slides the firewhiskey
over in front of him. He takes a sip and then nearly chokes when he feels her gentle hand
press onto his knee under the table. It takes every ounce of his Slytherin sneakiness to
maintain his expression, and her palm burns on his leg, both a comfort and a distraction.
“Luna,” Harry restarts the conversation tentatively, “and Theo. Ginny and I will be
marrying on November 6th at the Burrow. You’re both invited.”
Luna bounces lightly in her seat, a smile spreading across her face. “That’s wonderful,
Harry.”
“Yes,” Hermione agrees, “it’s definitely a bright spot in a dark month.”
“We can go, right, Theo?” Luna turns to him, blue eyes lit up. The very last thing in the entire
universe he wants to do is go to Harry Potter’s wedding at the Weasley household, but he’s
hardly about to say no to her.
“If you wish,” he replies, and she turns back to her neon pink drink with an excited laugh.
“Malfoy will be there,” Harry adds, watching Theo, “maybe. Hermione, did you mention it to
him yet?”
Hermione flushes. “Not yet! But I’m going to — I just… haven’t gotten around to it.”
It’s a paltry excuse, and judging by Ron’s skeptical look, the brains of the trio rarely
procrastinates, so this is out of character for her. Theo watches as she tugs at her curly hair on
one side, nerves playing out on her face for all to see. Gryffindors — so transparent.
“You should invite him,” he says, without thinking. “He’ll go with you.”
Hermione’s eyes snap to his, the same golden brown as his firewhiskey. “I… I will. I’ll write
to him.”
“Speaking of writing,” Ron Weasley announces, “Hannah and I finally got together
yesterday.”
Hermione grins, “Finally! How did it go?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Ron’s shoulders slump. “She was polite, and
we’re friends, but we both know that this is killing her. It’s killing her.”
Hermione’s face is ashen, but it’s Harry who speaks. “I can only imagine. I’m… I’m so sorry,
mate.”
Theo watches Ron’s misery etched across his face. It’s obvious he detests the WPG, but
more surprisingly, Theo realizes that he hates it more on his future wife’s behalf than his
own.
“I don’t… I don’t know who Hannah is?” Theo replies quietly.
Hermione turns to him, “Hannah Abbott. She was in Hufflepuff. Neville Longbottom and her
have been dating for a while before they announced the WPG.”
“That’s shite,” Theo replies. No one argues.
The rest of the evening follows in a more comfortable pattern; the Gryffindors bicker and
laugh while Luna watches them with bright eyes, and Theo watches Luna. Her hand remains
warm and gentle on his knee, and after an eternity or three seconds, he slips his palm down to
cover it. She twines their fingers together under the table, and Theo thinks he could withstand
any amount of Gryffindors for her.
They say their goodbyes quite late, and Hermione hugs Luna tightly before extending her
hand for Theo to shake.
Her scars are glaringly obvious under the table light, and Theo has to force himself to look
away from the word carved into her arm. Draco had mentioned it once, during the war, when
they had found an old bottle of firewhiskey and gotten supremely drunk. The night is hazy,
but he remembers the look of stark misery on his best friend's face as he described his aunt’s
actions.
Hermione Granger has been on the banned list of subjects between them since before the war
ever began. Nothing has changed; even with the forward marching of the Wizarding
Population Growth Act and their impending marriage. She’s a sore spot; a wound that has yet
to heal in Draco Malfoy, and Theo doubts it ever will. Especially after their looming
marriage. Especially after the inevitable divorce.
“Thanks for inviting us out,” Theo says, dredging the words up from somewhere deep inside.
Harry and Ron nod at him, a bit begrudgingly.
Theo finds himself on the street outside the Leaky Cauldron, Luna close behind him but not
touching. The golden trio has already apparated away, and the night seems quiet without
them.
“Are you ready?” Luna’s voice is gentle, and a smile still plays about her lips. She had fun
tonight; it’s obvious in the way the slightest hint of a dimple shows on her cheek.
“For what?” He asks.
“To go home?” She tilts her head at him, and pleasure rushes through him at the thought that
she considers Nott Manor home.
“Don’t… don’t you want to go to your flat?”
She frowns briefly, “No.”
Theo doesn’t let her even question herself. He lunges forward and wraps his arms around her,
and they are apparating instantly. If Luna Lovegood is mad enough to think of Nott Manor as
home, as Theo Nott as the man she chooses, well, who is he to stop her?
They land in his study — he can apparate anywhere on the property through the blood wards;
guests have to go to the front door. Soon enough, Luna will be part of the blood wards and
have the same free rein as him.
She doesn’t extricate herself from his arms when they arrive, either. She lingers, her
fingertips splayed over his chest. He tightens his grip.
“I had fun tonight.” She tells him, a little soft, a little unsure.
Theo can feel himself half smiling at her. “Me too.”
She reaches a hand up to press her fingers gently to his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw.
Theo finally lets go of her to reach up and clasp her face, mirroring her actions.
“I don’t want to go home,” Luna tells him.
“You don’t have to,” he replies, “just stay here. Stay as long as you want.”
She laughs, and his entire world brightens. “Stay forever?”
“Sure,” he agrees easily. “I’m going to kiss you, now.”
She’s still laughing as he presses his lips into her smile.

Malfoy Manor
Chapter Notes
Hello! This chapter is shorter, so I will be posting the next chapter probably tomorrow to
make up for it! Hope you are all having a good week :)
October 31st, 1999 - Sunday
Taffy alights on his perch beside Draco’s desk. His library is cozy, the fire blazing to combat
the window that has been left open for his owl.
“Hi Taf,” Draco greets the owl, running his fingers gently down the closest wing. Taffy
preens under the attention, ducking his feathered head to press into Draco’s hand. It’s easy for
Draco to lets the owl do so, content to wash him in affection.
The letter affixed to Taffy’s leg can wait a few moments longer.
He’s nervous — despite having no real reason to be. He had been the first to write since
Granger had abruptly shown up at Malfoy Manor in pyjamas two days prior. He had felt
somehow he owed her that. She had dragged herself, obviously unwillingly, to his house,
to apologize. The way she had looked; half panicked and crazed, as though Bellatrix could be
hiding in any shadow.
So he had sent a note upon waking — not even a letter. A simple question about grabbing
coffee at a later date was hardly worthy of the name.
Finally, Taffy has had enough of his attention and shoves his talons out, allowing Draco to
take her response. His owl promptly curls his head away, ignoring his master.
Draco unrolls the parchment, watching as Granger’s messy scrawl hits his eyes. It had been a
surprise the first time to realize that she was messy. It was as though her hand couldn’t keep
up with her thoughts; each letter Draco opened covered in smudges and crossed-out phrases,
so at odds with his perfect penmanship. It’s almost endearing.
‘ To Malfoy,
I’d like that. I also would like to ask if I could borrow any books you may have on pureblood
marriage contracts. The older the better. Would that be alright?
I met Theo Nott yesterday. Luna brought him out to meet up with Ron, Harry and I. We were
surprised to see him, but it went well. He does seem to like her — you were right. They
really… they really seem like the WPG isn’t a problem for them. As though they’d marry each
other either way. It was… odd, but nice, I guess.
As well. I would like to invite you to Harry’s wedding. It’s on November 6th. I was hoping you
would attend with me. Let me know if that works for you.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger ’
Draco reads the letter twice and then nearly laughs. He wonders what he might have said if
he knew one day he would not only be attending Harry Potter’s wedding, but he’d be
attending as Hermione Granger’s date.
He summons two different rolls of parchment and immediately begins writing a sarcastic
missive to Theo, asking about how his night with the Gryffindors and his future bride had
gone. Though he knows he’s being a bit of a prat, Theo knows him better than anyone, and
he’ll understand.
“Juney,” Draco says.
His house-elf appears instantly, blue eyes staring. She’s the only house-elf he’s ever seen with
such vivid blue eyes. House-elves aren’t very common outside the walls of Hogwarts, so
Draco hasn’t seen many. Growing up, the Malfoy’s had always had three elves, which was
more than most households could claim. One from the Malfoy line to serve Lucius; Dobby,
set free by Potter in their second year. Then two from the Black line — one who had
disappeared suspiciously under Bellatrix’s reign.
Juney, however, had been a Black family elf for years, sheltered from Bellatrix by serving his
mother. Narcissa had been fond of the little elf and had demanded no one else call upon her.
Juney had doted on his mother until the day she died, and now the elf continued to serve him
as the last living Black.
“Master Malfoy,” Juney greets, bowing low. Her huge ears are held back by a bright pink
knitted bow.
“Could you take this to the Nott household?” Draco extends the letter he’s written for Theo.
“You may visit with Thelma for a while if you wish.”
Juney takes the letter and smiles tremulously. “Thank you, Master. Juney misses Thelma.
Juney won’t stay long.”
Draco waves her off, and she disappears.
‘You didn’t thank her.’
Draco presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to force Granger’s words from two
nights prior out of his brain. Juney knows he finds her helpful; she has served his family for
years and is glad to serve him now after his mother has passed. There is no need for thanks.
He shakes his head as if to slough the thoughts away, grabbing his wand to accio a few tomes
he knows are on his shelf. It’s hardly a comprehensive pureblood study, but Granger can start
with the three he has handy.
He puts a weightless charm on them and slides them into a bag. Picking up a quill, he heaves
a sigh.
‘Dear Hermione, ’
He scratches it instantly, a muttered incendio reducing the parchment to ashes.
One more time.
‘ Dear Granger —
I have included a few books that may be helpful. I have more, so let me know what you may
need. As for Theo, well, I think you may be right. When you finally tear this whole WPG thing
apart, they may just stick together. It’s bloody mental, but I suppose there are worse things.
Although I never thought I would see the day I would attend Potty and Weasel’s wedding, I
would be happy to be your date.
Speaking of dates. Do you want to set one?
Regards,
D.M’
He hates the dear with every fibre of his being, but he knows that his mother would
have been horrified if he continued to address letters to his future wife with ‘to’.
He supposes there are worse things — Granger, despite being a know-it-all and a bit of a
nightmare growing up, isn’t entirely horrible, as it turns out. One ‘dear’ is hardly going to kill
him.
Taffy, however, looks positively murderous at the idea of another flight. Still, his faithful owl
allows him to tie the letter, and the lightened bag to her talons and takes off with only a single
resentful hoot.
Draco spends the next hour summoning books from his shelves, reading up on pureblood
marriage laws and wondering exactly what Granger is looking for. What loophole does she
think she’ll be able to find?
Draco is about to retire to his room where he knows he’ll chase sleep. It’s rare that he gets
enough rest — the Manor, once his beloved childhood home, is empty and gargantuan. His
mother’s presence had filled up so many of the rooms; after the war, it had appeared she was
the only spot of warmth left in the entire estate.
Without her, Draco is a caretaker in a graveyard of memories.
He hears a gentle hoot as his owl alights on his perch, annoyance easy to spot in his brilliant
orange eyes. The letter on Taffy’s leg comes away easily, and the owl is smart enough to fly
away instantly, seeking a roost far away from demanding masters and return letters.
‘ To Malfoy,
Thank you for the books — I truly appreciate it.
Yes — let’s set a date. Can we discuss it tomorrow at coffee? Java Corner again — 5PM?
Thank you for agreeing to come to the wedding. You should know I promised to hex you if you
are a prat; so please, try to restrain yourself on that day.
Yours,
Granger ’
Draco realizes he’s tracing the letters: y - o - u - r - s.
He can’t imagine Hermione Granger being owned by anyone or anything — the WPG,
abhorrent for so many reasons, is suddenly something he hates fucking fiercely.
He summons another book, forgetting entirely about sleep.

A Better Wife
Chapter Notes
I'm so glad you all enjoyed the letters back and forth in the previous chapter. Honestly,
this entire story idea was based on a desire to write a fic about Draco and Hermione
sending letters back and forth, and just spiralled into this monster from there.
Anyway, this is possibly my favourite chapter to date... so ENJOY! Your next update
will come next Monday, and we'll be finally enjoying a wedding (though which one
remains to be seen!)
November 1st, 1999 - Monday
Java Corner is busy.
He slips inside easily, heading to the counter without hesitation. Granger is nowhere to be
seen, though he is a few minutes early. He orders two vanilla lattes and settles himself into
the same seat he chose the first time they met. Back to the corner, two exits in sight, his wand
pressed against his leg.
He sips his latte quietly, and he waits. He’s good at waiting; at making himself invisible, no
movements or twitching to give him away. The skill had been invaluable with the Dark Lord
only a few moments away for the entire war.
He doesn’t begin to worry until he glances at his watch and sees Granger is ten minutes late.
He’s known her for years, and despite their first meeting when she had been a few minutes
behind, he’s never known her to be anything less than punctual.
It hits fifteen minutes past, and Draco is debating on drinking the latte he ordered for her and
then leaving when she finally appears.
She looks… well, her hair is bushier than he’s seen it since the third year. Curls reckless and
springing straight out into the sky. She’s got dark bags under her bright brown eyes, and
though she’s sporting a half-smile, she looks like hell.
“What happened to you?”
She frowns but sits in the chair in front of him all the same. He notices she twitches herself
towards the window, turning so she can see the entrance out of the corner of her eye. She’d
done the same the first time they’d met as well, keeping the exit in her eyesight.
“I beg your pardon,” she snaps. “Nothing happened, though I am sorry for being late.”
Draco huffs, “you look like you got in a fight with a bird. Your hair is insane.”
She flushes, a splotch of pink appearing high on her cheekbones, and Draco drinks in the
sight of her.
“You’re an arse, Draco Malfoy,” she hisses, “I… I just lost track of time.”
He realizes he’s antagonizing her, and though he appreciates how flustered she gets, it’s
probably better not to insult your future wife’s appearance. He heaves a sigh.
“No, I mean… you look fine, I didn’t mean it was bad.” He backtracks, sliding the latte a
little closer to her in a peace offering. “I just haven’t seen your hair so… well, curly. Since
school.”
She glares at him, and after a tense moment she reaches out to take her latte. She sips it,
finding it lukewarm, and a bit of rage drains from her expression.
“Sorry I kept you waiting.”
He waves the apology away. “It’s fine, I hope it’s not too cold.”
“It’s good,” she takes another sip, her nose crinkling in a way he’s embarrassed to admit
is cute. “I didn’t sleep very much.”
“You don’t say,” he mutters, and though she scowls, she doesn’t reply. Instead, she opens the
beaded bag he’s seen her carry everywhere and summons out three familiar books.
“Your books,” she slides them towards him, “they were helpful. I don’t suppose you have
more?”
He can feel his jaw go slack, and it takes immense self-control for him to maintain his
expression. He grabs the books and shrinks them down, sliding them into his jacket pocket.
“You… you finished them?”
“Obviously,” she sniffs, “which is why I look frightful, I’m sure.”
He wisely decides not to comment on her appearance again, and instead asks, “What did you
find out?”
She lights up —
It’s exactly the way he remembers it.
Her hands come forward as if she can physically push the information at him faster than
explain, and her eyes are sparkling. She’s half-smiling, even as she speaks; the pure joy of
knowledge and learning so obvious in her expression.
He’s watched her do this a thousand times. Since that very first charms class; Flitwick had
levitated a feather, and there she was, glowing brighter than anything he’d ever seen.
“Malfoy, are you even listening?”
Her voice drags him back to reality, and she’s scowling at him with another familiar
expression. Annoyance paints across her face, covering years of hurt. She curls in on herself
a little, shoulders hunching as if to take a blow. He wonders how many times she has tried to
explain something, only to be torn down for being a swot. How many times was
it him making her feel inferior? Making her feel stupid for liking things.
Almost unconsciously, he reaches out and traps her hand on the table. It’s steady, for
once. Her glare is interrupted to stare at their fingers together.
“I’m sorry.” He sincerely is. “Tell me again.”
When she looks at him this time, she looks scared. It hits him like a fucking sledgehammer.
“Did you know that the Parkinson family is considered one of the best potioneering family's
in Britain?”
“Yes,” he frowns, “I did, actually. Why?”
“Neville Longbottom is the best herbologist I’ve ever seen aside from Pomona Sprout.
Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about herbologists abroad… but does it seem… convenient to
you that she got placed with him?”
He can feel his brain kicking into overdrive; the same way she has probably spent the past
day. Though no one would suspect it, Pansy was also an excellent herbology student. If
Neville Longbottom was as good as Granger said, they would be a talented team.
If they managed not to kill each other first.
“Okay,” he allows, “that is… interesting. But what about the other matches?”
The fire returns to her eyes, “I can’t figure it out. Your books didn’t mention everyone. Did
you know the Nott’s were renowned for Thestral breeding?”
“That was ages ago,” Draco warns. “Before Theo’s father got a hold of the business and sold
it all away.”
“Luna… Luna is very good with creatures,” Hermione mutters, “I know she sometimes
seems to talk about make-believe, but she knows her stuff, mostly. I’ve seen entire herds of
Thestrals follow her willingly.”
"That’s not enough evidence,” he argues, “to say that the Ministry is rigging these marriages
for business purposes.”
She shrugs, “Isn’t it? They say they match us based on our compatibility in personality and
magic. What does that even mean? Why won’t they share the exact process? Kingsley needs
the economy to pick up, and what better way than to pair up the perfect business associates?”
Draco scowls. “Give me another example.”
“I don’t have enough information,” she allows, “Dean Thomas and Katie Bell are matched.”
Draco winces at the memory of Katie, but he nods. “So they are.”
“They’re both excellent Quidditch players. In fact, Katie plays for the Falmouth Falcons.”
“That hardly makes for an economic business powerhouse,” Draco scoffs, “there’s a lot
of people good with a broom out there.”
Hermione smirks, “True. But did you know the Bell’s go way back? All the way to
the Ollerton’s?”
Draco gapes, “Are you telling me that the Bell’s are somehow related to the Cleansweep
Broom Company?”
“I’m telling you they’re a silent partner and own over 50% of the company.”
Draco can hardly do anything but stare at her. She looks triumphant, sipping her latte and
telling him information he should know. He should know, because Malfoy Estate holds half
of Nimbus Racing Broom Company, and the only competition they have is the Cleansweep
Broom Company and the Comet Trading Company.
“How do you know this?” He demands.
Hermione clasps her hands and stares at him. Her eyes are golden in the sunlight streaming in
from the window, and she looks ready to battle.
“I can’t tell you.” She says.
He takes her in; the way she’s ready to defend this information. The way she’s ready for an
attack, ready for him to doubt her.
“Are you positive the information is true?” He asks.
She nods.
“Alright,” he sighs. “You may be onto something. We’ll keep finding things to link the other
couples. Tell me, though. What about your Weasel and the girl?”
“Ron and Hannah?” She asks, surprised.
“Sure,” he finishes his now-cold latte.
Her brow crinkles. “Honestly? That’s where I’m stuck. There are so many pairings that seem
to lean towards some influential match, but there are some that have no rhyme or reason. Ron
gets Hannah… they’re both nice, but I can’t find anything else. What am I missing? Why
are both Greengrass’ tied to Weasley’s? Isn’t that odd? Am I even making sense, Malfoy?”
Draco laughs almost unwillingly at her rambling. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Help me,” she asks, suddenly. Reaching her own hand forward to touch the back of his. She
doesn’t linger, just presses gentle fingertips to his skin. The bracelet shines from her wrist.
“With what?”
She laughs, “With taking down the WPG? You’re smart, Malfoy. You can help me. Don’t
deny it… plus, I know your library is huge.”
“Well, size matters,” he jokes, waiting for the inevitable blush.
She goes scarlet, but snaps, “Books, Malfoy, I am talking about books.”
“Say I help you,” he says, “what’s in it for me?”
Hermione Granger scrunches her face at him, exasperated. She slams the last sip of her latte,
and then nearly crunches the cup in her fist as she sets it down. It’s easy to tell she’s annoyed,
and it’s such a relief. The last time he had seen her, she had been scared.
“What’s in it for you?” She folds her arms across her chest, “How about you get to rid
yourself of an unwanted wife? How about you get to be free again?”
Instantly his good humour is gone. He leans forward intensely and watches as her pupils
dilate and her hand snaps to her pocket, ready to draw if he’s aggressive. Battle ready.
“Free?” He spits. “There is no such thing. Not anymore.”
Her expression softens minutely, “There is. There is, Malfoy. He’s gone.”
Draco chuckles darkly, “Haven’t you ever heard that as long as you remember someone, they
live forever? They become a part of you. I’m not forgetting. He got exactly what he wanted.”
He almost shakes his arm at her to stress his point, the wretched brand hidden under layers
but still somehow a glaring difference between them. Her eyes have gone soft, nearly damp.
He can’t stomach another moment of her crying.
“That’s a very muggle belief, you know.” She clears her throat.
Draco stares at her, watches as she composes herself. She stands abruptly, and he flinches so
hard he hits the wall.
“Another latte?” She asks, weakly.
He nods.
She returns only a few minutes later, stoic. He feels wrung out, but he knows his face gives
away nothing. Taught by the best.
Hermione slides a fresh cup towards him, the foam in the shape of a little latte heart. It’s
so absurd he wants to laugh, but somehow it only comes out as a little choked sound.
“I know,” she mutters, “it’s stupid. They think we’re on a date.”
He glances over to the coffee baristas, their eyes watching them surreptitiously from behind
the counter. He can’t imagine how they have seen Granger and him together and thought it
was a date. He wishes he knew how to be the people they think they are.
“It is, isn’t it?” He says dully. “I mean. We’re getting married.”
She looks positively heartbroken. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I threatened Kingsley and somehow you got stuck with me.”
He sighs, “Granger, you’re not stupid, so stop acting like it. It’s not your fault. It’s the
Ministry’s fault. It’s the Wizengamot. It’s the whole bloody world’s fault, but it’s not yours.”
She smiles; it’s small, but it’s there. He’s never seen her smile at him the way she is now. His
chest feels warm.
“Thanks.”
He shrugs self-consciously, “It’s nothing. Besides — you’re not so bad. You’re not unwanted,
anyway. Could’ve been worse. I mean, have you met Millicent Bulstrode?”
Hermione cringes away, and Draco laughs. He vividly remembers Millie bragging about
‘giving the Mudblood a beating’ in the Slytherin common rooms on two separate occasions.
“You’re right,” she shares a conspiratorial grin, “I am going to be a better wife than her.”
He can’t help it, he tilts his head back and laughs. Granger laughs alongside him — perhaps
for the first time. Sobering, he watches her, amusement floating through him.
“Will you do something for me?” Her question is unexpected, in the wake of their shared
joke.
Draco watches her. She doesn’t seem angry, or even sad. She seems — nostalgic, perhaps.
“Okay.” He agrees. If his father were here, he’d hex him into oblivion for agreeing to a deal
without knowing all the details. A favour in the Malfoy world was an unforgivable sin.
Still — though he doesn’t know Granger — he knows this. She won’t ask something he can’t
give. She’s many things, but she is not cruel.
“Will you marry me in a muggle church?”
He nearly drops his new mug of coffee, barely hanging on at the last possible second. Her
face is as smooth and placid as glass, and he can’t tell at all if she’s serious.
His father would murder him. His father would avada him and then bring him back, only to
do it again.
“You know that the Ministry won’t recognize it unless we go to them to get the paperwork
there first.” He tells her, cautiously.
“I know.”
He watches her — the way her fingers shake against her cup. He thinks about the way he had
joked their wedding would be small, and she had agreed easily, only mentioning that she
needed to invite Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. No parents. No siblings.
“Okay.” He says.
Shock washes over her features, “Really?”
“Sure.” Agreeing is easier now that he can see how pleased she is. “Can I ask why?”
She plays with the bracelet he got her for a moment, avoiding his eyes and the question.
Silence descends on them, but Draco waits.
He’s good at waiting.
“My parents got married there,” she finally answers, “and I always said I’d do the same.”
He doesn’t ask about her parents — he’s not stupid.
“What if you want to get married again? One day?” The question falls out of him almost
unwillingly, and something inside of him feels soaked in acid.
Her brown eyes, calculating.
“You do know that Malfoy’s don’t divorce, don’t you? Ever.”
He swallows. “Yes. I suppose I’ll be the first.”
“Malfoy. The sanctity of your blood wards are based on this. Half of your magic and estate is
powered by—”
“Granger,” he snaps, “I think I know how my family works.”
Her lips turn down, displeasure coating her voice. “We don’t have to divorce. I can just
quietly move out and move away — I don’t want you to—”
“Granger,” he slaps a hand on the table. “Stop. I’ll figure it out. Drop it.”
He’s known Granger long enough to know by the stubborn set of her mouth that she’s not
letting this go. Still, she is silent, and he takes advantage of her momentary pause.
“Send me the name of the church,” he demands. “I’ll take care of the Ministry papers. Is the
Sunday after next acceptable for you? It’s November 14th.”
She nods, “I can help, the Ministry forms are a nightmare! And, oh, they’re
so expensive.” Her voice has gone slightly panicked and high pitched, and for the first time in
this entire conversation, Draco Malfoy feels in control.
“Granger. You forget already?” He laughs and her eyes snap to him. “I’m Draco Malfoy. Of
all things to worry about, money isn’t it. What’s mine is now yours — you’re rich.” He
knows he sounds sarcastic, as if she’s some gold-digging nightmare after his fortune.
He knows that isn’t what she is — and even if she were, he honestly doesn’t care about the
money. Granger could spend exorbitantly for the entirety of their marriage and it would
hardly affect Malfoy holdings, but it’s so ingrained in him to watch for fortune hunters. He
can practically hear Lucius in his head right now — mudblood gold-digging whore —
“Oh good,” her voice interrupts, “so you’re saying you have an account at Flourish
and Blotts? Can I charge to it?”
He looks at her — she’s smirking — and he realizes he’s suddenly got an inside joke with
Hermione Granger. She loves books. She loves books, and he has an enormous library and
he’s rich and any book she could ever want could be hers and suddenly it feels like Draco can
finally do something fucking right.
“Yeah,” he’s too serious for her joke, “Yeah. Charge it. Buy the whole damn store if you
want, Granger.”
Her eyes soften a little, humour gone but something else remaining. “Perhaps I’ll settle with
just the Centaur Fiction section. Someone has to save the remaining populace from
ignorance, right?”
Draco laughs again.

The Cozy Cottage
Chapter Notes
Hello all! Thanks for all your kind comments and kudos :) This chapter is a large one,
clocking in at 6400 words. Also, please be reminded that this story deals with a lot of
PTSD and trauma regarding the war, and Hermione deals with panic attacks. Take care
of yourselves when reading and mind the warnings.
Saying that, I really hope you all enjoy this one! The next chapter should be posted next
Monday.
November 6th, 1999 - Saturday
Ginny is resplendent.
Her dress is ivory; with a plunging neck and lace detailing down to the small of her back.
There are no sleeves, and her long red hair is pulled back into a crown, laced with delicate
forget-me-nots and white wisteria.
Molly fusses over her, tears occasionally overwhelming her. Ginny is patient and allows her
mother to flit about with nerves, worrying over some minor detail or another.
Hermione is wearing a mulberry coloured dress. It’s long and fitted, with small cap sleeves.
It’s pretty — and it will match Harry and Ron’s navy dress robes well. She’s got a small
bouquet and greenery to match Ginny’s larger one, and Hermione knows that the wedding is
lovely. The wedding is happy — so unlike Astoria and Charlie, who had married at the
Ministry only two days prior. Astoria had been the picture of beauty — clear blue eyes and
long blonde hair. She’d worn black. Charlie had kissed her on the cheek and disappeared
back to work after depositing his wife at home.
Hermione had a feeling they hadn’t spoken since; perhaps until today, where they were seated
together with the Weasley’s.
“Hermione?” Molly Weasley is watching her, sadness in her eyes. Hermione summons a
smile from deep inside and crosses the room to the Weasley women.
“Sorry,” she says, “I was a bit lost in the moment. You look lovely, Gin.”
Ginny grins, “Thanks, Mione.”
“Umm, I have a gift for you,” Hermione digs in her beaded bag and pulls out a small box.
Ginny opens it to reveal a very delicate silver necklace, with a sparkling diamond pendant.
It’s small and lovely, and Ginny gapes at the expensive stone.
Hermione rushes to explain, “It’s a muggle thing, you see? We say when we get married we
need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I knew you’d
have blue flowers,” she gestures to the forget-me-nots placed in her hair. “And you borrowed
Fleur’s wedding shoes.”
Ginny is still staring, and Hermione twines her hands together nervously.
“Hermione,” Ginny finally speaks, “I know this chain. The chain… it’s yours. You’ve worn
this for years.”
Hermione sighs in relief, “Yes. I’m glad you noticed. Something old — I got it when I was a
little girl.”
It had been her grandmother’s, and though Hermione feels naked without it, she is honoured
to gift such a thing to Ginny. It should go to her — it should always go to family, and now it
would.
Ginny’s eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, “Mione… this necklace is important to you. And
this diamond is… a lot.”
Hermione laughs, “I confess… the gift is from both me and Malfoy. He bought the diamond.”
Ginny snorts, “Malfoy got me a gift?”
“Well,” Hermione hedges, “he doesn’t exactly know I charged it to his account, yet.”
Ginny stares at her, then bursts into laughter. “Hermione Granger — you’re evil. I love it.”
Hermione impulsively hugs her, and she sees Molly Weasley watching them out of the corner
of her eye.
“Ginny,” Molly breathes. She approaches them and raises one hand to rest gently on Ginny’s
face. “You are so lovely. I couldn’t be happier for you — and I wish you a lifetime of joy.”
Ginny sniffs and hugs her mother tightly. Hermione watches with a lump in her throat. God,
how she longs for her mother.
Molly Weasley pulls away, “Okay. Go get your father — it’s time to head downstairs. Harry
will be waiting.”
Ginny springs into action at her mother’s words and heads for the door, an eager smile on her
face.
Hermione turns to Mrs. Weasley, expecting to see the same warm smile that had been there
only moments before.
Instead — instead she sees heartbreak.
“Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley murmurs, “my darling.”
Hermione feels her breath catch, “Mrs. Weasley?”
Molly Weasley straightens her spine and reaches out for Hermione’s hands. Her expression is
infinitely gentle. “Hermione — you are as much a daughter to me as Ginny. I would do
anything, anything to give you the same happiness as her.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley, it’s okay,” Her voice is shaking. “I’ll be okay.”
“I know,” Molly says sadly, “of course you will. You’re strong. That doesn’t mean I’m not
sorry. I have a gift for you, as well. For your wedding.”
Hermione holds the large box Mrs. Weasley produces from seemingly nowhere in her
shaking hands, watching tears drip onto her skin. She opens the lid slowly, exposing
champagne coloured fabric.
“Mrs. Weasley is this—” she cuts herself off.
Mrs. Weasley tuts, “My wedding dress. It’s not quite the style, I’m afraid — but it’s yours if
you’d like to alter and wear it. Ginny wanted something new, and I thought you might like to
have—”
Hermione throws her arms around the Weasley matriarch, great gulping sobs becoming
unhinged from her chest. The wedding dress spills half out of her fingers, the box long
forgotten, and Mrs. Weasley holds her gently while she cries her heart out.
It’s only after Hermione stems her tears that Mrs. Weasley detaches herself. Her eyes are wet,
but she clears her throat and waves her wand, restoring the dress to the box, and righting
Hermione’s hair and makeup with only a charm.
“All fixed, dear.” She clears her throat. “I’m glad you like it.”
Hermione nods, “It… it means more to me than I can ever say, Mrs. Weasley.”
Molly finally looks at her — familiar eyes burrowing straight into her soul, and a strange
smile on her lips. She says nothing though and instead gestures for Hermione to head out the
door. Hermione shrinks her present down and puts it in her beaded bag and heads out of the
room.
Somehow — and she’s not quite sure why she thinks it — Hermoine has the strangest feeling
that Molly Weasley knows exactly what she’s done to ensure Harry got Ginny’s name.
They make their way to where Ginny is standing, lined up outside a great tent in the front of
the Burrow. It’s a similar setup to Bill and Fleur’s wedding; Ginny is peeking around the
corner, showing Hermione flashes of strung up lights.
“You’re first!” Ginny reminds her, and Hermoine walks as the music starts. They practiced
the night before, and Hermoine sets a sedate pace down the makeshift aisle. She doesn’t
glance away — she’s terrified to meet the eyes of Draco Malfoy. Though she had invited him
to the wedding, she has yet to see him since she has been trapped in the house getting ready
until the ceremony started.
Hermoine feels almost in a dream as she walks, and she seeks out Harry and Ron’s familiar
faces. They are standing at the end of the aisle as they are supposed to be, looking handsome
in navy dress robes. Harry is positively beaming, and Hermoine allows the sight to heal her
sore heart. Ron shares a grin with her, and Hermione imagines a time so long ago when she
had dreamed of an aisle with Ron Weasley standing at the end.
Instead, she veers off when she reaches the small platform and allows herself to stand on her
spot as the maid of honour, watching the entrance for Ginny.
A hush falls over the crowd as Ginny steps through the tent with Arthur Weasley at her side
— she’s glowing. Harry’s eyes lock on hers immediately, and it’s as if she’s floating down the
aisle. Arthur’s eyes are misty, and he kisses his daughter’s cheek gently before he shakes
Harry’s hand.
How similar wizard weddings are to muggles — Hermione wants to tell Draco this.
She finally allows herself to look for him, finding him almost immediately. He’s sitting with
Theo Nott and Luna Lovegood. He’s watching her with a smirk on his lips.
Hermione glances away, back to Harry and Ginny, cheeks scarlet.
The ceremony is short and simple; traditional vows said by both parties, with a Ministry
official presiding. Most witches and wizards marry with a simple ceremony, though Harry
and Ginny had requested a binding ceremony as well, which will unite their magical cores.
While binding ceremonies increase the power of both individuals by bolstering their magic, it
also carries a risk that both will die if one does. It was a common practice in marriages only a
few generations back, and also how couples may go about creating traditional family-magic,
an art that is less common as every year goes by.
The actual ceremony is less intimidating than Hermione had imagined when they had
described it.
Harry simply raises his hand to hers, and Ginny grins when they press their palms together.
“Speak the word - iungo.” The officiant says softly.
Harry goes first, “Iungo.”
Ginny follows, but Hermione hardly hears her over the glow of their magic in their palms.
Warmth descends over the crowd; an almost instantaneous joy. It's like being bathed in love.
The ceremony ends shortly after — Harry lunges towards Ginny and kisses her so hard they
nearly topple over. Ginny laughs as it happens, and Hermione can feel tears determined to
escape her eyes.
She almost wishes Kingsley was here — wishes he was here so he could see just what he
almost destroyed.
Molly and Arthur Weasley appear at the end of the ceremony and wave their wands, turning
the simple pews into long tables, and the front stage into a dance floor. Food appears on the
tables; a feast to rival one of Hogwarts.
Hermione makes her way to her date; Draco watches her every step of the way, and by the
time she reaches the table, her cheeks are burning.
“Hello,” she greets.
Luna beams, “Hermione — what a lovely wedding. I can’t believe all the nilfairies around.
It’s a blessed union.”
“Umm, yes.” Hermione agrees. Draco’s smirk hasn’t left his face, but he pulls the chair out
beside him for her.
“You look nice.” He says, and Hermione nearly falls off the chair she had so carefully sat on.
She thinks perhaps that is the first compliment Draco Malfoy has ever given her.
He frowns, as though her surprise is unwarranted, but before he can open his mouth and ruin
it she blurts, “I got a dress.”
Theo Nott attempts to cover a laugh with his fist, and Hermione shoots him a glare.
“A dress?” Draco repeats, nonplussed.
Luna giggles, “She means a wedding dress.”
Hermione stares down at her plate of food, nerves stretching taut at the sudden absence of
conversation at their table. Though music and laughter surround them, it seems almost far
away.
“Well, that’s — that’s good.” Draco finally chokes out, and Hermione looks up. He’s glaring
daggers at Theo Nott, who is suspiciously looking away.
Hermione swallows, “It… it is?”
“Yes,” Draco turns to her suddenly, “Of course. You should have a dress you like.”
Hermione stares at him for a moment; it has not escaped her notice that Draco Malfoy is
being oddly compliant over their wedding. He’s already agreed to marry her in a muggle
church, of all places — what more could she possibly need him to give her for this sham
wedding?
“Well, what do you want?” Hermione asks, suddenly.
Theo cuts off whatever he was saying to the table and looks at her. Draco is already staring.
Luna seems amused.
“What… what do I want?” Draco repeats warily.
Hermione nods, “Yes. I mean — if I get a dress I want, and the location I want… well, what
do you want? It’s your wedding, too, you know.”
Draco snaps his jaw closed.
“Draco, mate, this is where you tell her you already got the bride.” Theo advises, cheeky grin
present, “what more does a man need?”
Draco doesn’t seem capable of an answer, and Luna laughs suddenly. “Theo — look, people
are dancing!”
Theo looks as though he’d rather be murdered on the spot by the way his jaw clenches, but he
still stands dutifully and extends his hand to Luna.
“You’re going to dance with me?” She asks, blue eyes glowing.
Theo’s tense expression fades a bit. “If you like.”
“Usually I dance alone because there is no one to dance with me,” she tells him, but she
eagerly grasps his hand and follows him to the dance floor.
Draco huffs a breath next to Hermione’s shoulder, and she realizes suddenly that they have
been left alone at their little table.
She turns to him, “I don’t want to dance.”
“Okay,” Malfoy agrees easily.
“It’s not because I don’t want to dance with you,” she blurts.
Grey eyes study her at the words, and Hermione feels herself going red again. She can’t seem
to control her damn emotions.
She opens her mouth as if to explain why — as if to explain that she can’t trust her legs to
follow directions or to tell him that the last time she danced at a wedding like this Kingsley’s
Patronus had broken in and warned them moments before Death Eaters had descended. She
remembers a dance floor, and screaming, and then fleeing.
She can’t dance here.
Draco doesn’t let her speak. “Perhaps we’ll dance at home.”
“Home?” Hermione asks quietly.

Draco shrugs uncomfortably, “I suppose we should decide where that will be. As of next
week.”
Hermione watches him — his jaw is tense, and his right leg is bouncing. He looks handsome;
black fabric covering his broad shoulders. He had complimented her — he is trying.
“Well, I was thinking. Perhaps you could come to my cottage. After the wedding, I mean.
Tonight.”
Draco’s eyes snap to hers, flinty grey and shocked. “Granger, you don’t have to — I mean.
We can buy something else. That can still be yours.”
She thinks about it; she really thinks about the offer. Buying something new, something for
them to live in together.
Hermione remembers how long it took her to feel safe again; how the only place in the entire
world that she feels like she can set her wand down long enough to sleep is the little cottage
she has warded against the world.
“No,” she decides. “I would like to stay at my cottage. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
Draco nods slowly, “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
They eat quietly, comfortable beside each other. Hermione thinks about their conversation
and the question she had asked. What did he want? He had requested nothing — not one
thing since this whole damn thing started. Except to avoid the Prophet, and Hermione could
hardly disagree with that.
“I spent some of your money today,” Hermione confesses suddenly, guilt eating at her. She
can hardly reconcile the fact that she’s feeling guilty over Malfoy.
He snorts, “I know. I got the bill. Honestly, Hermione, spend the money. Buy your friends
presents. It’s customary to get a wedding gift, anyway, so it’s good that you thought of it.”
Hermione watches him; watches for a hint of that angry boy. Watches for some sort of
resentment to flare behind his eyes. Watches the way he didn’t say Granger — the way
Hermione falls out of him sometimes, as if he wants to say it.
The animosity is gone from his gaze. He looks… tired. A little worn thin, as if too much
worry for too long has made a shadow of him.
She’s ready to say something; she’s not sure what. Demand, perhaps, that he tell her exactly
what he is now, who he has become. Instead, Ginny and Harry appear as if from thin air, both
smiling.
“Hermione,” Ginny greets, “and Malfoy. Thank you for the gift.”
Malfoy stands and unexpectedly extends a hand to Ginny, “You’re welcome, weaselette.
Congratulations, by the way.”
Harry frowns at the ‘weaselette’ but the lack of animosity in Draco’s tone seems to win him
over, because when he extends his hand towards him, Harry takes it.
They both glance at their hands for a moment, and Malfoy laughs. “Guess we finally got here
again, huh, Potter?”
Harry chuckles. “At least this time you’re less of a prat.”
Draco rolls his eyes, and Hermione stands to hug Harry.
He pulls away, and his familiar green eyes are soft and happy. He grins at her.
“Didn’t think we’d ever make it here,” he tells her softly. “Barely even dared to dream of this
when we were in that tent.”
Hermione chokes down her tears and laughs, “Me neither. Let's never go camping again,
okay?”
Harry sticks out his hand, pinky extended. An old muggle tradition — one they would
sometimes use; just them. Ron never understood it.
“Pinky promise,” he agrees gently, his finger wrapped around hers.
Hermione leans against him and watches as he smiles. His eyes are magnetized to Ginny,
returning to her no matter how far they move away.
“Granger,” Draco’s voice calls her back to the present moment. He’s watching her again.
“Let’s allow these lovebirds to go greet the others,” he says, “and why don’t you show me
around the… the Burrow.”
He still has the barest hint of distaste in his voice at the title, but Hermione nods easily and
follows him out of the tent. They wave goodbye to Harry and Ginny as they go.
The cool night air feels good against her heated face. Fall is leaving and winter is taking its
place — the beautiful colours fading into greys and browns. Death all around.
The Burrow looms around them, and Hermione explains each window, and whose room they
each hide. She takes him to where the boys and Ginny play Quidditch after most dinners. She
even drags him out to the back pond where each of the summers between school years she,
Harry, and Ron used to swim. He says nothing but follows her dutifully.
The path has grown muddier with rain, and Hermione bemoans her less than practical heels.
She stops and stares off into the fields — the sun has already set, but it’s a remarkable view
in the daylight.
“Granger,” Draco says, “If you think the Ministry is pairing people off to boost the economy,
why did they pair us?”
She laughs, but it’s harsh in her throat.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She answers. God — her voice. She sounds so old.
“What?” For the first time since she’s known him, Draco sounds confused. That had been the
most surprising thing about him, at first. She’d known he was smart in Hogwarts; but now,
she knows that he follows her tangents and thoughts with no problems, as though he was on
the same roadmap. He was easy to talk to.
“People who have an enemy in their bed aren’t worried about the enemy in power.” She
answers.
Draco frowns. “You think the Ministry paired us so we would be so caught up trying to kill
each other we wouldn’t try to take them on?”
Hermione shrugs. “Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Draco answers slowly, turning to face her. “It sounds possible.”
They look at each other. They’re not fifteen anymore, and there’s no naivete in their gaze.
“Can you do wandless magic?” She asks suddenly.
Draco glances away, but he answers. “Yes.”
“I know you can cast a crucio.” She tells him. “How about an avada?”
She watches as his jaw clenches tightly, his silver eyes dropping away from hers. He nods.
He looks locked in place, and Hermione supposes he’s waiting for all the inevitable questions
— when, where, who, how do you know.
“Me too.” She says, instead.
His eyes snap to hers. Hermione forces herself not to look away. He doesn’t ask questions
either, and after a moment she sighs.
“Malfoy. I suspect that I’m the third most powerful witch in Great Britain.”
She hopes he doesn’t think she’s bragging. It’s a statement; a fact. She’s good with facts.
“McGonagall?” He asks.
She nods. “Second most.”
Surprise flares in his eyes and Hermione can feel one side of her mouth curling into a smile.
It’s no surprise he thought McGonagall; she’s Headmistress of Hogwarts, an animagus, one
of Dumbledore’s closest friends, a long-time member of the Order of the Phoenix, and truly
an extraordinary witch.
“Molly Weasley,” Hermione answers his unspoken question. “I know you wouldn’t expect it,
but it’s true.
Draco laughs for a moment, but Hermione doesn’t let her expression change. She’s deadly
serious, and his amusement fades slowly into a slack shock. “You think Molly Weasley is the
most powerful witch in Great Britain?”
Hermione nods. “Yes. I don’t just think it. I know it. Just watch her, Malfoy. Watch
her closely… you’ll see it, too.”
Draco glances away, and Hermione knows he’s not convinced yet. It doesn’t matter — he
knows the Weasley matriarch can hold her own. They’ve both seen her in battle, and the
rumours that continue to circulate that she was the one to finally kill Bellatrix Lestrange are
true.
“Why does this matter?” He asks.
“I’ll tell you — I will.” She sighs and feels herself lean against him. It’s almost accidental…
she’s just so tired. He stiffens, and for a heart-wrenching moment, she thinks he’s going to
pull away and let her drop to the ground. Instead, he freezes, letting her lean into him. Her
legs are shaking, and slowly — glacially — he wraps an arm around her waist, half holding
her up.
It’s nice.
Something she never thought she would say about Draco Malfoy.
“Not right now?” He affirms, and she nods.
“Let’s just be happy for Harry right now. Let’s have one wedding that goes well.”
They stand there for longer than Hermione would like to admit, letting his arm grow heavier
and more comfortable around her waist. The wind is cold, but she is mostly sheltered, and
she imagines they are a thousand miles away, on a beach where no one knows who they are,
and the war never happened.
“We’re going to be on the Prophet, probably by tomorrow.” He warns her. “There were a lot
of people in there.”
“Most are loyal,” she tells him, “but you’re right. I suppose it’s time.”
She pulls away, feeling slightly adrift without the anchor of his arm. It would be too easy to
get used to being held up. She looks at his face in the near twilight; his eyes are calm when
he looks back, and Hermione realizes she isn’t waiting on him to hurt her.
She doesn’t think he wants to hurt her. She doesn’t think he will.
“I think I’d like to show you my cottage, now.” She says. “But perhaps we should go say
goodbye to Harry and Ginny.”
“And Theo and Luna,” Draco adds.
They head back toward the tent, and when Hermione’s heel slips in a bit of mud, Draco
catches her elbow. She doesn’t pull away.
The bright light of the tent blinds her momentarily; music and laughter drifting out. The
crowd has dwindled a little, but most are still around, dancing together or drinking
overflowing wine glasses.
They head towards where the crowd is mingling, and it parts slightly to show Andromeda
Tonks née Black.
It’s unfair; Hermione knows Andromeda is Nymphadora Tonks’ mother. She knows that she
is the grandmother of Teddy Lupin and is raising him, that she fought for their side in the
war, that she is kind.
It never helps — the moment she sees her Hermione always freezes. This time she lurches
herself towards Draco, hand digging for the wand hidden in her dress.
Draco steadies her, though his palms curl around her shoulders and his fingers bite into her
skin. He sees it too — he has to.
Andromeda is slight. Her black curly hair is wild about her shoulders, and her face is a near
replica of Bellatrix Lestrange. The only difference is her eyes are always filled with warmth
and sanity.
Once, Hermione had ended up curled under the sink in Grimmauld Place’s bathroom when
Andromeda had been visiting with Teddy and laughed unexpectedly. Andromeda’s laugh —
though not the maniacal cackle of Bellatrix, was so eerily similar Hermione hadn’t been able
to stand on her shaking legs for nearly an hour.
Andromeda disappears; swallowed up by other bodies, but Draco remains. Hermione is

practically shuddering in his arms, and if the Prophet didn’t have enough to write an article
on them, they will now that they’re entwined at the edge of the dance floor.
“Granger,” Draco’s voice seems far away, “breathe.”
Hermione sucks in air and holds it, counting to ten. She breathes out heavily. “I’m okay. I’m
okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Draco snaps, gentling his fingers on her shoulders, “it’s okay.”
“She just—” Hermione’s voice cracks, “she looks like—”
“Stop,” Draco murmurs, “I know. I know what she looks like.”
Hermione flinches. She supposes he does.

He steers her gently forward, avoiding the place they had seen Andromeda. Hermione catches
her breath and finally feels in control by the time they find Ginny and Harry. They are
standing surrounded by Weasley’s, including Ron and Hannah Abbott. Hermione suddenly
feels as though they are all caught up in separate gravities — similar but being torn apart by
their own pull.
Neville was invited, but he is nowhere to be seen. Hermione thinks he may have skipped
entirely. Astoria Greengrass is still sitting at her table with a scowl fixed on her pretty face.
Percy and Daphne seem to be keeping her company, though Charlie is nowhere to be found.
“Mione,” Ron greets happily, his smile falling only a little at the sight of Malfoy’s hand
tucked under her elbow. Hannah Abbott is beside him in an emerald dress; though her outfit
is pretty, her eyes are red and splotchy.
“Weasleys,” Malfoy greets amicably, perhaps the first time he has gotten the name correct
since she met him.
“Mr. Malfoy,” Arthur replies, extending a hand for a shake. “It is nice to meet you properly.
It’s been a few years.”
Draco nods. “Indeed. This is a lovely wedding.”
Mrs. Weasley has a simpering smile on, and she pats his arm gently. “So nice of you to come,
dears.”
“We’re about to head out,” Hermione mentions, wondering how long her adopted family and
future husband can remain civil. “I’m a bit tired.”
Ron glowers predictably, but instead of arguing he simply says. “You’ll miss George, Mione.
He promised to show after dinner — apparently he’s bringing Parvati.”
“He missed the ceremony?” Hermione’s shock is palpable. Though she had known George
had been absent since the WPG announcement, she never expected him to skip out on
Ginny’s wedding.
Ron shrugs despondently.
“Oh, I hope he comes. You must give him my love, though, Ron.” Hermione insists. Her legs
feel like jello.
“We will,” Harry assures her, butting in when it seems like Ron won’t answer.
Ginny hugs her again. “Of course. And thank you again, both of you, for the beautiful
necklace.”
“Of course,” Malfoy replies smoothly, “it looks lovely on you. Congratulations again.”
“Thanks,” Harry says — sincerity flowing through him this time.

“I see Theo,” Draco murmurs to Hermione, “I’ll just pop over to say goodbye. Will you be
alright?”
“Of course,” she answers, bemused. He seems to have said it out of some sort of ingrained
courtesy, but it’s appreciated nonetheless. He disappears quickly.
“Hermione,” Ron says the moment Draco is out of earshot, “tell my you are not taking that
git to your cottage.”
Hermione snickers. “I am, Ron. I’m actually showing him around our future home.”
Hannah laughs unexpectedly, and Hermione glances at her. “Hi, Hannah.”
She blushes and raises her fingers to her lips, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. Hi
Hermione.”
“How are you?” Hermione asks — it’s only polite to ask, and she is expecting the
flimsy fine that everyone else gives.
“Bit shite,” she says, “but Ron here is alright.”
Ron chuckles and shares a glance with her. They seem friendly, though Hermione wonders
how long it will take to build into resentment. How long a marriage that hinges on a law can
last. She supposes the same question must be asked of each of them.
“Wait,” Harry says, “did you say you were showing Malfoy your future home?”
Hannah frowns. “That’s why I laughed. You think Malfoy is going to leave his stupid castle?”
Hermione grits her teeth — she reminds herself that Hannah is hurting.
“Yes, I do think that,” she bites out, “since we’ve agreed we will live in my cottage.”
Ron goes wildly pale, but Harry lets out a huff of relief. “Oh, thank Godric. You won’t have
to stay in the Manor?”
“No. He said he’s fine with living wherever. He mentioned buying somewhere new for us,
but my cottage is… well, it’s safe.”
She says the words a touch defensively, and though Harry watches her with sad eyes, she
knows he understands. Grimmauld place had to be warded again with a new fidelius that had
taken ages once the war had ended. He’d practically gutted the place the moment they had
deemed it safe — removing any unwanted memories he could and replacing them all with
bright light and clean furniture.
“It’s been a truly beautiful wedding,” Hermione clears her throat, changing the conversation.
“Harry and Ginny — thank you for having me.”
“You’re our family,” Ginny says simply, and Hermione clasps her hand. Ron begrudgingly
nods from beside her. Hannah looks sullen.
“Granger,” Draco’s voice interrupts their moment. “You ready to go?”
She nods and waves to her little makeshift family. Draco leads her carefully out of the tent
once again, clearing the entrance for an easy apparition.
He’s got his arm around her waist again, and Hermione wonders when it happened. She
doesn’t mind — her brain feels almost as shaky as her legs. She slips her own around him.
“I’ll have to side along you.”
He nods. “I figured.”
She swallows hard. A few moments go by where nothing happens.
“Granger.”
“What?” She snaps.
He sighs. “We don’t have to go to your cottage. You don’t have to take me.”
She grits her teeth — how she hates it. The sound of pity in his tone. She rips them away, the
crack of apparition ringing in her blood.
They land outside of her front gate. Her cottage is dark. She’s breathing hard, nearly gasping.
It takes a moment before she finds her courage, but it’s there, right where she left it.
She swings the gate open and marches for the front door, confident that Draco will follow
her.
The cottage lights up at her presence; magic infusing her lamps. The fire roars to life, and
Hermione feels the wards surround and press down on her from all angles for a moment. It
feels like being hugged.
Malfoy must feel it too because his breath quickens and when she turns to stare at him
standing in her doorway, he is wincing. His expression clears quickly.
He takes it all in — the small living room with the overstuffed armchair she favours and the
couch. Fireplace burning easily, with a bookshelf beside. Her dining table is small; space
enough for only four when it’s cleared off. Currently, there are piles of books stacked high on
every spare inch of the table. The kitchen is spotless, and her hallway to her office, the
bathroom, and her bedroom is dark.
“Well, this is it.” She announces. She’s suddenly self-conscious — though she hated Malfoy
Manor, she knows exactly what Draco is missing. He has a ballroom; he has a solarium and
multiple libraries and peacocks. She has wards and an armchair.
“I have some books I’m fond of,” he tells her, “and I must bring Taffy. Juney can stay at the
Manor, but we must allow her access inside the wards.”
Hermione frowns. “What?”
Draco huffs. “Well, if I’m to live here, Granger, I’ll need a spot for my favourite books and
my owl.”
They stare at each other in the firelight; Draco expectant and mildly annoyed, and Hermione
terrified.
“You… you still want to live here?”
His expression clears suddenly, and he steps forward slowly. “Granger. Hermione. If you
think I have some attachment to the Manor, you’re wrong. If you want to live here, then this
is where we’ll live. It’s cozy.”
“It’s small, you mean.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s cozy. And it’s safe.”
“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “That’s my favourite part.”
His expression softens a bit, and he holds out a hand. She’s vividly reminded of Theo Nott
doing the same thing for Luna Lovegood only earlier that evening. Almost unwillingly she
goes forward and takes it, letting his hand dwarf her fingers. She looks almost delicate in his
grip. She hasn’t felt delicate since the fourth year when Viktor Krum had lifted her mid-
dance.
“Why don’t you show me your office. I know you must have one. Do you have a garden?”
She nods, but instead of speaking leads him down her dark hallway. Her office is a disaster,
but he smiles slightly when he sees it, as though it’s what he expected. She shows him the
unexpectedly large bathroom with the huge clawfoot tub that takes half the space. The garden
is last, the door at the end of the hall.
It’s dark outside, but she casts a lumos maxima and he takes in the flower patch and the
bench. The small shed, and the little table and chairs on a small brick patio.
“We could get a hammock, perhaps.” He says.
“Okay,” she whispers. So desperate not to break the peace.
They close the door, and she slowly opens the last door, the one she had ignored on the first
tour. Her bedroom is large — the closet half empty.
He takes it in — she knows he sees everything, the way her bed is pressed up against the
corner wall closest to the window, with jars of bluebell lights on the windowsill permanently
lighting up the dark. The way her blankets are thrown haphazardly over every part of the bed
as if she had spent the night running inside of her own sheets.
Her nightstand holds two pictures — one is non-moving, two muggle people smiling for a
camera. The other is Hermione sandwiched in between Harry and Ron, snow coating their
heads.
Other than a single book on the nightstand, the rest of the room is spotless — there are no
personal traces to be found.
“My room,” she announces unnecessarily.
He stares at all the blank space and then turns back to her. She is tugging on a curl with
shaking hands.
“I think we could put a rug in here, maybe.” He says mildly.
Hermione looks at him, the furrow between her brows smoothing out suddenly, relief pouring
out of her.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” She asks.
He frowns at the question; she doesn’t see what he could possibly be confused about. It’s
obvious that he’s gone out of his way to be civil and make her comfortable since the WPG
was announced. It’s out of character — she believes he has changed since the war, but she
can’t imagine it’s this much. Has he become this person who will live in a small cottage with
a wife he doesn’t want? A wife who can barely hold her own weight up over the course of
one evening?
“I’m not really sure,” he answers slowly, “but I think that maybe I put you through enough
hell already. Don’t you?”
Hermione watches — she’s never been good with people. Better with books and learning and
cleverness; Harry and Ron are her closest friends, and she still doesn’t know how she
managed that.
“I suppose so,” she whispers in the stillness of the room.
Malfoy’s silver eyes never leave hers. “Listen, Granger. You asked me what I wanted. I want
you to not hate me. If it’s possible.”
“I don’t hate you.” It’s the truth.
He nods. “Okay. Good. That’s good. Then let’s have a tea and you can sit down.”
Hermione abruptly realizes she’s on the verge of collapsing, and she dutifully follows Draco
back to her kitchen. She sits on one chair and watches him rummage around until he finds
some mugs and the kettle.
They exist in silence, and Hermione focuses on the wards all around her. They feel strong;
undisturbed, even with Malfoy inside.
She opens her eyes slowly when Draco sits on the chair across from her. She waves a wand
and her book piles relocate to the floor, allowing them the smallest amount of table space. He
sets their mugs down.
“Theo and Luna are going to the Ministry to get married tomorrow,” Draco murmurs.
“What?”
Draco shrugs, “They mentioned when I was saying goodbye. They need two witnesses and
asked if we would be willing. I said most likely yes, but I’d confirm later since I wanted to
ask you.”
“Why don’t they want a wedding?” Hermione frowns, sipping her tea. “I know that they’re
being forced by the WPG, but they actually seem okay with it. Seems like they’d want that.”
Draco’s shoulders are stiff with tension. “Any wedding Theo Nott has will be vilified. He’s
trying to keep Luna out of the papers as long as possible. I’m actually surprised nothing was
written when he appeared at the Leaky with her last week.”
Everything suddenly clicks in place in Hermione’s brain.
“That’s why you’re okay with us getting married in a muggle church.”
Draco shrugs. “I would have done it either way if it was what you wanted. But since you
wanted a muggle wedding anyway, it will be better for you in the long run.”
“You think the public will hate me. If I’m a Malfoy.”
Draco sips his tea silently for a moment.
“I think they’ll initially pity you,” Draco sets his cup down with slightly too much force.
“Married to a monster.”
Hermione can see it all now as he describes it: Hermione Granger, the golden girl, saviour of
the Wizarding World, forced to marry Draco Malfoy, Death Eater.
The media will pity her — they’ll outrage and cry for her and whisper her name as though
taboo. They’ll eagerly read every scrap of news, waiting for something worth gossiping
about; waiting for her to show up with bruises, or perhaps waiting for a body.
“And when they realize I don’t think you’re a monster?” Hermione asks — she knows the
answer, but she wants to hear Draco say it.
To his credit, he’s honest. He huffs a laugh, though there is no humour in it.
“Well, then they’ll hate you. They’ll probably hate you more than they even hate me, because
in their eyes, I’ve always been evil. You’ll have betrayed them.”
She wraps her arms around her chest. Her tea grows cold.
Chapter End Notes

As an additional note, please be mindful that this story follows the events of canon, but
often times I have exaggerated or added in more to the canon, especially regarding the
events of the war. An example of this would be when Hermione is discussing casting
crucios or avada's.
The Secret Wedding
Chapter Notes
Hello all! Thank you for being so patient with this chapter. I have been having some
trouble with a hand injury as well as general holiday-time relaxing, so writing has been
slower than normal. I'm still a few chapters ahead and should be back to regular weekly
posting now. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and enjoy this chapter :)
Also, hope you are ready to read about a lot of weddings. This chapter follows the last
immediately after but from a different POV. A brief warning: mentions of alcohol and
dependency in this chapter.
Parvati is wearing blue. The restriction she had set for him only a few days prior does not
extend to her. Her floor-length dress is a royal blue, and her long black hair falls in waves to
her hips. She’s wearing a crown of gold pinned into the back of her hair, and a delicate chain
hangs from her nose piercing to her ear.
Her left-hand holds a shine of gold laced into a complicated lattice design that extends almost
to her knuckle, a ruby emerald as the centre setting.
“George,” she murmurs, “your family is going to react poorly.”
George chuckles, “You didn’t need to be a Seer to know that.”
Parvati rolls her eyes, but he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. He feels strung out;
Parvati had practically moved herself in after the moment she declared she had saved his life
three days ago. All the alcohol in his flat had mysteriously gone missing, and every moment
George had considered going to sneak more she had appeared as if from thin air.
He’s never felt worse, though she has kept him supplied in pepper-up potions and hangover
remedies.
George finds his way to his family easily — Ron’s voice is getting louder as the evening
progresses and the alcohol flows.
“Hello mum,” George greets, amused at how fast his mother’s head turns. Her eyes go wide
and get the shine that means she’s moments away from tears.
She always looks that way when she looks at him.

“George Weasley,” Molly exclaims, “I cannot believe you missed your only sister's
wedding.”
George grins, “Imagine what she’s going to say when she finds out she missed mine?”
Ron, half a goblet of wine at his lips, nearly chokes. “What?”
Although most of the family has met or seen Parvati Patil at some point during all their years
at Hogwarts, George still tugs her forward.
“Meet Parvati Weasley,” he pats her left hand that is tightening on his bicep, drawing
attention to her ring. “My bride.”
Parvati sucks in a breath a moment before Molly Weasley bursts into tears. Her hand covers
her mouth to hold back the sound, and George watches her extreme reaction. Ron is beside
Hannah Abbott and both of them seem surprised.
“It’s lovely to officially meet you,” His father pulls his expression together long enough to
reach forward and shake Parvati’s hand. “Welcome to the Weasley family.”
Parvati smiles shakily in the face of all the tears and surprise. “Thank you, sir. It’s an honour
to be here.”
George pats her hand again, torn between feeling like a terrible son and amusement. His
mother still has tears leaking out of her eyes, though she seems to be calming. Ron steps
forward a moment and half-waves at Parvati. “Good to see you here. Glad another Gryffindor
joined the ranks.”
Parvati laughs, “I suppose it’s a welcome change from all the Slytherins.”
“George told you about all the matches?” Hannah asks.
Parvati pales for a moment, but George leaps to the rescue. “‘Course, I told her. We’ve been
hitched a whole two days. No secrets here.”
Ron watches him dubiously, but they are saved from further questioning by the appearance of
Ginny from the other side of the tent. Harry is trailing behind her, rather love-struck. Ginny is
beaming, happiness radiating from her in a way that is a balm on George’s soul.
If there is anything left in this world to be grateful for, it is that Harry and Ginny got matched
up.
“George!” Ginny cries and launches herself into his arms to hug him. George wraps her up
tightly and does his best not to mess up her hair because any other day in the world he would
happily annoy her, but not on this day.
“Ginevra Weasley,” he greets, “you’re looking well.”
Ginny smirks, “That’s Ginevra Potter to you.”

He snorts, but he can feel a smile coming on. The first in ages. Spontaneously, he reaches out
a hand and tugs Harry Potter in and hugs him right over the top of his sister, tangling all their
limbs. Gratitude bubbles up inside of him.
“Harry, my condolences on the ol’ ball and chain,” George mutters.
Harry laughs, “Pretty sure I walked into this one with eyes wide open, but thanks mate.”
Ginny rolls her eyes at their words. “Way to make a girl feel the love. Parvati, it’s good to see
you again.”
Parvati nods to Ginny, but Molly has somehow gotten herself together and despite being red-
faced, she clears her throat and cuts in, “I’m sorry, Parvati, dear. It wasn’t you that has me so
upset. It’s truly lovely to meet you.”
George sniffs, “Blimey, mum, way to make my wife feel welcome.”
Parvati elbows him hard, and George frowns at her. Before he can say anything, Ginny’s
voice interrupts, shrill and shocked.
“Your what?”
“We got married,” Parvati half-whispers to her, wiggling her hand to show off her ring.
“George decided to not inform the family,” Molly snaps, throwing a death glare at him. He
shrugs good-naturedly.
“Blimey, mum, you have like four weddings this week. You’ll survive missing one.”
Arthur Weasley, bless his soul, clears his throat and says: “We’re just glad you’re all here.
Can I get you a drink?”
George opens his mouth eagerly, but Parvati Patil sniffs demurely and says: “We actually
don’t drink anymore, but thank you.”
George snaps his mouth closed and glares at her. She doesn’t even spare him a look.
It does not escape his notice that his mother’s expression has warmed infinitely, and Ron is
even smiling into his goblet. He sets it to the table behind him and nods at George.
“That’s good, mate.” He tells him, and George feels warm with his youngest brother’s praise.
“There’s some roast beef if you’re hungry, though.”
They chat with his family for a few more minutes before they finally lead them to a table for
dinner. Parvati sticks close to him, and George avoids the goblet at the end of the table in
favour of pumpkin juice. Eventually, a slow song begins and Harry and Ginny go to dance
together, Molly and Arther following. Ron offers Hannah a hand and although neither of
them seems thrilled, they both make their way to the dance floor.
“That went well, I’d say,” George announces when they are alone again.
Parvati snorts, the first unladylike sound he’s ever heard her make. “Yeah, that was the exact
way little girls dream of meeting their husband’s family.”
He’d have to be deaf to miss the sarcasm in her tone.
“It’ll probably be worse with your family.” George intones morosely, stabbing at his
Yorkshire pudding.
Parvati laughs at his pain, “Actually, on the contrary. My family already likes you, and they
already know we eloped so you have nothing to fear.”
“How do they know?” George demands.
“Unlike you, I talk to my parents,” Parvati replies, “but also they hardly question my
decisions anymore considering I usually know the consequences before anyone else.”
George scowls, “Maybe we should have told my parents the whole Seer thing. Then they
wouldn’t be able to say anything.”
Parvati blanches, “No! No, George, I told you—”
“I know,” George interrupts gently, “I know. I won’t tell them. It’s okay. They wouldn’t hurt
you, Parvati.”
“I know,” she whispers after a moment, “I do know that. It’s the first rule, though — the first
thing any seer ever says in any of their teachings or writings. Don’t tell anyone.”
George stares at her almond eyes and thinks. He’s not a stupid man, and he’s not naïve, either.
He knows exactly how far some people would go to discover the nature of a Seer’s power. At
best, she’d be executed for her knowledge. At worst, she’d be used and tortured for
information.
In the hands of Voldemort, she would have been a weapon of mass destruction, even young
and uncontrolled in her powers.
“Why did you tell me?” He asks her. He’s wondered before, but in the whirlwind of the last
few days and trying to find his footing, he’s never asked.
Parvati smiles at him, a dimple flashing on her cheek. “I didn’t if you recall. You guessed.”
George rolls his eyes, “That hardly counts, you gave me so many clues.”
She shrugs good-naturedly, and they both watch the dancing couples on the stage. Parvati
looks a bit morose, and he feels guilty for not asking her to dance, though he doubts she
would have accepted.
Parvati’s hand settles on his arm unexpectedly, “I’m sorry for snapping, earlier.”
“It’s fine,” George answers, half smiling. “I get it. Perhaps you’d let me have a drink as a real
apology.”
Parvati laughs, “Not for another 3 months and four days.”
“What?!” George drops his fork and whirls to face her, “Not even one firewhiskey?”
Parvati frowns, a bit bemused. “Nope. Not a drop.”
“So what changes in three months?” George finally asks, curiosity winning out.
She raises one sculpted brow, “Can’t tell you.”
He flicks his napkin at her, and she laughs. It’s nice, having someone to laugh and joke with
again. Parvati is funny and beautiful, and perhaps in another life, George would have
appreciated her properly. As it is, they’re friends, and she seems okay with that.
Better than the alternative, George supposes, watching the way a few of the couples at the
wedding are glaring daggers into their soon-to-be or recently wed spouses.
“Oh,” Parvati gasps suddenly, “Oh dear.”
George is on his feet with his wand drawn instantly, scanning the area for any threats. Parvati
has gone pale, but George can’t see any reason for it at the wedding.
“Malfoy can’t —” Parvati chokes the words out, and George finally realizes she’s not seeing
something at the wedding. He collapses back into his chair beside her, wand still clenched in
his fist.
“C’mon, Parv, talk to me,” he tells her, reaching out to grab her hand where it has formed
claws.
She flinches at his touch, and a tear spills down her cheek. “Oh. Oh, Malfoy shouldn’t drink
the champagne. No! George, you’ll tell him, won’t you? No champagne! Tell him, tell HIM.”
Her voice is rising in hysteria, and though she has called George’s name, she hasn’t yet
looked away from the candle her eyes have caught upon.
George lets go of her clawed hands and grabs her shoulders, shaking her probably more
roughly than he should. Her wide eyes snap to his.
“Stop,” he commands, “look at me. Malfoy isn’t here. Do we need to get a hold of him right
now?”
Parvati is vibrating with tension, her every muscle ready to snap. George gentles his fingers
on her shoulders and lets them sweep down her arms, finding her elbows. Her eyes seem to
be stuck to his the same way as they had been on the candle.
“Parv, do we need to get Malfoy right now?” George asks again.
She shakes her head. A tear slips down her cheek.
“Do you want to leave?”

She shakes her head again. “No.”
They stare at each other, at a bit of an impasse.
George has been exceedingly curious about how Seers work, peppering Parvati with
questions over the past few days. She has tried to answer him, though often he doesn’t
understand the way she explains what she sees. Sometimes, he just hates the answers she
gives him.
“I saw Malfoy drinking champagne,” she finally exhales. “He was angry. I saw him take a
drink from this small crystal flute, and then he was laying in a grave. Hermione was there but
wrapped in chains, and we let her lay down in the hole beside him and then we packed it with
tiny little stones the size of acorns. Right on top of them.”
George swallows hard. “We buried her alive? With Malfoy’s corpse?”
“You know it’s not so simple,” Parvati whispers, “the visions are never straightforward. It
doesn’t mean that we literally do that.”
“But it could,” George argues.
Parvati turns her head away, shoulders slumped. She doesn’t argue again.
George scans the wedding again, letting his eyes linger on the guests. People have begun
leaving slowly, but there’s still quite a crowd. Harry Potter’s wedding has been one of the
most anticipated events of the last decade, and people are jubilant. George watches as his
parents dance together, smiling and murmuring to each other, too quiet for any other ears. It’s
nice — he hasn’t seen them like this in so long. It’s hard to remember sometimes; the way
they were before the war.
It’s hard to remember any of them before the war.
Harry is laughing into Ginny’s hair as they talk to Andromeda Black, Teddy Lupin running
around at their knees. Ron is near them, beaming. Hannah Abbott looks out of place, standing
a little too far away to truly be part of the circle.
“That girl,” Parvati says, “is cursed.”
“Yeah. Ron’s a good bloke, but she’s been in love with Neville for years.”
Parvati swats his arm, drawing his eyes away from Hannah Abbott. His wife looks cross, and
George wonders what he could possibly have done to annoy her.
“Not her,” Parvati scowls. “I know who Hannah Abbott is, George. That girl, over there. By
herself.”
As subtly as he can, George looks to where Parvati has tilted her eyes, and he finds Astoria
Greengrass. Weasley, now, or so he has been informed.
“That’s Astoria. She married my brother Charlie this week. I don’t think they’re getting
along.”
Parvati lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug, her black hair spilling off of her skin. “It doesn’t
matter. The marriage won’t be a long one.”
George snaps to attention, “What do you mean? Is the WPG failing? Who is taking it down?
Should we fight?”
Parvati stills, her spine going ramrod straight. “I’m so sorry, George.”
“What?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, “It’s not that. I wish it was that. I wish I wouldn’t have said
anything, this isn’t your burden to carry.”
“Tell me,” he snaps.
Parvati closes her eyes, seeming to focus simply on the feeling of the table under her palm
and the weight of his glare. “She’s sick. I don’t even know her and I can see it from here. It’s
coiled around her blood, all over her. She probably knows.”
George stares hard at Astoria, trying to see what Parvati can see, but it’s invisible to his eyes.
She looks fine, beautiful even; though she’s obviously miserable, staring at the tent flaps as
though looking for an escape, even as she sits alone at a table.
He scans the room — though he has yet to meet the Greengrass sisters; he has heard of them
from Ron. Charlie had married Astoria only a few days prior, and they had about as much in
common as Snape had with Trelawney. Still, Ron had mentioned that the one thing that they
did have in common was that they loved their siblings. Wherever Astoria went, Daphne was
sure to be.
George finally spots her on the dance floor, wrapped in Percy Weasley’s arms. Although they
had been matched by the WPG, Ron had mentioned they were actually getting on well and
were planning on marrying within the week.
“George,” Parvati’s voice is hesitant, and he turns back to her. She looks sad.
“What?”
She sighs, “You really promise you won’t wear blue?”
“Parv, I swear to you. No blue. Besides, it’s not even my colour.”
Parvati’s smile is barely there. George reaches and takes her hand, running his thumb over
her wedding ring. She’d chosen it, and George had been grateful she was making this easy on
him. Other than the forced sobriety — that is hell.
“Tell me,” he murmurs gently, “tell me what you see when I wear blue.”
Parvati goes pale, and George wonders if he should have asked her. She won’t talk about it,
though. Hasn’t mentioned anything about it.
“Your hands,” she chokes out.
“You see my hands?”
She nods, staring down at the hand tucked in hers. “Covered in blood. You’re staring down at
them — screaming at nothing. I see nothing else, I just feel it. So much death. I’m scared,
George.”
George squeezes her hand. “Well, that’s easy. Let’s go home and burn everything blue I
own.”
“Okay,” Parvati agrees easily, solemn and watching him. George snorts at her simple
acceptance. He wonders if she hates weddings as much as he does.
“Have I mentioned how glad I am that you were okay with eloping? I’d eat my own bloody
puking pastilles if I had to attend another one of these.”
Parvati lets out a giggle, and George is glad her mood seems to be improving. “Bad news, my
sister is marrying Blaise Zabini in two weeks and we’re invited.”
George groans, "A Slytherin wedding? First, you take my alcohol, and now you take my
dignity.”
“You didn’t have any of that to begin with,” Parvati jokes, “and you’ll thank me about the
drinking, eventually.”
George rolls his eyes, “I know they say don’t bet against a seer, but Parvati Weasley, I’ll bet
you ten galleons I never thank you for this torture.”
Her smile is a secret over her water glass.

Thestrals and Stars
Chapter Notes
Thank you for all your wonderful comments! My hand is slowly on the mend and I've
been getting back into the groove of writing a bit after the holidays, so more updates to
come. At the risk of being far too excited, I have to tell you this is my favourite chapter
so far because I'm admittedly obsessed with Theo and Luna... so enjoy!
The next few chapters will be dramoine-centric :)
November 7th, 1999 - Sunday
Sunshine streams into Theo’s eyes and he slits them open against the glare. His curtains are
wide open, showing off the blue sky and rolling hills behind the Manor. He pushes his
blankets off of him and rolls off his bed. Though he often enjoys a long sleep in, today
is not the day.
Today is the day he gets married.
“Thelma,” Theo calls, and his house-elf apparates into his room with a startling crack.
“Good morning, Master Nott. How can Thelma be of service?”
“Did an owl arrive from Draco Malfoy this morning?”
Thelma nods enthusiastically and produces a letter with a snap. “Juney brought it to Thelma
this morning, Master Nott.”
Theo smiles down at the little elf. “Thank you. Could you get out my best dress robes?”
“Of course, Master.” Thelma chirps.
“Thelma,” Theo stares down at the little elf he is so fond of. “I have a favour to ask of you.
This is not a command, it is a favour.”
Thelma’s yellow eyes grow even wider and her ears twitch. “May Thelma ask… what… why
does Master Nott require a favour?”
Theo grins, feeling almost foolish. “Thelma, today I am marrying Luna Lovegood. I was
hoping you would do me the favour of picking some flowers from the garden for her and
going to her flat and helping her get ready as she needs?”
His house-elf bursts into tears, “Of course, Thelma will take care of everything.”
Theo nods, almost nervous in the face of his house-elf’s weeping, but she raises her hand and
disappears with a snap, leaving Theo with an envelope from Draco.
“Theo,
Granger and I will be at your Manor at 3PM.
Congrats,
DM”
Theo tosses the letter onto his bed and heads into his shower. He scrubs himself down,
lingering longer than usual in front of the mirror to make his hair stay flat. Theo nearly
doesn’t recognize himself. His green eyes are brighter than normal, and he has almost a
crazed look on his face. Theo wonders if this is what he looks like when he’s happy.
He almost wonders if Luna will even recognize him, but dismisses the thought instantly.
She’s been staying at the Manor most nights for the past week. They spend their evenings
walking in the gardens or sitting in his study. She likes to perch on the window seat with a
book and get lost in her own thoughts for hours at a time while he runs through his account
ledgers.
Sometimes they sit together by the fire and talk. Sometimes, when Luna gets sleepy, she’ll
reach her hand out and lead him into his room; she curls towards him under his covers, a
parenthesis to every question he’s never asked.
The first time she had done so, Theo’s heart had nearly galloped out of his chest. He’d stared
at her face from across the pillows, wondering if he should reach for her or stay still.
Wondering if he’d somehow cross some line in his sleep and then never see her again.
She was always there when he woke up.
Theo finally emerges from the bathroom to find a tray of a small breakfast and his dress robes
on his bed. He sits and eats before he thinks about putting on the robes, knowing that Thelma
has probably already left for Luna’s flat and wouldn’t be there to help if he spilled on
himself.
After he dresses, he cleans his entire room. Three days prior, he had emptied half of his
wardrobe so that Luna would have space if she wanted it. He takes a walk down to the
gardens and then goes far beyond. There are stables beyond the gardens, and Theo marches
towards them, throwing open the door.
Though the stables have sat empty since before Theo’s mother was alive, as of yesterday,
they are no longer empty.
Inside are two Thestrals; glossy black mares that nicker when he approaches. They’re still
young, and he had fought the Ministry over the rights to have them. The Nott’s have bred
Thestrals for generations, and his father was an exception to the rule, barely a blip in the
extensive line. They’d still kept up their paperwork and warding and it had forced the
Ministry to accept his decision to once again resume the Nott’s Thestral affiliation.
“Hello girls,” Theo greets them. The last time he had been around Thestrals in this stable,
he’d been a boy and hadn’t been able to see them. His mother had to take him gently towards
them, laying his hands on their flanks, allowing him to stroke the invisible coats.
Theo can see them now.
He wonders who his mother had watched die to see them back then. She’d never told him;
had never even mentioned that death was the reason she could see them and he couldn’t.
He’d assumed it was an adult thing, seeing as his father could see them as well.
Despite their frightening appearance, Thestrals are known to be quite gentle with their
masters, and though he is new to these mares, they are still curious. They press against him,
seeking affection and treats, and Theo summons food to fill their troughs.
He hopes Luna will like them; though, he’s almost certain she’ll be thrilled. As far as he’s
seen and heard, Luna’s never met a creature she didn’t immediately love.
Besides, Theo had wanted to once again breed Thestrals under the Nott name since after his
father died, and somewhere along the way he had lost the passion. Luna had reignited it.
It’s only 1:30 PM by the time he returns to the Manor, and Theo doesn’t have any further
tasks to distract him. Luna isn’t supposed to arrive for another hour and Draco and Hermione
after that. By that point, Theo’s afraid he’ll have paced himself into the ground.
“Master Nott,” Thelma’s voice startles him, and he whirls to face her.
“Thelma,” Theo gasps. “What’s wrong? Why are you here? Where’s Luna?”
Thelma raises her hands out gently, “Mistress Luna is fine. She is ready to see you.”
“Oh, well, good.” Theo exclaims, “please bring her here!”
“Close your eyes!” Thelma demands. Theo has never heard his house-elf demand anything in
his life, so he automatically shuts his eyes tightly, even when he hears the distinct pop of an
apparition.
The silence is deafening in the moments after, and Theo fights every instinct he has to open
his eyes, to assess threats, to scan the area.
“Theo,” Luna’s sweet voice.

He opens his eyes to a vision —
Luna is standing in his foyer, sunlight shining down on her from their front bay windows. Her
dress is an off-white cream with golden stars woven into every inch. It drapes across her skin,
giving the impression that she is glowing.
Her long blonde hair is woven intricately, baby’s breath and leafy green vines winding in and
out. She looks like nothing more than a goddess of the forest, stepping out into starlight.
“Luna—”
He can hardly choke words out. He just stares and stares and stares until he’s sure he’s
somehow fucked it all up because what kind of idiot stares at his future wife when she looks
like the sun and can’t say a thing.
“You like it,” Luna announces easily, smiling at him.
It releases something inside of him and he finally steps forward, close enough to raise a hand,
gently brushing his fingertips over the gossamer threads covering her collarbones.
She laughs. It sounds like music.
“You really like it.”
Theo frowns; his first of the day. “I don’t know how I get this, Luna.”
“It’s easy,” she tells him, reaching out to lace her fingers with his. “You just accept it.”
“Okay,” Theo whispers. What else is he supposed to say?
“You look handsome,” Luna tells him, her cheeks turning pink.
“You have put the sky to shame.” He doesn’t even know where the words finally come from,
and he can feel himself flushing. Poetry and the written word has never been his thing; Draco
could write sonnets out of scraps, but Theo has never met a blank page he wanted to fill.
Luna’s blush extends down to her chest, and it suddenly suffuses Theo with heat. He reaches
up and wraps his hands against her jaw, gentle and sure. He leans forward and presses his lips
against hers, feeling her pulse beat rapidly against his palms. He has kissed her before —
He wants to kiss her until the world stops.
“Luna,” he murmurs when he pulls away, “I have something to show you.”
“A gift?”
Theo shrugs, “Sort of, though I did it for me, too.”
“The best kind of gift,” Luna assures him. “Where is it?”
“Outside. I don’t want your dress to get dirty.”

Luna tilts her head, “Oh, it won’t. I have charms on it.”
Theo extends his arm and Luna slips her fingers through it, her starlight wedding gown
draping over his dark dress robes. He’s staring down at it for a moment, wondering why it
seems so important that they paint the entire galaxy into the night of his robes.
Luna doesn’t rush him, and after a moment Theo shakes his head of his fanciful thoughts and
leads her towards the gardens.
“Oh, I got your flowers,” Luna tells him. “Thelma put some in my hair, and the rest are in our
room.”
Theo misses a step, “Our room?”
“Of course,” Luna laughs.
Theo has imagined it a thousand times since he had met Luna Lovegood officially two weeks
ago. His room suddenly filled with books and unusual items and unique clothes, and Luna.
Laughter in the hallways that had always been frightening. One-day children that run around
and create messes and are only scared of make-believe monsters that can be banished with
something so simple as hugs.
Merlin — Theo wonders if he would have done things differently if he had known
that hope like this could exist.
They reach the stable shortly, and Luna’s head tilts towards the sunshine, blue eyes wide. It’s
an expression he’s come to recognize: she’s curious.
He opens the doors and the Thestrals whinny gently at the new person. Theo isn’t stupid
enough to ask Luna if she can see them — the war had answered that question for everyone
he knows.
“Oh,” Luna walks forward, “hello.”
There’s no fear present; she marches towards the Thestrals as though she is welcoming old
friends. They nudge their skeletal heads at her gown, allowing her to wrap her arms around
their necks and pet their glossy coats. Theo feels as though he is watching magic — deeper
than the kind he has always known.
“Theo,” Luna marvels, “how did you get Thestrals?”
Theo smirks, “Nott’s have always bred them, for generations. My father was fool enough to
sell off our last herd, but we have maintained the Class XXXX restriction for their breeding
and domestication. These were filly’s from the Hogwarts herd.”
Luna’s eyes are shining, and she leaves the Thestrals only to launch herself towards him. He
barely catches her, wrapping his arms around her frame. She’s laughing.
“Theo,” she can barely catch her breath, “this is the best day of my life.”
“You haven’t even married me yet,” Theo protests.
Luna finally sobers and stares at him, blue eyes seeing everything. “I know.”
They take their time returning from the stables. Theo leaves the door open, allowing the
Thestrals free range within Nott properties. Thestrals rarely leave their home, but even if
these wanted to the Manor wards would keep them in.
They are at the edge of the garden when Thelma appears again. “Master Nott, Master Malfoy
and Mistress Hermione are here.”
“Please show them in, Thelma,” Theo grins. “We’ll be right there.”
Thelma disappears easily, leaving them alone again. He turns to Luna and watches how she
toys with a rose blossom at her side, gentle fingers on the petals.
“Last chance to run.” He’s aiming for a joke, but somewhere along the way, it has lost its
humour.
Luna’s lips curl at the corners, “I don’t want to run.”
Theo watches her solemnly. Her gaze never wavers; bloody Ravenclaws, who would have
thought they could be as brave as Gryffindors?
"Alright. People are going to stare when we get to the Ministry. I’ve asked for a private room,
but people will still know.” He gestures at her stunning gown; there’s no way they’re getting
away without the front page of the Prophet with her wearing such a wedding dress. He can’t
bring himself to regret it; the sight of her is going to be burned in his memory for the rest of
his life.
Luna smooths a gentle hand down his dress robes. “Then they will know, and I’ll be glad all
the same.”
She tugs him forward, and they head into the Manor.
Hermione and Draco are waiting in the front room, standing a careful distance from each
other. Malfoy is wearing dress robes, and Granger has a periwinkle blue dress on that flares
out gently at her waist, falling to her knees. Her hair is tied back into a neat chignon. Theo
doesn’t think he’s ever seen it look so tidy and controlled.
“Hermione,” Luna greets, leaving Theo’s side to embrace the witch.
Hermione returns the hug, “Luna, you look… beautiful.”
Luna pulls away and gives a little spin. “Thank you. Thelma helped me get ready.”
His house-elf appears at her name, looking bashful. “It was Thelma’s greatest honour,
Mistress Luna.”
Theo watches as Hermione’s face scrunches slightly, and he fervently hopes she has the sense
not to say anything to Thelma. He’s heard of her crusade for the house-elves.
“You are a good elf,” Hermione says instead. Thelma's little body seems to vibrate under the
praise. It’s been a big day for her.
“Well, shall we be off?” Theo asks.
Draco hesitates for a moment, briefly stepping closer to Granger. “Yes, but before we go,
we’d like to invite you to our wedding.”
“Yes,” Hermione agrees nervously, “It’s next week. November 14th.”
Luna’s smile is breathtaking, “Hermione, of course, we’ll be there. Are you inviting D.A?”
Hermione flinches almost imperceptibly, her movement not lost on both Theo and Draco.
“Hardly. Just Harry, Ginny and Ron. You and Theo. I suppose I should invite Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley, though she didn’t seem to expect it.”
“We’ll invite all the Weasleys, Granger. They should be there.” Draco’s face is set in a scowl,
though his words ring truthfully.
“Perhaps Blaise and Padma?” Theo suggests, “I haven’t seen Blaise in ages, and I don’t think
I’ve ever met Padma.”
Draco glances at Granger with the unspoken question and she answers easily, “Maybe.
Parvati might be there anyway if we invite George. She’d probably like to see her sister. I’ll
think about it.”
“Oh, Hermione, I’m so happy for you!” Luna exclaims, squeezing Hermione’s forearm.
Granger’s expression flickers with pain for a moment, then settles on gratitude. “Thank you,
Luna.”
Theo watches this exchange. He’s never been sure what to make of Hermione Granger, and
Draco has been unwilling to discuss her on more than one occasion. He wonders if she’s
bearing this WPG and marriage with barely concealed pain, or if it’s more than that.
He’s surprised to see her even attempting to go along with the WPG — he’d been sure she
would fight. He’d been so sure she’d fight it until the very last moment, perhaps even going
on the run once again. Somehow he doesn’t like that Hermione Granger is bending.
He wonders what’s changed.
“Ready, Granger?” Draco’s voice drags him from his thoughts, and he watches his best mate
extend his elbow to the witch he had once called a nightmare. Granger takes his arm easily,
as though she’s done it before. Theo thinks his mouth may be hanging open.
Luna’s gentle fingers on his elbow drag him back to reality.

“Let’s go.” He walks them all to the Floo, suddenly glad he had insisted that the fireplace be
scrubbed down. Luna’s dress is still somehow a clean cream colour.
“The Ministry of Magic, second floor.” Theo declares, throwing down the Floo powder.
They arrive at the Floo station on the less busy second floor, and Theo marches with Luna
towards the marriage offices. There’s a lineup at the window, and he can see people pointing.
They make a bit of a spectacle, reformed Death Eater Theodore Nott and Order of the
Phoenix member Luna Lovegood. It doesn’t help that they’re being trailed by Malfoy and
Granger.
Theo noticed though that they aren’t walking together. Hermione is behind them, head held
high. Draco is almost ten feet behind that with a stony expression on his face.
If Theo didn’t know better, he would assume they still hated each other, only he had been
with them moments before and they had been perfectly civil.
He wonders how long they will keep the WPG rumours at bay. The Daily Prophet would
have a field day with the news that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had been matched.
They reach the door that leads into the small private courtrooms that hold elopements. Theo
holds the door for Luna and their two guests, and is immensely grateful there’s no one else
inside other than a witch at the counter.
“Hello, how can I help you?” She greets.
“Theodore Nott,” he answers, “I have an appointment for a marriage ceremony today.”
She nods professionally, waving her wand and summoning a scroll. She signs a few lines and
slides it to him.
“Please sign here. Is this Miss Luna Pandora Lovegood?”
Luna blinks widely. “Yes?”
She slides the paper towards Luna, and Luna signs with a flourish.
“The officiant is in the room, down the hall on the left. Your guests can follow you in.”
The room they enter is on the smaller side and contains a small altar with an older gentleman
standing behind it. He has a neat moustache and a crooked tie, and when Theo hands him the
paper he and Luna had signed, he doesn’t even blink. His unflappable air suddenly endears
him to Theo.
“Witnesses?” He asks.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger,” Draco announces easily. Hermione
glances at him, surprise flickering across her face.
“Very good,” the man says, then gestures towards each side of his small alter. “Please, Mr.
Nott, stand here with Mr. Malfoy beside you. Miss Lovegood, over there, Miss Granger
beside her.”
They arrange themselves in a loose triangle, and the officiant clears his throat. Theo is staring
at Luna, suddenly terrified she’ll apparate from the room and never return, even though there
are anti-apparition wards in the Ministry.
Luna, oblivious to his fear, watches the officiant. She shows no signs of fleeing.
“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. We are here today to tie Mr. Theodore Matthias Nott in
matrimony to Miss. Luna Pandora Lovegood. Marriage is a source of strength in troubled
times, and may nourish not only each other, but the surrounding community. We at the
Ministry continue to hope that your union will be blessed with care, respect, and a mutual
appreciation. Thank you for joining us today. Will those of you who are present today,
surround both Theodore and Luna in friendship, offering them both your support throughout
their marriage?”
He turns abruptly to stare at Draco, who shifts uncomfortably before saying, “I will?”
The officiant turns to Hermione, and she answers before he repeats the question. “I will.”
He nods and then reaches out, taking Luna’s hand gently and pulling it across to where he has
grabbed Theo’s. He lets their hands clasp lightly.
“Mr. Theodore Nott, do you take Miss. Luna Lovegood as your lawfully wedded wife?”
Theo wonders if his hand is sweaty before he blurts, “I do.”
“And Miss. Luna Lovegood, do you take Mr. Theodore Nott to be your lawfully wedded
husband?”
Luna’s cheek dimples as she smiles. “I do.”
“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and
wife. You may kiss your bride.”
Theo tugs Luna’s hand gently, and she floats towards him. He leans down and kisses her, his
hands somehow finding her waist in all of his nervousness.
He pulls away only slightly, setting his forehead on hers. She’s grinning.
“I’ll have you all sign the certificate of marriage now.” The officiant produces a fancy-
looking paper on cream cardstock. It’s got gold embossing and the Ministry emblem on the
right-hand side. Theo signs it in a shaky hand, his signature looking pathetic next to Luna’s
penmanship. He notices that Granger has even more abysmal writing than he does when she
signs one of the witness lines. Malfoy’s is perfect.
“Wands.” The man taps his own to the emblem, and it glows briefly. Luna doesn’t hesitate to
do the same, so he follows her lead.
“Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Nott. You’re married in the eyes of the Ministry.” The man
says, performing a quick spell to duplicate the certificate. “I’ll be filing this at the marriage
office, and this copy is for you both to keep.”
Luna takes it gently, staring at the writing on the page. She turns to Theo after a moment.
“I didn’t know your middle name was Matthias.” She tells him.
Theo tenses. “It was my father’s, and it’s better left forgotten.”
She nods briefly. “Pandora was my mother’s name. I haven't heard anyone say it in so long.”
Theo wraps his arm around her waist, leading her out of the room. They reach the front desk,
and Theo sighs. There’s a crowd outside of the door, and it isn’t difficult to spot Rita Skeeter
at the front of it, floating quill at the ready. He’s abruptly glad the Ministry charms windows
to be opaque, so the crowd hasn’t noticed them yet.
“Perhaps you and your wedding party would like to take advantage of our private floo?” The
receptionist says unexpectedly. “It won’t take you outside the Ministry, of course, but if you
floo to Miss. Granger’s office, you might have a few moments free.”
Theo turns to watch a blushing Hermione thank the receptionist by name and abruptly
remembers that Granger works here. It’s no wonder the receptionist knows her.
“The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is on the third floor,”
Hermione tells them, “and I don’t have a private floo, so there will be a few people there.
Once we exit the department, turn left. There’s a Floo Station only a little farther beyond.”
“Thank you,” Theo says.
They head through the small fireplace, following Hermione as she says “Department for the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures” and disappears through the flames.
Her department is far more chaotic than the previous, and as soon as Theo steps out of the
floo he can hear multiple people greeting Granger.
“Hi Donna,” Granger replies, “we’re just stopping by on the way to the Floo Station. A bit of
traffic on the second floor.”
Donna, an older witch with bright orange hair, stares straight at Theo and Draco as though
Voldemort himself has come back to life in front of her.
“Oh, my,” she murmurs, her hand creeping up to grab at her heart. “Hermione — that’s —”
Hermione steps towards the door, “Yes, Donna, this is Theo Nott and Luna Lovegood, friends
from Hogwarts.”
“Mal — Malfoy…” Donna’s words seem to have left her.

Hermione glances back casually, and sniffs casually, as though she has just noticed Draco
Malfoy, known Death Eater, has followed them out of the floo.
“Mr. Malfoy, yes,” Hermione nods, “Theo’s good friend. We must be off, Donna. Lots to do.
Please ensure you get that report on Selkie migration on my desk by tomorrow morning if
you could.”
Donna nods stupidly, and Hermione breezes past her, opening the door and allowing Theo,
Luna and Draco to exit first. She shuts the door with a snap, and Theo wonders if she’s
annoyed at Donna’s treatment of them or the fact that she had to drag them through her
workplace. He wonders if she realizes just how much gossip she’ll be at the centre of now.
“Thank you,” he says again, this time a little more earnestly. “They’ll be talking about you,
you know.”
Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, shrugs. “Don’t you think maybe I’m used
to that? My best friend is Harry Potter.”
Draco coughs, and Theo suspects he may have been covering a laugh.
He suddenly wonders if pairing Granger with Draco was such a good idea — he didn’t
realize how snarky she was.
“Besides,” Hermione Granger pins him with possibly the most conniving, Slytherin grin he’s
ever seen. “That selkie migration report isn’t due for weeks. She’ll be scrambling to get it
done.”
“Serves her right for being so nosy,” Draco mutters.
Luna laughs, and Theo can only stare at the Gryffindor witch in surprise at her cunning.
They arrive at the Floo Station with only minimal stares, though Theo knows the crowd that
waits only a floor below will be here within moments.
He takes Luna’s hand and tugs her into the fireplace with him. Draco watches him, a smirk
playing on his face.
“Come to the Manor,” Theo invites. “We’ll have a Firewhiskey.”
Draco nods, “We’ll be there.”
Theo throws down the powder, spinning away with Luna at his side. They arrive in their main
foyer only moments later and step out. Theo knows they have seconds before Draco and
Granger arrive, so he turns to Luna and winds both arms around her waist.
She’s still smiling.
“Luna Pandora Lovegood,” he murmurs, kissing her in between syllables. He doesn’t even
have any other words to share with her, but he can’t seem to stop his movements.
Luna laughs into his kiss, “It’s Luna Pandora Nott, now, actually.”
Theo feels fit to burst; he wonders how people do this, just accept that there’s a whole other
person walking around separate from themselves who seem to carry the key to everything.
He wonders if Luna knows that she’s everything.
“Luna —” he says.
His floo flares to life behind him, and he pulls away just slightly, enough to face Granger and
Malfoy, who step through together. He would have paid galleons to watch them navigate
floo-ing together from the Ministry.
He’s still got one arm around Luna’s waist, but Draco extends his hand and Theo reaches his
free one out to clasp it.
“Congrats, mate,” Draco says, before turning to Luna. “Lovegood — err, Nott, now, I
suppose. Congrats. And sorry. For everything.”
Luna’s blue eyes take him in, and Theo watches as she stares. He knows Draco is
uncomfortable under her gaze.
“I believe the fern is working, Theo,” Luna’s voice is gentle, and Malfoy blinks at her words.
“Perhaps we should have some champagne.”
Thelma appears as if summoned, and she’s carrying a tray with four champagne flutes on it.
They each take one, and at the last moment, Theo turns to the little house-elf, who has now
watched over him his entire life. Possibly, the only one in the entire Manor that cared at all
for him after his mother died.
“Thelma,” He releases his hold on Luna for a moment and crouches down, staring into her
enormous eyes. “I think we could wait a moment, why don’t you get your own glass as well.
It’s a celebration after all.”
“Master Nott, I couldn’t—”
“You could.” He interrupts. “And you should, Thelma. You’re a part of this household, and
it’s our honour to have you with us.”
Thelma looks as though she may burst into a second round of tears, but she disappears easily.
Theo stands again, seeing that Draco is staring at him in surprise.
“Theodore Nott. Who would have known?” Hermione Granger is watching him, a smile on
her face. “That was kind of you.”
He can feel his cheeks going red even as he watches Draco scowl at her praise, but Thelma
saves him from responding by reappearing with a small champagne flute in her hands. She is
shaking and her giant eyes are damp, but she speaks before anyone else can.
“May you now feel no cold, for you will be the warmth to each other. May you have no
loneliness or fear, for you are the companion to the other. May you always have shelter and a
purpose to serve, and may it bless your household as you grow into a shared lifetime.”
Theo stares at his house-elf after her ringing words. No one else moves.
“Thelma,” Luna murmurs, “that was lovely. Where did you hear that?”
Thelma shrugs her tiny shoulders. “This is the traditional house-elf wedding blessing,
Mistress Nott. Thelma did not know how else to honour your marriage.”
Luna’s eyes look suspiciously shiny, though she clears her throat and reaches down to clink
her glass against Thelma’s. “Well, thank you, Thelma. It was beautiful.”
They toast all around and touch their glasses together, sipping at their champagne. Simple
conversations break out, flickering through. Even Thelma gets sucked into a discussion with
Granger, and Theo watches suspiciously for upset, but they seem happy.
“Ministry was odd, wasn’t it?” Draco’s voice is pitched low, and Theo glances over. He’s
drinking his champagne, but his silver eyes are thoughtful. Theo is once again reminded that
Draco Malfoy has been the smartest person in every room for most of his life unless Granger
was there. Theo knows better than most why Draco hated her so much; he knows the
expectations that Lucius had.
“Very… practical.” Theo agrees.
Draco hums, “No mention of love. I believe they have changed the script.”
“Notice they cut the line from the ceremony that asks if we were there of our own free will.”
“The Ministry has approved mandated marriages en mass and then expects us to fulfil our
‘duty’ and procreate with no regard to the kind of trauma that could cause. I hardly think they
care about our free will if they go about treating our witches like cattle.”
Theo can feel the blood drain from his face. He’s staring at Luna when he answers. “That’s
not what this was. Is.”
“I know that,” Draco scoffs. “She’s in love with you. It’s obvious.”
Theo stares at his wife. It doesn’t feel obvious.
Chapter End Notes

The house-elf wedding blessing was borrowed from the Apache Wedding Blessing
which goes as follows:
"Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there will
be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you are two
persons, but there are three lives before you: his life, her life and your life together."
Luna's Wedding Dress inspiration can be found here:

https://www.nataliewynndesign.com/journal/2020/1/16/styled-calypso-gown
The Dress
Chapter Notes
I'm so glad you all love Theo and Luna so much because I also love them! Good news,
we are getting into a few chapters from Hermione and/or Draco POV which is exciting
:) A small warning - a brief mention of a past suicide in this chapter (not descriptive).
Once again, thank you for all the kudos and comments - I do read all of them and
appreciate them ENDLESSLY (I'm just trash at responding *facepalm*) but do know
that I adore you. Enjoy!
November 10th, 1999 - Wednesday evening
Hermione is standing in her wedding dress when her wards alert her that someone has
breached her property line. There are no further wards triggered, however, so it can only be
one of three people.
Ron and Harry enter moments after the notice, and they take her in, standing in her living
room in front of her tallest mirror.
“Blimey,” Ron gapes, “Mione, you look beautiful.”
Hermione flushes — in all her years of knowing Ron, he has never called her that, not even
when they were briefly together.
“Really?” She hates how uncertain her voice sounds.
Ron’s gone red and is rubbing the back of his neck, but Harry can always be trusted to remain
cool. He approaches, a familiar smile around his eyes.
“Really,” Harry assures her.
Hermione looks at herself in the mirror once again and takes in the gown. When she had first
put on Molly Weasley’s old wedding dress, it had fit surprisingly well — she’d altered the
bust slightly with her wand and shortened the hem a little. The biggest change had been
removing the horrendously large shoulders that had puffed out nearly to her ears.
Now, the gown has long sleeves that taper at her wrists, covering up the letters carved into
her flesh. The bust has beadwork sewn in and a higher neckline that follows her collarbones.
It’s held together at the waist with a simple belt of silk and then falls loosely to her socked
feet.
“That’s uh… very traditional of you, Mione.” Ron says.
“Is it?” Hermione stares at the gown. It looks very similar to a muggle gown, though perhaps
more of a darker champagne colour than a pure white. The belt had been a golden hue with
scarlet edging into the lace work extending below, similar to Fleur’s wedding gown, but
Hermione had spelled it to match the more white colour. She didn’t like how the lace
resembled spiderwebs of blood.
“Yeah,” Ron steps closer. “Usually the sash is the colour of the wizard you’re marrying’s
house. Or his family’s crest, if it’s different.”
“Oh, that’s why it was red and gold.” Hermione blurts.
Ron raises his eyebrows, “Did you buy it second-hand?”
“Your mum gave it to me.”
Ron recoils, as though the dress he had so admired suddenly contained his mother. “What?”
Harry laughs, “Molly Weasley wore this?”
Hermione puts her hands on her hips. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing!” Ron sputters, “Only you look pretty, and mum—”
“Wotcher, mate,” Harry warns, glancing around as though Molly could appear in a fit of rage
at any moment.
Ron stills. “I just… are you sure it was hers?”
“Yes, Ronald,” Hermione huffs, “I took the shoulders in a bit and changed the sash from gold
and red to white, but otherwise it’s almost the exact dress your mum wore when she married
your dad.”
“Ugh,” Ron replies.
Hermione can feel a mixture of anger and hurt rising in her throat, and Harry elbows
Ron hard.
“Hermione, you look great. Can’t believe the ferret gets to marry you in that.” Harry’s voice
is earnest and gentle, and her ire dies.
She smiles. “You mean it?”
“We do,” Ron finally recovers. “You look pretty, Mione. Malfoy is… a lucky… bloke.”
It’s possibly the nicest thing Ron has ever said about Draco Malfoy, so Hermione knows he
means it.
“Hey, Hermione,” Harry says softly, “Ginny told me what you said on her wedding day.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue, right?”
Hermione nods. Harry extends his hand and sets a small box in hers. She opens it to find two
beautiful hairpins detailed with sapphires and diamonds. They’re delicate and stunning.
“Oh, goodness,” Hermione breathes.
Harry smiles, “Ron and I decided that you deserved something old and blue. And new? From
us. We wanted to come by after work and give it to you before this weekend.”
“This is too much,” Hermione protests weakly.
Ron shakes his head adamantly. “No. Listen, Hermione. You have saved our lives a thousand
times and you deserve it.”
“You could have gotten me a book,” Hermione tells them.
Harry rolls his eyes and gestures around her room at all the piles of books. “We don’t even
know what you already have. At least this is safe.”
“They’re beautiful, where on earth did you get them?”
“They were in my parents' vault, so they’re old,” Harry tells her, “but Ginny suggested we get
some sapphires put in for the blue, so Ron took it to a jeweller he knows on Diagon. So that’s
new, I guess.”
Tears fill her eyes immediately; there are so few possessions Harry has of his parents, for him
to gift these to her speaks of his love of her. Her entire chest feels warm.
“This is… wow. Just thank you. Both of you.” Hermione takes them out and pushes them
both into her wild curls that seem to move in every direction. She had planned to tie her hair
back into a bun for the wedding, remembering the distaste with which Draco had eyed her
messy hair the last time they had gone to Java Corner, but when she stares in the mirror, she
somehow looks like herself. It’s been a while.
“I’m going to wear it just like this,” she tells the boys.
They grin at her, and she impulsively throws her arms around them, pulling them close to her.
It feels familiar to be surrounded by Harry and Ron.
“Let me just change and we’ll have a cup of tea,” she tells them when she pulls away,
dashing a stray tear away. They look on fondly, and Harry putters to the kitchen as she
escapes to her room.
She lays her wedding gown on her bed and stares at it with a mixture of trepidation and
anticipation. Although it’s not exactly the way she’d pictured her wedding, and definitely not
the groom she’d pictured, she can’t help but feel a sense of excitement about the upcoming
weekend.
She’s about to leave her room when Hermione turns back and looks at the sash, remembering
the colours it had been. Gold and red for Gryffindor; for Arthur Weasley.
A simple flick of her wand and the sash has turned emerald green. She simplifies the
dropping lace below the sash into soft tendrils that move from the Slytherin green into a
sparkling silver, into the cream of the dress.
Hermione turns away and nearly runs from her room to escape her own actions. There’s a cup
of tea waiting on the table, milk and sugar sitting beside for her to add to taste. She’s
reminded briefly of Draco, preparing her tea exactly the way she has always preferred it
without instruction.
“Have you seen this?” Harry demands, distracting her from her musings. He’s holding a copy
of the Daily Prophet in his fist, annoyance across his face.
Luna and Theo peek out from it, hands entwined and Luna’s starlit wedding gown obvious.
The headline reads: “Lovegood to Marry into Nott Family Under WPG?”
Hermione scoffs at the newspaper. “No, but I was there. It’s true they married, but anything
else Skeeter said in her article is probably rubbish.”
“Not that,” Ron replies as Harry frantically flips pages, “the article about Tracey Davis.”
Harry slaps down the Prophet on her table in front of her. There’s a small square of the paper
that reads: ‘Witch Found Dead at 20 - WPG to Rematch Husband’.
The article is only four lines long. It reads: “Half-blood witch Tracey Davis, 20, found dead
at her home by her fiance, Marcus Flint. Flint and Davis were matched by the Wizarding
Population Growth Act. Flint will be re-matched at the earliest opportunity. The funeral for
Davis will be held at her family’s estate on November 16th at 5PM.”
Hermione can feel her fingers trembling against her teacup.
“Very suspicious she died at twenty,” Harry hisses. “I think Flint killed her.”
Hermione sighs. “He might as well have. She killed herself.”
“What?” Ron gasps. “How do you know?”
“Malfoy told me. They were friends, I think. He received a letter. Apparently, she had tried
before, but matching with Flint was the final straw.”
“They were both Slytherins!” Ron protests.
Hermione frowns. “That’s what I said, but turns out Davis was half-blood. Muggle mum.”
Harry’s green eyes narrow. “The Flint’s are an outspoken pureblood family. Why would the
Ministry match him with Davis! They had to know it was a disaster waiting to happen.”
Hermione shrugs. “I don’t think the Ministry considered histories or proclivities.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Ron intones, as though he is mulling a thought before unveiling it.
It’s rare for Ron to contradict her, but this is the second person who has disagreed with her
view on the Ministry’s random assignments, and Hermione will listen. Though she has
already shared her suspicion that the Ministry has rigged matches for potential business
benefits with Draco, so far there has been no rhyme or reason for the other matches that she
can decipher, and she had assumed it was mostly random.
“Explain,” Hermione demands.
“Flint was a Death Eater, right?” Ron asks.
“Not officially,” Hermione says, “but he wanted to be.”
Ron frowns, “All the other Death Eaters stood trials. Most went to Azkaban with the
exception of Malfoy and Nott.”
“Nott never cast any unforgiveables,” Harry agrees, “they only had him on aiding Voldemort,
but it was under coercion. He was underage pretty much the entire time.”
“And we testified for Malfoy,” Hermione adds. She doesn’t have to add how traumatizing it
had been, to see him suspended in a cage, dressed in rags with his dark mark visible. He had
been skin and bones, with defeat written across every inch of his face, as though Azkaban
was the only place he could imagine himself. Though Hermione had testified that he had tried
to help them at Malfoy Manor by not identifying them, it was Harry’s testimony about
Dumbledore’s death that had spared him.
“So what if they couldn’t get Flint on anything, but they want to?”
Hermione can feel her jaw slacken. “Are you saying that you suspect the Ministry is
attempting to frame Marcus Flint?”
“No,” Ron mutters darkly, “I’m suggesting they’re just setting him up to commit a hate crime
so they can catch him. He’ll be guilty, no framing involved.”
Hermione feels faint.
“That’s sick,” Harry looks pale.
Ron shrugs, “I agree, but you asked me to explain. If I wanted to catch Flint and put him in
Azkaban, and I do, so I can bet the Ministry does too, the easiest way is to catch him red-
handed.”
Silence reigns for a moment and Hermione sips at her lukewarm tea. She’d almost forgotten
how bloodthirsty Ron could be when strategizing.
“That might explain Flint, but what about all the other matches?” Harry finally asks.
Hermione heaves a sigh. “Malfoy and I were wondering if there’s a possible business
advantage. They seem to match families and pairs that could benefit a currently running
business, or open or improve a new business, and therefore boost the economy in wizarding
Britain. Like Katie Bell and Dean Thomas.”
“Quidditch,” Ron agrees, “Katie told us once in D.A. when she offered to get us brooms that
her family owns part of the Cleansweep company.”
Hermione nods, grateful that Ron remembered that fact. She hadn’t told Draco how she had
known, unwilling to give up D.A. members' information. Katie had wanted them to keep it
quiet, and Hermione had already felt guilty sharing that much with Malfoy.
“Exactly. And did you know the Parkinson’s are really well known for potions?”
“Neville has access to a bunch of restricted ingredients,” Harry adds slowly. “He’s been
cultivating his garden for years, even before we were out of school.”
Hermione smiles at the boys — as every year goes by she feels like they get better at
connecting the dots, but perhaps they’re just finally learning how she operates.
“Exactly. It almost seems like the Ministry is setting up possible business partners.”
“You think Pansy and Neville are going to be civil long enough to become business
partners?” Ron says skeptically.
Harry frowns. “I saw Neville the other day. First time in a long time. He’s heartbroken over
Hannah, but he didn’t say anything bad about Parkinson. He was out shopping — he said she
was at home.”
“At home? They’re living together?” Ron exclaims.
Harry shrugs, “I guess so. Maybe they eloped quietly?”
“Does Hannah know?” Hermione looks at Ron, who has gone pale.
“I don’t think so. She wouldn’t take it well.” Ron sighs. “We’re planning to just sign the
papers at the Ministry this week, no big wedding. I think she’s dragging her heels a bit
because she’s hoping Neville will just show up one day and they can run away together.”
“You think they would?”
Harry shakes his head at Hermione’s question. “Not a chance. Have you ever seen Neville
run away from anything in his life?”
Ron chuckles, “Even in first year. You remember, right? He tried to stop us — blimey,
Neville’s got more bravery than half the Gryffindor’s I know.”
“He loves Hannah, though.” Hermione protests, “What if he thinks running is worth it if he
gets her?”
“That’s a nice thought, Hermione, but I don’t think he would.” Harry’s tone is gentle. “His
parents are here in St. Mungo’s. His gran is here. Neville fought in the war — as hard as we
did. He deserves to be here, and he wouldn’t let anything drive him away. Not even for
Hannah.”
Hermione watches her oldest friends. Ron is frowning; so different from his usual smile.
“I’m going to book a hearing with the Wizengamot,” Hermione tells them abruptly.
Ron scoffs, “What use could they be?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Hermione sighs, steepling her hands. “I think I just want to present
my case that the WPG is a terrible and inhumane idea, especially following the trauma of the
war, and they’ll agree and everything will go back to normal.”
Harry’s laugh is humourless. “Hermione, you’re good, but we both know that’s unrealistic for
the Ministry.”
“I know.” Hermione can feel a tension headache building in between her eyes. “I actually
want to inquire more about their matching methods and see what information they’ll give
me.”
“You think the Wizengamot is going to explain themselves to you?” Ron questions, “No
offense, Mione, but somehow I doubt it.”
She shrugs, “I’m not interested in what they say, Ron. I’m interested in how they act. Who is
in charge? Who becomes uncomfortable when I bring up all the unsuitable matches? Who
flinches when I mention Tracey Davis? I need the names of those on the Wizengamot who
oppose the WPG.”
“Well, let us know how we can help.” Harry smiles at her. Ron nods in agreement.
“I will,” Hermione agrees, “but first tell me, how is George? And Harry, how is Ginny? I
barely got to talk to her at the wedding!”
Harry’s smile grows, and he answers enthusiastically, “Ginny is great! She’s officially moved
into Grimmauld — she was there all the time anyway, so it wasn’t hard. We’ve started
renovating a bit!”
“Yeah, it looks bloody good. Hermione, you should go visit, I popped by the other day and
it’s like a whole different house.” Ron adds.
“And we found a permanent sticking charm strong enough to silence Sirius’ horrible mother,”
Harry shudders, as though remembering Walburga Black causes him physical pain. “So you
wouldn’t even have to endure her shouting.”
Hermione laughs, “That is actually a relief. Did you know that she’s related to Draco? His
great aunt or something.”
“I believe it,” Ron groused. “He always was a bastard.”
Hermione elbows him, “Be nice, Ron. He has been nothing but gentlemanly, so far.”
Even as she says the words, she’s conflicted; it’s true that Draco Malfoy, the boy who had
tormented her for years, seems to have disappeared without a trace. Only the Sunday prior,
they had signed Theo and Luna’s wedding certificate and returned to Nott Manor, and Draco
had toured her around the gardens with Theo and Luna. They had laughed and joked, and
after an hour Hermione realized she was having fun.
They had parted ways easily, and Draco had been writing her letters each day. Taffy had
taken to roosting on her kitchen windowsill, stealing treats from her fingers and pressing his
face into her hands for her pets. He was a welcome sight, and Hermione was coming to enjoy
writing to Draco.
She almost wondered if they were friends.
“The Prophet thinks you still hate each other,” Harry’s voice drags her back to reality. Ron is
scowling, a normal sight when discussing Draco Malfoy.
“What do you mean?” Hermione asks.
Harry gestures at the paper he had flung down. “It’s on the front page with Theo and Luna.
Says you and Malfoy accompanied them. It emphasizes how you didn’t speak to each other
and stayed far apart. Called you ‘schoolyard enemies’ or some other bollocks.”
“It was Draco’s idea,” Hermione admits, “the Prophet would assume we were only there for
our respective friends to sign their marriage contract. It had surprised me that even after your
wedding the Prophet didn’t report that we had been matched, Harry. Not that I’m upset about
that — it’s definitely a relief.”
“To be honest, Hermione, I think a few people were paid off.” Harry rubs the back of his
neck. “Most people who were there wouldn’t betray us, but I wouldn’t be shocked if
Malfoy’s keeping it hushed.”
Shock filters through her; it hadn’t even occurred to her that Draco would have done that. He
had the money, to be sure, and he had admitted he wanted to keep them out of the papers as
long as possible, but Hermione had assumed they were just playing an inevitable waiting
game.
“Oh,” She breathes. She’s not sure if she’s offended or relieved.
Harry shrugs uncomfortably and looks away. Hermione understands his feelings; it goes
against every Gryffindor bone in her body to hide her problems.
“Oh, Godric, I forgot to tell you!” Ron exclaims, “Parvati and George eloped! They just
showed up married at Harry’s wedding after you and Malfoy left!”
Hermione nearly drops her cup. “What?!”
“Came as a surprise to all of us,” Ron explains, “Last I had seen George he’d been trying to
drink himself to death and hiding away in his flat. Then he shows up with Parvati on his arm
with this ridiculous ring, and he doesn’t drink anymore at all.”
“What?” Hermione repeats faintly; she’s not used to working so hard to keep up with
information.
“I think the no drinking was more Parvati’s rule than anything else,” Harry tells her ruefully,
“but he was in good spirits and laughing.”
“Do they… does he —” Hermione isn’t even sure what she’s trying to ask, but Ron’s face
falls a bit.
“I don’t think he likes her, like that.” Ron shrugs, “I think they’re friends — they’ve got a lot
in common.”
Harry nods, “There are worse things than being friends under this law.”
As if summoned by this truth, Taffy knocks at her window, startling the trio. Hermione stands
and goes to let the owl in, offering him a treat in exchange for the parchment tied to his leg.
“Who’s owl is that?” Ron asks.
“Draco’s,” Hermione answers, already opening the letter.
“Dear Granger,
If you are free tomorrow evening after work, please consider joining me for dinner. I will
endeavour not to storm away like a prat this time.
If it works for you — I’ll pick you up at 6?
Yours,
Draco Malfoy
PS: Stop feeding Taffy treats I think he already likes you better than me.”
Hermione laughs and feeds Taffy another treat with zero remorse. When she turns back to the
table, the boys are talking about Quidditch. It’s such a familiar sight — thousands of
memories of them doing the exact same thing flit through her brain.
She accio’s a pen and parchment and scrawls Draco a reply.
“Dear Malfoy,
I’m free — I’ll be ready for you at 6. I’ll endeavour not to bite your head off this time.
Also — Harry and Ron stopped by today. I have so many things to tell you! George and
Parvati eloped and appeared at Harry's wedding after we left! The last I had heard they
hadn't even spoken. Also, apparently Pansy and Neville are living together!? Or so Harry
thought, he ran into him just the other day.
There was also an article by Skeeter in the Prophet about Luna and Theo — you probably
already saw it. We were mentioned, but don’t panic, they have referred to us as enemies... so
very dramatic, I know, though I am glad the press won't be following us yet.
On another note... the Prophet also mentioned Tracey Davis — if you don’t have a copy of the
paper and wanted to read it, let me know and I'll bring one for you tomorrow.
Yours,
Granger
PS: I’ll stop feeding Taffy treats he definitely deserves when you start thanking your house-
elves.”
“Blimey, Hermione, are you writing him an essay?”
Hermione scowls at Ron’s question, setting her pen down. “That was a perfectly reasonable
response, Ronald.”
“Of course it was,” Harry’s voice is fond, if exasperated.
Hermione huffs and makes her way back to the table. “I hardly think a few sentences equate
to an essay.”
“Does he even read them?” Ron leans back in her chair, relaxed. Though Hermione loves
him dearly, she is immediately reminded about how absolutely not right they were for each
other.
How often she had written him letters — longer than the one she had just sent Draco Malfoy
— and he had responded in two sentences or fewer?
Though… perhaps Draco just thinks he has to reply to her? Perhaps he doesn’t want to and he
just is being polite? Ron had never struggled with being rude.
“Nine days,” Harry interrupts her sudden internal panic.
“Nine days until what?” Ron questions.
Harry locks eyes with her, and Hermione grimaces. She knows this answer. “In nine days, the
Wizarding Population Growth Act states that each matched couple must be married.”
“People are flocking to the Ministry,” Harry adds, “The lineup on the second floor is round
the corner.”
“Do we know what the Ministry is going to do to those who don’t obey?” Ron is pale.
Hermione shrugs, “They state deportation from the British magical communities.”
“Not only that,” Harry adds, “But the Aurors are on call to make arrests. Magical Law
Enforcement, too. They’re planning on charging anyone who ignores the WPG.”
“They can’t send them to Azkaban!” Ron argues.
Harry sighs, “They don’t need to. If they charge them, they can seize their assets, even from
Gringotts. They’ll bankrupt any witch or wizard they can, send them out of the country if
they’re lucky, or Azkaban if they’re unlucky.”
The table is silent, stewing in fury. To be so betrayed by your government; the government
you had supported and had hoped would be better than the last.
“I suppose I better go tell Hannah,” Ron stands slowly, wearily. “We should get it over with.
Maybe we’ll just go tonight, I think they have it open late all this week.”
Harry stands, and Hermione watches them. Her heart is breaking. “I’m so sorry, Ron.”
Ron half-smiles at her, “It’s not your fault, Hermione. We’re going to fix this, remember?”
“Definitely,” Harry agrees, “Hermione, let us know when the Wizengamot allows you a
hearing.”
“I will,” she promises.
“Harry, let us know when Kingsley finally answers one of your memos,” Ron demands,
“Can’t believe that wanker is hiding.”
Hermione doesn’t say anything, but she agrees. Kingsley has been absent for more than a
week, and it’s shameful.
She walks the boys to the door and watches as they head outside of her gate to apparate away.
It’s fully dark by now, just the sliver of a moon and stars to light their way. Hermione
wonders if she should put in a small lamp-post at the end of her walkway. Though she rarely
has guests in her tiny cottage, she supposes that might change. Draco would surely want
Theo to have access, and Hermione could perhaps allow Luna in her space.
With the thought that her world might be expanding, Hermione heads back into her cottage.
She supposes she should clean it a bit, prepare a few shelves for Draco’s imminent arrival.
It’s nearly two hours later, and far past her bedtime when Hermione deems the cottage ready.
Everything is spotless, and she’s transfigured her old armchair into a corner couch large
enough to hold more than one person. Her bed has been moved to the centre of the bedroom,
with night tables on both sides; though she doesn’t dwell on the why of this. Her closet is half
empty, and although it had never been full to begin with, she had purchased a new dresser
only the day beforehand, for Malfoy, and what she assumes is an obnoxiously extensive
wardrobe.
The last touch on her cottage, however, sends a genuine thrill through her. She strengthens
her wards and hides her magic behind shields as much as she can before casting the
undetectable extension charm: Capacious Extremis.
She has done the complicated spell once before, on the beaded bag that had carried her
through the war. It was heavily controlled magic, and Hermione had taken ages to figure out
how to hide such a spell from the Ministry — it had been Barty Crouch Jr in the fourth year
who had actually given her the clues. They had left his trunk alone in his classroom office
after his arrest and the recovery of the real Mad-Eye Moody, and Hermione had snuck in to
run diagnostics on it. She’d known, even then, that it was a particularly tricky bit of magic.
It had taken her months to figure it out.
This time, the magic comes easily. The trunk in her office shudders and Hermione throws the
lid open. There are stairs leading down to an empty space, and cautiously she crawls inside.
Though the charm could in theory be applied to make the trunk as large as she could ever
need it, she had spelled it specifically to be about the size of the office she had come from.
She summons the bookshelves filled with books from above, and they float down into her
new library space.
It takes her another hour, even with magic helping, and Hermione feels as though she could
collapse by the time she finishes. Exhaustion races through her, even as she delights in the
wall-to-wall bookshelves, and the impeccable filing system for easy access.
“Just need to buy another chair,” Hermione mutters before clambering out of her trunk stairs.
Her office looks almost empty with the bookshelves gone, just a lone desk in the centre of the
space.
Her bed is calling her, and though she hates it being in the middle of the space and not safely
against the wall, she’s tired enough that once she pulls her blankets over her shoulder, she’s
asleep before she knows it.
Chapter End Notes
Hermione's wedding dress inspiration found here... please imagine no lace on the chest,
but instead a lace style belt in emerald green that gradient fades into the same colour as
the dress:
https://www.dhresource.com/0x0/f2/albu/g17/M00/E4/C5/rBVa4l_rPUqAOcNLAADEP
WGlax0291.jpg/formal-dresses-champagne-prom-dress-long.jpg
Peace Lily
Chapter Notes
Friends, thank you SO much for your comments. I really appreciate them so SO much.
I'm so glad you're enjoying the story, and I know everyone is excited about more
Hermione/Draco interaction, so I hope this chapter delivers!
Warning: Please heed the tags on this story. Note that at no point in this story will I
explicitly write dub or non-con scenes, though those types of scenarios are taking place
'off-screen'.
November 11th, 1999 - Thursday
Hermione Granger has two pens stuck through the bun piled on top of her head, editing
furiously through Donna’s ridiculous Selkie proposal. She’s half a mind to send Donna a
howler over her thoughtless write-up and suggestions. The woman has been irritating all
week — staring at her as though she’s going to crucio her at any turn, simply because she’s
acquainted with Theo and Draco.
The only saving grace is that despite Donna being infamous as the office gossip, and nearly
obsessed with Hermione's unexpected appearance in the department during Theo and Luna’s
wedding, she had been largely silenced after the Prophet had covered the wedding in an
article a few days prior.
The Daily Prophet, for once in her life, had done Hermione Granger a favour. Her coworkers
accepted the paper's statement that Hermione had been there for Luna’s support, and Draco
for Theo’s. As far as the Prophet was concerned, Draco and Hermione were nothing more
than schoolyard rivals, which suited her fine. Though many coworkers had brought up the
WPG, Hermione has continually navigated the conversation away from herself at every turn.
She knows they’re curious — the entire bloody world is curious. The Prophet headline today
had been splashed across the entire page: “The Golden Trio: Matches & Marriages” with an
image of Ron and Hannah walking through the Ministry together, Ron’s hand splayed out as
if to ward off the camera. Neither of them were smiling.
The article, written by none other than Rita Skeeter, had stated that Harry Potter, the Boy who
Lived, had married Hogwarts sweetheart Ginny Weasley. The entire paragraph had been
sickly sweet and hopeful, touting the WPG as the ‘key that brought them together’; as if they
hadn’t already been dating.
Ron is not so lucky — the Daily Prophet has written that Ronald Weasley matched with
Hannah Abbott. It details the entirety of her and Neville Longbottom’s relationship, and has
the audacity to state that ‘with Weasley stealing Longbottom’s girl, this might spell the end of
a long friendship’.
Hermione’s own section in the article is — thankfully — sparse. It says that her match
remains a secret, and though the ‘wizarding world waits with bated breath to find out who the
war heroine will marry’ there are no clues it could be Draco Malfoy.
Still, the ending line in the article burns her even though she knows it is untrue. It’s a lie —
one that Skeeter wrote to get under her skin.
‘With Hermione Granger’s long-time sweetheart Ron Weasley married to Hannah Abbott, we
must ask ourselves: how far will the golden girl go for revenge?’
Skeeter has set her up to portray the hysterical woman — and worse than that, she has
undermined Hermione’s efforts to destroy the WPG with one fell sentence.
Her quill snaps in her fingers and Hermione glances up. It’s the third quill today she’s broken,
and she has to cast a quick charm over the Selkie proposal before the red ink destroys it.
“Reparo,” Hermione mutters, just as a knock sounds on her door.
It’s Douglas, the head of accounting in their department, and he’s holding a vase of flowers.
“Douglas, come in,” Hermione invites, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.
“Oh, don't worry, Miss. Granger, I'm not staying. Just here to drop these off — a delivery
person accidentally brought them to me, so I said I could swing them over to you.”
He places the vase on her desk, and Hermione stares at the artful arrangement. It’s lilies
detailed with baby’s breath and absolutely stunning.
“Did they mention who they’re from?” Hermione asks.
Douglas shrugs, “No, sorry.”
“Oh, must be from Harry then. Thank you!” Hermione is under absolutely no illusions that
Harry Potter sent her this bouquet, but better to plant that thought now.
Douglas nods and heads out, closing the door behind his portly figure. He’s a kind man, and
not prone to gossip. Hermione’s glad the flowers went to him instead of Donna, who likely
would have somehow spun it that a Death Eater sent them to her.
Which — to be fair — is not that far from the truth.
Hermione finds the small scroll wrapped almost under the flowers, nearly hidden. It comes
away with a gentle tug, and Hermione unrolls it swiftly.
“Granger,
You mentioned lilies were your favourite. I hope you like French food — I thought perhaps
something other than Italian tonight. You must share everything from your friends’ visit
yesterday. I’m especially intrigued about P&N since normally she would owl me news of that
sort. We’re… friends.
Anyway, I hope you like the flowers. Figured you may need cheering up; I heard that your
‘long time sweetheart’ married some other girl.
Relax — I’m joking.
See you tonight at the cottage. I’ll be there at 6.’
It’s the first letter Draco’s ever sent her without signing who it’s from. She knows it’s just
caution on his end. Anyone could intercept the flowers and know who he was, even from
initials. His writing is almost as familiar to her as her own by this point, though, and
Hermione stares at the bouquet, letter in hand.
The flowers are beautiful, but even more surprising, they’re thoughtful. He remembered her
favourite kind, and he’d even read her letter that Ron had deemed an ‘essay’ the night before.
Another knock at her door makes her flinch, and she barely chokes out: “Come in!”
Harry’s face appears, and Hermione grins at him. He rarely drops by her office, though she
had assumed since the Prophet had featured them he might today.
“Hey,” he plops into the seat in front of her desk, taking in the bouquet. “Nice flowers.”
“Thanks. Did you know lilies are my favourite?”
Harry shakes his head, “No. They're pretty, though.”
Hermione sighs at Harry’s cluelessness — ten years of friendship and she worries sometimes
that he has no idea who she is.
Though she also remembers fighting beside him, countering his every weak point with her
own hexes, and he doing the same for her. She remembers fitting into his arms and sobbing
as though the world ended, and how after Malfoy Manor the only time she felt safe was when
she was stuffed between him and Ron, sandwiched between two anchors.
Flowers do not a friendship make.
“You read the Prophet?” Hermione asks, pulling her wand out to cast a quick muffliato at the
door.
Harry scoffs, “Yes, though it’s rubbish.”
“Of course it is,” Hermione sniffs. “Still, it doesn’t help our cause. I’ll just look like some
heartbroken witch scheming to get back her man if I do anything against the WPG now.”
“Yes,” Harry says intently, “which is precisely why I want you to pretend to be happy with
Malfoy.”
Hermione nearly chokes. “What?!”
“I’m serious, Hermione.”
“You what — you want us to fake a happy marriage? Won’t it look bad when I’m constantly
trying to dismantle the WPG if I’m supposedly happy?”
Harry nods, “I thought of that, but do you think Malfoy would help you? If you two were a
united force, and Ron and I backed you, imagine how much power we’d have against the
WPG?”
“He’s already going to help,” Hermione admits grudgingly.
As far as plans go, it’s surprisingly not Harry Potter’s worst. It’s a little known fact that Harry
Potter is not the planner of the group — he gets by on mostly pure luck and wicked reflexes.
“What did the Wizengamot say when you sent them your request for a hearing?” Harry asks.
Hermione rolls her eyes and summons a parchment, sending it careening into Harry’s face.
He snatches it without flinching; office memos are the new snitches in his life.
“To Miss Hermione Granger,” Harry reads darkly, “At this time the Wizengamot is
completely booked for hearings until after the holiday season. I have tentatively booked you
into an appointment on January 6th.”
Hermione sniffs, “I thought about putting up a stink, but then I read Skeeter’s stupid article.”
Harry balls up the reply and tosses it towards the waste bin. Hermione frowns, knowing
she’ll have to dig it out of there later, but lets it go for now.
“Keep that appointment,” Harry growls, “it gives us more time to research.”
“That’s almost two months away!” Hermione protests.
Harry shrugs, “It doesn’t matter. We have nothing on them — we’re just looking for their
reactions. I’ll start digging deeper into who is on the Wizengamot, and you keep doing what
you’re doing.”
Hermione rolls her eyes — Harry has been instructing her to ‘do what she’s doing’ since
second year when it finally occurred to him that she was generally on the right track.
“Do me a favour,” she says, “look into Ernest Hawkworth.”
“The Chief Warlock?”
“Yes. His name was on the letter when they sent us our matches. And Babajide Akingbade
might be worth a look, though he doesn’t live in Britain, so I don’t know if he’ll be useful.”
Harry shrugs, “I’ll look into them. I know very little about Hawkworth, except that he’s been
on the Wizengamot for a long time and took over Chief Warlock after… after Dumbledore.”
Hermione sighs, “That’s what I figured, but it can’t hurt. Anyway, you better get back to
work — I know for a fact your lunch hour was over ten minutes ago.”
Harry scoffs, “If Kingsley can hide away and never show his face, why can’t I?”
Still, he dutifully stands and sends her a grin.
“Bye Harry,” Hermione calls, and he shuts the door behind him.
For the next hour, she stares at the Selkie proposal and gets nowhere, so instead, she lists all
the matches from the WPG she knows on parchment the way she’s done a hundred times by
now. There’s still nothing that she can see that she’s missed before.
Charlie is with Astoria; she can think of nothing to do with Dragons that might've inspired
that match, and it is curious that Daphne is with Percy, pairing both Greengrass daughters
with Weasleys. George and Parvati are both from Gryffindor house, which does seem to be
rare within the pairings, but other than that Hermione can't see any other link. Ron is with
Hannah, which is unexplainable; Harry is with Ginny, a match that Hermione had
manipulated through Kingsley. Dean Thomas and Katie Bell have Quidditch in common, and
Neville and Pansy have the potions connection, which fits into her business advantage
theory.
She writes down Theo and Luna's name beside each other, then her own and Draco's, and
finally, Marcus Flint and Tracey Davis. Her heart sinks.
As Hermione stares at her list she suddenly wonders if Ron’s idea about them setting Marcus
Flint up to kill Tracey Davis was true. She wonders if they matched her to Malfoy for the
same reason. Did they think he was going to kill her? That they could then arrest him; ridding
them of the Death Eaters that escaped Azkaban? Would it be the same for Theo?
She glances at the flowers on her desk, and the letter Malfoy sent her sitting beside them.
Hermione forces herself to breathe, forces herself to be logical. Draco Malfoy — admittedly
a prat and a bully as a child, and then an unwilling Death Eater during the war — will not
murder her. She knows this.
From the very first letter he had sent her before the WPG was even a thought, he has done
nothing but attempt to distance himself from the villain he had been. He has acquiesced to
every request she has made; from a muggle wedding to living in her cottage after their
marriage. He has told her she looked nice, and given her a bracelet that is priceless, and
perhaps most importantly, he has called her nothing but Granger or Hermione this entire
time.
If the Wizengamot was planning some sort of elaborate murder of Hermione Granger by an
ex-Death Eater, Draco will not give them that satisfaction.
She goes pale —
Stares down at the bracelet on her wrist, the twinkling azure jewels set in goblin-wrought
silver. She hasn’t taken it off except to shower since he had given it to her.
She pictures him; their very first meeting at the Java Corner, nerves playing across his
aristocratic face: “it’s customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift,” he had
told her.
Hermione Granger knows that if the Wizengamot wants her dead and Draco arrested, they
will set him up. They will murder her themselves and frame him for it.
What she is not sure about is whether Draco has realized this already and is holding out on
her; why else would he give her a bracelet that could supposedly call him to her side in an
instant? Sneaky bloody Slytherin.
Her bag is in her hand before she can think, and she throws everything inside. The letter
Harry had thrown away flies to her fingers. A quick incendio reduces the scribbled words and
matches she had written on the parchment to ash, and Hermione scrambles to toss her coat on
before heading out of her office. She doesn’t speak to anyone on the way out, striding with
purpose to the Ministry Floo where she escapes to Diagon Alley.
She apparates to her cottage, rushing to feel her wards surround her. Safe — she is safe.
Work can wait — she may be home three hours earlier than usual, but no one will question
the disappearance of a notable workaholic. They probably would think she’s attending an out
of office work meeting.
Instead, Hermione throws her coat on her hook and heads to her enchanted trunk, clambering
down the stairs. She’s finally got a small desk and chair inside the magically enlarged space,
and taking up half of the wall there is a bulletin board filled with pins and notes.
Today, she adds three more pins — one to Marcus Flint, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott.
The note she tacks to them states: ‘Ministry set up to purge remaining Death Eaters?’.
Godric; she hopes she’s wrong.
Tentatively, she’s become almost fond of Theo. When he had accompanied Luna to the Leaky
Cauldron to meet her, Ron, and Harry, he had been polite. Perhaps a little quiet, but friendly,
and he had stared at Luna as though she was the only sunshine in his entire world. A part of
Hermione had been jealous.
She sits in front of her board and studies it mercilessly. Tracey Davis is dead; but she killed
herself, Malfoy had told her that. So far, there has been no move to frame Flint for it; though
Hermione doesn’t doubt the Ministry is still capable of it. Harry will know first — he’ll let
her know if the Ministry sends the Aurors for Flint.
Thinking of Harry reminds her of his idea.
Pretending — being happy as Draco Malfoy’s wife.

She knows what Malfoy has told her: the public will hate her for getting along with him.
They will vilify her for her betrayal; in their eyes, to care for a Malfoy is to support
Voldemort’s ideals. However, her support would also vastly improve his reputation.
For a heartbreaking moment, Hermione wonders if that is the reason Draco has been so
tolerant so far. She dismisses the thought a moment later when she recalls how he had
apologized before the WPG had come out. She’s so bloody grateful he had the courage to
write to her and say sorry. What a difference it has made in her opinion of him.
She sighs and plunks her head into her hands, her curly hair falling out of her bun and
brushing her fingers. Her decision is already made, and she knows it.
Hermione Granger does the right thing.
It’s practically a part of her; a trait stamped into her very genetics. She cannot abide standing
by and watching others suffer when she could have done something. It was the whole idea
behind S.P.E.W, the inspiration for her current career in the Ministry, and how she could
withstand Bellatrix’s torture all while giving away no information.
Pretending to be happy in a marriage with Draco Malfoy will protect him; give the public a
reason to change their opinion of him while still allowing her to protest the WPG on the
behalf of others.
It’s hardly the most difficult thing she has ever done.
She drags herself to her feet and marches back into the upstairs, emerging from her trunk and
shutting it tightly. She spends almost an entire hour in the bathtub, soaking in bubbles and
pretending that the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s a habit she’s indulged in since the war
ended. The first bath she had taken after the Battle of Hogwarts had felt as though she had
been reborn.
Her ribs ache when she gets out of the tub, and she takes a pain potion. The healers at St.
Mungo’s had informed her that extensive exposure to the cruciatus could cause a nearly
arthritic type of inflammation, and every once in a while it flares up.
Her hair cooperates, and she leaves it down in curls around her shoulders; it feels like her
armour. Her face in the mirror looks tired, and Hermione scowls. She brushes on some blush
and a little eye makeup; she so rarely wears it, but it hardly seems acceptable for Draco to
pick her up looking half-dead.
Wrapped in a plushy towel, she sits on the edge of her bed. She’s holding her D.A. gold coin
in her hand tightly, the edges biting into her palm. It remains silent. She doesn’t know exactly
how long she sits in silence, but by the time she finally drops the gold coin into her beaded
bag, the cool air has chilled her skin.
It’s half-past five when Hermione slips into her outfit. She’d borrowed it from Ginny ages
ago and never worn it. The top is a blush pink that dips into a vee on her chest, with long
sleeves that taper at her wrists. She tucks it into her knee-length black skirt and low kitten
heels.
Her bracelet glimmers from her wrist, a reminder to a thousand questions she has for her
future husband.
A knock at her door seems to echo through the cottage, and Hermione resolutely marches
towards her door. She throws it open and comes face to face with Draco Malfoy. He’s
wearing a black wool coat and a Slytherin green scarf, and a corner of his lip tilts up when he
sees her.
“Granger,” he greets.
She nods, breathless. She summons her bag and slips her long trench over her outfit.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, “I thought after Skeeter’s article you might need a pick me
up.”
Hermione laughs humourlessly as they head down her little cobblestone path and pass the
gate. “The Prophet is filled with lies.”
“Doesn’t mean people don’t read it,” Malfoy sighs and switches topics. “Shall I side-along
you?”
Hermione nods, wrapping her arm through his elbow. It’s more comfortable now, easy to
reach for him and trust that he’ll take her safely to their destination.
They whirl away and land on a darkened doorstep in muggle London. He doesn’t let go of
her arm, and they head east together. His pace is sedate, and Hermione is grateful because
although her heels are low she isn’t used to wearing anything but flat, sensible shoes.
“You like French food?” Draco asks.
Hermione nods, “I do, though I don’t speak French, so you may have to translate.”
She assumes he speaks French — in every pureblood compendium he had sent her, the
Malfoy’s descended from France, and Hermione doubts that Narcissa Malfoy would allow
any holes in Draco’s education.
“Of course,” Draco allows, stopping briefly and opening a door into a small restaurant.
There’s no signage beyond a single neon sign that reads ‘open’, but when she walks through
the doorway, it’s warm and smells like heaven.
The Maître d’ greets them easily, and after a moment’s conversation with Draco, she whisks
them away to a small booth, a navy curtain enclosing the booth, and a flickering candle in the
centre of the table.
It’s unbearably romantic.
She slides into the booth and takes her coat off, folding it over her beaded bag, cheeks
burning.
“I like that colour on you,” Draco blurts, and Hermione snaps her eyes to him. His expression
is closed, though a slight blush graces his cheeks.
Hermione clears her throat, “Thank you. I borrowed it from Ginny. I’m afraid I don’t own
many date clothes.”
“Weasel not take you out much?” Draco drawls.
“Be nice,” Hermione admonishes, but then smirks. “But no, not really.”
Draco huffs a laugh, “Well, we can go out whenever you like. Though, admittedly, muggle
places tend to be more comfortable. There’s… less staring.”
“I assure you,” Hermione tells him determinedly, “that I am very used to staring. Perhaps we
should brave Diagon one day.”
Draco frowns, but the water emerges before he can contradict her. He orders flawlessly in
French and then glances at her.
“Would you like a wine?”
Hermione nods, “Sure. Red, please.”
He says something else in French, and the server disappears.
“How are Theo and Luna?” Hermione asks, desperate to change the subject from their public
outings.
Draco rolls his eyes, “Well, Hermione Granger, it should please you to know that once again
you were right.”
Hermione laughs at his fake sarcasm, “Oh dear. What about this time?”
“Theo bought her Thestrals.”
Hermione gasps, “What?! They are a Class XXXX restricted animal and under regulation
2.7A of the—”
“Granger, relax.” Draco’s face has gone almost fond. “Theo has all the correct papers. I told
you, the Nott’s used to breed Thestrals for decades.”
Hermione feels her muscles relax, and she realizes that instead of mocking her, Draco Malfoy
has calmed her. He’s amused, sure, but he hadn’t called her a know-it-all swot.
“Well, that’s… good, then.”
“Good, because you were right?” Malfoy laughs and leans forward. “About the Ministry
possibly pairing them for their shared interest in Thestral breeding, I mean.”
Hermione swallows. She’s not sure if she should mention that she’s currently working on a
theory where Thestrals have nothing to do with it and instead the Ministry is planning on
murdering Luna Lovegood and herself to set Theo and Draco up for Azkaban. Wonders if
Draco already knows about this theory.
“What about Pansy?” She says instead.
Draco frowns at her topic change, “Pansy has mentioned nothing about Longbottom. You
think they’re living together?”
Then, Hermione tells him everything Ron and Harry had told her: tells him about how
Neville is breaking Hannah’s and his own heart but not spewing hate over Parkinson while
doing it. Tells him that George and Parvati eloped and are friends, but Charlie and Astoria
don’t speak, and Percy and Daphne spend hours comparing boring texts that would drive
anyone else mad, all while smiling at each other.
She tells him how the Ministry is prepared to deport, bankrupt, and jail any person who does
not obey the WPG, and then she tells him how the Daily Prophet had mentioned Flint would
be re-matched after Davis’ death.
She does not mention Ron Weasley’s theory or her fears.
Their wine arrives halfway through her talking, and she sips at it easily. It’s full-bodied and
delicious, and Hermione finally runs out of steam when her glass runs dry.
“I also booked a hearing with the Wizengamot,” she finishes. “It’s not until the New Year. I
just want to get a sense of who supports the WPG.”
Draco Malfoy listens attentively throughout her speech but frowns speculatively at this.
“They won’t help you. They’re used to Hawkworth running everything; Dumbledore was
Chief Warlock for years, but he was absent nearly the entire time since he was at Hogwarts.
Hawkworth was almost always in charge, though he bent to whatever Dumbledore wanted
when it mattered.”
“I didn’t think he was… bad.” Hermione sighs. “I just don’t know if he’s behind the WPG.”
“He probably is behind it,” Draco states. “Though I doubt it’s as villainous in his mind. My
father—”
Draco chokes the words off, his eyes drifting away from her, as though he can’t bear to speak
of Lucius while looking at her.
“Tell me.” She commands.
He glances back, surprise flickering in silver eyes. “My father always said he was a
shortsighted fool, easy to manipulate. He thirsted for power more than anything else. He
called him ‘Dumbledore’s puppet’.”
The server reappears, and Hermione nearly scowls. They are always being interrupted at the
most inopportune moments.
“Draco,” she murmurs, “could you order me a seafood dish?”
His eyes scan the menu briefly, “Do you like sole?”
She nods, and he orders a dish she cannot pronounce, as well as something to do with lamb.
The server doesn’t write anything down or crack a smile and disappears as quickly as he’d
come.
“You think he thirsts for power?” Hermione asks as soon as she’s able.
Draco’s flinty eyes find hers. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Hermione flinches. “No. No, they don’t.”
Draco laughs, “Granger, don’t be naïve. Everyone wants more power.”
“I don’t,” She answers stubbornly.
He watches her with curious eyes. “Alright. What do you want, then?”
“To be safe,” the words escape her before she can think to filter them.
Draco’s expression softens infinitesimally, but his words fall like punches. “Okay. And how
do you think you can make yourself safe, Granger? What do you need?”
Hermione feels her breath leave her — he’s right. She doesn’t thirst for power, not the same
way Voldemort did. But she wants to be safe; she wants to have the power to make herself
and those she loves safe. She wants to make a difference.
“It’s not the same thing.” She insists.
“No, it’s not.” Draco agrees, “Intention makes a difference.”
They lapse into silence, and Hermione steels herself.
“And you?”
“Me, what?” Draco replies.
She narrows her gaze, hoping to convey the same piercing intensity he does so easily. “Why
do you need power? What do you want?”
Hurt flickers over his expression before it becomes steely again; but it’s too late, Hermione
has seen the vulnerability. She’s offended him, sure, but she’s also learned something. Draco
Malfoy wants to be good. Wants to be trusted.
“Don’t you realize, Granger?” He smirks lazily at her, “Money is power, and I’ve got more
money than I know what to do with.”
She laughs, “So I suppose I’m powerful now, too.”

“As of Sunday, sure.” He agrees, humour once more twinkling in his eyes. Surprisingly, the
mention of their upcoming nuptials doesn’t dampen their mood.
Their food arrives, and their conversation flows into something lighter, something easier. She
learns that Draco has both a passion and a skill for charms, and though the story of repairing
the Vanishing Cabinet has an unhappy ending, he navigates away from it with finesse. She
stares at his fingers, noticing silver-white scars across his skin. How many injuries did the
repair cost him?
“I’ve been thinking of using arithmancy, actually,” Draco muses, telling her of his newest
project he’s been tinkering with, “I must show you my calculations because I think if I invert
the…”
Their food arrives as he speaks, and Hermione enjoys every bite in-between banter. Draco is
smart — and she knew that, but she hardly thinks she’s enjoyed a meal so much in years.
He orders dessert without asking, and Hermione smiles at his presumption. She brings up her
newest potion research, and Draco asks if she tried newt toes or essence of murtlap instead of
the issmigum plant she’s having trouble sourcing.
Their plate of profiteroles arrive and every bite is like a revelation. They burst in her mouth
with flavour, and when divided equally there is one extra piece that Draco lets her have.
He pays the bill in muggle currency, and Hermione is curious, but for once in her life she lets
the moment pass. She has an entire marriage ahead of her with him to ask about his
familiarity with the muggle world.
They stroll onto the street, and Draco leads her a different way than they came. Soon they are
turning onto a cobbled square, and Christmas lights are shining in some shop windows.
“Can’t believe Christmas is almost here,” she murmurs in wonder. They stroll beside each
other down the sidewalks, and though their conversation stalls, she is comfortable.
“I was hoping you would accompany me to Blaise Zabini and Padma Patil’s wedding. It’s
next week.” Draco mentions.
“Cutting it close, aren’t they?” Hermione muses, remembering that there are now only 8 days
until the WPG deadline. “I’d love to go with you.”
Draco huffs, “I think Blaise is hoping the WPG will fall apart before the marriage.”
“He doesn’t like Padma?” Hermione remembers Padma — she had been Ravenclaw, quieter
and far less flighty than her sister Parvati. She was smart and beautiful, and Hermione is
almost offended on her behalf that she’s somehow not good enough for Blaise Zabini.
Draco snorts. “Blaise doesn’t like girls.”
“Oh,” Hermione gapes, her annoyance dissipating. “Oh. I see.”
“Yes. The WPG puts a bit of a wrench into that preference.”

Hermione feels her throat clog with tears for someone she hardly knows. For someone she
previously didn’t even think she’d ever like. Blaise Zabini had always come across as a
condescending sneak; though Hermione now understands how much the label of 'Slytherin'
had coloured her vision for years. Perhaps she has been wrong.
“That’s… horrible. I’m so sorry for him.”
Draco shrugs, “The WPG is horrible for many people. Blaise mentioned Padma is accepting
of him and kind. She’s worried about the pregnancy deadline, though.”
Dread coils in Hermione’s stomach. “What… what will Blaise do?”
“If it comes down to it?” Draco stops and glances at her, as though measuring how much she
truly wants to hear the answer. “I suppose he’ll get blind drunk and get it over with.”
Hermione falls speechless. She had known; of course, she had known. The WPG mandated a
pregnancy — and she wasn’t ignorant as to how that would come about. Not every witch or
wizard would be willing, or able. It was still horrible to face that truth.
“My mother,” Draco swallows, and Hermione snaps her eyes back to him. He falters but
continues in a wounded tone. “My mother endured a… less than ideal marriage for many,
many years, Granger.”
Hermione feels her throat go dry. She had always imagined that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy
had found each other through their mutual awfulness and pureblood superiority, bonding over
a deep hatred of Muggles. Like a child, she had thought —
Well, every child thinks all parents love each other.
“My father was an evil bastard.” Malfoy’s voice goes dark and murderous, and fear ripples
down Hermione’s spine.
“I… I am so sorry.” She whispers.
“No.” He bites out the word, pinning her with a raptor’s gaze. “No. I’m not telling you to
be sorry.”
“I don’t know what you want, Malfoy,” Hermione admits. It almost seems as if the smallest
motion or word she may say could send this polite Draco Malfoy disappearing.
Tension radiates from him, and he exhales. “I don’t want that.”
Understanding hits her like a flash — Draco doesn’t want her to be sorry, but more than that,
he doesn’t want what his parents had.
Draco Malfoy — the boy who had worshipped his father and emulated him at every turn —
is nowhere to be found. Instead, all Hermione sees is vulnerability.
“I don’t want that either,” she tells him honestly. “And I know you won’t be like… like him.”
Draco stares at her as though seeing her for the very first time. Tentatively, he lifts a gentle
hand up in a strange mirror of their first meeting and presses his fingertips to her cheekbone.
Warmth spreads from where he touches, featherlight. Hermione suddenly realizes he could
kiss her.
Suddenly realizes how much she wants him to.
“You should kiss me,” she tells him, and his eyes grow wide in front of her. It almost looks as
though he is going to protest, but at the same moment he curls towards her. She always
forgets how tall he is.
His other hand finds her face, both palms hot on her jawline. Christmas lights twinkle behind
him, and for a brief moment, Draco Malfoy looks like nothing more than a nervous boy
kissing a girl for the first time. Hermione lifts up on her tiptoes and presses her lips against
his.
It’s like fire — a conflagration of heat and gentility. His hands hold her in place, and almost
without thinking Hermione wraps her own arms around his back to pull him closer.
He sways away from her after only a moment; far too soon for her taste. His eyes are
shadowed in questions. It feels like a secret, between them. Something sacred and
unexpected. All thoughts of playing pretend seem to be thousands of miles away.
“I hardly think the first time you kiss me should be at our wedding,” Hermione whispers
before he can speak.
He doesn’t let go of her, but pain flashes on his face.
Unexpectedly, he murmurs, “Why did you tell me at Potter’s wedding that Molly Weasley
was the most powerful witch in Britain?”
Hermione lets her arms fall slack from his back at his question, and he releases her as though
she’s burning him. She wishes she’d said nothing to him at Harry’s wedding, but it’s too late
now. He’ll never let it go.
“The Malfoy’s have always been wealthy,” she glances away. “But it’s not their money or
their purity or whatever that made them so powerful, both now and throughout wizarding
history.”
Draco studies her but doesn’t reply. She wraps her arms tightly over her chest, whether to
soothe the ache of her ribcage or to prevent her from reaching for him again, she’s not sure.
She continues, less certain than before. “They’re powerful. You’re powerful.”
“So what?”
“I had a theory when the WPG first was announced,” Hermione admits.
Draco’s eyes are glittering, “Something different from the possible benefit to the Ministry
from fortuitous business or economic matches theory?”
She doesn’t want to say it — it’s not even really a theory. It’s just what the WPG is. They had
admitted it in that first black letter, and no matter what other reasons they may have for
individual matches, there is always one outcome.
Draco knows it as well as she does.
“You think they’re breeding us for power.” His words loosen the knots in her shoulders;
someone to carry this weight with her.
“We already know it’s essentially a breeding program,” Hermione tells him. None of this is a
surprise.
Draco nods, terse. “Yes. It is. But you think they’re matching people for power and interests
to breed stronger magical lines. Stronger magical businesses and partnerships. It’s about the
economy, but it’s more about power.”
“Yes.”
“They said in the letter that they matched based on personality and magical signature.”
Hermione doesn’t even deem an answer worthwhile to that — they both know the Ministry
has lied before. Besides, what does magical signature even mean besides power?
“Who did Kingsley get?” Draco suddenly demands.
Hermione huffs, “We’d all like to know the answer to that. He’s probably the most powerful
wizard living right now, perhaps other than Hawkworth himself—”
“Hawkworth is strong,” Draco interrupts, “but not in duelling magic. In a duel, he wouldn’t
last a minute against Kingsley.”
She watches him, nervous to ask her next question. “Would you?”
Draco’s jaw clenches, “I don’t think I could beat him. He’s experienced — he’s been through
two wars.”
“But?” Hermione adds softly.
Draco grimaces, “I fought him once. In the war. We were in a skirmish, and he went after
Goyle. Greg was never a powerful duelist, so I engaged Shacklebolt so Greg could escape.”
“I remember,” Hermione breathes, clarity rushing through her. “He thought there might be at
least one Death Eater who sympathized with the Order because of that.”
Draco’s eyes flick away from her. “He made a mistake. It wasn’t because of my skill, I just
got lucky. I had a clear shot, and he knew it. He thought he was about to die — Death Eaters
don’t… well, they shoot to kill.”
“You stunned him,” Hermione says. She knows the end of this story without hearing it.
Kingsley hadn’t shut up about it for days, the Death Eater who had purposefully let him go.
He’d only given up on it nearly two weeks later when Lupin had been in a battle and come
home covered in blood, barely alive.
Malfoy looks miserable talking about the past, but he straightens his spine.
“Let’s go find out.”
“What?”
He shrugs, “You know where Shacklebolt lives — you must, otherwise, how could you
threaten him over Harry Potter’s match? Let’s go there and find out who he got.”
Hermione feels her jaw drop, “You want me to go to the Minister of Magic’s house and just
ask him who he got matched with, despite the fact that the last time I appeared there I
threatened to destroy the Ministry?”
“Hermione,” Draco looks like he might laugh, “don’t tell me your precious Gryffindor
courage has deserted you. Besides, aren’t you curious?”
The mocking tone cuts her like a knife, and fury wells up inside her. She clenches his arm a
little more tightly, and his smirk imprints on her brain as she apparates them away.
They land on the edge of a sidewalk, hard and stumbling. Hermione would have fallen to the
ground, except that Draco’s other hand has gripped her hip tightly enough for bruises. He
looks sick.
“This is wrong,” Hermione says when she can finally breathe properly.
Kingsley’s familiar house is nowhere to be seen — there are a few other houses, but the one
she had visited nearly a month ago is gone.
“He banned you,” Draco growls. “He made it unplottable and got a new secret keeper. You
can’t find it anymore, Granger.”
Hermione almost wants to cry — Kingsley Shacklebolt may currently be on her bad side for
being a coward about the WPG, but she’d fought a war with him, and she had supported him
as Minister of Magic. They were… friends, once.
A memory of hot rancid breath on her face in the forest hits her — she remembers holding as
still as she could as Greyback smelled the surrounding air, sniffing her out by her perfume as
she silently begged her wards to hold.
She may not be able to find Kingsley anymore, but she’s still willing to bet he’s watching for
her.
“Kingsley,” she says into the twilight air, her voice quiet but firm. “We know you’re breeding
us purposefully for more powerful magical lines — so we want to know… who out there
matches you in power?”
She almost expects Kingsley to appear. Draco’s hand is clutched in hers, and she’s not
exactly sure when it happened, but she’s pleased that if Kingsley would see them right now,
he would see nothing but a united force.
After an interminable silence, Draco sighs. “Let’s go home, Granger.”
It feels nice to let him wrap his arm around her shoulder and tug her into a side along, landing
on the edge of the cottage property. He doesn’t remove it when they arrive.
She turns to him, and he is already watching her with hooded silver eyes.
“I had fun tonight,” she breathes, “despite our failed attempt at threatening the Minister of
Magic.”
Draco Malfoy laughs — his whole face transforms, and Hermione finds herself grinning
along with him. He’s so fucking beautiful, it’s devastating.
This time, she doesn’t press onto her tiptoes. He swoops down suddenly, kissing her harder
than he had in the square. It’s still fairly chaste; just a press of warm lips, but Hermione
still burns.
He pulls away, lips still curled up. She feels a shaking hand press into her lips, swollen from
kisses and cool night air.
“I’ll see you on Sunday.”
Hermione can feel her cheeks turning scarlet, “At the Muggle church?”
Draco nods solemnly, “I’ll be the one at the alter.”
Hermione turns to go inside her house, the weight of Draco’s stare on her back and the
thousand questions she hasn't asked hanging on her head. She glances back at him at the
doorstep. He hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Thank you,” Hermione says softly in the night air. She’s not really sure what she’s thanking
him for — perhaps for the pleasant date, or being patient, or the kisses he had bestowed upon
her. Perhaps for being kinder than she thought him capable of, or his desire to make this
marriage less awful for them both.
Or perhaps for being willing to walk into a possible battle with a man he had admitted was
stronger than he was, simply because she needed answers.
The Malfoy Wedding
Chapter Notes
I am once again so grateful for all of the incredible comments. I SO appreciate them and
wish I could answer every single one. I hope you enjoy this (long-awaited) chapter.
Please know that I am not posting this upcoming week as it's my birthday! So look
forward to the next chapter that first weekend of February.
November 14th, 1999 - Sunday
To say that Draco is nervous is an understatement. He stands at the front of a small Muggle
church called ‘St Catherine’s’, staring out into a small audience. Though he has grown used
to the Muggle world over the past year, exploring around to escape the constant eyes of the
wizarding world, he has never been inside of a church.
This one is small, with whitewashed stone walls and tall curved ceilings. There are stained
glass windows high in the walls that spit kaleidoscopic patterns all over the dark wood pews.
It’s really quite lovely, and Draco understands why Hermione wants to marry within the
walls.
The guest list for the big day consists of Theodore and Luna Nott, who are sitting on the front
pew to his left; entirely too many Weasleys, and Harry Potter himself. Draco wonders half
hysterically what his younger self would say if he could see his future wedding. If he’d ever
believe that he’d ever be married in a Muggle church, with his largest childhood rivals as
witnesses, to his Muggleborn bride.
He was marrying Hermione bloody Granger.
He feels as though a slight breeze could knock him off the altar, and Draco has already sworn
that he will die before he faints at his own wedding in front of Scarhead.
He hasn’t seen her in almost three days, and the last time he had seen her, he’d kissed her.
The sight of her hair tangling in the cool November air, her rosy cheeks and her kiss-swollen
lips have haunted him every moment of each day.
He half expects her not to show up, WPG be damned.
The music is his first clue — it begins softly, echoing throughout the small church. Draco has
never heard the song before, though it is gentle and sweet, piano overlaid with a harp. It
builds slowly, and the large doors swing open.
Hermione Granger stands at the end of the aisle in a traditional witch matrimonial gown —
it’s a darker champagne colour with a more modest neckline and an emerald green sash, long
flowing sleeves, and Draco’s knees feel vaguely wobbly.
She had dressed in Slytherin colours for him?
Her hair is down and wild; despite the many taunts he had tossed her way in their childhood,
he’s actually quite partial to it, and he aches to kiss her again and tangle his hands in the
curls. Other than the bracelet he had given her adorning her wrist, she only wears two
sparkling pins in her hair.
She walks herself down the aisle — some part of him had been sure that she would ask one
or both other members of the golden trio to accompany her — yet she is alone.
As is he.
She meets him at the front altar, taking her place across from him. There are no flowers in her
hands, and Draco reaches out naturally. She lets her fingers tangle in his and gives him a wry
grin when the Ministry official Draco hired clears his throat.
“Honoured guests, we are gathered here today to tie Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy in matrimony
to Miss. Hermione Jean Granger. Through their match, we have seen respect, contentment,
and growth, not only within their relationship but also with the surrounding community. The
Ministry offers their blessings to your marriage, and hopes that a deep connection will
continue to blossom between you.”
Draco can feel his lip curling at the officiant’s contrived words — the Ministry was offering
their blessing to a match they had forced?
A quick squeeze to his hand interrupts his fury, and his eyes track back to his bride-to-be.
Hermione Granger is rolling her eyes, humour sparkling in their near-golden depths. His
sneer fades away; there is no better feeling than having an inside joke with her. He scrunches
his nose slightly and her lips turn up as though she might laugh.
“Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco snaps his head back towards the officiant, who is staring at him expectantly.
“I do,” Draco says immediately. He has no idea what the man had asked, but he’s reasonably
sure he just agreed to marry Granger.
“And Miss Granger, do you agree to wed Mr. Malfoy and accept him as your lawfully
wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and
wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Draco vividly remembers the way Potter had snatched at Ginny Weasley, kissing her so hard
and passionately they had nearly tumbled off the damn stage. And, though he and Theo had
raised their eyebrows at the crass behaviour, Draco is suddenly and immensely envious.
Hermione watches him through her long lashes, and Draco feels himself bend forward as
though through molasses. He desperately wants to kiss her, but he also wishes he could just
sink through the floor at the feeling of her friends' eyes on them.
Instead, he finds her lips softly and kisses her chastely. After a long moment, he pulls back
and finds her watching him; he realizes belatedly he had shut his eyes.
The officiant leads them to a desk set away from the main altar and has them sign their
marriage contract. He presses his wand to the paper, watching it glow in the same way Theo’s
did only a week prior.
The paper reads Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Malfoy.
They walk together back down the aisle together once completing the ceremony, with their
arms linked. It feels more uncomfortable than it did only a few days prior, and Draco suspects
it’s because Ron Weasley is glaring at him at the same time that Luna is clapping off beat to
the calm music playing.
The doors close behind them, leaving them alone in the church's entrance. It’s much smaller
and empty of people; a blessing that Draco knows will only last a few more moments. Their
guests will exit the church proper and join them in moments, and it will force Draco to
mingle with them before he can finally head home with Hermione.
Home.
He’s bloody lightheaded.
“Are you alright?” Her voice reaches him from afar, and he glances down to his bride to find
her biting at her lip. It’s the first time she’s spoken to him all day, and she is now his wife.
Draco knows his mother would be horrified if she could see him right now — and not in the
same way Lucius Malfoy would have been. Though Narcissa had also been pureblood and
raised to believe Muggleborns were lesser than herself, she had not been quite as fervent in
her hatred of them as his father. No, Narcissa Malfoy would be less appalled at his choice of
a bride than she would be at his manners.
It snaps him into motion, the thought of his mother’s disappointment. He turns to face
Hermione fully and sighs out a breath.
“You look beautiful,” he tells her, skimming his fingertips down the gauzy material of her
sleeves. “I can’t believe you wore Slytherin green and silver for me.”
Hermione rolls her eyes at his cocky smirk, “Well, I was told it was traditional.”
“Where on earth did you get the gown?” Draco asks. He’s hardly about to insult her by
saying there was nothing traditional about her.
“Molly Weasley gave it to me,” Hermione swallows hard, voice going choked. “At Harry’s
wedding. I altered it a bit, but it’s very similar to her original.”
The absence of her parents is a gaping hole, and Draco hasn’t pushed her before, because he
knows what it is to want to not discuss one’s missing parents; still, he feels the questions on
the tip of his tongue.
The doors swing wide behind them, breaking the tension, and they turn to find Ginny Potter
beaming. She rushes forward and wraps Hermione in her arms. Her family follows, and
Draco watches as his bride is surrounded by people who love her.
Arms startle him out of his thoughts and he freezes as Luna Lovegood — no, Luna Nott, now
— squeezes him in a hug. Theo is watching her with a disbelieving look on his face.
“Draco Malfoy,” Luna murmurs airily, “congratulations. You couldn’t have married a better
witch.”
Although the WPG forced this marriage, Draco bites his tongue because he somehow
suspects Luna might be correct. She releases him as abruptly as she had embraced him and
doesn’t seem particularly bothered that he never returned the hug.
Theo sticks his hand out, and Draco shakes it easily.
“Shite officiant, mate,” Theo says genially, “but the church was nice.”
Draco huffs a small laugh, “Same could be said about your wedding, Nott.”
Theo grins, and a throat clears. Draco turns to face Ron Weasley, who has his arm around his
mother, who is crying openly into a blue handkerchief.
“Thank you for inviting us to the wedding,” Weasley’s voice is frosty, “we have to be off,
now.”
“Thanks for coming,” Draco replies, almost dumbfounded at Potter’s sidekick even deigning
to speak to him.
The Weasley parents and Ron disappear far faster than Draco would have expected, and all
that is left is Harry Potter with his bride, Theo and Luna, and Hermione, still looking
stunning in her wedding gown. Ginny is talking animatedly to Granger, and they look
involved in their conversation.
Harry Potter approaches him, and Draco can feel Theo tense slightly at his side. Battle-ready.
“muffliato,” Harry mutters when he gets close, “Listen Malfoy, let’s make this quick. Can you
apparate to the Burrow? You’ve been there before, for the wedding.”
“Yes, I could. Why?” Draco answers uneasily.
Harry’s eyes shift quickly to Ginny and back. The girls still seem engrossed in their talk.
“Molly’s planned a small reception — nothing big! But I know Hermione planned nothing,
and I think it would be a shame not to see her friends and have dinner. Can you get her to the
Burrow?”
“Are you asking me to trick my wife on our wedding day, Potter?” Draco drawls.
Harry rolls his eyes, “Can you do it or not, Malfoy?”
“I can,” he replies.
Harry Potter nods once, then waves his wand subtly at his side, dismissing the muffliato.
“Hermione, we also have to get going, but you look beautiful. Let’s get together soon, okay?”
Harry interrupts, and Ginny has a suspiciously mischevious glint in her eyes. Hermione
doesn’t seem to notice and hugs them both one more time.
“Don’t suppose you’re coming?” Draco murmurs at Theo, standing close enough to hear.
Theo rolls his eyes, “Unfortunately yes. Luna says we can’t miss it.”
“Never thought I’d say this, mate, but thank goodness for Luna Lovegood.”
“Luna Nott,” Theo corrects, a hint of pride lacing his voice. Draco grins; it’s good to see his
best friend happy.
“We’re off as well, Hermione,” Luna’s voice is gentle, “but it was a lovely wedding. Not one
Nargle in sight.”
“Luna, Theo, thank you for coming,” Hermione replies, bemusement colouring her tone at
Luna’s words.
Soon enough, Draco is alone with his wife — and truly alone this time, with no friends about
to pop in and interrupt them.
“They left much quicker than I expected,” Hermione muses.
“Are you tired?” Draco asks. He wonders suddenly if it was a mistake to agree to Potter’s
plan — if Granger would rather go home.
She turns to him, “Oh, no. I’m fine. I expected them to visit more, actually.”
She seems disappointed that the Weasley’s left so quickly, and Draco is buoyed by the idea
that even though it is not his surprise, he will still be the one to give it to her simply by
apparating her there.
“We can always visit another day,” Draco says off-handedly. “Shall we head home? I can side
along us there.”
Her head tilts when she turns to face him squarely, and Draco is suddenly terrified she’ll
refuse to side along with him.
“You look handsome,” Hermione says, instead. Her cheeks are pink, and it looks as though it
took an immense amount of courage to say the words.
Draco grins, “Well, I could hardly let you be the most beautiful thing in the room, I have a
reputation to uphold.”
Granger laughs suddenly, “Your ego, Malfoy, is the size of this bloody church. I suppose I
should be pleased I was second, then?”
Draco swallows and pulls her hand into his, “I hardly think you’ve ever come second in
anything, Granger. Definitely not this.”
It’s far too much —
The humour fades from Hermione’s golden eyes but instead is replaced by something far
softer. She lets herself lean into him, wrapping her hand in his easily.
“Let’s go home,” she murmurs, “you big flirt.”
Draco laughs, and they disappear with a pop.
They reappear within moments, but instead of being in front of their cottage, they are on the
lawn of the Burrow. Though it is November, the Weasley’s have charmed the front area to be
warm, with a few roaring fires blazing around.
Draco tightens his arm around Hermione because the idea of people yelling surprise at her
can only end badly.
Instead, the assembled group stays quiet, and Hermione goes rigid but then relaxes at the
sight of the Burrow.
“Surprise,” Molly Weasley says calmly, walking towards them with no tears in sight. “I know
you didn’t want a big reception, Hermione, but I can hardly have you go home hungry, so I
thought something small would do the trick. Thank you for bringing her here, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Draco is fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco tells her, surprising himself even as he speaks.
“You knew?” Hermione Granger narrows golden eyes on him, and Draco smirks.
Her indignation seems to be the spark that allows the party to start because suddenly laughter
and conversation break out. Hermione doesn’t let go of his arm, even as she greets a few
people.
“Thanks for getting her here,” Harry Potter says when he approaches. Draco nods in
acknowledgement, and Hermione positively beams.
“Harry,” she grins, “I never thought I’d see the day you conspired with Draco Malfoy.”
Harry shrugs, “Never thought I’d see the day where you married him.”
Draco scowls, but Hermione laughs and squeezes his arm. She opens her mouth as if to
retort, but is interrupted by Ron and Hannah Abbott appearing.
“Hey Hermione,” Hannah Abbott greets, then glances nervously at him, “Malfoy.”
“Come eat,” Ron invites, “Mum made all your favourites! And even George is here! He
brought Parvati.”
Hermione is glowing with happiness, and Draco finds himself powerless to stop her from
dragging towards a buffet-style table. Witches and wizards are gathered around, all smiling. It
feels almost surreal. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many happy people in his life.
Draco recognizes most of them — if not from school, then from the many Death Eater
meetings he attended that had placed prices on the heads of everyone surrounding him. He
sees Arthur Weasley talking to what can only be one of his sons; Draco can’t keep track of
the Weasley brood. This one has scars marring his face and an easygoing smile as he speaks
with his father, despite it all.
Draco can practically hear his own father’s snarl in his ear.
Hermione’s hip bumps his, “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, “Nothing.”
Draco forces himself to look down at her and push the ghosts of his past down and snags the
small dumpling from her hand to eat it. Her cheeks mottle pink.
“Hey! I was going to eat that,” She protests.
Draco smirks, “What’s mine is yours, wife.”
His heart almost stops as he says the word, but Granger just grins and rolls her eyes. She
picks up another dumpling and bumps her hip against his again.
Draco realizes abruptly that he’s fucked.
He has never seen this — never had this. Any relationship he’d ever had in Hogwarts
had been cultivated through pureblood ideals or set up by his parents. When Voldemort had
branded him, that had all stopped, because he could barely keep himself alive, let alone
someone else.
The thought of giving a part of himself away to another is so abhorrent; there is just so little
of him left.
And yet — it’s nice. It’s nice that Granger’s gold eyes sparkle with laughter and secrets; it’s
easy to be in her presence, and a part of him never wants it to stop.
“You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost, mate.” Theo appears with a signature smirk. Luna
isn’t far behind, and she has the most ridiculous hot pink glasses on covering half her face.
She stops just behind Theo, nearly running into him.
“Feel a bit like it,” Malfoy mutters, tilting his head towards the Weasley clan. Nott’s lips drag
down.
“I know what you mean.”
Draco watches as Hermione gets pulled away and into a conversation with Molly Weasley.
They’re both smiling.
“Oi, ferret!”
Draco turns despite himself and comes face to face with a grinning George Weasley. He’s got
a familiar witch at his side — one of the Patil twins, but Draco’s never been able to tell them
apart. He hadn’t been able to tell the Weasley twins apart in Hogwarts either. It seems he will
no longer have that issue.
“Weasel,” Draco replies coolly.
George laughs and extends his hand, “I’m George, and this is Parvati.”
“Theo,” Nott reaches behind him and pulls Luna to his side. She’s still wearing the ridiculous
glasses and staring at the sky with a frown. “I believe you know my wife, Luna.”
Parvati smiles easily, no shock present at Theo’s words. “Hey, Luna. Find any Wrackspurts?”
Luna turns towards Parvati and slides her glasses up her face until they sit on top of her head.
“Not yet. How’s Padma?”
“She’s good. She was supposed to come here today actually, with Blaise Zabini, but
something came up.”
Luna presses a finger to her chin, “Too bad. There are too few of us Ravenclaws around these
days.”
George Weasley glances around the small crowd as though he’s only just realized that
Ravenclaw is the most underrepresented house in their group.
“I heard Cho Chang married Terrence Higgs,” George shifts his weight and brings his gaze
back to Draco and Theo. “Slytherin.”
Draco winces. Terrence had been vicious to the bone from the very first moment Draco had
met him in Slytherin dungeon. He knows virtually nothing about Cho Chang, but he hopes
she’s got a few hexes up her sleeve.
“Bastard,” Theo mutters, unconsciously pulling Luna closer to him.
George shuffles, fidgety as though nervous. Draco doesn’t think he’s ever seen either
Weasley twin anxious before.
“Listen, Malfoy,” George says, “How do you feel about champagne?”

Draco frowns, “It’s… fine? I’m more of a firewhiskey fan, personally.”
“Oh, great!” George exclaims, almost robotically. “You should stick to that! For most events.
All, preferably. We have some here, actually. Yes! Let’s have a toast!”
George Weasley spins away and rushes towards a bar cart, Parvati following much
more sedately.
“What in the bloody hell was that about?” Theo mutters, green eyes narrowed.
Draco shrugs and stares with bafflement as George returns with two Firewhiskeys, which he
hands to Draco and Theo. Parvati brings a glass of wine for Luna.
“None for you?” Draco asks.
George shrugs, “Perhaps later.”
“Well, I for one would like to toast my best mate,” Theo says after an awkward pause.
“Malfoy — you’ve always been a bit of a pompous git who was too smart for his own good.”
“Gee, thanks Theo,” Draco rolls his eyes.
Theo laughs, “Let me finish! You’re a prat, but — well. You’re my best friend. I’m proud of
you. Not just for marrying Granger, but… well, for becoming someone who could be worthy
of marrying Granger.” Theo clears his throat, “Besides. It’ll be nice to finally have someone
intelligent to converse with around here.”
Draco flips his best friend off and coughs to clear his abruptly clogged throat. “Sod off,
mate.”
Theo laughs, and they all clink their glasses together. Draco glances around and finds
Hermione talking to Ronald Weasley at the edge of the buffet table. Her face is pale and her
hands are shaking.
“Excuse me,” Draco murmurs, dropping his firewhiskey on the edge of the nearest table and
strides towards his bride.
Even as he gets closer, there is no sound. Hermione’s mouth moves, a frown tugging at her
lips, and Draco can’t tell what she’s saying. The dull noise of the party echoes around him,
but his wife might as well be silent.
She finally notices him when he’s only a few feet away, and despite her casual movement,
Draco is no fool. Her eyes cut to Ronald Weasley, and the red-headed man flicks his wrist at
his side.
“Draco,” she smiles, “did you eat?”
He’s tempted to ask her about it. What could be so important she had to use a silencing spell
in the middle of their makeshift reception?
The words are on the tip of the tongue when she sways. It’s not even a stumble, she just
moves lightly as though the wind has pushed her.
Her wedding dress is fluttering around her, her curls growing wilder by the moment, and her
hands are shaking, and Ronald-bloody-Weasley has done something to stress her out on
her wedding day. Thoughts of murder dance around his brain.
Instead, he moves forward and lets his arm curve around her waist.
“I did,” he confirms, “Molly Weasley is a wonderful cook. Would you like another drink?”
“Sure,” She agrees easily, and Draco moves to lead her away.
“Hermione,” Ron’s voice is a warning, but he barely has her name out before her eyes are
flashing at his.
“Leave it, Ronald.” She hisses, “Enough. That’s enough.”
Ron’s shoulders slump. To Draco’s shock, he doesn’t even spare him a furious glance and
instead disappears.
“Can I ask—”
“No.” Hermione snaps. She seems to immediately regret her tone and glances at him
guardedly. “Sorry. I meant… not… now. Please.”
Draco frowns but nods. “Come this way. There’s a table we can sit down at.”
“I can stand,” Hermione protests.
He regards her coolly. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, Granger.”
They stare at each other. He watches the slightest tremble in her lip. The moment feels
fraught with tension.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”
Draco is rarely sure of anything in this life anymore, but he would swear on his entire fortune
that Hermione Malfoy nee Granger is not apologizing for snapping at him.
“You don’t have to apologize to me.” He urges her forward again, breaking their stare. They
make it to the table where Molly Weasley is sitting with Arthur and Harry Potter. Granger sits
on his right.
“Hermione, you looked so beautiful today,” Molly says immediately. “I’m so honoured you
wore the dress — and I’m so glad you took the shoulders down, dear. Honestly, I have no
idea what we were thinking when that was a fashion.”
Hermione smirks, “That trend was also popular in the muggle world, too.”
Arthur Weasley’s eyes light up, “Really? Do we often mimic muggle clothing trends?”
Draco watches as Hermione laughs and tries to explain increasingly absurd clothing trends
that Muggles wear. Some, such as leather jackets, have a certain appeal; however, as he
learns of leg warmers and corduroy overalls, Draco reasons that there may in fact be fates
worse than death.
As Arthur Weasley continues to rave about an invention called ‘parachute pants’, Draco
watches the last of the tension fade from Hermione’s shoulders. She’s giggling almost
uncontrollably, and Draco contents himself on the fringe of conversations, Firewhiskey in
hand.
A chiming noise draws their attention, and Draco looks over to see that Potter has stood up
and is tapping his knife gently against his champagne flute.
“I’d like to propose a toast. To Hermione: you are the sister I never had, and the smartest
woman I have ever known. You have saved my life more times than I can count, and there is
nothing I wouldn't do for you. I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Harry’s green eyes
look glossy, and he clears his throat before continuing. “And to Malfoy — I wish you the
best. And she is the best. So don’t bugger it up, alright?”
Draco feels himself exhale. All things considered, that could have been a thousand times
worse. He raises his glass in acknowledgement and to his surprise multiple Weasley’s reach
to tap their glasses against his.
“Cheers,” Granger murmurs, tapping her champagne flute against his glass of Firewhiskey.
The toasting continues, but the makeshift reception is slowly dying down. Hermione keeps to
the table mostly, basking in her loved one's presence. Ginny Weasley starts up a game of
Quidditch in the back of the yard and had even invites him to play. He declines, mostly due to
the fact that he’s wearing his wedding robes, but also because he hardly relishes the idea of
being chosen last for teams.
“You could have played, I wouldn’t have minded.”
Draco glances at his bride, “Next time. Are you ready to head home?”
“Godric, yes,” she murmurs, “if I never have to wear these bloody shoes again it will be too
soon.”
Draco chuckles and stands, offering her his arm. She takes it and they make their way to
Molly Weasley; she brushes away their appreciation for the small reception with tears and
endless hugs for Granger.
This time, when they depart, Draco is tugged away with the force of her magic when she
side-alongs him, the gentle squeeze she delivers to his forearm the last thing he feels before
the apparition pulls him away.
Peppermint and Presents
Chapter Notes
Hi all! Thank you for your patience with this chapter, and for all of the birthday wishes.
I am hoping to get back to a regular schedule, and you can expect the next chapter, not
this coming Sunday but the following (Feb 21). This chapter is a long one, and for the
most part, it's fluffy, so enjoy that. As always, please mind the tags.
The awkwardness doesn’t set into her bones until she has kicked off her torturous shoes and
Draco has hung his outer robe on the rack. The cottage is chilly, despite the warm lights, and
her stupid transfigured couch seems to mock her loneliness.
“Well, here we are.” Hermione babbles into the sudden silence. “I’ll just put on a cup of tea
and mmf—”
Draco cuts her off by kissing her. He traces her mouth with his own, and she can feel their
breath mingling. She lets herself sway into him unconsciously, stunned by the heat that races
up her spine. His fingers tangle into her curls, and she gasps into his mouth. His tongue licks
into her, and her body finally gets with the program and she clings to his broad shoulders,
biting at his lips.
He pulls away after an endless amount of time. They’re both panting. Her lips feel kiss
swollen, and Draco’s cheeks are flushed. Hermione can feel the blood pounding under her
skin and prays she doesn’t resemble a tomato.
“I wish I kissed you like that,” Draco murmurs, as though it’s a secret.
“You did,” Hermione answers breathlessly.
He laughs, “No. I mean today, at the wedding. I was nervous, but it’s no excuse. I should
have kissed you like that.”
Hermione grins, “Well, I hardly think our guests would have appreciated it.”
“Potter nearly knocked the Weaselette off the damn altar trying to kiss her. They hardly have
room to complain.”
She laughs. It feels soaked in relief. “He did, didn’t he?”
Draco presses his forehead to hers, and Hermione finds out her eyes have closed only when
she opens them to silver. He’s watching her intently. Draco Malfoy has never watched her
this way before; all intensity and heat.
“Dance with me.”
It’s not a request, and though Hermione hates dancing, she finds she is already swaying with
him. He’s holding half her weight up, and the floor feels cool against her sore feet. There is
no music, but the wind is gentle against the cottage roof, and silence, Hermione has found, is
a blessed rarity.
“I moved things around for you,” Hermione whispers.
Draco nods against her skin. “I like the couch.”
“I thought… I thought we could sit on it.” She admits. So fucking vulnerable.
“That’s generally what one does on a couch, Granger.” She can feel Draco smirking against
her temple.
“I meant — together.”
Draco pulls back only long enough to study her eyes. “I’m amenable to that.”
Hermione lets her eyes close, his gaze settling into her bones. The moment stretches on —
she is safe.
“Granger,” Draco’s voice is impossibly gentle, “I realize I owe you an apology.”
She stills — he keeps holding her, his fingers tangling in her curls against her shoulder
blades. He looks rumpled and soft in a way she never could have imagined Draco Malfoy
being. Warm.
“Why did you write me that letter?” Hermione whispers. Curiosity burns inside of her; she
has wondered for months.
The first shadow of a frown graces his face, “Honestly?”
Hermione nods.
Their swaying has stopped, but his hands have yet to leave her. She doesn’t mind.
“My mother convinced me.” Draco admits, “She was… not always lucid, at the end.”
“I’m sorry,” Hermione breathes. Narcissa has always hung between them; questions they
both want to ask.
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Draco shakes his head.
Hermione swallows hard, “Was she… ill?”
“Not really,” Draco whispers. His eyes fall shut, and he sucks in a breath. “She and my father
were bonded. Like Potter and the She-Weasel are now— where they tie their magic cores
together? It’s very common with purebloods, and Malfoy’s have always bonded with their
spouse.”
“Until now,” Hermione breathes. Another thing she has changed for him.
Draco huffs, “That would have changed whether or not I married you, Granger. There is
nothing on this earth that could convince me to bond.”
Hermione stays quiet, but the familiar rush of curiosity eats at her. The corner of Draco’s
mouth curls up, as though he is almost unwillingly amused by her insatiable questions. She
hasn’t even asked anything yet!
“Well,” she mutters primly, “I’m glad to hear it. Frankly, I think it’s a bloody stupid thing to
do, and I told Harry so, but he refused to listen. He never wants to be without Ginny.”
Malfoy sniffs, “It’s a nice thought, I suppose. The bond, iungo, is supposed to be about love,
but in my experience, it’s about control.”
Hermione swallows, “What do you mean?”
“The bond does give a boost in power,” Draco explains, “but it makes separation or infidelity
of any kind basically impossible. There are no choices. Even the smallest doubts can cause
your magic to falter.”
Hermione nods, “I told Harry that there were cases recorded where one partner died, and the
other followed not long after.”
“Yes.”
Hermione stills, her heart dropping in her chest. “Is… is that what happened?”
He nods, his palms pressing into the back of her wedding dress. They feel almost
uncomfortably warm.
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione murmurs. She hasn’t heard him speak favourably of his father
since fourth year, and the revelation that his beloved mother literally followed Lucius into the
grave is unwelcome.
Draco rolls his eyes, “Once again, Granger, this is not your fault.”
“You keep calling me that,” Hermione replies mildly.
“What?”
“Granger,” Hermione lets her fingers press into his shoulder blades. “It’s Malfoy, now. Or
Hermione.”
“I somehow think I might have a tough time with that, Granger.”
“Well, Malfoy,” Hermione sniffs, fighting a smile, “turnabout is fair play.”

Draco huffs a laugh and releases her. Her back feels cold without the weight of his hands on
it.
“Come, I’ll make some tea,” He moves towards the kitchen cupboards.
“You didn’t finish your story,” Hermione protests, following him to lean against the counter.
“Your mother… she convinced you to send that letter?”
Draco sighs, “I think she wanted me to repair the Malfoy name. It was… hard for her to see
how my father’s — well, how the war and our role in it reflected on me. I wrote the letter at
her urging.”
Hermione watches as he uses his wand to summon what he needs, his eyes tracking where
they emerge from. She realizes he’s learning her kitchen, taking stock of everything.
His home, now.
“I kept it,” Hermione admits.
Draco turns, his silver eyes landing on her. “What?”
“Your letter. I kept it. I still have it in my office. When the WPG was first announced, I used
to read it over and over before bed, praying that you meant it.”
“I did,” Draco breathes, taking a hesitant step towards her. “I do.”
She meets him in the middle, and they watch each other. Everything about this feels fragile
— a marriage forced upon them, a friendship found naturally.
“Hermione, I am sorry.” Draco’s words are dripping with sincerity. “For both my actions in
the war and in school. If I could take it all back, I would. A thousand times over.”
Hermione swallows — her arm burns as though every hate-filled emotion Bellatrix fucking
Lestrange forced upon her has bubbled to the surface. She stares at Draco Malfoy; the boy
who made her cry for years, the son of a Death Eater and the nephew of the one who still
haunts her waking nightmares.
Her husband.
She had forgiven him long ago — she had even told him, in the letter she had written after
Narcissa died.
“Draco, I told you before. I forgive you,” she says. “We were children. We were all just
fucking children.”
Draco stares at her as though she is some sort of arithmancy problem he cannot solve, but
he is determined to try. The kettle’s shrill whistle draws him out of his stupor, and he turns
away to prepare the cups of tea.
When he hands it to her, it is exactly the way she likes it.

“You know, you never answered me.” Hermione muses, sipping carefully at the steaming
drink. “How do you know how I take my tea?”
Draco laughs unexpectedly, “Granger — I went to school with you for years. I know we
weren’t friends, but I’m not an idiot.”
Hermione stares into her milky cup as though it holds all the answers. In some ways, she
thinks it might.
“No, you’re not.” She agrees easily. “But I still think you might know for another reason.”
Draco huffs, “What do you want me to say, Granger? That I paid attention to you, even back
then?”
Hermione lifts her eyebrows, and Draco rolls his eyes in embarrassment. She sips her tea
quietly, giving him a moment.
“For what it’s worth,” Hermione says, “I’m glad I got your name.”
Malfoy’s cup rattles in its saucer as he sets it down. He swallows hard, and Hermione tracks
the movement. Every inch of him is devastatingly handsome, and despite the tarnished
Malfoy name, Hermione is not fool enough to imagine that other witches didn’t want him as
their match in the WPG. If not for his looks, then for his money.
He clears his throat. “Yes, well, Granger, you’re not half bad either.”
Hermione laughs.
Draco steps closer to her. They are barely a hand span apart now, and her laugh dies in her
throat. He reaches out and touches the emerald lace at her waist, tracing it gently until it folds
itself into the champagne of the dress.
“Today,” Draco swallows, “Weasley said something that upset you.”
Hermione stiffens, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
His hand is still warm on her waist, and he curls it closer, wrapping his fingers against the
curve of her ribs. Hermione sets her empty teacup down so she can use both hands to steady
herself on his chest.
“Okay,” Draco agrees, “But only because you look so lovely in your dress.”
Hermione blushes, and Draco leans down to kiss her again. She can hardly recall ever being
snogged so often, but she melts into him as though it is second nature.
This time, she is the first to pull away, and she smiles at his scowl.
“I have a wedding gift for you,” she tells him.

Surprise flickers over his face, and Hermione steps away, letting her fingers tangle with his as
she leads him from the front room. He follows her dutifully down their hallway until they
reach their bedroom.
Their bedroom — the thought is intimidating, and Hermione shoves everything about it away
so she can focus. She makes her way to the bed and pulls a small velvet bag out of the
nightstand.
Draco is leaning against the doorframe.
“Come here,” she calls, sitting primly on the bed. Her wedding dress splays over her
bedcovers, and Hermione stares down at the fabric. It’s the most elaborately beautiful thing
she’s ever worn. There is nothing she can ever give Molly Weasley to repay her.
Draco sits beside her gingerly, silent as she stares at her gown. After a long moment, she
shakes her head and glances up at him, only to find him watching her with serious eyes.
“Here,” she passes him the small bag.
He takes it from her hand and smirks. It’s obvious by the square shape and weight what it is.
“Why am I not surprised that Hermione Granger buys books as wedding presents?” He asks
with a chuckle.
“Oh, just open it.” She commands impatiently.
He dumps the contents into his hands gently, a smaller leather-bound book tumbling out. It’s
very thin, with black leather and an embossed silver D. M. on the front.
He runs a thumb over the letters, the smallest smile playing about his mouth. He flips open to
the first page, brushing his knuckles against the thick paper.
The first page is blank, other than a single quotation curled in gold letters in the middle of the
paper.
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind. ’ - C.S. Lewis ”
“I’ve charmed it,” Hermione explains nervously, “I’ve got the matching twin. Anything you
write in there will appear in mine. I thought that we… well, I’ve enjoyed writing letters with
you.”
Draco’s eyes raise to hers after what seems an eternity. They are silver and unfathomable, and
Hermione fidgets anxiously. Can he see how much hope she has poured into this little book?
Is it obvious that despite the fury with which she intends to fight the WPG, she has no
intentions of fighting with him?
Hermione isn’t sure whether she wants him to understand this gesture; isn’t sure she’s ready
to be so visible.
“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “It’s lovely.”

“You’ll write to me?” She asks. It feels as though her ribcage is contracting inside her chest.
Draco nods slowly. “Yes. Of course.”
They watch each other — the tentative peace settling into them.
“I’ve also got something for you,” Draco admits suddenly. He reaches into his suit jacket and
pulls out a small box, only to set it in her trembling fingers.
“Oh, you didn’t have—”
“Potter’s wife reliably informed me that the muggle custom of exchanging rings at one’s
wedding is now very popular amongst wizards and witches as well,” Draco interrupts, “I
didn’t realize it was so, otherwise I would have given this to you sooner.”
Hermione lifts the lid of the velvet box to find a ring sparkling up at her. The band is twined
together like ivy, reminiscent of the bracelet on her wrist. The diamond sparkles up at her,
oval-shaped and large.
“Oh my,” Hermione breathes.
“I must admit, it is one of the more subdued pieces in the Malfoy vault,” Draco continues,
“but I assumed by your reaction to the bracelet that you seemed to prefer a less… flashy
style.”
Hermione gapes at him, “This is subdued?!”
The lightest of blushes grace Draco’s cheekbones, and Hermione realizes she has not thanked
him for her gift. He’s been practically babbling.
“Sorry,” she rushes, “sorry. It’s stunning, I didn’t—, sorry, I meant — Godric, okay. Put it on
me?”
Draco’s is positively red now, though he reaches for the ring in her palm. She holds out her
hand and he slides it onto her finger. They both stare at it.
“I should get you one,” Hermione says. Her heart is battering against her chest, and she
wonders if this is what it will always feel like. Barely treading water but burning alive.
Draco shakes his head, “No. This is plenty. But I might put some of my clothes away and
change out of my robes.”
Hermione leaps to her feet, startled at his words. She can feel her skin burning with the force
of her blush, and she rushes over to the dresser that she had half-cleared out.
“I made some space,” she says, gesturing at the drawers, “And I cleaned out half the closet.
I’ll just take my pyjamas to the bathroom and let you unpack for a bit, shall I?”
She snatches at the first set of pyjamas she finds and disappears out of the bedroom, closing
herself into the bathroom. The edge of the tub is cool and solid under her fingertips, and she
stares down at the unfamiliar diamond glittering up at her.
She feels almost as though she’s choking; unable to get the oxygen she needs. Panic chokes
her, and Hermione forces herself to list the ways in which she is safe. She is home, safe inside
her wards. Her wand is in her hand. Malfoy won’t hurt her.
She gasps for air, forcing herself to count with each inhale. With a wave of her wand, the
fastenings on the back of her wedding gown release, and Hermione lets it collect in a heap at
her ankles. In only her underthings, she climbs into the tub and sits against the side. It’s cool
against the porcelain, and despite the lack of bathwater, she breathes in slowly and forces
herself to relax.
Her heartbeat slows in increments, and for the first time since she shut the door she breathes.
She is married. To Draco Malfoy.
Hermione Granger has never been a fool — even in Hogwarts, Draco had buzzed around her
brain more often than most other boys. At first, his initial taunting and torment had stuck into
her like blades until she learned how to snap and snarl back. Later, despite her dislike of him,
she hadn’t quite been able to shake him. In fourth year, catching his gaze at the Yule Ball and
finding no disgust or hatred in his eyes for the first time had left her breathless; and in fifth
year, when she had helplessly watched as he had faded into a shadow of himself, she had
dreamed of saving him.
When Harry had nearly killed him with that stupid spell, she had hovered outside the hospital
wing until Madame Pomfrey sent her away.
When he had refused to identify them at the Manor, Hermione had nurtured the smallest coil
of hope; one she had carried through as she testified at his trial in front of the Wizengamot.
Hermione muffles a half-hysterical giggle with her palm, half biting into the skin. She
wonders if she’s going into shock. She wonders what her younger self would have said if she
had told her one day she’d be sitting half-naked in an empty bathtub panicking over the fact
that Draco Malfoy was unpacking his clothing next door. In their bedroom. Her husband.
Hermione pulls herself together and clambers out of the tub, feeling slightly more stable. Her
pyjamas are soft and familiar against her skin, and although she adored her wedding gown, it
feels safe in the cotton of her sleepwear. She marches back to her bedroom, summoning
Gryffindor courage along the way, only to find the room unchanged. She yanks open the
closet doors and hangs her dress beside an abundance of unfamiliar black wizard robes, and
focuses entirely on getting through her wedding night.
Malfoy is sitting on the couch with a green blanket around his legs when she finally gathers
the courage to go looking. Steam curls up from the teacup in his hand, and he looks artfully
mussed and unbothered. He glances up at her, a smirk decorating his lips.
“Finished hiding?”
Hermione scowls, “I was not hiding. I just… needed to change.”

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow, and Hermione fights back what seems to be a permanent blush. She
sniffs and plops down on the couch, as far from her husband as she can get.
“I assume that unlike a regular person, you didn’t schedule a day off after your wedding and
you’re expected to be at work tomorrow?”
Hermione glances at him, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I have to work tomorrow.”
“So I’ll cancel the honeymoon to Paris, then?” Draco drawls, picking up his teacup and
sipping at it.
Hermione splutters, “What? Paris?! You didn’t even—”
A low chuckle stops her words, and Malfoy grins, “I’m joking, Granger, relax. I didn’t book a
honeymoon.”
“Good,” Hermione says primly, sitting more firmly back into the couch cushions. “For the
record, if we were to take a holiday, it surely wouldn’t be during the time the Ministry
mandated marriage and population law came into effect, especially seeing that I’m intending
to destroy it.”
Malfoy actually laughs at that, and Hermione glances over to watch him toss his platinum
hair back, the long line of his throat bare.
“Making plans to destroy the law, Granger? Or are you planning on taking on the Ministry
itself?”
Hermione snaps, “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Something akin to pride burns in Malfoy’s silver eyes; it’s not an unfamiliar expression, but
Hermione has never seen it directed at her.
“No,” Draco sips his tea, hiding a half-smile behind the rim of his cup. “It surely wouldn’t.
And I know better than to doubt the golden girl.”
Hermione plays with the hem of her shirt, nervous in the face of Draco’s teasing. His
compliments. “Well. Good.”
Draco is silent for a long moment before he announces: “Well if we must do without a
honeymoon, I do have a request.”
Hermione glances up. “What is it?”
“Tomorrow I’m going to retrieve Taffy and a few of my books,” Draco says, leaning forward
to set his teacup on the low coffee table in front of the couch. “I know Juney would love to
have access to the cottage. She’d love it even more if you’d let her make dinner for us.”
She tries to picture it — coming home to Juney with her ridiculously blue eyes and knitted
hats. Fighting for the rights of house-elves while enjoying the indentured slavery of her own.
“Malfoy, I have been fighting for house-elf rights and freedom since I was thirteen. You
cannot possibly think that I’d be okay with Juney’s situation.”
She can feel the weight of Draco’s silver eyes on her, and his annoyance is palpable.
“And what exactly do you believe is Juney’s situation?”
Hermione sniffs, “I know that the Malfoy’s have had house-elves for years. I know Dobby
was one of them, and he was treated poorly.”
“Dobby was my father’s elf—” Draco snaps.
“Stop,” Hermione interrupts, “stop, please. I know you don’t treat Juney poorly, Malfoy. I’m
not saying that. I just… cannot have her as a slave in this house.”
Hermione stiffens her spine and glances up, meeting Draco’s glare with her own. His
knuckles are white against the green blanket on his legs, and if she hadn’t already guessed
that she’d offended him, she is under no illusions when she sees his scowl.
“What would you have me do, Granger?” Draco’s voice is cold. “Because if I were to set
Juney free, it would break her heart. She’s been with my mother and I for years.”
Hermione watches as Draco sneers at her — the words unspoken: it would break Draco’s
heart. The very last connection to his mother. The last of his family.
“I like Juney,” Hermione blurts, changing tactics. “She’s lovely. And I’d love to have her
here, and it would be very helpful to have someone to cook and perhaps do some gardening.”
Malfoy blinks, narrowing his eyes as he calculates. “You want me to free her… and then hire
her?”
Hermione forces herself not to smile, “Yes. I was under the impression that you were rich.
Can you not spare a few galleons for a beloved house-elf?”
To her surprise, Draco Malfoy stares at her for a beat too long before he huffs. He stands
suddenly, and Hermione barely conceals her flinch.
“Alright. You win, Granger.” He concedes, tossing his blanket back onto the couch and
picking up his teacup. “I’ll speak with Juney tomorrow about adequate terms of employment
if it will make you happy.”
Hermione watches as her husband marches to their small kitchen, setting his teacup into the
sink. He braces his hands on the edge of the counter and stares out the window into the
darkness.
Hermione unwinds the tension from her shoulders and forces herself to stand, moving to the
kitchen and sliding in beside him. There’s not much space, her hips bump into his, but she
doesn’t pull away. Only a handful of hours ago they shared kisses and dances, and even
though she’s not exactly sure what this marriage is, she knows one thing: they’re friends.
“It will,” she whispers, sliding her fingers over his. “Make me happy, I mean.”
Malfoy glances at her. The anger that had been present in his eyes gone, and he offers her a
lazy smirk.
“Then consider it done.”
She lets her lips curl up in a smile. “Hey Malfoy”
“Yes?”
“I’m tired,” Hermione admits. Her heart is pounding again.
“Then go to sleep.” His snarky tone is familiar; every ounce of her wants to recoil, and yet
she is a Gryffindor.
Hermione sucks in a breath and summons her courage. “Aren’t you coming?”
For the first time in her memory, Draco Malfoy is speechless. He gapes at her for a moment,
and she watches as his brain snaps into overdrive, trying to keep up with her words.
“I can sleep on the couch,” he finally says.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed is big enough for two.”
She spins and marches away, hoping that he’ll follow, terrified that he’ll follow. His socked
feet pad lightly behind her, and she has her answer. They make it to the bedroom, and she
slides under the covers on the side she prefers, as far from the open door as she can get.
Malfoy hovers beside the bed for an eternal moment before settling delicately on top of the
covers. His wand is clenched in his fist.
“Granger,” his voice is soft, “I… don’t sleep well.”
Hermione barks a laugh, “Do you think I do?”
He coughs. “Well. I guess not.”
He slides into the bed, and Hermione waits nervously. The bedroom is dark and muffled, safe
under her oppressive wards. The weight of him on the other side of her bed
seems particularly heavy. The last person Hermione had shared a bed with had been Ron.
She swallows hard and pushes herself towards him, reaching forward and recoiling slightly
when he flinches at her touch. Her hands are cold, and she imagines he’s as nervous as she is.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” She whispers. His eyes are the only thing she can see,
practically shining in the sliver of moonlight from the curtain.
“Do you want me to?”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She does want him to kiss her; it had felt so easy in
the kitchen. As if there were no strings attached, and all the trauma of their childhood, and
the war, and the WPG had just fallen away.
Malfoy’s hand finds her jaw, and he pulls himself above her only enough to press a
featherlight kiss on the corner of her mouth. Hermione breathes in the scent of him:
peppermint tea.
Her barely open mouth is an invitation, and Draco seizes it. He kisses her deeply, running his
teeth along her bottom lip gently, pulling at it. Hermione lets herself unwind, fingers tangling
into the hair at the nape of his neck.
She’s never kissed anyone like this — he’s got both hands wrapped around her jaw, and her
own fingertips are scrambling for purchase on his shoulders.
It’s only when his mouth leaves hers, travelling down her neck with suckling kisses that leave
her breathless that Hermione freezes minutely.
It’s as if she’s doused him with ice water; he recoils quickly and absolutely, his hands
retreating to his own space as though they had never been wrapped around her skin.
“Draco, no,” Hermione half begs, reaching towards him. “I’m fine, let’s just keep—”
He snaps a hand against hers and holds her at bay. It’s gentle but unwilling to budge. His
thumb traces a path against the back of her hand. Hermione isn’t even sure if she is begging
for him to keep stoking the fire he has ignited within her, or if some part of her is asking him
to just get it over with.
She’s never been patient. She doesn’t like mysteries or unknowns; Draco is both, and she’s
desperate to unravel him.
“Granger.” His voice is softer than she expects it to be, and his hand is still clasped in hers.
“Malfoy,” Merlin — her voice sounds positively wrecked.
“This is good,” Draco whispers. “We’re doing good. Don’t ruin it.”
Hermione forces herself to think logically — she’s good at logic. It’s how she survives.
She has been married to Draco Malfoy for 9 and a half hours. It’s been more good than bad.
She has exactly 342 days before she is expected to have a child with him. Voldemort has been
dead for 562 days. 854 days since her parents knew her name.
The last 9 and a half hours have been some of her better ones.
“Okay,” she breathes. “You’re right. Okay.”
It’s as though she’s given him permission because he pulls her close once again and tucks her
into his body. It’s unfamiliar — he holds her as though she is breakable. He smells nice;
peppermint and pine, and Hermione breathes deeply through her nose.
There is no rush.
She has 342 days.

The Joke Shop
Chapter Notes
Hi friends, my apologies for this disastrously late chapter. Real-life has been a bit hectic.
Forgive the lack of D/H in this one, I'll make it up to you in the next chapter, which I am
planning to have for you next weekend. Drop me a line if you enjoyed, I truly appreciate
all your kind words of encouragement!
November 16th, 1999 - Tuesday
George Weasley has spent the better part of two years watching as his youngest brother has
tried valiantly to stitch him back together where the war had torn him apart. Despite being
lost in a haze of grief, it hasn’t escaped George’s notice that Ron has rallied around him in the
face of Fred’s death. Ron’s decision to quit Auror training had been met with far less
resistance than expected; the family had nearly breathed a sigh of relief when Ron had
stepped in to fill Fred’s shoes.
George can be honest with himself — he had been grateful. He is still grateful for Ron’s
actions the past year; he’s watched his youngest brother take on all the responsibilities of a
shop owner, while also mourning Fred.
George has awoken far too often to the sound of Ron entering the small apartment above the
shop; the smell of bleach and clanking of empty bottles being taken out nearly accusatory in
the silence. The sight of a breakfast George could only half-heartedly eat.
In all that time, George has never seen Ron anything less than forcefully cheery, which is
why it’s so surprising that his youngest brother enters the shop not only ten minutes late for
work but also wearing an expression as though someone has died.
“Ickle Ronnikins, why the long face?”
Ron half-heartedly rolls his eyes at his brother’s words, “Neville brought Hannah home last
night. She couldn’t even stand — apparently she’d shown up drunk at his doorstep.”
“Oh, that’s shite, mate,” George says, misery etched through his words. He knows this story.
He’s been this story. “Does she remember any of it?”
“No,” Ron says, “Or maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. I put her to bed and then talked to
Neville for a bit. He doesn’t know what to do about it either. Apparently, it’s not even the first
time she’s shown up at his place.”
“It’s gotta be hard for him, to see her like that?”

“It definitely is,” Ron agrees, setting down a paper coffee cup on their counter. “Turns out
he is living with Pansy Parkinson. Or Pansy Longbottom now. They got married at the
Ministry right near the beginning and kept it hush-hush.”
“She must be a living nightmare.” George snickers, imagining waking up to Pansy

Parkinson’s sneer and shrill voice.
Ron shrugs, “I mean, he said nothing bad about her, so I wasn’t about to offend the man’s
new wife. Even if she is a Slytherin.”
“Even though your new wife is in love with him?”
Ron half-laughs and George winces. It hadn’t really been a joke.
“Even then, I suppose.” Ron sighs, “On top of all this, Hannah and I have been talking about
starting a family. With the WPG, the whole point is kind of to pop out a few kids. We both
want a family, so it seems natural to just go for it at this point. I just... never imagined starting
my family like this.”
George stares at his brother — in moments like this, he could not be more like Arthur. Their
father’s gentleness and compassion shine out of him like a light. Of all the Weasley children,
it has always been obvious that Ron would be the one to follow in his father’s footsteps and
have a large family. Charlie and Percy had been eager to escape the Weasley family home the
moment they could to seek their independence. Even Bill had married Fleur and declared
immediately that two children would be plenty, thank you. Of all of them, Ron has always
been the most eager to go home. He’s never missed a holiday or Christmas — with the
exception of the war, which everyone had missed.
George had always imagined himself having a family at the same time as Fred. Children to
prank and teach mischief to. Now — well, now he doesn’t know. There just isn’t much of
him left to offer a family. Not much to offer a wife.
He winces, thinking of Parvati. She’d gone to visit Padma the night before, helping her
prepare for her upcoming wedding to Blaise in only three day's time.
The silence has been disquieting — George has become accustomed to the sounds and sights
of another person living in his space. Parvati is tidy and gentle, and she knows to stay out of
George’s way when he’s in a mood. She had transfigured the couch into a little bed and put a
screen all around it, nary a word about sharing or intimacy passing her lips. All in all, she’s
easy to live with.
The exception being the rare moments he finds her lost in a vision. Usually, he doesn’t even
notice it — she sees things that don’t exist to him constantly, and it hardly trips her up. The
first time he had found her shaking on their kitchen floor, he had reverted straight to the war;
half crouching over her prone body with his wand out, healing diagnostic shining in the air.
It had been nearly four minutes before she would respond to him, and when she was finally
sensate she had marched into his bedroom with a desperation he’d never seen Parvati wear,
and incinerated anything remotely resembling the colour blue in his wardrobe. Not even
purples nor shades of green had been spared her destructive wrath.
She hadn’t spoken a word about it since, but George remembers the warning she had
delivered — his hands covered in blood as he screams, the dread of death in the air.
It’s hardly a chore to avoid a single colour of clothing.
“Hannah is... kind,” Ron says slowly, snapping George out of his thoughts.
George sighs, “I’m sure she is.”
“I like her,” Ron shrugs, meeting George’s eyes. “I mean it. I’d probably like her a lot more if
she wasn’t drinking herself to death, of course, but she’s always been kind to me. She’s got a
good laugh.”
“Marriages aren’t made on kindness and laughing.” George bites the words out; he hadn’t
intended to be so harsh. It’s not Ron he’s angry with — it’s this fucking world. It’s the fact
that his beloved brother is consoling himself with kindness instead of love.
Ron sighs, “They’ve been built on worse, George. I just… I feel for her. Her entire future she
planned for years has changed practically overnight. She’s in love with Neville. I just don’t
know what to do to make it better for her.”
George heaves a breath, “I cannot believe I’m about to say this little brother, but... I think you
should just keep being yourself. You keep saying she’s kind? Well, so are you. If I have
learned anything, it’s that you’re good at taking care of people. The people you take care of…
well, they might not notice you right away. But I promise… one day they look up and they
see you’ve been there all along.”
Ron freezes minutely, and George sniffs and turns away. He watches out of the corner of his
eye as he busies himself at the till. Ron sips slowly at his coffee, and George is struck once
again by how grown up he is.
“I s’pose you’re right Georgie,” Ron mutters, red staining his freckled cheeks. He’s got a
half-smile on that reminds George so much of Fred it hurts. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, well,” George scoffs, “No one will believe I said it if you tell.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Ron laughs, “Now get out of here. I was late today, I’ll take
over so you can go have lunch.”
“Oi, since when do I take extended lunches—”
The bell above the door cuts off his protests, and in the fading light of the afternoon, he sees
Parvati, her dark hair gleaming in the sun.
“Hello,” she greets, “I was hoping you would take me to lunch, George.”
Ron covers a laugh with his fist, and George throws him a dark look. He spins to face Parvati
and bows low at her.
“Conveniently, my employee has agreed to cover my lunch,” George announces, “And

whatever my wife wishes, I shall endeavour to do.”
Parvati rolls her eyes at his words, though she loops her arm around his. George throws a
wink at Ron over his shoulder and is rewarded by the sound of a genuine laugh.
George relays the entire story to Parvati as they snack on sandwiches from Fortescue’s.
They’re on a picnic bench at a park a few blocks away, out of sight from the media. George
isn’t famous the same way Ron, Hermione and Harry are by any means, but any matches
from the WPG that haven’t yet been announced publicly are fair game to the Prophet.
Poor Michael Corner and Mariette Edgecomb had found that out only a few days prior;
Skeeter had ambushed them when buying a new couch for the house they now unwillingly
shared.
“So, what do you see?” George asks, impatient.
Parvati scowls at him, “You know that’s not how this works! I see nothing. Just you, and
blue, and blood. I see it all the time now. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, or try to
change.”
George breathes deeply, drawing on patience that doesn’t come naturally to his Gryffindor
heart. “Okay. Okay. Do you see anything else at all? Besides the blue thing.”
Parvati frowns, “I see nothing about Hannah. I’m not very close to her, so it’s no surprise that
it’s hidden from me even as I’m looking. I still see Malfoy and the champagne, so obviously,
your clumsy attempts at trying to convince him not to drink champagne were in vain.”
George protests, “Well, I couldn’t very well tell him outright that my wife had seen him drink
champagne and then lay in a grave where we then buried his wife with him! I had to try
something.”
Parvati sighs, “I know. You’re right.”
“I am?” George asks. The worst part about marrying a Seer is that he’s never right.
“Yeah,” Parvati nods decisively, “You did change something, though. I still see Malfoy drink
the champagne, and he’s still angry, but now Hermione is the one burying him in a mountain
of tiny stones afterward. She’s crying. I can tell she’s desperate to bury him.”
George’s temper ignites, “Do you think she’s going to kill him?”
Parvati hums thoughtfully, and he watches her dark eyes go unfocused for a moment. “No, I
don’t think so.”
“Should she?” He snarls. It’s irrelevant suddenly that he had seen Draco Malfoy at his
wedding only a few days prior and he had looked harmless. If anything, he had looked
smitten with Hermione. He hadn’t heard from Hermione since then, but Ron had mentioned
nothing amiss. She’d still been going to work at the Ministry; if she hadn’t George would
have heard about it, because Harry would have already stormed the cottage to find out why.
Parvati’s hand is suddenly gripping his arm tightly. “George.”
It sounds as though she’s been repeating his name. She’s pale despite her darker complexion,
and George briefly wonders how long he has been lost in murderous thoughts.
“Sorry.”
Parvati clears her throat, “I swear to you, if I saw anything else or anything bad about
Hermione, I would tell you. And I would see it, George. I love Hermione — we’ve known
each other for years. I don’t think Draco Malfoy will hurt her. Not in any possible future I can
see.”
George feels tension uncoil from his spine he wasn’t even aware he was carrying. It wasn’t as
though he was afraid for Hermione — she was an incredible witch, and it was a testament to
her strength and formidability that George had assumed Parvati’s vision meant she was
intending to kill Draco to protect herself.
Hermione, despite the trauma that has since encased her in tremors and exhaustion, is
ruthless. George is not so far removed from the war that he doesn’t remember the tenacity
with which she can pursue something. If Harry had fallen to Voldemort’s wand, he is
confident that Hermione would have found another way.
Her current fragility will not last forever. He had seen it the night the letters for the WPG had
come. There is no doubt in his mind that if Draco Malfoy wished her harm, she would
neutralize the threat.
“On a slightly happier note,” Parvati says, pulling her hand back into her lap along with his
attention. “I have also been seeing stars.”
“Stars?”
Parvati half-smiles at his nonplussed expression. “Yes. Stars. Thousands of them all lit up in a
clear night sky. It’s incredibly bright. Green eyes are watching the stars — I can see how
green they are from the moonlight. Two stars fall at the exact same time, and they land in the
green eyes. No idea what it means.”
“Green eyes like Harry’s?” George asks.
Parvati shrugs delicately. “Could be. Either way, it doesn’t feel bad. It actually feels... well,
like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Happy. Incandescent. Life-changing.”
“Well, that’s a delightful change,” George complains.
Parvati sticks out her tongue at his words, and George bites into his sandwich to ignore her
sass. She looks lovely in her orange dress, and it isn’t the first time he has noticed how
beautiful his wife is.
Parvati stops chewing abruptly and swallows hard. He’s unprepared for the moment that she
turns and pins him with furious eyes. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” George is genuinely baffled.
“George, stop.” Her voice is like ice, and he has never heard her so commanding before.
“You’re changing things. Stop. Please.”
“What could I possibly be changing right now?” He demands, gesturing at his half-eaten
sandwich. “We’re eating lunch!”
Parvati stares at him for a long moment. He’s not hiding anything.
He can’t hide anything.
“It’s nothing.” She finally says. “It’s fine.”
She finishes the last bite of her sandwich; George sips at his coffee. The silence is deafening;
so many unspoken questions, so many secrets. They both carry ghosts around them; the
invisibility only makes it more real.
“Look, let’s just make sure Ron and Hannah are okay. I think you’re right to tell him to be
patient with her.” Parvati’s serious face turns mischievous, “I know that if my husband were
kind and patient and giving, I would also appreciate it.”
“Hey!” George protests naturally, “I am a paragon of patience and kindness.”
Parvati’s face cracks into a smile, and George can’t help the fondness that sweeps into him.
Perhaps Ron wasn’t completely wrong — kindness isn’t nothing.
“You’re something, alright.” Parvati agrees easily. “Though somehow patient wasn’t exactly
the word I had in mind.”
George half-heartedly scowls at her, “It should be! You’re dragging me to another wedding
in three days, and once again I will be sober.”
Parvati’s expression turns soft. “You will. I don’t even have to see it to know. Thanks,
George.”
He tosses his napkin at her and is rewarded with another laugh.

Exposed
Chapter Notes
Hi friends! So... this chapter is lacking the previously mentioned D/H interaction...
however, the reason is that the chapter clocked in at over 7k. So I split it into two
sections, which means the next chapter is also Hermione's POV. Expect the next one
within the next day or so :)
Also, a HUGE happy birthday to a friend of mine (TP), who I thank for bringing me into
the Dramione life (but I also curse her, because this story is looking like it's going to be
~100k... sigh)
Happy Reading!
November 19th, 1999 - Friday
Hermione is elbow deep in her first draft of the ‘Werewolf Start-Up Business Grant’ proposal
she has been working on for two days and feels as though she might as well be hitting her
head against a wall for all the good it is doing. Every memo she has sent to Kingsley has been
returned unopened; he has been out of the public eye for over two weeks, and Hermione is
sick of it.
Once again, the Ministry is letting her down. The fact that she had hoped for better,
had trusted Kingsley to do better and be better, wears on her. While she knows the WPG isn’t
his fault, that the Wizengamot probably forced his hand, she simply can’t wrap her head
around the fact that he is hiding. Kingsley may be many things, but Hermione had never
thought him a coward until now.
The small black journal at her elbow warms suddenly, startling her out of her annoyance. The
embossed ‘HG’ on the cover glows a faint gold, and Hermione realizes she has pressed her
lips together to push back an easy smile.
The notebooks were a stroke of genius, and she’s not ashamed to admit it.
Hermione had awoken the Monday morning after her wedding to Draco Malfoy in pure
panic. She had snuck out of bed quickly and quietly, while Draco had mercifully stayed
asleep. Perhaps — though Hermione has no way of proving it — he may have feigned sleep
simply to spare her the indignity of discussing their first night of marital (not quite) bliss. If
that is the case, she is grateful.
However, she had only been at work a grand total of an hour before the notebook she had
thrown in her workbag had warmed; a sure sign that its counterpart had been written in.
Draco’s flawless hand had appeared, and Hermione had nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the
fact that her husband still wanted to talk to her in some form.
Since then, the vast majority of their communication went through the little books. Hermione
snuck off to work while Draco slept, and when she returned home, he was usually still out.
She had yet to ask what exactly he did with his time, seeing as he didn’t have a job.
Apparently, if you were the last Malfoy, you had access to a ridiculous fortune and mass
amounts of time to occupy yourself.
They would reconvene around dinner time, where Juney had been spoiling them with
incredible dishes. They passed most meals successfully dodging their history and the war and
instead navigated dreary idle chit-chat. Malfoy had fallen into the habit of moving to the
couch to read, and Hermione would either join him or hide away in her office. He had yet to
knock upon the office door, which was convenient since Hermione spent most of her time in
her illegally expanded trunk attempting to piece together the mystery of the WPG matches.
Admittedly, it wasn’t ideal.
“ Dear Granger,
I cannot be blamed for the state of the cottage upon your return. Juney has decided she
cannot abide us living in this house without celebrating Christmas. I drew the line at putting
up the tree, however — my mother always taught me it was something the family all had to do
together. I confess, I never understood why since my father never failed to make it a
miserable experience for everyone involved.
Anyway —
I hope your day at work isn’t boring (though I’m sure it is seeing as you work in the
MINISTRY where you’re wasting your talents)
Yours,
DM. ”
Hermione reads the words over and over — devouring them the same way she has devoured
any written work since she was six years old. Draco has always had impeccable penmanship;
even in Hogwarts Hermione had spent multiple hours watching him take notes. She had hated
him then; envious that his hair was straight, that Snape liked him more, that his notes were as
perfect as his stupid straight teeth, and his lack of dirty, muddy blood.
Now — now Hermione barely knows what to think.
She doesn’t hate him. Not even close.
At night, when dusk falls over their cottage, Hermione sneaks into her bedroom and goes to
sleep without him. Sometimes, she’ll awake late in the night when he clambers in beside her,
terror giving way to relief when she realizes that it’s just Draco.
He rarely touches her — not since the first night. Sometimes, when she works up the bravery
to sit on the couch with him after their dinner, he will reach over and pat her hand or her leg
if it is close enough.
He kisses her rarely. She misses that most of all.
Hermione isn’t sure what’s changed to make him distant.
She knows that she’s been hiding; she’s as guilty as Kingsley is. Draco may have become
more distant, but she’s hardly been encouraging closeness.
In the morning, when she wakes and finds him wrapped around her, his back to the door, she
allows herself to pretend — and not in the way Harry had suggested. It isn’t difficult at all,
being Malfoy’s wife.
Hermione swallows — she’s not usually prone to letting her emotions get the best of her, but
she knows when enough is enough.
She stares down at her hand, the sparkling diamond greeting her. It’s been charmed with a
simple notice-me-not so her coworkers won’t ask about it; still, it catches her gaze all day
long, tearing her concentration to shreds.
She abandons her werewolf grant in favour of writing her husband back and picks up her pen.
It feels familiar in her hand, like an old friend, and Hermione tries to make her printing as
legible as his. It’s not that she’s messy, she just has so many thoughts, and they tend to all
spill out at once.
“ Dear Malfoy,
I’m glad you waited for me to put up the tree. I don’t even recall the last time I had a real
Christmas. That sounds nice. Speaking of Christmas — don’t even think of getting me a gift.
We already exchanged wedding presents, it’s hardly fair to ask for more only mere weeks
later.
Don’t forget it’s Blaise and Padma’s wedding tomorrow. I can hardly believe the WPG
deadline is here. The lineup for the marriage offices is once again near to the fountain. Work
is dreadful today — I know exactly what face you’re making right now, so stop it. I like my
job. I enjoy making a difference.
Anyway, I’ll be home a little earlier than usual. Will you be there? Let’s have dinner together.
Yours,
Granger ”
She stares down at the words for a long moment, trying to imagine what he’ll write back.
It’s hardly believable — she’s passing notes with Draco Malfoy; it seems like some sort of
lost Hogwarts fantasy that half the girls in her year had shared.
Her office door flies open without warning, and Hermione snaps to her feet, wand clenched
in her fist. Her fight-or-flight instincts had never really abated after the war, and she takes in
the sight of Harry in her doorway, breathless and glasses askew stoically. Her office is well
warded, and very few people can just enter without knocking; Harry is obviously one of these
exceptions.
“Kingsley was paired with Madam Rosmerta,” Harry announces without preamble.
Hermione’s blood pressure drops with her adrenaline, but her rage remains palpable.
“He’s finally come out of hiding, then?” She veritably spits the words.
Harry rolls his eyes and pulls out a copy of the Prophet. “Not quite.”
She catches the paper when he tosses it at her, though it’s a little clumsy. She unrolls it in her
palms and finds Kingsley’s smiling face staring out to her alongside Rosmerta’s. They’re
standing in front of The Leaky Cauldron, looking as though they don’t have a care in the
entire world. She watches the pictures move: Kingsley pulling Rosmerta close as she smiles
up at him. It feels like the epitome of love; Hermione wonders if they had to practice.
The headline reads: ‘Minister Returns from Romantic Honeymoon in Berlin.’
Hermione scoffs. She’s tempted to throw the entire wad in her stupid rubbish bin. It’s not the
first time she’s thought that about the Daily Prophet.
“He’s a coward,” Hermione hisses, waving the paper in Harry’s direction. “Hiding and
blaming it on a honeymoon.”
Harry nods solemnly, “You’re right. What I can’t figure out is what they have in common?”
“Rosmerta and Kingsley?”
“Yeah,” Harry takes a step forward and slumps into the only chair in her office, “I suppose
they’re both smart, though I know little about Madam Rosmerta other than she runs The
Three Broomsticks.”
“There’s no way she’s a match for him in wand magic,” Hermione concedes. “My guess is
that Kingsley is the strongest wizard in Britain.”
Harry laughs, as though she’s joking. Hermione narrows her eyes at the carefree noise.
“Hermione—” Harry meets her very serious expression. “You can’t be serious.”
Hermione plants her hands on her hips, channelling Molly Weasley. “What are you on
about?”
“He’s not the most powerful wizard in Britain,” Harry huffs.

Hermione rolls her eyes, “I gathered you thought that by your laughter. What I don’t
understand is who you possibly think is a match for the Minister of Magic himself in wand
magic?”
Harry shrugs sheepishly. “Well. I mean. Me?”
“What?” Hermione nearly feels the floor beneath her feet fall away. It’s so unexpected — she
had never even considered Harry. He was eternally her best friend; the same eleven-year-old
boy who had always needed her help to get out of trouble. Her blind spot.
“Yeah. I mean,” Harry’s hand comes to rub at his already messy hair. “I’m almost sure of it.
Malfoy might even be more powerful than Kingsley.”
“I asked him already,” Hermione says, her mind spinning with the new information. “He says
it’d be a close duel, but he still thought Kingsley would win.”
Harry watches her suspiciously. Hermione consciously tries to smooth out the furrow
between her brow. She knows it appears when she’s thinking very hard, and Harry knows her
well enough to see when she’s working something out.
“Hermione,” He says slowly, “I think we should take a late lunch and go visit Ron. It’s been a
while since we’ve all been together.”
He’s got some ulterior motive, Hermione is sure. Still, it sounds appealing to leave her office
and spend time with her best friends, and Hermione can process when she returns home. She
waves her wand and watches with a smile as her papers all return to their assigned spots, her
desk spotless. Magic is still so incredibly impressive, even all these years later.
She snags her journal off her desk and nearly drops it again when she feels the warmth and
sees the subtle golden glow.
He’d written back!
She flips the cover open, conscious of Harry’s eyes on her the entire time. There is only a
span of words drifting across the paper.
“ Granger,
I would like that. I’ll see you soon?
DM ”
She snaps the journal closed and slides it into her beaded pink bag, the lightest blush gracing
her cheeks.
“Alright,” Hermione agrees finally, “But I can’t stay out long, Harry. I have dinner plans.”
Harry grins, the same infectious expression that he’s had since she met him in the Hogwarts
Express. She would do anything for that stupid smile. He turns and throws open her office
doors, gesturing for her to lead the way.
They’ve barely exited her department when suddenly Hermione is faced with Rita Skeeter
herself. Rita’s smug mouth is turned up into a smarmy expression and the flash of a lightbulb
disorients Hermione for a split second.
“Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl—” Rita pauses for effect and then lets her voice carry
through the hallway, “What do you have to say for yourself? Marrying Draco Malfoy,
a Death Eater?”
Hermione gapes for a split second too long, “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, no need,” Rite’s smile is an animalistic snarl, “You already ensured Draco Malfoy got
pardoned. How long has this affair been going on?”
Rita’s voice is pure slimy threat, and Hermione swallows down her panic at the words. She
has to take control of this immediately — she had known her marriage to Malfoy was bound
to get out. They had both agreed it was simply a matter of time, but at no point did Hermione
imagine that Rita-bloody-Skeeter somehow would get the inside tip-off and ambush her at
her office.
Hermione forces her hands against her thighs, forcing herself to stay still. “Since we were
—”
“ENOUGH!” Harry Potter’s voice silences the crowd in a sonorus move Hermione has only
ever seen Albus Dumbledore pull off. “Rita, you will be silent or you will be silenced.”
The effect is instantaneous: Harry Potter has issued a threat. He grasps Hermione’s elbow and
drags her through the crowd, flashbulbs going off in their wake as they leave Rita Skeeter
behind. They make it to the Floo and Harry doesn’t hesitate before shoving her into a
fireplace and throwing down green powder. She doesn’t hear what he’s called before she’s
spinning away.
She lands in the living room of Grimmauld Place in a heap. There’s barely time to scramble
to her feet and move out of the way before Harry follows behind her.
Hermione notices the sunlight streaming through the window and the new grey couch
heartbeats before Harry’s hands are trapping her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” He demands.
Hermione blinks. “Of course, Harry.”
They watch each other — Harry slowly releases her, hovering far too close. It isn’t until a
knock sounds on the front door that he finally turns away.
Hermione swallows. Rita had blindsided her; it’s an unfamiliar feeling for someone as
prepared as Hermione usually is. She dislikes it nearly as much as she had disliked the vitriol
Skeeter had displayed. Trap a woman in a jar for a year and she’s bound to hate you,
Hermione had known that, of course. Still, she had been relying on the fact that Skeeter was
still scared Hermione could expose her for being an illegal animagus to the public.
Perhaps it was time to remind her of this fact.
“Harry,” Hermione calls, “I’m going to have to cancel our lunch plans.”
Harry rounds the corner, a familiar red-head in tow. Ron Weasley grins at her sheepishly, and
Hermione allows herself to forget that she had been annoyed with him. It’s always been so
difficult to stay mad at Ron.
“Hey,” Ron greets. He’s wearing the burgundy sweater with the large ‘R’ on the front Molly
had knitted in fifth year. It’s endearingly short on him, and he’s got the arms pushed up to his
elbows.
“Hi, Ron.” She says.
It seems to be all the permission he needs because he strides across the room and gives her a
giant hug. She muffles her face into his shoulder, the smell of safety and the Burrow infusing
her being. She feels Harry’s hand on her back, and it’s like she’s back at Hogwarts again,
squished between two people she would do anything for.
“Heard you had a run-in with Skeeter,” Ron grouses when he lets her go. “You’ll be all over
the Prophet by tomorrow.”
“I will,” Hermione agrees, “which is why I am going to have to cancel our lunch plans. I’m
off to the Nott Estate.”
Ron’s genial expression darkens, “What on earth for?”
“I don’t know if you’ve somehow forgotten Ronald, but Luna lives there now. I’m going to
ask her to run an article in the Quibbler.”
Ron looks ready to argue, but Harry cuts him off. “Hermione, that’s genius.”
“Thank you,” Hermione grins, attempting to smooth the wrinkles in her shirt from her
unexpected Floo journey. “I quite thought so myself.”
“We’ll go with you!” Harry volunteers.
“What?!” Ron squawks, glowering.
Hermione frowns, “No offense, but I was thinking an article like what Kingsley had in the
Prophet.”
Harry nods quickly, “Yes! You and Malfoy do a few together looking cozy, and then Ron and
I should come in. She can hardly call him a Death Eater when we’re friendly with him.”
“He is a Death Eater!” Ron argues.
Hermione practically stamps her feet. “Ronald Weasley!”

His jaw snaps shut, and even Harry seems to go a few shades paler. Hermione has always
known the power Molly Weasley wields with simply her voice, and she has spent many hours
mastering her mimicry of it. She plants her hands on her hips and glares at her best friends.
“Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater,” She snaps furiously. “And you might be inclined to
recall he is also my husband.”
Ron glares but wisely holds his tongue. Surprisingly, it is Harry who braves her wrath by
speaking.
“Hermione… I think Ron meant he was a Death Eater. Once. And you didn’t
exactly choose to marry him. We’re just worried, is all.”
Hermione is sick and tired of being something to worry about. She straightens her spine and
pins them with her best glare.
“Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. Theodore Nott is not a Death Eater. Put away your
childish hatred and focus on helping me with the WPG.”
Ron no longer looks chastised in the wake of her words. Instead, his blue eyes are appraising
her. It reminds her that Ron has never been stupid — he’s stubborn and impetuous, but he’s
not stupid. He’s one of the best strategists she’s ever met, and he knows her better than nearly
anyone.
“So you like him, then.”
Hermione meets his gaze and doesn't deny it. To her surprise, Ron’s stare doesn’t become
disgusted — instead, he rolls his eyes.
“Figures you’d go for a complicated one,” He huffs. “Alright. Tell us what to do.”
“You’ll… help?” Hermione asks.
Ron scowls, “‘Course I’m gonna help, ‘Mione. Blimey, I hate Malfoy, but you’re the smartest
witch I’ve ever met. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
Hermione glances at Harry; she knows they would do anything for her, she’s always known
this. Yet, somehow it felt like actually liking Draco Malfoy might be the line in the sand.
Harry’s face has gone impossibly fond all over again, “Why do you look so surprised? We’ve
been following your lead into impossible situations for years. You haven’t let us down yet.”
Unexpectedly, Hermione feels her throat clog with tears.
“Okay,” she chokes out. “Harry — I need you to be at Fortescue’s at eight tonight. With
Ginny, if she can make it.”
“Done.”
Hermione turns to stare at Ron. “Are you going to Padma and Blaise’s wedding tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Ron answers, “Padma invited Hannah. I was planning to go with her.”
“I need you to ask me to dance when we’re there,” Hermione says, mind turning over
every possible obstacle to her plan. “And when Malfoy cuts in, I need you to let him.”
Ron sighs heavily, “The things I do for you, Hermione Granger.”
She is overcome with love for them — Ron has crumbs on the left side of his sweater, and
Harry looks as though he’s braved a tornado with the way his hair is sticking up. Ron’s still
carrying his wand in his pocket, the way she has (rightfully) told him not to for years.
“You’re both hopeless,” Hermione manages to say through the lump in her throat, “I’ll see
you both soon.”
“Eight tonight!” Harry agrees easily. Ron rolls his eyes.
She rushes to the front door and apparates away.

An Interruption
Chapter Notes
Hello friends! Thank you SO much for your kind comments and kudos. I read every
single one and appreciate them so much. A small reminder that this story does contain
exaggerations on canon (specifically, about the war and the characters' roles in it). I hope
you enjoy this chapter :) The next one will be posted not this Sunday but the following.
November 19th, 1999 - Friday
She’s glad Malfoy warned her of Juney’s decorating since she arrives on her own doorstep to
find the cottage transformed. Twinkling golden lights are wrapped around the eaves and a
few of the trees. A bushy evergreen wreath hangs from her door, and when she pushes it open
gently she is greeted with the smell of cranberries and balsam.
It’s heavenly.
“Granger,” Draco looks up from the couch. He’s sitting in the corner, a book in his hand and
his ever-present Slytherin green blanket tucked around him. The fire is roaring with warmth.
It’s a cozy scene that Hermione had never allowed herself to imagine a few years ago,
coming home to someone. Someone who was safe.
She tosses her bag on the floor and hangs her jacket up haphazardly, not daring to think twice
before moving to sit on the couch, closer than she usually would.
Malfoy lifts one blonde eyebrow but says nothing. Hermione swallows and reaches out to
grab a piece of his blanket and tugs it over her toes. Draco stares down at it, the way it’s
covering only up to her shins. He lifts a hand out of his lap and lays it slowly over the arches
of her feet, over the blanket. The heat of him is scorching.
“Hi,” she says. Her voice feels small.
His silver eyes take in her appearance, and Hermione pushes every hint of insecurity she has
over her hair and her face and how she has always been too bookish, too smart, too much.
He married her — even if he was forced, he didn’t have to stay. Didn’t have to live in her
tiny cottage. Didn’t have to fit himself into her life and compromise on so many of the things
that made him Draco Malfoy.
“What’s happening inside that brain of yours, Granger?”
She swallows. “You know, if I sat closer, you could share more of the blanket.”
Surprise flickers over his face before it becomes impossible to read once again. He doesn’t
answer her, just tugs the blanket up and open. The invitation is clear.
Hermione moves into his space, tucking herself neatly against his side and letting her legs fall
next to his. He lets his arm wrap loosely around her shoulder, the weight of it settling her
further into the couch.
She ventures, “That’s better. Much warmer.”
“Yes.” He replies slowly. The silence lingers after the word.
“It looks nice in here,” Hermione says, half-heartedly gesturing at the decorations Juney has
put up.
“It does.”
She tries again. “What are you reading?”
“A book.”
She swallows — he is making this so difficult. Every particle of her being wants to disappear
into her office. Return to their hard-won routine of peace and distance.
Only… only… she doesn’t want that.
With a slow inhale, Hermione glances at the cover of the book in his hand. Books — books
she can do. Books she is good at.
“I’ve read that one, you know,” Hermione tells him, settling her head closer to his collarbone.
“It’s absolutely worth reading. I won’t spoil it for you, but the details of the Occamy are
incredible. The author must have had first-hand knowledge. I had never realized how similar
they are to dragons — apparently, they’re totally unrelated, though! Did you know that the
shell of an Occamy is pure silver? They’ve been hunted nearly into—”
The press of Draco’s lips to her hair silences her as effectively as any words might have.
“Granger,” he murmurs, “tell me.”
Hermione wonders what he means — should she tell him of Kingsley? Of Rita Skeeter and
her rage? Or that she plans to see Luna this afternoon and beg for her help? Should she speak
of her plans to meet Harry and Ginny tonight for a publicity stunt, or should she admit she
suspects the Ministry plotting her death?
Or how she likes it here — how she loves her cottage, and the fire, and the warmth of his
body next to hers, how she wishes he would kiss her again, the way he did the night of their
wedding. Like he meant it.
“I obliviated my parents,” she says instead.
The words just fall out of her — Hermione swallows retroactively, as if she can take away the
sentence she has just released. Words she’s never said to anyone except Albus Dumbledore,
who had simply nodded in acceptance. They were safe. What was the loss of a single
daughter?
Her cheeks feel hot, and Hermione is mortified to find the fire is blurring with unshed tears.
“This may be of little comfort,” Draco’s voice is soft, “but you saved their lives, Granger.”
Hermione turns to him, face close enough to feel his breath on her skin. His eyes are molten.
“I should have asked if they wanted another choice.” Hermione hisses. “If it were me, I
wouldn’t want to be saved if it came at that cost. I would have chosen to fight. I did choose to
fight.”
Draco simply watches her. His words, when they come, fall like knives.
“Bellatrix crucio’d me for what felt like hours after you escaped that night. I told her
everything I knew about you, which admittedly, wasn’t much. She was fixated on you —
spent days finding out every scrap of information on Hermione Granger.” He swallows, his
eyes turning aimlessly to the flames. “I watched as she returned to the Manor soaked in
random Muggles’ blood. I watched, both waiting for and dreading the day it would finally
end.”
“She was looking for them,” Hermione breathes. “She was hunting my parents.”
“She found the house, you know.” Draco continues. “Damn near tried to raze it to the
ground.”
Hermione frowns — she had laced her parents’ house with enough protective enchantments
to withstand a nuclear bomb, but when she had returned to it after the war it had seemed
untouched. She’d had no idea Bellatrix had ever been there.
Draco’s hand is nearly white-knuckled on his book. It’s the only indication that he is
bothered at all by what he is saying.
“You cleaned it, didn’t you?” Hermione accuses.
Draco glances at her. “What?”
“I’ve been there. After the war, I returned home. I thought I might live there. The house was
immaculate. You must have cleaned it.”
For the first time, Malfoy shifts uncomfortably. It reminds her how close she is, how easily
she sits in his half-embrace.
“I did.” He admits.
Hermione wonders when he will stop surprising her. Wonders why he would spend time and
magic cleaning a muggle house for a girl he barely knew and distinctly hated. Wonders if that
was his penance.
“They’re alive, you know?”
He nods, once. “I know. She knew it, too.”
“Good.” Hermione nearly snarls. The satisfaction she gets from knowing Bellatrix Lestrange
died a failure at something is primal. It almost makes the unbearable guilt she feels worth it.
“You might have taken the choice from them, Granger,” Draco murmurs, “But you saved
their lives. At least they get to be alive to make other choices.”
Hermione sighs. “I know. I just wish I wasn’t the one who has to live with the awareness of
that choice.”
They are silent, together, for a long time. The fire has fallen nearly into embers when Draco
moves, letting the arm across her shoulders tug her slightly closer to him. Hermione doesn’t
fight it.
“You know, when I admitted I could cast an avada, you didn’t ask questions.”
Hermione nods, her cheek pressed into the softness of his shirt. She’s reminded of Ron’s
woolly sweater today; of how she had defended Draco Malfoy.
“I could say the same for you.” She replies. “You didn’t ask how I knew I could cast one.”
“Fenrir Greyback,” Draco answers. “We both know that was no stunning spell you shot at the
Battle.”
Hermione flushes, “How… how did you know?”
“I saw it. Had a hell of a time convincing Trelawney it was a stunning spell she had seen.”
Hermione wrenches her head back, her palm resting on Draco’s chest. “You… you…?”
Draco rolls his eyes, “Well I knew Scarface and Weasel wouldn’t rat you out, but an
Unforgiveable is an Unforgiveable, Granger. You’d have been tried, same as any of us if
anyone found out.”
Hermione huffs, “And easily pardoned since he deserved — since it was Fenrir Greyback! I
don’t regret it, not for one second.”
The image of Lavender Brown, bloody and defeated under the werewolf’s hulking body, is
one she’s never been able to scrub from her nightmares. The flash of green that had sprung
from her wand, poisonous words on her lips. The look in his eyes as he had fallen.
Many things haunt Hermione Granger from the war. The death of Fenrir Greyback is not one
of them. She only wishes she had been faster; wishes she had arrived with enough seconds to
spare Lavender Brown’s life.
“That’s why you could cast it, you know. Because you meant it.” Draco murmurs. Hermione
glances at him only to find he is staring at her. He drops the book from his hand and raises it
slowly to her face. He rubs his thumb along her cheek, resting his palm against the hollow of
her throat. He’s never looked so intense before, and Hermione realizes she never asked about
when he first cast an avada about a second before he pulls her close and kisses her.
It feels like centuries since she’s felt his lips on hers, and she clambers onto his lap with an
embarrassing lack of grace. Draco’s palm sits heavily on the back of her neck, his other arm
following her to her new position. It’s thrilling to be taller than him for once. Words — so
many things she wants to say to him — so many questions to ask, and yet her voice keeps
failing her.
Draco does not have this problem. He kisses her fiercely, dragging his mouth away to make a
trail to her neck, pressing kisses down her skin. She’s gasping against the heat he leaves in
his wake.
“Granger,” he murmurs, “Granger.”
She feels her own fingertips digging into his shoulders, scrambling for purchase. It seems as
if they grow broader by the day, and Hermione lets one of her hands snake up the back of his
neck into his blonde hair, encouraging his mouth to continue its path.
She startles slightly when she feels his palm on her breast, and he freezes — the same way he
had done days before. Hermione forces herself to think and pulls back slightly, meeting silver
eyes and the full weight of Draco Malfoy’s focused attention.
“I’m not scared,” she breathes.
“You told me you were,” Draco argues. She remembers that day — in the alley. The weight
of her new bracelet on her wrist, and Draco staring at her, telling her not to be frightened.
“Not of you,” Hermione admits. It’s like they’re sharing the same air.
She’s not entirely sure if she’s said the right thing until Draco nearly lunges forward, turning
her easily to land on her back on the couch. It’s sudden, and she barely has time to recover
before his weight is pressed against her, his mouth against the shell of her ear.
“Granger,” he murmurs, “tell me to stop.”
She ignores him, and scrapes her nails up the back of his shirt, “I want you to take this off.”
It’s as if her words have given him permission because instead of doing what she’s asked,
Draco Malfoy curls his fingertips into the hem of her sweater and tugs it up. She lets herself
wriggle out of it and finds him staring down at her plain black bra. Which she barely fills out.
She can feel her blush spreading over her skin, increased tenfold when Malfoy simply presses
his lips to her chest.
“Can I take this off?” He asks, the heat of his breath on her skin going straight to her head.
Hermione feels like she could burst into flame — she’s not sure if she’s embarrassed or
turned on. She’s never been this turned on.
“Your shirt,” she squeaks. If he’s taking off her bra, he better be at least as naked as she is.
He reaches for the buttons on his shirt and nearly tears it in half with his impatience. The
firelight has him glowing nearly gold, and some part of her feels nearly hysterical with the
fact that Draco Malfoy is undressing on top of her.
He throws his shirt down, and Hermione reaches a hand up to trace at his skin. He’s covered
in scars — she’s hardly one to speak. The puckered and pockmarked remains of her left side
haunt her daily. Draco, however, is beautiful. His skin is pale as moonlight, with a line of
thick scar tissue bisecting him from his left pectoral to his right hipbone; she follows its path
with her fingertips.
“Sectumsempra,” she whispers. “I could have killed Harry for that.”
Draco’s hand catches her own, pressing her palm further into his skin. He feels like he’s
burning up. She looks up to meet his eyes.
“Let’s not talk about Potter right now, okay?” Draco quirks one corner of his mouth up, a
crooked grin she’s never seen from him before.
“Okay,” she agrees easily, pulling herself up onto her elbows and unhooking the back of her
bra. She drags the straps down her arms when Malfoy makes no move to help her, and
swallows before throwing the garment away.
Silver eyes devour her only seconds before his mouth is on her — Hermione nearly writhes
under him when he palms her breast at the same time as he pulls a nipple into his mouth. She
feels ready to combust, and realizes that her hands are utterly useless at her sides, not even
touching him back.
“Malfoy,” she breathes, lifting them to rest against the heat of his ribcage.
“Granger,” he answers, dragging his mouth back towards her own. His lips are shiny, and she
kisses him easily, as though she’s done it a thousand times before. He’s got one hand wrapped
in her hair, and she feels his fingers sliding towards her hip bones. He reaches the edge of her
black underwear, and Hermione allows her own palm to slide against the front of his trousers,
relieved to find that he is every inch as invested as she is in the proceedings.
Her wards ignite, the warning sounding mere seconds before a loud knock at the door startles
them both. Hermione stares up at Malfoy, now crouched over her half-naked, his wand
already somehow in his hand and fury written on his face.
“Granger,” he hisses, “who the hell could that be?”
Hermione pulls her arms across her chest. “Erm, it’s… it’s either Ron or Harry.”
“I’m going to hex them,” he tells her resolutely, and then pulls away, tossing her the bra she
had discarded. She dresses hastily, throwing her sweater back on and rushing to the door.
Every fibre of her feels as though she could combust; either from embarrassment or from the
lack of release.
She opens her door aggressively as Malfoy is tucking his shirttails into his trousers, and
stares into Harry Potter’s face.
“This better be important, Potter.” Malfoy hisses from somewhere behind her.
Harry’s green eyes take in her hair, and Hermione flushes all over again. She must look a
fright. Harry looks disgusted momentarily.
“Sorry,” he does not sound apologetic, and Hermione unwillingly releases the door so he can
enter their cottage. He surveys the couch with distaste, the way the blanket is laying on the
ground haphazardly. “Looks like I’m interrupting.”
“You aren’t,” Hermione protests at the same moment that Malfoy confirms he was, in fact,
interrupting something.
“Ugh,” Harry groans, “Stop. I just wanted to let you know Fortescue’s is a no-go this
evening.”
“Fortescue’s?” Draco asks.
“You didn’t even tell him?” Harry scowls at her, “What have you been doing for the past
hour, shagging like bloody teenagers?”
Hermione is absolutely positive she is a colour of red no one has ever seen before, and she
hisses Harry’s name in a warning at the same time that Malfoy pins her with a stare.
“What were you supposed to tell me, Granger?” His words are accusing — as though she has
tricked him, somehow. She rolls her eyes; she’s hardly conniving enough to use sex to
distract him.
“Rita Skeeter cornered me at work today to ask me how long my affair with known Death
Eater, Draco Malfoy, had been going on.” Hermione intones.
Draco’s expression filters through disbelief and rage, and lands on very tightly controlled
displeasure. “And what, exactly, did you tell her?”
“Nothing,” Harry interrupts, “I simply threatened her into not asking her questions, and then
dragged Hermione away. We made a plan, and she was supposed to go to the Nott Estate to
speak to Luna to get a spot for an interview in the Quibbler. Then later this evening you were
going to be purposefully photographed together with Ginny and me having a spot of ice
cream. All acting friendly.”
“And I’m going to dance at Blaise and Padma’s wedding with Ron. You’re going to cut in.”
Hermione adds into the silence after Harry’s words.
“I am, am I?” Draco sighs.
“Yeah,” Hermione agrees. She feels her bra strap twisted under her sweater, and it’s
mortifying, even if neither man in the room knows it’s there. “He’s going to let you.”
Draco runs a palm through his hair, tidying the blonde strands. Hermione’s mind naturally
strays to where those hands had been only minutes before.
“As far as plans go, it’s not the worst, Granger.” He finally says.
Hermione frowns. “I know, that’s why it’s my plan.”
“Yes,” Harry interrupts again, looking very much like he wishes he could be anywhere else
on the planet, “Hence why it’s such a shame we have to cancel the Fortescue’s part.”
“Why?” Hermione and Draco ask at the same time.
Harry rolls his eyes towards the roof, as though praying for patience. “Gin has reminded
me that we had… er — we have plans.”
Malfoy suddenly looks quite cheerful, “Hmm, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten some sort of
anniversary with the Weaselette? Trouble in paradise, Potter?”
“Listen here, Malfoy—”
“Stop!” Hermione snapped, drawing the stares of both boys. “Harry, that’s fine, honestly.
Now get out. Say hi to Ginny for us, will you?”
Harry glanced over to Malfoy, standing looking rather rumpled and quite peevish. Hermione
tilts her head towards the door when Harry’s green eyes finally meet hers.
“Fine!” Harry concedes, “Fine. I’m leaving.”
“Thanks for coming by Harry,” Hermione adds, a thin vein of sarcasm in her voice. “Perhaps
next time you could just owl me, yes?”
Harry opens his mouth to retort, but Hermione closes the door before he gets the chance. In
some ways, Hermione feels vindicated — how many times had she rushed in and caught
Ginny and Harry in some compromising position? He owes her. Still, the fire under her skin
has abated, and Hermione doesn’t know when she’ll work up the bravery to kiss Malfoy
again. Her forehead comes to rest on the wood of her door, and she breathes slowly until she
hears the telltale crack of Harry’s apparition.
When she forces herself to turn from the door, Draco is still watching her.
“I suppose we should go see Luna, then.” She murmurs, somehow exhausted to the bone at
the prospect.
Draco might as well be made of stone for all the emotion he is currently showing her. “We
don’t have to. Skeeter doesn’t run the Prophet. She can be silenced.”
“Oh, I know,” Hermione scowls, “And I intend to deal with her soon. But it’s time, don’t you
think? I’m sick of hiding. Let’s just… get it over with.”
“So eager to become a Death Eater’s wife,” Draco sneers; the expression is ugly on his face,
and Hermione is so tired of the way they seem to move two steps forward and then leap
backwards.
“I’m your wife.” She snaps, her fists reflexively finding her hips. “Yours, Draco Malfoy. If
you don’t want me, then tell me now and we’ll continue hiding.”
She watches from only an arm’s length away as Draco swallows but remains silent. As silent
as she had been in the face of Ron accusing her of liking Malfoy. The silence speaks
volumes.
“You do want me,” she breathes, nearly startled at her own conclusion.
Draco is frozen; she has noticed he is good at being nearly invisible. Unnoticeable, unless
someone was staring straight at him. A trick that had probably kept him alive in the war; old
habits, and all that rot.
“I thought that was obvious.” He finally says, voice low and heavy with heat. This time, he
steps towards her, bringing his chest close enough to brush at her own. At his full height, he
towers over her. Years ago, he had used this to make her feel small. Now, she’s not sure what
she feels.
“It wasn’t,” Hermione admits, raising her hand to rest against the silk of his shirt, the
diamond ring on her finger glittering in the firelight. “Not to me.”
Slowly, he tucks a single curl gently behind her ear. She wonders if she’s the only person
alive who knows how gentle Draco Malfoy is capable of being when he wants to be. “It
should have been.”
Hermione shrugs, “It’s okay. I’m not very… good at this.”
“Marriage?” Draco snarks, his hand slowly dropping from her face.
Hermione laughs, and snags his hand on the way down, clasping it tightly in her own. “No.
Well, yes. But I meant sex.”
She says it bluntly — as if the delivery of the word will somehow make it seem less
terrifying to her. It’s not that she’s never had sex; it’s that she’s never had sex with Malfoy.
Surprise rocks across his face, closely followed by what Hermione realizes is desire. He folds
himself downwards quickly, surprising her by pressing his mouth against the corner of her
lips.
“How about we both go to Theo’s and talk to Luna,” He says, silver eyes boring into hers.
“And then we can get a few pictures for the Quibbler. Then perhaps I could take you to
dinner.”
“On Diagon?”
He winces, “Granger, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said they’re going to turn on you.
They’ll hate you.”
“Then it should be apparent to everyone how much we don’t hate each other,” Hermione
concludes primly. “It’s always better to be hated as a team, don’t you think?”
Draco closes his eyes and heaves a sigh, as though she is the one causing him problems. She
grimaces at the thought — she supposes she has complicated his life, though he has done the
same to hers.
Hermione mirrors his sigh, her hand still clasped in his. “I guess now would be the time to
tell you that Kingsley got paired with Rosmerta and is out of hiding.”
Draco’s eyes snap open. “Rosmerta? Like… Madam Rosmerta, owner of The Three
Broomsticks?”
“Yes,” Hermione replies, recalling his sordid history with Madam Rosmerta, and how he
had imperio’d her. “The very same.”
“Well, that’s trouble,” Draco mutters.
“Because she hates you?”
“No,” Draco snaps, “because once again the WPG revolves around power, Granger. Don’t
you get it?”
Hermione gapes at him. “What… what do you mean? Rosmerta and Kingsley have nothing
in common. She’s pretty enough — but she’s an innkeeper, and he’s the Minister of Magic.”
Draco sighs. “Granger, you are the brightest bloody witch I’ve ever met, and sometimes I
wonder how you managed to survive all these years.”
Hermione huffs, “Well, I apologize that while every last boy in Hogwarts was taking a crash
course in all of Madam Rosmerta’s particular charms, I was busy studying
actual important information.”
Draco laughs — it’s such an uncommon occurrence that Hermione forgets to be annoyed.
“Granger, no. It’s not that. Rosmerta is a goldmine of information. Imagine how many people
she knows; the conversations she’s overheard. When she was under imperio, she was one of
the Dark Lord’s greatest assets.”
Hermione blinks. “Are you… serious?”
“Deadly,” Draco confirms. “If Kingsley planned this, it’s because he’s pairing her knowledge
with his power.”
The Daily Prophet article flashes through her mind again: ‘Minister Returns from Romantic
Honeymoon in Berlin.’
“It’s her,” Hermione breathes. It’s like a lightning strike to her brain.
“What?”
“It’s her — it’s her — Draco, the matches!” Hermione can’t get her sentences to come out in
order, but understanding has lit up on Draco’s face,
“You think Madam Rosmerta gave the Ministry the information to match people?” Draco’s
eyebrows have furrowed. “That’s mad, Granger.”
Hermione huffs, “But I’m right! You know I’m right. Who else would know that Neville is a
bloody herbology genius, and Pansy’s family has potioneering experience? Who else would
know about Katie Bell and the Cleansweep—”
Malfoy seizes her cheeks in both hands and kisses her full on the mouth. He’s got a grin on
his face she’s never seen before.
“Bloody brilliant witch.” He mutters, and Hermione launches herself on her tiptoes to press
closer to him. She’s only kissed him for a handful of seconds before she pulls away.
“But why was she paired with Kingsley,” she frowns, ignoring Draco’s sigh of frustration.
“Why would she give her information to the Ministry?”
“Granger, I hardly expect we’ll get all the answers in one day. Let’s go see Luna first, and
then maybe Taffy could deliver a letter to Madam Rosmerta for us, hmm?”
Hermione can feel herself smiling at him, the one that she gets when she’s finally had a
breakthrough in her research. Ron had always told her she looked a bit mental when she did
that. Draco doesn’t seem to notice, since he’s still watching her, the same grin on his lips.
“Alright,” she agrees easily. He drops his arms from around her and steps back, but Hermione
has conquered dark wizards and her N.E.W.Ts., and her husband doesn’t scare her.
She twines her fingers into his gently, squeezing once, and tugs him towards their front door.
Picture Perfect
Chapter Notes
Hello all! Very sorry about this much-delayed chapter. While updates may be a little
slower, I will not be abandoning this story :) I'm guessing there will be 10-15 more
chapters. Thank you all for the kind and encouraging words you've shared with me, I
appreciate it immensely and always look forward to the kudos and comments. Thanks
for reading!
Draco Malfoy opens his eyes to stare at his sleeping wife. Hermione Granger — Malfoy, now
— looks somehow delicate in a way he’s never seen before when she sleeps. For such a small
person, he always imagined her to be intimidating and larger than life; something to do with
her outrageous hair and personality.
Draco feels his lips curling into a smile without his permission. He wonders how his mother
would have felt about Hermione. Narcissa Malfoy, a paragon of pure-blooded sophistication,
would have taken one look at her daughter-in-law and fainted. Still, Draco had seen his
mother at the height of the war, and underneath all her ladylike poise, she had been as brave
and fearless as any Gryffindor. Perhaps she would have approved of his unconventional wife,
after all.
Unfortunately, Draco will never know. His mother is gone, buried beneath her favourite tree
on the property; as far from the Malfoy family tomb and her late husband as she could get.
They had been the first married pair in the history of the proud Malfoy line to be separated
upon their death. It was one of the first Malfoy traditions Draco had been pleased to break,
but certainly not the last.
His very muggle-born bride, curled into a small ball facing him with a single hand resting on
his chest, is living proof of another tradition he is happy to be rid of. He watches her breath,
finally still in her slumber. It’s incredibly early, and Draco doesn’t want to wake her. A full
nights’ sleep is a rarity for both of them, and he’s not selfish enough to rob her of one.
He reaches gently out for his wand and casts a muffliato, sneaking out of their bed and
tiptoeing out the door. He slides on his day-old slacks in the hallway and a rumpled shirt. It’s
precisely the type of outfit he wouldn’t usually be caught dead in, but he has a feeling that
mass amounts of caffeine may be required to get through this day.
Getting Theo and Luna’s help on the Quibbler article had been a stroke of genius. It had
come as a surprise that Luna was a natural interviewer and a gifted writer. Despite her
eccentricities, her gentle nature made talking to her easy, and she had delicately led both he
and Hermione to simple answers to all of her questions, no matter how odd they were. Theo
had been insufferable the entire time they were being ‘interviewed’, simultaneously tossing
him sarcastic shit-eating grins while making doe-eyes at Luna. Still, Theo had proven his
worth by taking a few pictures on his wizarding camera, and the Nott Estate had made for a
beautiful backdrop at sunset.
Draco had also convinced Hermione to go to Muggle London for dinner instead of Diagon
Alley, since there would be plenty of opportunities to be trapped by reporters in the following
days after news of their marriage broke. The dinner had been pleasant, with both of them
squished into a small pub and sharing food. Draco had spent most of his time watching
Granger rant about the treatment of werewolves in the wizarding world, and how much her
proposed Werewolf Business Start-Up Grant could change both the public’s views on
werewolves, but also improve the economy; a significant improvement upon the Ministry’s
current plan for stimulating businesses through forced marriages.
It had been entertaining to see her in her full glory; face flushed with passion and nose turned
into the air, regaling him with knowledge he didn’t ask for nor particularly desire. Her hair
had continually plastered itself to her face as she ate their dinner until she finally abandoned
the relaxed style and tied it up into a large bun on top of her head.
To his disappointment, all the food and stress of the day had exhausted his wife, and when
they had returned home she had fallen asleep on top of the covers, still dressed in the outfit
she had worn for their interview with Luna. He had emerged from the washroom quite ready
to pick up where they had left off only that afternoon, only to find Hermione Granger curled
up and half-snoring. It had been surprisingly endearing, despite his frustration.
Draco sighs at the memory as he sneaks out the front door of their cottage, walking briskly
until he’s far enough away that he’s sure the crack of apparition won’t wake Granger.
He reappears in the alleyway beside Java Corner that he has become intimately acquainted
with since his first meeting with Hermione. The coffee shop smells heavenly, and he doesn’t
hesitate to stroll inside and order two large lattes and two scones. The girl behind the counter
seems to recognize him, and she smiles easily and drops two extra muffins into his to-go bag
alongside his scones. He thanks her and doesn’t bother to ask for any change. It’s nice to not
be publicly hated, and it’s a large part of why he has become so familiar with Muggle London
in the past year.
He returns to the cottage quickly and manages to open the front door while gripping his
treats, still trying to be quiet until he hears a soft exclamation and finds Hermione standing in
the kitchen. She’s finally changed out of her outfit from the day prior and is wearing a long
robe made of plush red fleece. Her hair is wild and loose, hanging in tangled curls down her
back, and she has a startled look on her face, her hand creeping up to clutch at her chest in
surprise.
He holds up the two coffee cups and the brown paper bag in apology for scaring her. “I just
went to Java Corner to get us some coffee. I tried not to wake you.”
Her cheeks flush a pretty pink, “You didn’t. I thought maybe you had gone off to work, or
whatever it is you do most days.”
Draco huffs a laugh, “You’ve never asked what I do most days.” He moves forward and sets
their cups on the counter, sliding one towards her. “My estate comes with an extensive
amount of accounts and investments. I spend a lot of time going over our books and
managing funds.”
“That makes sense, I suppose,” Hermione admits. She reaches for her cup and takes a sip
daintily, sighing in pleasure at the taste.
“I bought some scones, and the coffee shop lady gave some extra muffins, if you like.”
“She likes you, did you know?” Hermione grins.
“Who? The coffee shop girl?” He demands.
Granger laughs, “Yes! Haven’t you noticed her flirting?”
He stares at his wife, trying to think back on all the times he’s been to Java Corner. The girl at
the counter today had been entirely unknown to him.
“You’ve got to be joking.” He informs her, “I don’t even think I’ve seen her before.”
Granger smothers her laugh in her hand, and Draco scowls at her teasing. He snatches at the
brown paper bag and pulls out one of the scones just for a distraction.
Luckily, Hermione is feeling particularly charitable this morning, and she easily switches
topics. “We’re expected to be at Blaise and Padma’s by two, for the ceremony. Did we get
them a gift?”
Draco sips his coffee slowly before answering. “We made a sizeable donation to both their
individual Gringotts accounts.”
Granger frowns.“That’s hardly personal enough! I thought Blaise was your friend?”
Draco smirks, “He is my friend, which is how I know Blaise loves money more than almost
anything, Granger.”
She rolls her eyes but lets her argument fade. Silence settles between them, allowing the
awkwardness from their interlude the day prior to finally bloom.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep so fast.” She says so quickly he almost misses the words.
He shrugs, “It was a long day. I’m just surprised you didn’t even get into those ridiculous cat
pyjamas you love.”
She blushes but argues, “Those are comfortable!”
“I’m sure they are, Granger.”

She scowls darkly, and Draco holds back a laugh. Annoying her has been a favourite pastime
of his since he was about eleven years old. To soften his teasing, he slides the still-warm
muffins at her, and she takes one after only a moment.
“I have a dress for the wedding,” she announces after a few bites, “but I swear this is the last
nice dress I own. Thank Merlin this seems to be the last of the weddings.”
“What colour is it?” Draco asks, staring at the ridiculous scarlet colour of the robe currently
wrapped around her. He’s imagining her clothed in a dress of matching Gryffindor red and
golds, sitting at a table with the Golden Trio. She must read the horror on his face because her
lips twitch and she drinks her latte for a long while, letting the tension collect under his skin.
“It’s a sunny yellow colour.” She finally admits, her smirk appearing. “I know it’s not
Slytherin green, but it seemed a suitable compromise.”
Draco sighs in relief. “I suppose Hufflepuff colours will have to do.”
The sun streams through their window suddenly, lighting up their little cottage. They have yet
to put the tree up, though Draco supposes they’re in no rush. As far as he understands, the
only people on earth who have access to this small cottage are Potter, Weasley, Granger, and
now him. Christmas is sure to be a small affair.
Granger shifts slightly and rests more heavily against their counter, letting the sunshine wash
over her face. Her hair seems to get larger and more ridiculous by the moment, and Draco
sees that she has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose that he’s never noticed
before.
He sets his cup down and reaches out, his hand sliding around her waist as he steps forward.
She flinches at the contact but doesn’t move away, and before he can think twice he’s leaned
up against the counter beside her, the warm press of her body down the front of him. It’s
familiar in that he’s spent a few nights pressed against her, but also new and terrifying.
“This robe is atrocious,” he tells her. It’s only right that he still mocks her when he holds her
close.
She protests instantly, “I like this robe.”
“You like ridiculous things,” he sighs seriously, “like studying and exams, and Ron Weasley.
Also, I’ve not forgotten that cat you used to have.”
“Crookshanks,” Hermione reminds him, “And Ron isn’t ridiculous.”
He opens his mouth — he’s absolutely positive he’s about to make a joke at Weasley’s
expense, but before he can Granger sneaks her own arms around him and squeezes. The
words leave his brain immediately, and she presses her forehead against his chest. He
wonders if she can feel his heart stopping.
She’s hugging him. It’s not as though it’s the first time she’s wrapped around him; he has
steadied her on multiple occasions, and kissed her, and even danced with her. This is not that.
She’s simply holding him.
He tentatively rests his palms on her shoulder blades.
“What’s all this, Granger?” He asks quietly.
She shrugs under his hands, and he lets her be. It’s nice, having her rest against him, even as
it’s awkward. The minutes stretch, and Draco resists the urge to shift away, because it’s very
obvious that she’s spent the past week hiding from him, and he doesn’t want to scare her
again.
“Granger,” he murmurs, “yesterday — well, you have scars.”
She stiffens, but he’s already said the words. He shifts his hand to rest it against her side,
pressing gently into her lower ribcage. He had been distracted the day before; the sight of
Hermione Granger in a black bra will be imprinted on his brain for the rest of his life. The
odd little burn markings on her chest and the vicious scars marring her side had seemed
superfluous at the moment. Considering his torso was riddled with evidence of the war as
well, he had decided on silence.
Unfortunately, Draco Malfoy has always been too curious for his own good.
“You do, too.”
He nods, her curly hair tickling his chin. The silence is oppressive, but Draco is a patient
man, and he is rewarded when she finally heaves a sigh.
“Antonin Dolohov cursed me in fifth year. Nearly killed me. That’s what you saw.”
He resists the urge to curse at the mention of Dolohov’s name — he had been a vicious git,
and Draco hadn’t been sorry when he’d been killed in the war.
“And the burn markings?”
“Bellatrix,” her name is a hiss on Hermione’s tongue, “had a few wards on her Gringotts
vault, and we all received a few nasty burns.”
“What were—”
She pulls away abruptly, as though the honesty has been far too much for her. Her face is
ashen.
“I’m going to go get ready now.”
He lets her go when she strides towards their bedroom. It’s not the first time she’s run away
from him, and he doubts it will be the last. Still, his chest is warm where she had rested her
head, and Draco lays his palm against it.
For only the millionth time, Draco wishes his mother were still alive. He wishes he could ask
her what the hell he was supposed to do. Not only with Hermione, but with the WPG itself.
He wishes he could say sorry to her again, even though he knows she would only have told
him there was nothing to apologize for.
Juney’s sudden appearance startles him.
“Master Malfoy! Thelma asked me to bring this to you. It’s from Lady Nott.” His house-elf
extends two different papers.
Draco takes the Daily Prophet with steady hands. He can already see Granger’s hair in half
the picture, and the headline screams at him in black and white: Golden Girl Turns Death
Eater’s Wife.
Rita Skeeter has never been subtle. Draco skims the article — it’s not exactly what he had
expected. Instead of painting Granger in the light of a victim of the WPG matches, Skeeter
has gone straight for Granger’s throat.
Hermione Granger, long associated with the Golden Trio (Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley)
has now been caught in a torrid love affair with known Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. Exclusive
information reveals that the couple married quietly and has been lying low and avoiding the
public eye. Just what does Hermione Granger — no, Hermione Malfoy — have to hide from
us? And more importantly, exactly how far has she betrayed her friends in her quest for love?
Join us as we gather more information.
He throws the paper on the counter haphazardly. He’s half a mind to incinerate it, but he
knows Granger will be furious if he does so before she has a chance to read it. He thought
they would have more time before the public turned on them.
He snatches the other paper from Juney, who stares at him with droopy ears and doleful eyes.
His own familiar profile stares up at him from the front page of the Quibbler. Granger is
talking and smiling, facing forward, with her ridiculous hair waving about in the wind. She
looks healthy and happy, and immediately recognizable as the girl who helped Harry Potter
save the wizarding world. Draco is standing at her side in the picture, with a hand resting on
her back. He’s not facing the camera, just staring intensely at his wife. The expression is so
unfamiliar that Draco almost wonders if Luna or Theo somehow edited the magic photos. He
looks absolutely enraptured and vulnerable; which was precisely what Luna had wanted him
to portray. He hates the picture immediately; however, he’s not foolish enough to not see that
it’s the perfect message to release to the public. Draco Malfoy, reformed Death Eater, is
harmless and absolutely besotted by his new muggle-born bride.
Above their picture is a screaming headline: Malfoys United - We Demand Reform!
“Not everyone can be as fortunate as us”. Newlyweds Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy
sit down with the Quibbler to tell all: how they were matched through the Wizarding
Population Growth Act (WPG), their flourishing marriage, and their desire to help others in
less fortunate circumstances. Hermione Malfoy (formerly Hermione Granger), details how
the WPG has forced many witches and wizards into unwanted unions. “I’ve been lucky. I’m
proud to call Draco my husband, but that’s not the case for so many. What right does a
government have to tell us who we are to marry? It’s barbaric.”
Both Minister Shacklebolt and the WPG have faced criticism from wizarding Britain at large.
Though the need for change has been evident, and the magic population has been dropping,
many have wondered if there may have been a better way to increase birth rates following the
war.
“The WPG is a horrible piece of legislation. My wife and I would love to see it dismantled” -
Draco Malfoy, the head of the Malfoy family and all its vast holdings, seems comfortable
with his new bride at his side. The Quibbler has wondered if their old childhood rivalry
caused any speed bumps for the couple. “It was definitely a shock” Hermione Malfoy shares,
“but Draco and I have a lot in common. I’m glad it was him.”
Despite the happiness the couple has found in their WPG match, they are eager to see the
WPG removed. Both of the Malfoy’s admit they have tried to get in touch with the Minister
and have yet to receive an audience.
“I know that we needed a change, but I just can’t see how this was the best option for our
magical community.”
When asked if the couple were considering divorce if and when the WPG is abolished, they
both laughed.
“Honestly, he’s stuck with me now” Hermione admits, leaning into her new husband’s side.
Draco Malfoy seems neither upset nor surprised by this news.
If you have been matched by the WPG and are interested in sharing your story (the good, the
bad, and the ugly!) please contact The Quibbler.
He sets the Quibbler down with shaking fingers beside the rumpled Daily Prophet. He only
notices Juney is still standing in front of him when she sniffs lightly, her little hands wringing
together.
Draco watches her, looking at her harder than he has in years, perhaps ever. She’s wearing a
delicate little outfit with velvet buttons and her usual purple hat. When his father had been
alive, she had worn a pillowcase. It had been satin, but still. Upon Lucius’ death, Narcissa
had seen fit to spring for a new wardrobe for the little elf she had been so fond of.
He realizes abruptly that since his mother died, he has not asked Juney once how she has
been. The only real interaction he has had with the elf was the day after he married Granger
— he had gone to the Manor and told Juney that he would be freeing her from duty, but if she
was amenable, he would like to hire her on as help with a wage. It had been a criminally low
wage, but he had done his research and technically Juney was the highest-paid elf in Britain.
She had burst into tears at the first mention of freedom, and they had not been happy tears.
Draco had been furious at his new wife, and sure that he had been correct in his assumption
that house-elves preferred masters. His rage had left him when Juney had appeared with
dinner at the cottage and thanked Hermione before disappearing.
“Juney,” Draco swallows. “How… how are you?”

It’s absurd — he’s never cared before. But Hermione would. Hermione does.
Juney’s enormous eyes stare at him incredulously. “Juney is good, Master Malfoy.”
“This… may sound silly… but when you aren’t here… what do you do?”
Juney immediately wrings her hands together and glances around frantically. “Is there
something Juney should be doing, Master Malfoy? Juney has dusted every room in the
Manor this week but she could—”
“No! No.” Draco heaves a breath and tries again. “You’re doing great, Juney. I’m very
pleased with your work. I only meant… you are allowed to have some time to yourself each
day. You could visit Thelma, or other… elves you know?”
Juney’s blue eyes seem uncharacteristically shrewd. “Juney will do that, Master Malfoy.”
“Okay, great. That’s good. Okay. Well, we don’t need dinner tonight because we’re off to a
wedding, so you can do that today if you like. Thelma should be free, the Nott’s are attending
the wedding as well.”
Juney bows so low the tips of her ears touch the ground before she disappears. Draco scowls
at the empty space in front of him, and when he hears the sound of the bathtub being filled,
he stomps towards the bedroom that he and Hermione share.
His formal robes are the same that he has worn to every wedding besides his own, and he
slips them on easily. Granger is still in the bath by the time he is done, and he steps out the
back door of their cottage to survey the space. A small table with two chairs are now near the
door, though Draco doubts that they’ll see any use until warmer weather. The small yard
hadn’t been spared Juney’s decorating frenzy, and holly greets him at every turn. Twinkling
lights and garland are wrapped around the cottage eaves, lending the space a cozy and
magical atmosphere.
“Malfoy?”
He turns to find Hermione standing in the doorway, once again wrapped in her ridiculous
robe. Her hair has been tamed into a half updo, and her eyes seem darker and more luminous
than ever.
She frowns, “You’re going to catch your death out here! Come inside where it’s warm.”
He rolls his eyes but follows her back inside. She slips into their bedroom and approaches
their bed, gently tugging her robe off to reveal a tea-length yellow dress with three-quarter
sleeves.
“Would you zip me up, please?” Hermione turns and bares her back, the edges of the dress
nearly slipping from her shoulders. The only bar of colour across her pale expanse of skin is
an emerald green strap of lace, obviously a hint of her bra; Draco nearly trips over his own
feet, stepping towards her.
His hands are steady when he gently pulls the fabric together and slides the zipper up to her
neck. It isn’t lost on him that Granger has willingly allowed this, his hands on her skin; he
cannot fathom a world in which she wouldn’t have at least three charms available to her to
zip herself into her dress.
“I’m trying to do this right.”
He barely processes her soft whisper. She’s still facing the wall, and he’s been staring at the
back of her head for longer than he’d care to admit.
“You’ve done nothing wrong.” He answers. He’s not really sure what she’s on about, but if
he’s learned anything in the past two weeks, it’s that Granger will tell him.
“No, I have.” Granger admits quietly, “I didn’t realize how important Rosmerta would be
until you mentioned it. I didn’t even consider Harry when I was wondering if Kingsley was
the most powerful wizard in Britain until he said it. I have no idea how to beat this WPG.”
“Granger, you don’t need to take down the WPG on your own. Other people want to help
you.”
“I’m just used to having all the answers, you know?” Finally, she turns around, and although
she looks lovely in her yellow dress, it’s hard to ignore her damp eyes.
“I somehow recall that from our school days.” Draco teases gently.
Granger rolls her eyes at him and clears her throat.
“I’ve been avoiding you and running away at every turn.” She says softly.
Draco sighs, “I noticed that.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. They stare at each other. Draco wonders if he should tell her she’s
the first person to hug him since his mother died. Wonders if he should admit that he carries
the journal she gave him and the words she has written him, everywhere he goes.
“You look lovely.” He says instead. A blush blooms across her cheekbones, and she glances
down at her dress as if to check that he’s not lying to her. Her gaze slowly returns to him, the
red in her cheeks more prominent than ever.
“Thank you.” She whispers.
“In unfortunate news, there are two newspapers on the counter,” Draco says, “The Quibbler
did an excellent article on the two of us, but I’m afraid Skeeter hates you.”
“That miserable cow,” Hermione snarls, turning on her heel and storming towards their
kitchen.
“What did you ever do to her?” Draco asks, rushing to keep up with her pace.
She’s already halfway through the Daily Prophet article, her eyes darting across the words so
quickly he wonders if she absorbs anything at all. She throws it down with violence, the exact
way he had done upon first reading it.
Her brown eyes are on fire when she looks at him.
“She’s an illegal beetle animagus. I trapped her in a jar for almost the entirety of fourth year.”
Draco nearly falls over — Hermione Granger, the golden girl, forcibly abducted and held a
hostage for an entire year?
“You what?!”
She sniffs, “I disliked how she portrayed Harry and myself in the media. She had absolutely
no right.”
Draco stares at his wife, a mere slip of a woman with ridiculous hair, and wonders if he’s ever
respected or feared her more.
“Granger, I actually think my mother would have liked you.”
Hermione furrows her brows in confusion. “Thanks, I think?”
She picks up the Quibbler article and reads it with the same speed she had shown for the
Prophet. Hermione stares at the photo, her blush back on her cheeks with full force, and
Draco scowls.
“You look — intense.” She mutters.
“Yes, well, that was the idea, right?”
She pins him with her gaze, and he wonders if she can see right through him. He had thought
it was obvious to her how much he had wanted her, but only the day before she had admitted
she hadn’t known — does she know now? Can’t she tell? He feels as though he has been
broadcasting his attraction to her for the entire world.
“We should get going.” Draco marches towards the door as if the movement will break her
concentration.
“Alright,” Hermione sets the Quibbler down gently. She pulls her wand out and drags it
around the photo. It comes free easily, and Hermione sends it gently towards the fridge,
pinning it there with a small magnet. She rests her fingers against the newspaper photo,
watching herself smile at Draco in black and white.
Draco knows he is staring, but he can’t seem to stop — she turns and meets his gaze and
shrugs casually.
“It’s a good picture. We should probably have one of those, don’t you think?”
He nods dumbly — he doesn’t think he could unstick his throat to force words even if he
tried. Luckily, Granger simply summons her winter coat and slips on her shoes without
words, linking her arm with his before they march out the door.
A Trio of Dances
Chapter Notes
Hello friends! Thank you for your patience in awaiting this giant chapter. I hope it will
exceed expectations... and if you're not one for sex, you can stop reading at the
apparition point ;) Our next chapter features Theo's POV, and I am aiming to finish it by
the 20th.
Additionally, you can see Parvati's outfit here:

https://cdn0.hitched.co.uk/articles/images/3/0/5/5/img_75503/4-mint-green-palazzo-
set.jpg
Blaise and Padma’s wedding is one of the most bizarre experiences of Hermione’s life. The
grand ballroom that plays host to their wedding is lavish, with twinkling candles floating high
in the air. Each table holds opulent gold centrepieces filled with roses and eight matching
table settings. The food had been excellent, and the wine and butterbeer delicious.
Hermione has no complaints, except for the fact that she’s never seen such a sterile wedding
before. Blaise and Padma are sitting side by side on a slightly raised platform — Padma is
wearing a traditional witch gown similar to Hermione’s own, with a silver belt with Slytherin
green emeralds sparkling to honour her new husband’s colours. Parvati sits beside her
wearing a mint green palazzo saree with detailed silver embroidery along the edging. Blaise
is wearing traditional wizard dress robes and looking exceptionally handsome, and though he
is watching his cousin deliver his best man speech with focus, he is sitting as far from Padma
as he can get.
Draco is sitting to her left, staring with intensity at Blaise’s cousin as he speaks. There’s a
muscle ticking in his jaw that she hasn’t seen since fifth year, and Hermione briefly wonders
just how furious her husband is, watching one of his best friends marry a woman he doesn’t
love.
Hermione glances down at her plate, staring at the folded cardstock that had shocked her
upon her arrival. ‘Lady Malfoy’ is written in swirling cursive — it feels incredibly strange to
recognize those words as her title, and even more so to recognize the man beside her as her
husband.
Hermione wonders if the rest of her tablemates were also greeted by foreign titles — did
Hannah sit down and stare at ‘Mrs. Weasley' and hate every single condemning letter?
As it stands, Hannah hasn’t stopped glaring at Pansy Parkinson, seated on the opposite end of
the hall with Neville beside her. Hermione is eternally grateful that Padma had the foresight
to keep them far apart.
Theo and Luna sit on Draco’s other side, with Harry and Ginny beside them. It’s a strategic
seating plan, placing Harry and Draco apart, and Ron even beyond them. Though Hermione
has continued to be pleasantly surprised at the civility her friends and now-husband have
shown, she doubts they could sit beside each other without coming to blows.
George Weasley is the last member of their table, and an empty seat is beside him. Parvati
would join them after the speeches, but for now sits beside her sister, acting as both a support
and a witness to the wedding. George is wearing a deep emerald green, and his wine glass is
filled with water — it’s an incredibly welcome sight, especially compared to Hannah’s,
which has been filled to the brim with wine since the moment she sat down.
A smattering of applause draws Hermione back into the present, and music begins. Padma
and Blaise leave their stage and begin to dance together. It’s very obvious that despite their
lack of affection for each other, both of them are well-trained dancers, and Blaise easily
sweeps her across the dance floor. At the end of the song, they bow to each other, and a few
other witches and wizards join them on the floor.
“They must have paid attention at those Hogwarts dance classes,” Hermione mutters to
Draco.
He arches a single pale brow, “Granger, they’ve both had tutors to teach them to dance since
they were young.”
“What?” Harry blurts; and though Hermione is briefly annoyed at his eavesdropping, she’s
also glad he’s asking.
Draco visibly holds back a sneer, “It’s traditional, Potter.”
“For purebloods,” Hermione says quietly. Draco’s sneer fades into a look of regret, and he
nods slowly.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he sighs, “I had a tutor during each summer growing up, and
before I was eleven as well. Blaise was the same, and I assume Padma and Parvati as well.”
“Both Theo and I did, too,” Luna adds.
Theo laughs, “Luna, you told me your tutor let you explore rivers and caves and search for
Nargles and whatever else.”
“Hm,” Luna hums thoughtfully, “but we also danced - usually under full moons. It was
exhilarating.”
Hermione schools her face into something serious and kicks Draco’s leg under the table when
he laughs. Luna watches them with large blue eyes, and absolutely no embarrassment.
“That sounds nice, Luna,” Harry finally says, before standing and holding a hand across the
table. “Malfoy, may I borrow Hermione for a dance?”
Draco nods slowly and Hermione allows herself to be led to the dance floor by Harry. “I
thought Ron was supposed to ask me to dance,” Hermione whispers as they walk. “This isn’t
part of the plan!”
“He will, later,” Harry laughs. “Can’t I have a dance with my best friend with no scheming
involved?”
Hermione frowns, “Harry Potter, you are the only schemer out of the two of us! Plus, I’m still
quite put out with you.”
Harry smirks, “Oh, for interrupting the other day at your cottage?”
Hermione can feel the blush spread on her cheeks, and she purposefully steps hard on his toe
as she gets into their waltz position, and grins when he winces.
“Not for that! I can’t believe you cancelled on me for Fortescue’s! It really would have
helped me out, considering Rita bloody Skeeter has decided to drag my name through the
mud.” Hermione explains.
“Skeeter’s an evil cow.” Harry agrees as he spins her gently. Hermione follows his lead easily
and her ire fades as they dance. It feels nice to dance with him again; the last time she had
danced with Harry had been in that godforsaken tent on the hunt for Horcruxes.
“I am sorry, Hermione.” Harry says earnestly, “I do promise it was for a really good reason.”
Hermione studies her best friend, noticing the beginnings of fine lines on the corners of his
green eyes, and his serious face. His glasses are perpetually askew, as well as his black hair,
but he seems happy. His wedding band glints on his finger, tangled up in her hand.
Hermione sighs, “I know. You wouldn’t have skipped that for anything unimportant. You’ll
tell me, though? When you’re ready?”
Harry grins, wider than she’s seen in ages, “Of course I will.”
The music ends, and Harry bows to her. Hermione curtsies as gracefully as she can, and when
she stands again, she sees Ron has joined them on the dance floor.
“Could I have this dance, Mione?”
Hermione nods, and Harry claps Ron on the shoulder, heading back towards their table and
Ginny. Ron pulls Hermione close to him when the music begins again, and they step together
as one.
Ron has always been a passable dancer at best; he’s tall and a bit on the clumsy side. Still, he
leads Hermione through the dance well, even if he’s got a grimace on his face as he does so.
“You could try to look a little happier, Ronald.” Hermione teases.
Ron’s frown eases and he laughs, “Sorry. I’m a shite dancer.”
“You’re not!” Hermione assures him. It’s a little hard to sound emphatic when she can see
Neville and Pansy spinning gracefully in the corner of her vision. Despite years of animosity
in school, they flow together as though they have been dancing partners for years.
Ron follows her gaze, “Hannah is devastated.”
“I imagine,” Hermione murmurs, “is this the first time she’s seen him with her?”
Ron nods. “First time for most of us, I imagine. I’m surprised he can stand the snake.”
Hermione opens her mouth to scold him, but shuts it almost as quickly. She’s hard-pressed to
think of a single redeeming quality for Pansy Parkinson.
“She’s an excellent dancer, at least.” Hermione settles on.
Ron chuckles, “Didn’t you hear at the table? Most purebloods are taught all the traditional
dances by the time they learn to walk. Neville and Pansy are no exception.”
Hermione is no stranger to the reality of blood prejudice. Even now, after she has become the
‘golden girl’ and helped to save the wizarding world, she sees it all the time. She is muggle-
born. Even those who don’t think less of her don’t understand her experience. Still, it’s a
surprise to realize that so many of her peers, her friends, have benefitted from their pureblood
status in this tiniest of ways that they probably don’t even realize.
“You never learned, though,” Hermione says suddenly, turning her gaze back to Ron.
He laughs, “‘Mione, you should know that the Weasley’s are the exception to the rule. We’re
blood traitors, the lot of us, remember?”
“But you’re pureblood,” Hermione argues.
Ron shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, but, you know how Mum and dad feel about that way of
thinking. Besides, we couldn’t have afforded tutors, and we’re better off without them
anyway.”
Hermione smiles at him. Sometimes, it’s so easy to love Ron, simply because he’s so good.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a fine dancer.”
“You never were good at lying to me, you know.” Ron admonishes her as they spin together.
Hermione thinks of all the lies she has told to Ron, both in their brief relationship and in their
school years. She thinks of the lies she’s still telling, the information she’s still withholding.
She thinks of her parents and the way she had stared them in the face over dinner before
cursing them in the back. Whatever else she may be, Hermione has no doubt that she is a
good liar.
“You’re right,” she lies.
Ron laughs and she nearly trips over her own feet when they spin again. They barely right
themselves before Ron’s laughter dies out, and his smile fades.
“Malfoy is on his way,” Ron informs her.

“Are you going to let him cut in?”
Ron ignores her question but pins her with his blue eyes. He’s as serious as Ron ever gets.
“You need to tell him the truth, Hermione.”
It’s the use of her full name that startles her. It’s an old argument, one that she wishes would
end.
“We’re not discussing this.”
“Fine,” Ron says, “But you said you liked him. You’ll lose him, ‘Mione, if you don’t tell him
the truth.”
“Oh, like I lost you?” She snaps.
Ron doesn’t flinch at her tone. “Dolohov wasn’t the—”
“Don’t you dare, Ronald.” Hermione interrupts venomously.
They stare at each other in frosty silence, and it’s Draco’s arrival that breaks it.
“May I cut in?” Draco asks easily. Ron’s stony expression fades and he nods, taking the time
to even send a smile over to Malfoy.
“Of course, mate.” Ron says loudly, “Thanks for the dance, ‘Mione.”
Hermione lets go of Ron’s hand and forces a friendly smile on her face. The whole point of
this is appearances, after all.
Draco’s hand is warm against her waist, and he tugs her close to him easily. He smells of
sandalwood and sunlight, and Hermione breathes deeply and attempts to shake off the past
ten minutes.
“How come every time I seem to leave you and Weasel alone, you fight?” Malfoy asks
quietly.
Hermione sighs, “It’s not you. Ron and I always argue.”
“Not like this,” Draco murmurs. “You forget I went to school with both of you for years. I do
recall a few memorable spats, however, like in fourth year.”
“What did you see fourth year?” Hermione asks. Memories of assaulting Ron with spelled
birds flood her brain, all because he had ignored her for weeks. It had felt like years when
they had been fourteen.
Draco huffs, “Weasel has always been a fool, Granger, but when I realized he took Padma to
that stupid ball all while you wore that lovely dress, that really cemented it for me.”
“What!?” Hermione laughs suddenly, “You remember my dress?”

Draco spins her suddenly, and Hermione has no choice but to follow. He leads her easily, and
the movement feels sure and simple. It’s quite obvious he is an excellent dancer, and
Hermione wonders if it’s just as obvious that she has no formal dance training.
“Granger,” Draco finally says, “I’m pretty sure every boy who attended Hogwarts that year
remembers that dress.”
Hermione can feel her blush spreading across her face violently. She sputters, “But — but —
I thought you hated me?”
Draco shrugs, “I suppose Weasley wasn’t the only fool, then, was he?”
Hermione knows she’s gaping at him, but she can’t help it. To hear Draco Malfoy admit he
had something in common with Ron Weasley is such a rare occurrence she can barely wrap
her brain around it.
She’s saved from responding when the music ends and Draco dips her gently. She can feel his
arm banded across her waist, and when he pulls her back to standing, he doesn’t release her.
“I suppose you aren’t going to tell me what you were arguing with him about?” Malfoy asks.
Hermione stares at her husband. Draco Malfoy has grown into an incredibly handsome man,
and he’s watching her with what is unmistakably fondness. He wants her — he even admitted
it, though not with so many words.
“No.” Hermione says softly, “I’m not.”
She has spent much of the past few months trying to understand what Draco is saying —
trying to unravel his facial expressions and his desires and his dislikes. Watching the way his
expression shutters and his silver eyes go cold leaves Hermione nearly breathless. There is no
way to misunderstand — she is keeping secrets, again, and he knows it.
“Can we go get a drink?” She asks desperately. She’s clinging to his dress robes as though he
might disappear.
He nods and pulls her arm into the crook of his elbow. They make their way off the dance
floor in silence, though they have to move out of Luna’s way when Theo spins her out
widely. Luna is laughing loudly, and more than a few people are watching her with frowns on
their faces.
“Love hath made thee a tame snake,” Draco mutters beside her, gesturing almost
imperceptibly to Theo, who is sporting a grin Hermione has rarely seen before.
“Shakespeare?” Hermione retorts quickly, “I didn’t realize you knew Muggle classics.”
Draco glances her way. He seems amused, which is a far cry better than the frosty expression
he had sent her way moments before.
“I didn’t realize you considered Shakespeare a Muggle.”

“What?!”
The corner of Malfoy’s lip twitches, “Relax, Granger. I’m joking — by all accounts,
Shakespeare was a Muggle. My mother was quite fond of him.”
Hermione stops. They’re halfway to the small bar, and she turns to stare at her husband.
“Your mother… that is to say, umm — I thought that, well—”
Draco raises an eyebrow. “You thought my mother was a rampaging Muggle hater and blood
purist?”
Hermione flushes. She hardly wants to insult a mother he obviously loved, but his entire
family seemed composed of pureblood extremists. Tentatively she says, “Not necessarily?”
Draco sighs, “I suppose you have good reason to think that. My mother was pureblood, and I
have no doubts she harboured many prejudiced ideals, especially being from the family she
was, and married to my father.”
“But?” Hermione asks quietly.
Draco shrugs, “But she loved Shakespeare, and Beethoven, and Juney the house-elf.
Andromeda was her favourite sister even after she was burned from the family tapestry, and
when I was very little, before I followed my father around everywhere, she would read me
stories and teach me names of famous constellations, and play Muggle games.”
“And she told you to write to me,” Hermione adds.
Draco watches her steadily. “Yes. She did. And I’m very glad she did.”
“I am, too,” Hermione admits.
All the letters they have exchanged since the first are important, but none so important as the
one Narcissa Malfoy told her only son to write. The one that had given Hermione the chance
to wonder if he had changed. If a Malfoy could change.
The peace of the moment falls between them like a security blanket, and Hermione’s bracelet
feels as comforting as her ring on her hand.
“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasant surprise!”
Draco turns from her to face a short older woman wearing vibrant orange robes. She’s tall
and willowy, with long blond hair and a mean grin painted on her face.
“Cereus, what a lovely surprise.” Draco greets. “May I introduce my wife, Hermione Malfoy.
Hermione, this is Cereus Greengrass.”
Cereus turns to Hermione and nods briefly before turning back to Draco, “I had heard you’d
been married off, Draco. It’s a real shame, this law. Our own Daphne was married just a few
weeks ago.”
“Yes, I had heard that. To one of the Weasley’s… Percy, was it?”
Cereus sighs heavily, “Yes. It’s such a shame. Both our girls marrying into that family!”
Hermione goes still, fury licking up her spine, but Draco speaks before she can demand an
explanation from this horrible woman.
“Last I heard, Daphne was quite happy with Percy, Cereus. Has that changed?”
“Oh, the little chit has no idea what makes her happy.” Cereus waves her hand in the air as if
a fully grown woman’s thoughts and feelings mean nothing. “But I suppose we can at least be
comforted by the fact that the Weasley’s are a strong magical family from a good line if
nothing else.”
“A good line?” Draco repeats. His voice has gone dangerously soft, and Hermione stays as
still as possible.
Cereus Greengrass presses her hand to her heart and stares at Draco with false sympathy,
“Oh, my dear boy, how I wish your father were here to set this silly law straight. Alas, I’m
just glad our Narcissa can’t see you now, though of course, this is not your fault.”
Draco’s silver eyes practically flash with contempt, “Mrs. Greengrass, if you are meaning to
imply that this law is in any way my wife’s fault, or that my mother would disapprove of
Hermione, you are extraordinarily out of line. Hermione is five times the witch that you are,
and I am quite confident that my mother would agree with me.”
He tugs Hermione, but she refuses to move. Instead, she pins Cereus Greengrass with her
most furious glare and straightens her spine. She is not weak, and she’ll not act as though
some pompous old witch knows anything about her.
“Mrs. Greengrass, both of your daughters and their new husbands have already fought in a
war you yourself were too cowardly to take part in. They are quite old enough to know
exactly what they want, and frankly, their marriages are none of your business.” Hermione
almost takes a step before glancing back, “Also, that shade of orange clashes terribly with
your hair, but not nearly so bad as it clashes with your horrid personality.”
Instead of walking away, Hermione stares straight at the witch and watches as a red flush
streaks up her neck. Cereus Greengrass looks as though she may spontaneously combust, and
she opens her mouth a few times before clamping it shut.
“You insolent child, how—”
“Cereus,” Draco snaps, interrupting her tirade, “I’d like to remind you that the Greengrass
estate and your husband’s job at the Ministry rely upon the continuation of the Malfoy
Estate’s support. I suggest you think very, very carefully about how you speak to my wife.”
Cereus pales and turns, walking away abruptly. It’s obvious they’ve made an enemy, but
Hermione couldn’t care less. She’s shaking with rage; it’s been a long time since someone
has spoken to her like that — like that same little muggle-born witch she’d been arriving at
Hogwarts so long ago.
Hermione turns on her husband, “What in the world do the Malfoy’s support her for?”
Draco smirks, “Actually, the Greengrass family is incredibly in debt. The Malfoy’s have been
their personal loan location for many years, and the interest paid made my father a very rich
— well, an even more rich — man.”
Hermione huffs, “She’s horrible.”
“Cereus Greengrass is more than horrible,” Draco agrees, “but you should meet her husband.
He’s even worse.”
“How is that even possible?”
Draco lifts an eyebrow, “Granger, I’d think by now you’ve seen your fair share of evil.”
Hermione sighs. “That’s true, but I just hate everyday evil, you know? These are regular
people, walking around free, and with each action and word they speak they drag down
others. It makes me understand why Astoria is the way she is, actually.”
Draco frowns at her, “How do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. She hates Charlie. She ignores anyone except Daphne, and poor Mrs.
Weasley is quite at her wit’s end.”
“That’s… not like Stori at all, actually.” Draco muses, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Stori is a
Greengrass and she’s used to getting what she wants, but she’s loud about it. I’m surprised
she’s not fighting and yelling and arguing with everyone until she gets her way.”
“Oh… that is odd. Mrs. Weasley says she spends her days at the Burrow just wandering
around the grounds, or sometimes spending time with Daphne. Apparently, if any of the
Weasleys walk in she either goes silent or leaves the room.”
They reach the bar and Draco is still frowning in thought as he gets the drinks. Hermione is
struck by the urge to reach out and brush his frown lines away.
“Hey, Hermione.” Neville’s voice distracts her and she turns to see him standing with none
other than Pansy Parkinson. She’s wearing a pretty blue dress and has grown into her nose
and sleek black hair. Neville’s got one hand on her back, and he’s wearing the same half-
smile that she’s always known.
“Neville!” Hermione beams at him, “It’s so good to see you.”
“Pansy,” Draco greets. Pansy returns his hello quietly, and the foursome stands in awkward
silence.
“Umm, hello Pansy,” Hermione says. “You look nice.”

Surprise seems to flash across Pansy’s face momentarily before she schools it back into a
neutral expression. It’s so reminiscent of Draco that Hermione wonders if all Slytherin’s had
to attend some sort of emotion-hiding class. Snape probably taught it.
“Granger,” Pansy replies slowly, “I hope that Draco is treating you well.”
Neville jumps in before either Hermione or Draco can reply, “Pans and I were wondering if
you two would want to meet for dinner at the Leaky sometime. I’d ask Harry and Ron but…
well, things are complicated.”
“Don’t I know it,” Hermione sighs. She can almost picture Harry trying his best to be civil
while wincing every time Parkinson spoke, and Ron watching Hannah closely for tears every
time Neville called his new wife ‘Pans’.
“We’d like that, Longbottom,” Draco replies. “It’s been a while since Pansy and I caught up.
I’m sure Theo and Luna would like it as well, if you wanted to make a night of it.”
Pansy perks up at the mention of Theo, “How is that going? I haven’t talked to Theo in
ages!”
Draco rolls his eyes, “You’d have to see it to believe it.”
“Don’t tell me he’s in love with her,” Pansy smirks, and it’s hard not to see her as the same
girl who had teased and bullied her way through school.
“Is it so bad if he is?” Hermione asks bluntly. She’s itching for an argument, and she knows
it.
Pansy, however, doesn’t decide to fight back. Instead, she lifts a dark eyebrow in surprise
before looking at Draco in commiseration, “Gryffindors, am I right?”
Draco covers his laugh with a cough, but before Hermione can dive into that comment,
Neville grabs her attention.
“Is that Cho?”
Hermione follows his gaze to what is obviously Cho Chang. She’s wearing a black dress that
covers her from neck to ankle, with a corded belt around her waist. She’s as lovely as ever,
though far more slender and pale than she’s ever been. Her hair is down and she’s curled in
on herself at her table. It’s so reminiscent of fifth year, Hermione is taken aback.
“She looks… upset.”
Hermione nods, “Yes. She’d been doing so well after Cedric… I heard she had gotten a job in
the Ministry.”
“She’s not upset about bloody Cedric Diggory,” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Look who’s beside
her.”
“Terence,” Draco hisses.

Hermione glances at her husband. If looks could kill, Draco would have reduced the man
Hermione barely recognizes to ash by now. “I take it you didn’t get along?”
“It was pretty hard to get along with Terence,” Pansy answers. “He was older than us in
Hogwarts, and bigger too. He knew it, and he used it to get his way.”
“I thought you replaced him as Slytherin Seeker in second year?” Neville asks.
Draco nods, “I did. He was furious, and he never let me forget it. Luckily, he graduated the
following year.”
Hermione watches the way Cho sits quietly beside her husband. It’s a vast difference from
the girl who had thrown hexes with the best of them during the war. It’s different even from
the girl who had cried over Cedric Diggory the entirety of fifth year. Cho has tucked herself
in so tightly it’s like she’s a shadow of who she once was.
“We’re heading off now,” Neville breaks their silence, “but we’ll owl you, yeah?”
“Sounds great, Neville. Good to see you both.” Hermione replies. It’s only half a lie — she’s
missed Neville terribly, and Pansy had been civil at least.
Hermione glances back to their table, filled with people she loves. George is laughing at
some sort of joke. Padma is in her wedding gown, standing beside him, with Parvati at her
side. Blaise is still sitting on their raised stage, though he doesn’t seem upset that his bride is
gone.
“What are you thinking?” Draco asks suddenly.
Hermione turns to him — she’s contemplating Terence Higgs, and all the other names that
Draco had written on a scrap of parchment so long ago. So many names of people who would
destroy her, who would carve her out until nothing was left but a pretty shell, just like Cho.
“I’m thinking that I’d like to murder Terence Higgs,” Hermione tells him honestly, “and also
that I’m really, really glad to be a Malfoy.”
Draco’s entire expression softens at her words, and he loops an arm around her waist to tug
her close. “That may be both the scariest and nicest sentence you’ve ever said to me,
Granger.”
She laughs and leans her head on his collarbone. He presses a kiss to her hair, and it occurs to
her suddenly that she has been a fool. About so many things in this WPG, but more so, about
her husband.
“Hey, Malfoy?”
He pulls away to meet her eyes, “Yes?”
“Maybe we should say bye to our table and go home.”
A slight frown lights on his face, “Are you okay? Tired?”

Hermione blushes, “No. I just… would like to go home. To our home. With our bed. With
you.”
Understanding seems to dawn on him at the same time Hermione is ready to take all her
words back, and his silver eyes burn with desire. “Granger, that sounds like an excellent
plan.”
He hurries her back to their table, and his hastiness eases some of her tension. He wants her.
Their tablemates are far drunker than they had been when they had left them, with the
exception of George, who is laughing boisterously at something Padma has said with his
goblet of water in hand.
“The Malfoys!” Theo greets loudly, his arm curled possessively around Luna’s shoulders.
“You should come to our Christmas party!”
“You’re having a Christmas party?” Draco repeats, nonplussed.
Luna smiles airily, “Of course! That’s when all the wood nymphs come out to sing, and Theo
has agreed to decorate our manor with Fairy lights.”
“You did?” Draco asks Theo, “Fairies? Really?”
Hermione ignores Theo’s response in favour of watching Hannah, who has four empty
glasses in front of her and a mean glare on her face. She’s whispering to Ron, and despite the
low volume of her words, Ron seems embarrassed. It’s obvious that it’s Neville and Pansy
she’s talking about.
“Are you two headed out?” Harry asks.
Hermione nods, “Yes, we just came to say goodbye.”
“We’ll come with you to the apparition point,” Ginny says, standing easily. Harry jumps to
his feet and grabs her elbow as if to help her stand.
“I think she knows how to walk, Potter,” Draco smirks, “I seem to recall that Red here is not
that clumsy.”
Ginny rolls her eyes and Harry flushes, but he doesn’t apologize or remove his arm.
Hermione follows them out, Draco’s warm palm pressed to the base of her spine.
They have just reached the apparition point when Harry stops suddenly. He turns to face
them. “So, tonight, Pansy Parkinson apologized to me.”
Hermione gapes, “Pansy what?”
“Apologized. To me. For the whole sacrifice him to Voldemort thing.” Harry repeats. He
looks just as confused as Hermione feels.
“Pansy has grown up a lot.” Draco finally adds, his thumb tracing a warm band across her
spine. “I know she made some bad choices, but so did I. So did a lot of people.”
Harry nods once, decisively. “Good. I forgave her. Water under the bridge, you know? I just
thought I’d tell you since I’m sure Neville feels like we’re abandoning him.”
“He actually asked Draco and I for dinner at the Leaky. He wanted to ask you, but, well, you
know.”
Harry winces. “Yeah, we better stay away until Hannah and Ron get settled.”
“Whenever that will be,” Ginny mutters.
Hermione shrugs, “Hopefully Christmas at the Burrow will ease some of that. It’s always a
pleasant time, and it’s especially good to feel like family. Hannah might realize that it’s not so
bad, to be a part of your family.”
Ginny beams, “Well, you’re part of the family, Hermione. So I suppose Malfoy is, too? Going
to be an interesting year.”
Harry laughs. “You’ve got that right, Gin. Anyway, let’s get out of here.”
Draco wraps his arm closer and tugs her in, and the familiar sensation of apparition tugs her
away. Harry and Ginny have yet to move by the time Hermione disappears.
She reappears at the gate of their cottage. It’s lit up with small twinkling lights, and the smell
of cinnamon and cloves fills the air.
“I admit that Juney has made our lives so much better,” Hermione says. “But don’t you feel
so much better knowing you’re paying her properly, now?”
Draco huffs, “Granger, I hope we didn’t come home just to discuss house-elves.”
Hermione laughs and opens the gate, heading towards their front door. “Well, Mr. Malfoy,
why don’t you come inside and find out.”
She’s barely spoken the words before she is suddenly being scooped up and pressed against
Draco’s chest. A blush burns on her cheeks and she grabs at his shoulders.
“Malfoy!”
Draco smirks, “I have been reliably informed that it’s a Muggle tradition to carry a bride
through their doorway.”
Hermione gapes at him, “Only on their wedding night! Put me down!”
Draco tilts his head and their front door opens. It’s a nifty bit of wandless magic that
Hermione suddenly itches to learn, but she’s hardly framed her question before Draco walks
inside the cottage.
He sets her down gently inside the door, and she tugs her dress back into place while
laughing. He shuts the door behind them, and even though he’s not laughing, it’s easy to see
that he’s proud of his stunt. Hermione sobers and turns to her husband. He lifts a single pale
eyebrow in what could a challenge or a question. Either way, Hermione is sick of waiting.
“Just so you know, the Muggle tradition is to carry the bride all the way to the bed.”
Draco’s eyes flash and he nearly lunges at her. He’s got his one hand cupped against her jaw
and the other wandering down her back. He kisses her like he’s been drowning, and she is the
only air he has.
Hermione clings to his shoulders, and before she can think about it, Draco has both hands
lifting her up. She wraps her legs around him and is vaguely aware he is walking at the same
time he is attempting to kiss her.
He nearly hits a wall, and stops kissing her, only to complain, “Carrying you to bed is not so
easy when I can hardly see past your hair.”
Hermione tilts her head back and laughs, and Draco immediately laves at her neck and sucks
bruising kisses at the juncture of her shoulder. He hikes her up a bit further, and she winds her
arms around his neck and presses her breasts to his chest. This time, he makes it all the way
to their bedroom door and through before dumping her unceremoniously on the bed. He
follows her quickly, and then he’s propped above her on one elbow, so close she can feel him
breathing.
Hermione is swamped with sudden nerves. She imagines Draco can see it play out on her
face. He’s got one hand tracing her hip, and everywhere he touches feels as though it’s on
fire.
“You sure about this, Granger?” He asks.
Hermione is most certainly not sure about this — she’s not sure if she can handle sleeping
with Draco, and writing him letters, and reading books together in the evenings, only to lose
him when they finally dismantle the WPG.
She’s certainly not sure that she can ever go back to sleeping alone, without the comfort of
his arm banded around her, or his stupid Slytherin green blanket warming her toes on their
couch.
Hermione is, however, quite certain that she wants him. Wants him for the night — maybe
even wants him for keeps.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Only if you are, though.”
He doesn’t answer, but he settles his weight down on her and kisses her again. This time, it’s
slow. He takes the time to learn her — he licks into her mouth and bites at her lips and lets
his fingers skim down her ribcage. By the time he’s palmed her breast through her dress,
Hermione hardly remembers all the reasons she was scared.
“Can I take this off?” Draco rasps. His silver eyes are nearly glowing.
Hermione nods, not trusting her own voice. She lifts her hands to undo the buttons on his
wizarding robe, and he catches them in his grip before pressing kisses to her fingertips.
She had gotten him to zip her into her dress earlier, but this time Hermione mutters a spell
and her zipper opens easily.
Draco huffs a laugh, “I knew you had a spell for that! You were teasing!”
Hermione grins and lets her husband peel her dress off of her. She’s left in only her lacy
emerald green underthings.
“Did you buy these for me, Granger?” Draco asks lowly, tracing her nipple through the sheer
fabric.
Hermione is far beyond words, so instead of answering she deftly sneaks her hand down and
presses it to the front of his trousers. Draco drops his forehead to her shoulder and groans
softly.
It’s intoxicating — it’s every bit of emotion she’s been craving from him for weeks.
Hermione pushes and tugs at his clothes until the only things left between them are her scraps
of lace.
Draco ducks his head down and catches her nipple in his mouth through her bra; he sucks,
hard, and the hint of sting leaves her gasping. He does the same over and over until she’s
nearly writhing beneath him, and the cups of her bra are damp. Only then does he undo it,
and in the process, slides his hand down to where she is wet for him.
“Fuck, Granger,” He breathes in her ear.
Hermione’s laugh is throaty, “That is the idea, Malfoy.”
Her laugh chokes out when he takes the time to delve his fingers into her, pulling out to rub at
her clit. She’s got her fingernails pressed against his shoulder blades as she chases the feeling
of his fingers against her.
“Come for me, Granger,” Draco demands.
Hermione has no choice but to obey; her body spasms around his fingers, and she’s sure that
she has left red scratches on his skin. Draco rears back and yanks her panties from her. She
resists the urge to snap her knees together and instead watches as Draco stares at her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, and Hermione nearly doesn’t hear the words. She blinks in
surprise. He leans forward again, pressing them both into the bed. She can feel how hard he is
against her thigh. She reaches down and grasps him, and she is sure that the sound he makes
when she guides him into her will be imprinted on her brain for the rest of her life.
“Draco,” she breathes. For a moment they hold perfectly still, sharing the same air.
“Hermione,” he answers. He lifts a hand and gently tucks her hair behind her ear. He’s got the
oddest expression on his face, but before Hermione can study him further, he moves.
It’s like nothing she’s ever felt. Sex has always been a bit of an awkward experience for her,
and though it had been good with Ron, it had never been like this.
Draco drives into her relentlessly, and Hermione matches each thrust, shoving her hips up
into his. He’s breathing raggedly in her ear, and her hands are trailing over the sides of his rib
cage aimlessly. Her stomach tightens with anticipation, and Hermione can distantly hear
herself pleading him not to stop.
Draco sneaks his hand between them and rubs at her clit, and Hermione tips over the edge,
writhing in pleasure. She vaguely hears Draco swear under his breath before he is pulling out,
and she feels warmth on her stomach.
He rolls to the side and collapses facing the ceiling. Hermione attempts to regulate her
breathing in the sudden silence of their room. Draco waves his hand lightly and mutters,
“Tergeo”.
Hermione glances down and realizes she’s been wiped clean. She turns and stares at her
husband.
“Just how much wandless magic do you know?”
Draco huffs, “Why am I not surprised that not even that couldn’t stop your questions.”
Hermione flushes — her curiosity has always been insatiable. She’d even forgotten that she
was lying naked with Draco Malfoy for a moment.
As if he can hear her thoughts, Draco rolls back to his side and watches her. After a moment’s
hesitation, he reaches out and places his hand on her farthest hip.
“Come here, Granger.” He mutters.
Hermione rolls towards him, and Draco wraps both arms around her and tugs her into his
chest. Her blush is uncontrollable, but she’s got her face buried in his skin, and her hands
pressed against him. It feels stranger to do this when they’re both awake than in the night
when she sometimes wakes surrounded by him.
“I know a lot of wandless magic,” Draco answers slowly. “It was invaluable during the war.”
The war had stolen so many things from them. Had taught them so many skills they shouldn’t
need to know. Hermione’s heart aches for him suddenly, the boy who had been on the wrong
side and hadn’t been given a choice about it.
“Did your mother teach you?”
Draco laughs darkly. It reverberates in his chest, and Hermione presses her cheek harder to
his skin. “No. My Aunt Bella taught me.”
“I can’t imagine she was a very patient teacher,” Hermione murmurs. Draco pulls away just
far enough to look at her face. He takes one hand and grasps her forearm, pressing his fingers
gently against the Mudblood scar that lingers there. Hermione stops breathing.
“You have a fairly good idea of what her teaching was like.” Draco states.
Horror washes over her — Bellatrix haunts her nightmares, the memory of her Crucio and
cursed blade still leave Hermione breathless. She had always known that Malfoy Manor must
have been a terrible place to live during the war, but she had never dreamed that Draco would
have been tortured as she was in his own home.
“Relax, Granger,” Draco says, “I’m a fast learner.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better, Draco.”
He tightens his arms around her, almost unconsciously, and changes the subject.
“Are you going to keep hiding from me after this?”
Hermione watches the way he is staring anywhere but at her when he asks. His jaw is
clenched tightly, and though his grip is gentle, the tension radiating from him is obvious.
She wonders what it must have been like to grow up in a sterile Manor, with two parents who
didn’t love each other, and a tutor that demanded perfection even in dancing. With prejudice
and hatred pushed upon you at every turn, and expectations that no child could ever live up
to.
Hermione watches Draco — and she thinks how he has worked hard to fit himself into her
cottage and into her life. The way he had called her beautiful only moments before, and all
the reasons he has given her to trust that he’s changed.
“No,” she whispers, “I think maybe we’re beyond all that, don’t you?”
His silver eyes snap to hers, “Really, Granger?”
“Really,” she assures, “but perhaps you could call me Hermione. I am your wife, after all.”
His smile is slow and small, but somehow Hermione feels like she has won the war.
Green Eyes and Stars
Chapter Notes
Hello friends! I do believe this may be the second last Theo POV scene! There are still a
few chapters to go, but we're getting there. Thank you for all your wonderful comments
-- enjoy this very soft chapter.
Saturday, December 18th, 1999
Theodore Nott wakes up on the morning of December 18th, choking on long blonde hair and
far too warm. He pushes the strands away from his face and finds that Luna has wrapped
herself around him so tightly that there is hardly any escape.
He does not actually want to escape. He runs his fingers down her long hair and down her
spine, tickling at her pale skin. She burrows deeper into his shoulder, and he does one more
sweep with his fingertips.
A large blue eye peeks out, sleepy. “Is it time to wake up?”
“Only if you want to have this party you’ve been planning for ages,” Theo answers in a half-
whisper, hesitant to disturb the peaceful quiet of their room.
Luna’s smile appears, and she blinks slowly, “well, then I suppose we should wake up.”
She peels herself away from him and sits up, tugging their sheets around her shoulders. It’s a
glorious sight; his wife’s skin bathed in the early morning sunshine and warm sheets. It’s
been almost six weeks since the day they were married, and he’s still not used to the sight. He
doubts he ever will be.
She clambers off their bed, her long hair trailing down her bare back. She grabs her wand and
summons a shirt from the closet, one of his long pyjama shirts, and slips it on. Theo watches
this all and wonders if perhaps he died in the war and is somehow being rewarded in an
afterlife.
“Have I told you recently that this is an excellent way to wake up?” He asks.
Luna grins over her shoulder, “Only every morning.”
She skips out of their room, and Theo drags himself out of bed to dress.
He finds her in the kitchen, talking to Thelma. Their entire manor has been decorated for
Christmas, and if Theo had known that allowing Thelma to string lights and garland
everywhere would make her so happy, he would have told her to decorate sooner.
“Morning,” he says.
Thelma instantly clamps her mouth closed and disappears.
Theo frowns and turns to Luna. “What’s wrong with Thelma?”
Luna’s smile is mischievous. “Nothing.”
Theo laughs, tugging at Luna’s hem until she comes closer. “You are very obviously up to
something, Lady Nott.”
Luna giggles and wraps her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him. When she
pulls away, her mischievous expression has morphed into a nervous smile.
“What’s wrong, Luna?” Theo asks.
She blinks. “Nothing is wrong. It’s just new.”
Theo has learned that her answers are always answers, even if they don’t seem like it at the
time. “New is good. You were new to me, once.”
Her wide smile dimples her cheeks, and he can’t help his answering smile.
“Let’s go feed the Thestrals,” Luna says.
He denies her nothing, and they head towards their stables.
When dusk finally falls, Luna is dressed in a dark green gown edged in silver, with her hair
loose around her shoulders. Theo is wearing his dress robes, and Thelma has all of her best
dishes levitating throughout the ballroom. Theo hasn’t even been in his own ballroom since
before his father died, and it is now completely unrecognizable. Thelma has outdone herself;
candles float near the ceiling the way Hogwarts had once done. Garland is twined around the
edges of the windows, and twinkling lights peek out from every corner. Multiple trees have
been decorated and lit, and the floors are shining with polish.
The Fairy lights he had promised Luna twinkle from their outdoor gardens, heated by a
permanent temperature charm that suits the grounds and the swans. The Fairies flit about,
lighting the area and providing tinkling music that echoes in the room.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Luna asks. She’s got a half-frown on her face, and one fist on
her hips. She’s staring at a blank oak wall.
“Luna… we’ve met ghosts,” Theo answers, “Don’t you remember Nearly Headless Nick and
the Bloody Baron?”
Luna waves his words away, “Yes, yes. I mean… spirits. Do you believe in them?”
“I suppose I must if I’m surrounded by magic.”
Luna finally turns from the blank wall and meets his gaze. “Did you know you have your
mother’s eyes?”
Theo freezes. Luna’s squinting at him, as though she can’t place something.
“How… how would you know that?” He asks.
Luna steps forward, raising a hand to press against his cheek. Like always, she is gentle. She
isn’t frightening, and yet he’s shaking.
“People don’t just leave,” Luna says.
“She died, Luna.” Theo’s voice is hoarse. “She didn’t leave.”
Luna’s blue eyes flit to the side and she smiles. “Green, green, green. She’s lovely.”
Theo snaps his head to the side so quickly he nearly pulls a muscle. There is nothing there,
and Theo turns back to his wife to see that she is staring straight at him again.
“Sometimes they’re here after they go,” Luna adds. “Don’t worry so much. She’s very proud
of you.”
Theo swallows hard at the clog of tears that hits his throat. “You can see her?”
“No,” Luna answers, “I can just tell.”
Thelma appears suddenly, and Theo flinches. Luna doesn’t move, her hand still pressed to his
cheek.
“Your guests are arriving,” Thelma informs. “Thelma has invited them into the parlour.”
Luna squeaks excitedly and pulls away. She snags Theo’s hand and heads towards the
parlour, dragging him behind her. He’s still reeling when Luna greets Hermione, and he
barely pulls it together enough to shake hands with Draco.
“Thank you for the invite,” a familiar voice says, and Theo turns to see his wife hugging
Harry Potter and his Weasley wife. It feels surreal to see the saviour of the wizarding world
in his front room, and know that both he and Draco bear the mark of his enemy in their skin.
Another knock draws his attention, and their front door swings open to show Pansy
Parkinson and Neville Longbottom.
“Pansy!” Theo says, surprised. He had known they had married, but Luna hadn’t been sure if
they would come.
She marches in as though she owns the estate and grins. “Nott. It looks good in here.”
“Hi Neville,” Luna greets, hugging him as well. Theo doubts he’s ever hugged as many
people in his life as Luna has hugged in the last five minutes.
“Neville, glad you could make it,” Harry says. He glances at Pansy, “And you as well,
Pansy.”
“Let’s head into the ballroom.” Luna suggests, “Thelma has done a wonderful job decorating
and putting food out.” Luna heads towards the large open doors, and Theo takes their guests’
coats as they follow, hanging them on his front entrance hooks.
“Hello!” Their door opens again to reveal a batch of Weasley’s. Ron and Hannah enter
slowly, with George on their heels. Parvati follows him, with her sister and Blaise behind
them.
“Come in!” Theo says, “I’ll take your coats. The others have just gone through those doors.”
“Thanks, mate,” Blaise says, handing him an Italian leather jacket. Theo raises his eyebrows
at the distinctly Muggle make, and Blaise rolls his eyes. Parvati hands him a bottle of elf
wine, and Theo thanks her graciously.
“You have the greenest eyes,” Parvati murmurs, “Did you know?”
Theo frowns — this is the second time today someone has pointed out his eye colour.
“Yes?” He answers slowly.
Parvati stares a moment longer before turning on her heel and marching towards the
ballroom.
Theo glances around his entrance hall. It’s been a bizarre few hours, and he’s both excited
and nervous about having guests in his home. Many years ago, when his mother had still
been alive, they had hosted grand balls in Nott Manor. Theo had doubted his friends would
all want to dance, and so he and Luna had moved a few chairs and tables in, as well as a few
games, to keep them busy. They had left some of the dance floor open though, since Theo
knew Luna would be sad if he didn’t dance with her at least once.
He sighs heavily and heads into the party — they aren’t expecting many more guests, though
they had invited the rest of the Weasley’s and their partners, as well as Michael Corner, as
Luna had insisted he had been a good friend to her in Ravenclaw. Cho Chang had written
back and declined their invitation graciously, stating that she already had plans; Luna had
accepted her reasoning, but Theo had his suspicions, especially since Draco had mentioned
how Cho had acted with Terence at Blaise’s wedding.
Luna is standing with Pansy when Theo walks into the ballroom, and he’s grateful that his
wife is sensitive enough to notice that Pansy had been left alone while the Gryffindors chat.
Though Pansy’s expression seems impatient, Theo knows her well enough to know that she
won’t say anything untoward to Luna; Pansy, despite being capable of venomous insults, is a
loyal Slytherin, and she’d avoid hurting Luna if it meant hurting him.
Theo waves his wand at the old pianoforte in the corner, and it jingles out some holiday tunes
quietly. A tray floats past him with champagne and fire whiskey, and he snags a glass.
He heads towards the Gryffindors because if his wife is brave enough to make Pansy bloody
Parkinson feel welcome, he’s brave enough to take on the lions.
It’s Hermione that helps, though. She’s standing facing Harry Potter, and Draco has his palm
settled comfortably on her lower back. She smiles when she sees him coming. “Theo, so
good to see you. Thank you for inviting us, it looks beautiful in here.”
“It’s all Thelma and Luna, I’m afraid,” Theo admits, “They’ve made the Manor feel very
homey these past few weeks.”
“It’s wonderful,” Ginny chimes in. “I can’t wait to walk outside. I’ve heard from Hermione
that the grounds are stunning.”
Theo nods politely. “There’s a permanent warming charm extending past the door for a while.
You can go see the swans and it won’t be too chilly.”
“Neat bit of magic,” Harry Potter says, “I thought permanent warming charms were strictly
controlled.”
Draco rolls his eyes, “Potter, that warming charm has been on this estate for centuries.”
“It has,” Theo interrupts before Draco and Potter can get into an argument, “I wouldn’t even
know how to remove it at this point.”
“And we wouldn’t want to, would we, Harry? Since I’d like to go see the swans and all.”
Ginny Weasley’s voice is pointed and sharp, and Harry Potter, the infamous boy-who-lived,
deflates. Theo marvels at the power she wields so easily.
“Yes, quite true,” Harry agrees, almost unwillingly. “Let’s go now, Gin.” He wraps his arm
around her and they head towards the doors.
Hermione sighs, “You’d never know it from that conversation, but Harry usually doesn’t care
about rules at all.”
Theo can’t help the laugh that escapes him. He’s not the only one, either. Both Draco and
Ron Weasley are chuckling, which is a sight Theo basically never thought he’d see.
“What?” Hermione asks, glancing around at all the laughing boys.
“I’m pretty sure we all remember how much Harry Potter ignored rules during school,
Hermione.” Draco answers.
The use of her given name has Theo raising his eyebrows, but Draco avoids his gaze.
“Theodore, could you direct me to your washroom?” Hannah Abbott’s voice is hardly above
a whisper. Theo glances at her to find her pale as snow and staring over his shoulder to where
Luna is talking to Pansy.
“Turn left outside the doors, and it’s the first door on your right,” Theo says. Hannah takes
off quickly.
“Sorry,” Ron Weasley apologizes. “I told her Pansy would be here, and she said she could
handle it.”
“It’s okay, Ron. She’s got to get used to this, as shite as it is.” Hermione says.
“She’s right, mate,” George Weasley says, strolling up and snatching a snack off a floating
plate. Parvati is standing near Padma at a far window, and the twins are talking quietly. Blaise
is heading towards Pansy and Luna.
Draco grabs a firewhiskey as the tray goes by, and George Weasley eyes the drink with both
envy and relief. Theo glances at the trays and realizes he has missed something important.
“Thelma,” Theo calls.
His little house-elf appears and clasps her hands together, glancing around at the witches and
wizards surrounding him.
“Master Nott?”
“Sorry, Thelma, it’s just occurred to me that it would be lovely to have a few glasses of water
and juices available as well. Do we have any?”
“Of course,” Thelma answers, “I will get them at once.”
“Thank you.”
Thelma disappears as quickly as she came. Theo catches George’s eyes, and he nods in
thanks.
“Would anyone like to play cards?” Theo asks. He’s praying that everyone agrees because the
sooner the group gets involved in a game and has a few drinks to ease the tension, the less
likely a fight is to erupt.
They all meander to the large circular table set by a tall, neatly decorated Christmas tree.
Draco pulls Hermione’s chair out and she sits down, thanking him quietly. Theo watches this
with sharp eyes — he’s no fool, and he’s known Draco Malfoy since he was a boy. He meets
familiar silver eyes, and Draco glances away. It’s a nervous tell; Snakes hide emotions.
Theo’s done it for years, as have Pansy and Blaise.
Luna plops into the chair between him and Draco, smiling widely. Her hair is ruffled, and
she’s managed to attract the attention of two fairies, who are tinkling around her, planets
circling her sun.
“You’ve got fairies,” Theo tells her.
Luna laughs, drawing the attention of the others at the table. “Two! What a magic number!”
Theo can feel his lips wanting to curl into a smile he reserves solely for Luna, and he decides
that he is tired of hiding. He grins at her.
“Two is a magical number,” he agrees. Luna reaches out and tangles her hand in his.
Blaise watches this all with an exasperated expression from where he’s sitting on Theo’s
other side. There are two empty chairs beside him, reserved for Padma and Parvati, who are
still by the window. Blaise doesn’t seem particularly annoyed that his spouse is ignoring
him.
Harry and Ginny enter the ballroom again, grinning at each other. Harry’s hair seems messier
than usual, and Ginny’s flushed; they make their way to the table and sit across from Theo.
Blaise catches Theo’s eyes and rolls them at the couple’s obvious activities. Theo chokes
down a laugh, because, well, Gryffindors, they’re all so emotional.
Pansy sits delicately by Neville, on the other side of Hermione, and she summons the cards
and charms them to shuffle themselves. As usual, Pansy looks stunning; she had learned early
in Hogwarts that the prettier you could be, the more power you could wield. Her eyes are
luminescent and darkened with kohl liner, and her full lips are a deep red. She grins sharply
at the table and flicks her wrist to send the cards dealing on their own.
“Wow!” Hermione stares at the cards, dealing from the air. “Pansy, where did you learn that?
It was wonderful.”
Pansy shrugs demurely. “Our fathers often played cards together. They taught me.”
Draco huffs, “Pansy, it’s not like you not to gloat. My grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, invented
that particular card charm, and he was protective of it. He only ever taught one person the
spell, and it was my father.”
Theo scowls, “Yes, and despite hours of begging him to teach us, he never shared his trick. It
wasn’t until fifth year when we were playing cards in the Slytherin common room that Pansy
here pulled it out.”
Pansy laughs, “You boys nearly lost your minds.”
“And rightly so,” Blaise adds, “Draco doesn’t even know the charm!”
Hermione turns to Draco, “Your father didn’t teach you?”
Draco rolls his eyes, “No. He said we all lacked the discipline to master it. Somehow, Pansy
is the only person he taught.”
“How did you get him to teach you?” Ron asks Pansy, too caught up in the story to remember
he’s consorting with Slytherins, and that he hates Pansy Parkinson.
Pansy just smirks, but Neville Longbottom sighs. “Pans, you’re torturing them.”
“Longbottom knows?” Draco gapes. “We’ve been asking for years, Pansy!”
Parvati Patil plops down beside Blaise, leaving Padma her spot beside George Weasley.
Padma has a class of elfin wine and is sipping it quietly, an introspective look on her face.
Parvati sips her water and stares hard at her sister.
Draco sighs, “Let me guess, you’re going to take it to your grave, aren’t you, Parkinson?”
“Pansy,” Harry Potter says, grinning. “There is nothing I would like more than to learn that
trick from you. Name your price.”
Pansy laughs, “Potter, I’d teach you for free just to see the look on Draco’s face.”
The entire table laughs, and Theo sips his firewhiskey. If someone had told him five years
ago that he’d be sitting in Nott Manor, surrounded by a mishmash of different Hogwarts
houses, married to Luna Lovegood, and sharing jokes with Harry Potter, he’d have never
believed it.
Hermione is frowning and still staring at the cards. She picks up the hand she’s been dealt,
and the table slowly follows suit. Hannah returns from the washroom a few hands in, and she
sits tentatively at the table beside Ron, peeking at his cards.
“We can re-deal if you want to play, Hannah.” George Weasley offers.
“That’s fine,” Hannah says, clearing her throat. Her eyes are red. “I’ll jump in next round.”
Pansy and Neville are avoiding her gaze, and Theo prays this doesn’t end in shouting. Luna
had confided that this with the first party she’d ever had, and he’s ready to hex anyone who
ruins his wife’s fun.
Blaise, predictably, is on track to win the game. He’s always been too good at cards, and
Theo expects him to win as usual.
What he doesn’t expect is Parvati’s laughter as she lays her cards down to reveal a winning
hand. George is shaking his head, chuckling as if he’s in on some inside joke.
“One more round?” Parvati asks innocently.
“Sounds great,” Hermione Granger says, and then with a sly look to Draco, she casts her
hand out and waves it gently. The cards float to each other and begin shuffling, almost
exactly the way they had under Pansy’s ministrations.
Theo gapes, and he’s not the only one. The movement baffles every Slytherin at the table.
Hermione Granger, a girl he had once believed to be too uptight, smirks in a distinctly
Slytherin way.
“Granger,” Draco says, “please tell me how you did that?”

Hermione hums, “Hmm. I don’t think I will.” She taps a single finger against her lip and
glances at Pansy, who is staring at her mouth agape. Hermione Granger has never looked
more like a Malfoy.
Blaise laughs at the same time as Theo — Draco looks outraged and glances at his friends in
betrayal. “What are you laughing for?”
“Granger,” Blaise chokes out, “I think you’ve just become my favourite Gryffindor ever.”
Hermione sniffs, “Truly an honour, Blaise. Who was it before me?”
“George,” Blaise, Theo, and Pansy say this in unison.
George Weasley chokes on his water, “Me?!”
“Blimey,” Ron Weasley chuckles, “Never knew you were in with the snakes, Georgie!”
Hannah clears her throat. “He wasn’t,” she glances at George. “It’s because of the pranks. All
the houses loved him.”
The table goes quiet for a moment — Theo knows they’re all thinking of the Weasley twin
who died. Hannah is correct; Fred and George Weasley were a favourite of everyone in
Hogwarts. It’s difficult to be funny and pull pranks without hurting anyone, and the
Weasley’s had always walked that fine line.
“Well, thanks,” George says. He clears his throat. “Had I known I was so popular, I would
have asked to play cards with you lot sooner.”
Theo catches Luna’s eyes and smiles. The war feels far away in this moment, despite those
missing from their table. He’s not used to the feeling — like he could build a life here that
isn’t rooted in hatred and envy.
They play a few more hands of cards, and Parvati wins every round. George is shaking his
head by the last round.
“I should have known never to play cards with you,” he says. Parvati laughs. On the last
hand, Pansy gathers the cards up and slips them back into the pack. Hannah, though still pale,
is looking a little less like someone murdered her, though her glassy eyes hint at just how
much she’s been drinking.
She stands and wobbles a little, and Ron hurries to stabilize her. Theo thinks that Ron looks
exhausted — the way he had during the war.
“I’m sorry we have to head out early,” Weasley says slowly. He glances at Luna. “Thank you
for having us.”
Hannah is scowling at Ron. It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s cut their evening short
on purpose.
“Thank you for coming!” Luna answers. Ron takes his wife’s arm, and they head towards the
door. Theo hears Thelma getting their coats, and then the heavy thud of the front door closing
behind them.
“Sorry,” Neville Longbottom says. His face is drawn with pain. “That’s my fault.”
“My fault,” Pansy says unexpectedly.
Harry slaps the table, startling Theo. “It’s the Ministry’s fault. No one else’s.”
“Yeah,” Neville agrees, “I just feel bad.”
“We all do, mate.” George agrees. “But we didn’t have much choice.”
Hermione nods. “Yes. And Ron and Hannah get along well enough. I am actually very proud
of her for coming tonight — I think we’ve all done well.”
“I agree,” Luna adds, “I’m so glad you all could make it.”
The piano begins to tinkle out a tune that they’re all familiar with. Blaise groans and George
Weasley begins to laugh. Memories of the Yule Ball, so long ago now, run rampant. They all
know the dance for this particular song.
Blaise sighs. “I’m going to hate myself for telling you all this, but I think it may cheer some
of you up. Guess who taught all the Slytherins how to dance to this song?”
A moment of silence, and then Ginny Weasley’s eyes light up, “Do not tell me Professor
Snape taught you how to dance!”
“Unfortunately,” Draco drawls, “he did.”
Hermione laughs loudly, “That is the best mental picture I’ve ever had.” She bumps Draco
with her elbow, and he rolls his eyes, fondness sweeping across his expression.
“Ginny, would you like to dance?” Harry Potter grins at his wife, “Show these snakes how it
should be done?”
Ginny scoffs, “You only ask that because this is the only dance you know.”
Harry shrugs shamelessly at her correct accusation and holds out a hand. Ginny takes it, and
Theo watches as they saunter towards the small dance floor. Theo sighs and pushes himself to
his feet, offering Luna his hand. He might hate dancing, but he’s not about to let Harry
bloody Potter outshine him as a husband.
“I suppose that’s our cue, Granger,” Draco mutters, and she stands with him. For a moment,
Theo thinks they’re heading to the dance floor, but instead, they head to the doors and slip
outside.
When Theo reaches the dance floor, he gathers Luna into his arms and ignores the rest of the
partygoers. Luna has her fingertips resting on his chest, and Theo curls his palms around her
ribs. The silver edging of her dress sparkles in the light, and she is incandescent as always.
“Are you having fun?” Theo asks gently, swaying her.
Luna’s eyes, as blue and fathomless as an ocean, light up. “This may be the best party I’ve
ever been to.”
“Have you been to many parties?”
Luna bites her lip, “Well. Once Harry took me to a Slughorn party.”
Jealousy eats at him, “Harry took you on a date?”
Luna tinkles out a laugh. “Oh, no. He was quite in love with Ginny, you see.”
“Then why did you go?”
Luna glances at the other dancing couple. “Ginny was dating someone else. Harry asked me
as a friend, so he wouldn’t be alone.”
“You’re a good friend,” Theo tells his wife.
She smiles up at him. “I know.”
He laughs, and the song ends. Most of their friends are still sitting at the table, a new card
game having started. Parvati is nowhere to be found, but George is sitting with Padma and
chatting. Harry and Ginny are still dancing, despite the change in song.
“Would you like to go outside?” Luna asks.
Theo nods, and they head towards their doors. Hermione and Draco are heading inside as
they step out. They’re discussing something about alchemic properties, and Theo rolls his
eyes. He should have known Draco and Hermione would consider academia appropriate
material for bonding. Luna smiles at Hermione as they pass by.
The outside air is cool despite the temperature charm, and the night sky shines down on them.
They walk to the edge of the path, where it opens onto a pond. The swans are floating in the
distance, just shadows upon the water. The Fairies are still flitting about, a light tinkling
music echoing in their ears.
“Look, Theo.” Luna’s staring at the sky, and Theo follows her gaze. There’re thousands of
stars all lit up in the clear night sky. The moon is incredibly bright, and Theo marvels at the
sight.
“It’s beautiful.” He says. Two shooting stars cross his vision and he grins. “Did you see that?
Shooting stars!”
“Muggles wish on those, you know,” Luna tells him. He looks at her and finds she’s staring at
him. She’s got her secret smile on, the same one she had the first moment he had officially
met her.
“What do they do that for?” Theo asks. He can’t imagine wishing on a star — it’s
nonsensical.
Luna shrugs delicately, “Stars are good secret keepers.”
Theo turns fully to her, cupping her jaw in his palm. Her blue eyes watch him — there’s no
hint of fear, or hatred, or any of the things he had always feared he would see in any future
wife he could imagine. He loves her so fucking much he could burst.
“I wish I’d found you without the WPG,” Theo admits.
Luna’s hands come and hold his own to her face. “That’s a good wish,” she admits, “but you
would have found me either way. I’m sure of it.”
He basks in her certainty. “What makes you so sure?”
“Two is a good number,” she says. “It’s the best number.”
He laughs. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Her blue eyes twinkle. She pulls his hand away from her face and presses it against her
stomach, the green fabric of her dress soft under his fingertips.
“It was always meant to be you, Theo.” She tells him in a hushed voice. “You’ve given me
everything. A family.”
Theo can hardly breathe — his palm feels sweaty on her stomach. He shouldn’t be so
shocked; they’d never bothered with any conception charms or potions, but he still feels
blindsided.
“Are you—?”
Luna grins, “Two. The best number. Thelma checked this morning.”
Theo nearly knocks her over in his haste to hug her. He lifts her off her feet, and her laughter
in his ear is the best thing he’s ever heard. She’s breathless when he finally lets her go, and
Theo hardly knows where to start.
“I hope they have your green eyes,” Luna tells him.
Theo couldn’t care less if they came out with seven eyes and three arms — he’s so clogged
with emotions that he feels like he might faint. It’s incredibly rare to have multiples in
magical pregnancy. For most purebloods, it’s damn near impossible to even get pregnant. If
Theo had ever imagined children, he’d always imagined he might have one, if he was lucky.
“I love you,” he says. It feels easy — it feels like he’s said it to her a thousand times, like he’s
going to say it a thousand more times, and Theo wonders why it took him so long.
He stares at his wife — his magical, glowing, incandescent, pregnant wife — and he thinks
that he’d cross oceans for her; he’d find every star and bring them to her if she so much as
asked. He’d go back to war for her.
“I know,” she says softly. “I’ve always known.”
He kisses her — he rains down on her and whispers his love across her skin, and she answers
him in between press of lips, and Theo thinks it feels like nothing he’s ever felt before.
Happy. Incandescent. Life-changing.
Pretending
Chapter Notes
Y'all I can't get over how nice all your comments and reviews are! Thank you for being
such wonderful readers and supporters, who love Theo and Luna as much as I do. Onto
our favourite main couple -- I hope you enjoy, and drop a comment if you like ;)
Wednesday, December 22nd, 1999
It’s the smell of coffee that wakes her. She rolls over to find that Draco’s half of the bed is
empty, though the blankets are mussed with the imprint of his body. She stretches her arms
above her and feels all the familiar aches that someone her age shouldn’t have.
Footsteps pad lightly down the hallway, and a familiar blonde head sticks his head in. Silver
eyes meet hers, and though his expression remains inscrutable, heat licks down Hermione’s
spine.
“Granger,” he greets, “how nice of you to wake up.”
She rubs her eyes — she hasn’t slept that well in years. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty. I thought you might never get up.”
She blinks. Instead of answering, she gets to her feet and pulls back their dark curtains, a
fresh coat of snow on the ground and sunshine greeting her.
“Coffee’s ready,” Draco adds, “Juney’s bringing breakfast, come on out.”
She nods but doesn’t answer. He pads back down the hallway and Hermione stares out at the
snowy world and tries to wake up. It’s been 39 days since she married Draco Malfoy in the
muggle church, and nothing about her marriage is what she would have expected.
Draco is affectionate. Not in the way Ron had been; there are no over-the-top declarations,
public hand holdings, or jealous fights. Instead, he brings her coffee in the morning, and
writes her notes all day long in their journals, even if she’s only in the next room. He curls his
fingers through her hair at night when he thinks she’s asleep, and murmurs ‘Granger’ into her
ear when he’s wrapped around her in their bed.
It may be unexpected, but it’s certainly not unwelcome.

Which makes it worse whenever she considers that, ultimately, she’s attempting to destroy
the very thing that has tied him to her. Hermione is many things, but she’s never been stupid;
she knows Draco is fond of her, maybe even likes her, but for every moment he spends with
her he is spitting in the face of heritage. He’s spent his entire existence being groomed for a
life that she has no part in, and Hermione’s not entirely sure she can compete with that. Not
sure if she wants to wage another war, and this time against something she can’t even fight.
She sighs and pulls his button-down shirt off the floor where he’d tossed it, tugging it over
her own thin pyjama top for warmth. The cottage hallway is lit with sunlight when she leaves
their bedroom, and the smell of Juney’s breakfast cooking wafts over her.
Draco is sitting at their table; he’s got piles of books clustered around his toast, and he’s
reading as he chews. If Harry were here, he would roll his eyes, because the only other
person he’s ever seen read through meals is Hermione.
“Lady Malfoy,” Juney waves her hand, and a plate floats down and settles at the table in the
only clear spot. “Juney has made your favourite breakfast!”
Hermione grins, “Thank you, Juney. And for the last time, you can call me Hermione.”
“Of course, Lady Malfoy. Juney will return after her duties at the Manor.” The little house-elf
disapparates from inside the cottage; a task that is technically against all laws of magic.
“House-elf magic is truly extraordinary,” Hemione says, pulling her chair out and settling
across from Draco.
His eyes flick to hers, “So you have told me, Granger.”
She huffs, “What is with all the people in my life not using my name!”
Draco smirks and snaps his book closed, focusing on her. “My apologies, Hermione,”
The way her name rolls off his tongue is nearly indecent, and Hermione can feel a blush
rising despite all attempts to fight it back. He’s staring at her hungrily, and Hermione knows
exactly what happens when Draco Malfoy levels that expression at her.
Tapping at her window breaks their spell, and Malfoy tosses his last bite of toast in before
standing to retrieve the familiar barn owl.
“Hello Julien,” Hermione greets from her spot at the table. The owl coos at her and swivels
his head to pin Draco with a distrusting glare.
“This bloody owl hates me,” Malfoy complains, snagging the letter from his leg and narrowly
avoiding a peck.
Hermione laughs, “He does not, he just knows you’re scared of him.”
Draco glares at her, “I’m not scared of a little owl, Hermione.”

“I don’t know,” she says slyly. “He almost reminds me of a little hippogriff, and we both
know how you feel about those.”
“That bloody hippogriff nearly took my damn arm off!” Draco rants, “They’re dangerous and
not appropriate for children in the third year to learn about!”
Hermione takes another bite of egg and waits for the indignation to fade from Draco’s
expression. When it does, he simply rolls his eyes at her and heads towards the table,
brandishing the letter he had taken from Julien, who still sat on their windowsill grooming his
feathers.
Hermione unrolls it.
‘Hermione,
Would you and Malfoy be free this evening for dinner? Ron is coming over, as is Neville. No
need to bring anything, just yourselves around 5PM
- Harry’
“What does Potter want?”
“For the last time, Draco, his name is Harry!” She glowers, “You’ve been getting on better,
and you still can’t use his name.”
Draco smirks, “Well, yes, I mean I didn’t use your name until I married you, and I like you
considerably better than I like Potter.”
She flushes, her argument lost at his admission. He doesn’t wait for a response from his
words, simply waves his wand to send his plate to their sink and begins reading again.
“He wants us to come round for dinner,” Hermione finally explains. “Ginny, Neville and Ron
will be there.”
“Oh, goodie,” Draco breathes, flicking a page. “Into the proverbial lion’s den.”
She laughs despite herself, “Frightened of a few Gryffindors, Malfoy?”
He scowls at her. “Not on your life, Granger.”
“Great, that means we can go,” she says, scrawling a quick response to Harry. Draco doesn’t
contradict her, so she heads over to Julien and gently secures the letter to his leg. “Take this
back to Harry, Julien. Thank you!”
The large barn owl bunts his head against her hand, and she gives him a few gentle strokes
down his feathers. He hoots gently and takes off out the window.
Breakfast is quiet after that; Hermione is content to bask in the sunshine of their home,
listening to Draco flipping pages and the occasional hum when he finds something
interesting. It’s peaceful.
Their newly decorated tree sits by the fireplace, covered in gold ribbon and silver bulbs, a bit
mismatched since they had agreed to include both of their houses. Instead of an angel at the
top, as Hermione had done with her parents growing up, they placed a large glittering star.
Even with the odd decorating, the tree is lovely, and it’s even nicer since it’s the first
Christmas tree she’s had in her house since she lived with her parents. The first holiday after
the war had been truly miserable, and Hermione’s soaking up every second of peace she can
get.
She’s lucky — when the WPG announcement had first came out, she had never imagined
this. There are hundreds of witches and wizards who are currently preparing to celebrate the
holidays with a spouse they did not want, or worse.
Her looming Wizengamot meeting in the new year weighs on her — although she has been
researching like mad, and Draco has been helping, they’re not much further than they were
the month prior. Partly because they simply haven’t found any loopholes to the law, but she’d
be lying if she said she’d been looking as hard as she should have been.
Ron’s face at Luna and Theo’s party only a few days prior weighs on her. Her best friend is
unhappy — he’s stuck between a woman who doesn’t love him and a law that chains him to
her. It’s not that Hannah is a bad person; Ron has told her how Hannah spends her time
making their new flat homey, and preparing dinners, and trying. He’s said how she is kind,
and sometimes when she forgets about how fucked up the entire world is, she sneaks in sly
jokes and they laugh together.
“What is going on in that big brain of yours, Granger?”
Hermione blinks. Draco is watching her, and she has no idea how long he’s been staring. She
sighs. “I have no idea how we’re going to get rid of the WPG.”
“Our Christmas tree inspired that line of thought?”
She rolls her eyes at his snark. “Malfoy — I’m serious. We still don’t know why Rosmerta
helped Kingsley, or if Kingsley was even the instigator of this!”
“Hermione, we are working on it!” Draco says hotly, “We spend hours each night reading old
pureblood marriage traditions and histories on families! We’re prepared as we can be for your
Wizengamot meeting.”
Her eyes are burning with frustrated tears, but she absolutely refuses to ruin this lovely
morning they’ve been sharing. “I know. I know.”
“Go over it again with me,” Draco’s tone has gentled, “the matches.”
She breathes out slowly. This is an exercise in futility, she’s said these damn words so many
times she could recite them in her sleep. “We know they based the WPG matches on prior
knowledge of each individual’s interests, business acumen, or family history. We know that
someone, most likely Rosmerta, passed on this information she had gathered from years
overhearing customers, though we don’t know why she would do that. The most likely reason
for this law, besides legitimate population growth, is to build our economy by growing
businesses and investment.”
“With the exceptions of…” Draco adds. He knows his role in this particular exercise.
Hermione groans, “We don’t know why some matches were made — it’s possible it was just
randomized for those they had no information on. Typically, this means muggle-borns and
half-bloods.”
“So how do we discredit the process?”
She tugs on the end of her curls. “I have no sodding idea.”
Draco’s eyes catch on her bracelet, the one he had given her ages ago for their engagement.
She rubs the azure stones and smiles. With each day that passes with no threat to herself or
Luna, and no attempt to pin Tracey Davis’ suicide on Marcus Flint, Hermione is more certain
that she had been paranoid when she thought the Ministry might have been attempting to
frame ex-Death Eaters.
“I want to show you something,” she says. It surprises her even as the words fall out of her
mouth. She’s good at secrets — she always has been.
Draco narrows his eyes at her. “What?”
She stands and gestures for him to follow her. Her office door swings open, and the sight of
her many bookshelves comforts her. Her office has been her domain for the entire time she’s
lived with Draco, and though he sometimes pokes his head in, he’s never explored.
She walks over to her trunk, unlocks it, and throws the lid open, exposing the secret stairwell
down and a glowing light at the bottom.
“So, I have an undetectable extension charm on my trunk,” Hermione admits.
Draco lets out an exasperated breath, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “Hermione,
are you telling me that you cast not one but two illegal spells and somehow never got caught
by the Ministry?”
“Two?” She asks innocently.
“Do you think I haven’t noticed that beaded bag you’ve carried everywhere since the war?
You once pulled out three books from there. Three, Granger. A bloody imbecile would know
that’s a spelled bag.”
She shrugs, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile.
“What am I going to do with you, witch?” Draco asks.
“Hopefully come into my illegally expanded trunk and help me find a way to bring down a
government’s stupid law?” Hermione grins widely.
“And here I always thought you were a stick in the mud in Hogwarts,” Draco muses as he
clambers down her stairwell.
She waits at the bottom and doesn’t speak. Her patience is rewarded when Draco stares at
each board, tracing her push-pins and string connecting each match. His finger snags on his
own sombre face printed on a grey-scale newspaper.
“Where did you get this?” He murmurs.
“From the Prophet when they announced your mother’s passing,” Hermione says, coming to
stand beside him. She traces her fingers lightly down his picture. “I thought you seemed sad.
That’s why I wrote to you, you know. I realized you must have known your mother was ill.”
His fingers fall away from the board. “So you realized the Ministry might be trying to set up
Death Eaters, then.”
It’s not a question — she’d expected anger, or surprise — instead, Draco is expressionless,
his voice flat. It scares her more than rage would have.
“Yes,” she whispers.
He breathes out slowly, evenly; Hermione nearly trembles with anxiety. He’s avoiding her
gaze, staring only at her messy penmanship, scrawling out: ‘are they going to frame death
eaters with their match’s murders?’
“I’d expected you to realize quickly,” he tells her. “I’ve been waiting for weeks for you to say
something.”
Hermione scowls and tugs at his arm until he faces her. His silver eyes flick down to hers, but
the warmth she had been subjected to only a few moments before is hidden.
“You could have said something,” she argues, raising her hand to shake her bracelet. “Don’t
think I didn’t realize you’d given me this bracelet, knowing that there was a chance I’d be in
danger — you could have told me yourself!”
Draco scowls. “Granger, you could barely look at me without flinching when I gave you that
bracelet. You think me telling you your life could be in danger would have improved things?”
She deflates — he’s not wrong. Her arm drops down by her side.
“I’m not mad,” Draco announces.
She frowns. “You seem mad.”
Unexpectedly, he leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. He’s warm, and he smells
good, and Hermione is so fucking tired of not knowing where they stand.
“I’m not mad, Hermione,” he says again, breath skirting over her skin. “You aren’t wrong —
I thought the Ministry might try to frame Theo and I as well. When Tracey Davis wound up
dead, I was even more sure. I didn’t even tell Theo, but I did tell Thelma. A house-elf, I’ve
learned, is an invaluable protector.”
Hermione pulls away and stares at Draco incredulously, “Did… did you just call house-elves
invaluable?”
He laughs, “Granger — you have been extolling the value of house-elves and their incredibly
unique magic for weeks. You are the one that convinced me to pay Juney… did it truly not
occur to you that if you asked it of her, she would literally take on the entire Ministry herself
for you?”
Hermione can’t help the smile that blooms; she is standing in her tiny office filled with books
and conspiracy theories, and Draco Malfoy, the boy who had once thought her worthless, is
now tugging on one of her curls thoughtfully, considering the importance of house-elves.
Viciously, she wishes Lucius Malfoy were here to see this.
Though, if Lucius were here, Draco would not be — of this, she is sure.
“What I can’t figure out is why Rosmerta gave up this information,” Draco muses.
Hermione winces, “Maybe… maybe she’s been imperio’d?”
Draco shakes his head, guilt flashing on his face. “No.”
“Why… why do you say no?”
“She was… difficult to control.” Draco admits, “I struggled with it, and not just because of
my guilt. She’s a very, very strong witch. It’s why she got paired with Kingsley. I doubt many
wizards could imperio her.”
“Could Kingsley?” It feels like a betrayal even as Hermione asks — Kingsley is many things,
but she has never imagined him as a wizard that uses dark arts.
“I doubt it,” Draco muses, “He doesn’t particularly strike me as the type. Maybe Hawksworth
— though my father didn’t tell me he was particularly strong magically, and he’d have to be
to hold her.”
Dread blooms in Hermione’s chest. “What… what if it’s not magical?”
“How do you mean?”
Hermione walks to Rosmerta’s grainy picture. She’s got strings connecting her to so many of
the other matches — Rosmerta would have known about Katie Bell, and Neville’s herbology
talents, and Pansy’s potion skills. There’s almost nothing she wouldn’t have heard about over
the years.
Despite all the strings connecting her, Hermione has found no evidence of family. Rosmerta
— until her match with Kingsely — had seemingly been unmarried, childless, and friendless.
She was a complete enigma.
“What if… what if they’re threatening her?” Hermione muses, settling her fingers on
Rosmerta’s smiling image. “I couldn’t find any evidence of family or loved ones, but maybe
she has someone she needs to protect?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Draco admits slowly. “Imperio is… a tricky spell. She would have
answered or done anything I asked, but I never asked about her own life, only the people she
saw or talked to. If she were clever — and I have no doubt she is — she’d specifically have
avoided giving up any information about herself to me.”
Hermione stares at Rosmerta’s face longer, as if trying to divulge information from a picture.
“Granger,” Draco’s voice is gentle, “let’s go back upstairs. We’re not going to figure anything
else out down here. Your meeting with the Wizengamot will tell us more.”
She follows him with heavy feet and a heavier heart.
Harry is expecting them, and when Hermione knocks on Grimmauld’s door, it flings open
eagerly. Hermione enters with Draco following her, staring around a bit suspiciously. He’d
never seen a townhouse simply appear when approached, and the strength of the Fidelius had
shocked him.
“Come in! Neville’s already here, but Ron’s going to be a bit late,” Harry gestures them into
the sitting room, snagging their coats to hang on the hook.
Hermione grins at the sight of Neville and hugs him eagerly. “Neville, so good to see you!”
“You too, Hermione,” Neville answers. He sits back in his chair and nods at Draco, “Malfoy
— Pansy sends her love. She had a dinner with her mother she couldn’t escape.”
Draco grimaces. “You were smart not to go there, Longbottom. Pansy’s mother is a bloody
nightmare.”
Neville winces in agreement. “I’m actually not allowed on the Parkinson estate any longer.”
Draco’s sour expression clears, and he almost looks impressed. “Longbottom, someday
you’re going to tell me how you managed that. I’ve been trying to get banned from the
Parkinson estate for years.”
Ginny interrupts their banter, entering the sitting room with two fire whiskeys and a glass of
wine. She hands the whiskey to Neville and Draco and gives Hermione the wine. Ginny
settles into the loveseat crammed in the corner, one of the few remnants of the old furniture
since the remodel. Harry had been unwilling to part with some of Sirius’ belongings, and the
faded red couch was particularly mismatched in their new sitting room.
“How is that going, Neville?” Harry asks carefully, sitting beside Ginny with his own drink.
“Parkinson, I mean.”
Neville half shrugs and stares into his firewhiskey. “You want the truth?”
His expression is unfamiliar, and Hermione presses her free hand into her thigh to prevent
any nervous shaking. She knows Neville — he's been wearing his heart on his sleeve since
the moment he was born; he doesn’t know how to be anything other than honest, and for him
to give them the option frightens her.
“Yes,” Hermione breathes. She’d been pleasantly surprised by her last encounter with Pansy,
but if she’s done wrong by Neville, Hermione won’t hesitate to fix it.
Neville winces and lifts his eyes to survey the room. He heaves a sigh. “Pansy is difficult.
Not in the way you might think, though.”
“How so, then?” Ginny asks.
Neville hesitates. “Pansy is… loyal.”
Harry’s face twists in disbelief, but it’s Draco’s chuckle that surprises her. He’s resting back
on the couch, watching proceedings with narrowed silver eyes. His firewhiskey is almost
empty already, and Hermione wonders if he was more nervous than he let on about coming to
Harry’s today.
“Something to add, Malfoy?” Harry asks, frowning.
Draco sighs. “I know that we didn’t get on in school, but I assume you noticed in fifth year
that I was having… not so great of a time?”
“Yes,” Hermione answers instantly, “of course we did.”
Draco glances at her, “I know you did, Granger. You notice everything.”
Hermione watches him, understanding slowly dawning. “It wasn’t just you, was it?”
Surprisingly, it’s Neville that answers. “Of course it wasn’t just him. It was most of them —
half of the Slytherin families were either terrified of Voldemort returning and coming for
them after their desertion, or they were already involved, which usually meant they were
being tortured to control their families, or forced into becoming Death Eaters.”
“Pansy?” Ginny asks, nearly breathless.
Neville shrugs. “Look. It’s her story. But we’ve all done terrible things for the people we
love, and I’m sure we’d do it all again. Pansy is… unexpected. It’s good.”
“Longbottom,” Draco drawls, “when you took the head off that damn snake, I wanted to
thank you. So did Pansy.”
Neville smiles slowly. “I know. She told me.”

“Do you know her middle name?” Draco asks suddenly, sitting forward.
Neville laughs. “I do. But there’s not a chance I’m telling you, Malfoy.”
Draco’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and he lifts his fire whiskey towards Neville, who just
laughs at the salute.
“Listen, don’t tell Hannah, okay?” Neville says suddenly. “I just… I want her to be happy.”
“She won’t be happy if you’re moving on,” Ginny tells him. Her blunt words cut through the
room, and Hermione winces; Ginny has always been fearless, but like Ron, she says what she
means, despite who it might hurt.
“I thought Hannah Abbott was the love of my life,” Neville grits his teeth, and matches
Ginny’s gaze. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Pansy is my wife. Despite shit
circumstances, I respect the hell out of her. I wouldn’t hurt either of them, given the choice.
But seeing as we had to choose, I chose Pansy. I chose this. So I guess you should tell
Hannah whatever you think is best, Ginny.”
Hermione’s hand is suddenly covered with warmth, and she startles. Draco is pressing his
palm gently over hers, and she realizes she’s been nervously picking at a seam in her pants.
“I think perhaps another drink is in order,” Harry says to break the silence. He stands and
heads towards the kitchen.
Hermione stands, “Ginny would you like a wine?”
“I’m okay, thank you,” Ginny answers easily, diverting her gaze to Draco. “So Hermione tells
me you’re out of the cottage most days. What is it you do, exactly, Malfoy?”
Hermione scurries to the kitchen, intent on avoiding catching up to Harry while also avoiding
Ginny’s intensive questions. She finds her best friend staring out the window above their
kitchen sink. He’s got his arms braced on the counter, and he’s grimacing, the way he used to
when his scar hurt.
“What’s wrong, Harry?”
He sighs and turns to face her. He looks tired. “God, Hermione. I don’t know. How am I
supposed to navigate the fact that I’m happier than I’ve ever been while my two best friends
are suffering?”
Hermione blinks. “I know that Ron is unhappy, but he’s not suffering, Harry. He and Hannah
are friends; it’s not as if he’s being tortured, and we’ll find a solution!”
“And you?!” Harry nearly spits.
“Me?” Hermione repeats, nonplussed.
“Yes, you!” Harry hisses, stepping towards her. He grips her biceps gently, “Don’t you think I
know exactly how far you would go to reassure Ron and me that you were safe? Don’t you
think I lay awake at night, wondering just how fucked up it is that I told you to pretend to
love Malfoy?!”
Hermione recoils as though she’s been slapped — she remembers what Harry’s talking about.
He had suggested she pretend to be happy with Malfoy so Skeeter wouldn’t continue to pass
her off as some hysterically spurned witch. It’s why they had done the photos at the Nott
Manor and the articles with Luna — the happier they were, the more ground they had to
stand on when they came at the WPG.
It’s a throat-clearing that breaks their silence, and Hermione watches as Harry’s green eyes
flit over her shoulder and he winces momentarily. Dread washes through her, and she knows
who it is before he even speaks.
“I’ve been called away, Theo is apparently in need of assistance,” Draco says coolly.
Hermione swivels to look at her husband. She can’t read anything — his eyes are locked on
Harry’s, and he’s staring right over her as though she isn’t even there. “I’ll see you at home,
Granger.”
He turns on his heel and strides away. Harry’s warm hand is still on her one arm, and even
though he’s not holding her there, she feels tied to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I didn’t realize he was listening.”
Her eyes burn, and she pins Harry with her most furious gaze. “You think I’m capable of
manipulating him like that? You think I’ve tricked him into thinking I care, and what? Am
using him for political power? I'm faking everything I do and say!”
“No, no,” Harry says, lifting his palms up as if to show her he’s harmless when they both
know the truth. “I know you like him, or whatever.”
“Or whatever?” She hisses through her teeth.
“You know what I mean!” Harry insists.
Hermione yells, throat thick with fury and tears. “Harry James Potter, you don’t know
anything! I never agreed to pretend… I never agreed to anything except marrying him. And
guess what — I like being married to him. He’s — he’s mine.”
It’s these words, snarled into the space between them, that makes Harry step back until the
counter digs into his back. His mouth has gone slack with understanding, and even though
it’s well known that Hermione is the brain of the trio, Harry isn’t a fool. He knows exactly
what she’s just admitted.
“Harry?” Ginny’s voice, tentative and hushed, from behind them.
“We heard yelling, and Malfoy stormed out pretty quick,” Neville says.
Hermione turns, “I have to go.”
“No, wait,” Harry pleads, “Hermione, you can’t—”

“I can’t what,” Hermione snaps.
“Not now, Harry,” Ginny interrupts. “Hermione — go ahead. We’ll see you at Christmas
dinner at the Burrow. Malfoy is still invited if he can play nice with my fool of a husband.”
“Thank you,” Hermione calls as she rushes to the door, summoning her coat as she goes.
She’s barely left the property before she’s pulling herself into apparition, landing hard outside
of her gate. She stumbles as she rushes up the footpath, and yanks the door open aggressively.
The house is silent.
“Draco?” She calls, “Draco — please, Harry is an idiot. Let’s talk about this.”
She kicks her shoes off and rushes towards their bedroom, sure he is sulking. It’s only when
the door opens to a dark room, lit only by her bluebells on the windowsill, that Hermione
starts to panic.
There’s a thick white envelope on the bed, and she snatches it up with shaking fingers. It’s
heavy, and she rips it open. There’s a packet of papers inside, and when she yanks it out she
sees thick parchment all bound together, with dark black writing. It reads: ‘The Granger
Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings’.
She flips it open to find pages upon pages of legal jargon, declaring her the sole executor of
the non-profit. There are spaces to bring four board members into the Foundation, with
substantial salaries reflected beside. The mission statement reads: “The Granger Foundation
for the Welfare of Magical Beings is focused upon the betterment of magical society for all
creatures, beings, witches, wizards, and others, through the promotion of industry, legal
protections, and education for all”.
Hermione is barely aware of her knees hitting her carpet — she knows these words, these
arguments, these points. She’s been telling everyone who would listen to her for years that
this is important, that this is necessary, that magical beings and creatures deserve more.
A piece of yellow parchment flutters down to the carpet, and Hermione reaches for it — it’s
got a familiar scrawl on it, and her heart thuds.
‘Granger —
You’ll find your Christmas gift in the envelope, as I felt it shouldn’t go to waste. The accounts
are in your name at Gringotts already.
You want to change the world, Granger — it’s what you’ve wanted to do since we were both
eleven years old. While I was cutting you down, you were thinking of ways to make this world
better. If anyone can take down the WPG, it’s you.
And when you do, you’ll never have to pretend for me again.
Malfoy’
A Discovery
Chapter Notes
Hi folks, thanks for all of your wonderful comments! I'm updating a little quicker than
usual since the last chapter was a bit of a cliffhanger, but also because Nanowrimo starts
today and I'm thinking I might not be able to update for a bit. The good news is -- the
next few chapters are all seasonal, so up next is Christmas at the Burrow ;) Please
comment or review if you've enjoyed the chapter, I love reading all of your kind words.
Side note: the warning for panic attacks is relevant in this chapter.
Hermione arrives at Nott Manor with her wand in one hand a crushed yellow parchment in
the other. Her coat is still on the floor of her cottage, her hair is wild with her frantic chase,
and she’s simultaneously gasping for air and shivering from cold.
When Theodore Nott answers the door, the only possible thing he sees on his front step is a
desperate witch.
“Is he here?” Hermione demands, nearly pushing past Theo in her haste to get inside. His
front parlour is lit with Christmas decorations, and Luna is sitting on a plush loveseat wearing
a long lime-green nightgown with small red bulbs flashing with lights.
“Hermione?” She asks, standing. Despite her ridiculous attire and perplexed expression, Luna
has her wand out immediately and has settled into a dueling stance that Hermione recognizes
from the war.
“Draco—” she half-yells, “Is Draco here?”
“Is he hurt?” Theo demands suddenly, his wand also making an appearance.
Hermione can feel the tears she’s been fighting back begin to win, and Theo looks even more
panicked at the sight. She can’t quite catch her breath enough to explain, and when she
realizes she’s shaking and the lights are spinning, Hermione finally understands — she’s done
this before. Panic and fear; so common in the months following the war, have long been her
companions.
Luna murmurs, “It’s okay, Hermione.” She presses a palm into the centre of her back but
otherwise doesn’t touch her, and Hermione, so rarely prone to dramatics, throws herself into
Luna’s arms.
“Please breathe,” Luna says, rocking gently as Hermione sobs. “You can do it. I know you
can.”
It feels like a lifetime, and Hermione realizes eventually that although Luna is the one
holding her, Theo has an arm wrapped around Luna and a warm hand also pressed on
Hermione’s back.
“He’s okay,” she finally gasps. “He’s okay. I just can’t find him.”
“Did you fight?” Theo asks. Luna shushes both of them, and slowly leads Hermione back to
the couch. Her nightgown lights have quieted to a soft yellow.
“No,” Hermione says, “he just heard Harry say something stupid. And not true. He said he
was coming here, that you needed him.”
Theo winces. “I haven’t talked to Draco since the party.”
“Where would he go?” Hermione pleads.
“Malfoy Manor?” Luna asks.
Theo shakes his head minutely, “He might, but it’s doubtful. Draco has more bolt-holes than
anyone I know. I’m sorry, Hermione, but if he doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him.”
“I need to!” Hermione shouts, curling her fingers into the couch cushions in pathetic
imitations of claws.
Theo watches her somberly, then sighs. “Thelma?”
His house-elf appears, her wide smile falling immediately upon finding them. “Lady Malfoy
— are you okay?”
“She’s okay, Thelma,” Theo answers easily, “But we’re looking for Draco. Have you talked
to Juney?”
Thelma frowns and disappears; the space before them is barely empty for a full minute before
the house-elf is back, looking more worried than ever.
“Juney is not available at the moment,” Thelma says.
“Juney,” Hermione calls, “Juney — please, come here.”
Thelma watches with enormous eyes, her ears drooping in sadness at the lack of response.
“Juney, please,” Hermione says again, voice cracking.
“Lady Malfoy,” Thelma whispers, “Juney cannot answer right now. If you… if you keep
calling her, she will think she is disobeying.”
The warning is unspoken, but Hermione clamps her mouth shut; if Juney thinks she’s
disobeying, she’ll be punishing herself, whether Hermione or Draco would want her to or
not.
“Okay,” Hermione agrees, forcing herself to gain some composure. “Okay. He’s fine. We
know he’s fine — he’s just mad. He needs time. That’s okay, that’s easy. I’ll go home, and I’ll
wait.”
She’s never been good at waiting, and Luna’s sympathetic expression sees right through her;
still, Hermione doesn’t have much choice. She stands slowly and faces the Nott family.
“I’m sorry for barging in.”
Theo jumps to his feet. “You’re always welcome. If I see Draco, I’ll tell him to talk to you,
right away.”
Luna stands, and Theo doesn’t even look before he’s wrapping an arm around her waist and
tugging her to his side. Her worried expression seems to fade with every centimetre that
disappears from between them.
Hermione feels the ghost of a smile on her lips — how she had misjudged Theodore Nott
when she had first heard of Luna’s WPG match! He’s the least Slytherin person she’s ever
met, and it’s obvious in every moment that he loves Luna more than anything.
“Thank you,” Hermione says earnestly.
They walk her to the door, and she watches them as she apparates away, drawing on their
comfort and strength.
Her cottage is still lit from her first appearance, and this time Hermione walks in with much
less haste. She takes the time to hang up her coat, and stare at their Christmas tree, and
swallow her tears.
She’s logical — Hermione reminds herself of this. She can fix this, she can fix it all. Harry’s
blunder is hardly the thing that will break her.
She heads to their bedroom and pulls her beloved journal from her nightstand. There are no
new messages, but she can only hope that Draco took his, that he’s waiting and watching and
hoping, the same way she is.
She flips through all the old messages — mostly it’s him complaining that she’s working too
much. Some messages make her blush, and some leave her pressing her palms into her eyes
until she feels ready to breathe again. She presses his yellow note that broke her heart into the
centre and flips to an empty page.
What she told Harry wasn’t true — he’s not hers. He’s borrowed.
But she’s his.

‘Draco,
Harry is wrong - he said something stupid and untrue. I’m not pretending anything, and you
know that — it’s all real. Just remember how I remember us.
Your gift to me is invaluable beyond measure and I’m sorry that you feel it’s been ruined. I
love it. I want to spend Christmas with you.
Please come home —
Hermione’
‘Dear Draco —
I hope you have your journal. I hope you’re reading this. I hate sleeping alone. Tomorrow is
Christmas Eve. Please come home.
Hermione
Dearest Draco,
I miss you.
I know how to get to Rosmerta and Kingsley. I wish you were here to help me plan.
HG
Draco
Harry had me for dinner tonight to apologize, but I just yelled at him some more, even though
it’s almost Christmas. It’s reminding me of bloody third year when those stupid boys wouldn’t
talk to me. Surprisingly, Ron’s on my side (I know, you’re shocked, too. But he told Harry to
stop being a ‘self-flagellating idiot and pull his head out of his arse’ … self- flagellating — I
didn’t even know Ron knew that word!).
Ginny’s mad at Harry, too. It probably would have cheered you up, seeing the three of us
shouting. He’s an idiot, and I’ve told you already that what he said wasn’t true.
Yours,
Hermione
Happy Christmas Eve, Draco —
I’ve known you now for 3037 days and been married to you for 41 days.
I’ve never pretended a single moment of it. Never.
Please tell me what to do to make you believe me.
‘You know what, Draco? I’ve had enough of you sulking. I’ve apologized and I’ve told the
truth and you have NEVER IN YOUR LIFE believed bloody Harry Potter before so why start
now?????
I refuse to spend tomorrow’s Christmas dinner sitting at the Burrow and pretending that
everything is just fine when it’s not! I don’t even know where you are, or if you’re okay, or if
you where we stand, or what to do with the bloody gift I got you
The war may be over, but it still exists, only now it’s inside of us — I’m not an enemy, Draco.
I’m not some villain lying in wait and pretending, and if you’ve convinced yourself I am, then
you’re wrong stupid mad!
I’m YOUR wife
I’m about to go do something foolish and if I end up in Azkaban I expect you’ll bail me out,
Hermione’
Madam Rosmerta has run The Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade for decades; and she’s also
half-owner at The Leaky Cauldron, though she’s not usually there when the school year is in
session. Since the announcement of her marriage to Kingsley, she’s been missing from both
establishments, and new managers have taken her place.
Hermione remembers Rosmerta — she remembers all the Hogwarts boys’ obsessions with
her, how pretty she was, how she always smiled and listened when they talked.
Most clearly, she has remembered something Ron said once — that Rosmerta had been
furious in the third year, when The Three Broomsticks had been searched twice by the
Ministry in the hunt for Sirius Black, and how she had threatened to call her friends in the
Department of Magical Law Enforcement to stop the randomized searches.
The thought had occurred to her after she had (secretly) borrowed Harry’s invisibility cloak, a
perk of yelling at him the previous night. She had searched the entire Leaky Cauldron
establishment, looking for any insight into Rosmerta’s behavior. There had been nothing —
but then again, Hermione had remembered Ron’s words, and how Rosmerta spent the
majority time at the Three Broomsticks, not the Leaky Cauldron.
She apparates to Hogsmeade under the cloak, nostalgic for a moment for the days when
Harry and Ron would be under it beside her, all of them still small enough to stay hidden.
The Three Broomsticks would close shortly — her last opportunity before the Christmas
holidays. Hermione strategically waits until the door opens and a few people exit, and she
slips silently inside.
It’s fairly empty, with only two tables of people sitting quietly. An unfamiliar wizard is
manning the bar, and Hermione takes her time walking softly through the pub, careful not to
step on any creaky floorboards.
Memories assail her — some good, some bad. How often she had sat in the corner booth,
rolling her eyes when Ron’s obvious crush on Rosmerta had appeared.
She sneaks upstairs, opening each of the doors with a hushed alohamora, and peeking inside.
The Three Broomsticks has fewer rooms for their Inn that the Leaky had, and she completes
her search quickly and fruitlessly.
From experience, she knows that most of the Hogsmeade buildings have a basement, and she
steps carefully back down the stairwell to find the customers all gone, and the barkeep
sweeping the floor. He’s humming tunelessly to himself, and Hermione breathes deeply
before she heads behind the bar.
There’s a door in the floor, the same way there had been in the Hog’s Head. She lifts it as
quietly as she can, wincing at each creak.
The stairwell down is dark as night, and Hermione doesn’t dare light a lumos until she closes
the door behind her. She extends her shaking legs out to find each step, careful to keep the
invisibility cloak from tripping her up.
The basement is full of the expected — butterbeer kegs and firewhiskey casks alongside a
few boxes of old dishware, and plenty of dust.
The barkeep’s sweeping and mechanical steps creak above her reassuringly; Hermione takes
her time, opening each bin and returning it exactly as she finds it when there’s nothing
important inside.
She’s nearly given up when she finally finds it.
An old keg, larger than her by far and impossible to move, sits in one corner. She wouldn’t
have noticed it at all, except for the slightest scratches on the flooring in front of it, all in the
same direction. Unlike most of the other kegs, there’s no dust in front of it, only on top of it.
It’s been dragged on this floor, and often, if the markings are any sign.
She pulls as hard as she can, but the keg doesn’t budge at all. Her whispered leviosa is
useless as well. Hermione casts every diagnostic spell she knows, looking for any trick to the
mechanism.
It’s not until she snakes her arm behind the keg and feels around that she finds anything —
and what she finds couldn’t be more unexpected.
It’s a wheel. It’s tucked so neatly behind, and so far back, that only someone with very
slender arms would be able to reach it.
A woman, for example.
Hermione spins the wheel slowly and watches in the dim lighting as the keg grinds against
the floor. She pauses with each turn, listening for the barkeep’s movements.
She doesn’t dare open it all the way; instead, Hermione squishes herself in as soon as she can,
finding herself in a dark tunnel. She closes the entrance behind herself, praying that it’s the
right decision and she won’t need a quick escape.
The tunnel is long, and she feels as though she’s been walking for almost an hour. Her
dimmed lumos is just enough to guide her steps; it’s so similar to the Hog’s Head tunnel that
Hermione wonders if she’ll suddenly end up in Hogwarts castle, and have unearthed a secret
that even didn’t the Marauders didn’t know about.
The anti-apparition wards lift as the floor slopes upwards — it’s a relief to know she can once
again escape at a moment’s notice.
She extinguishes her lumos at the top of the tunnel and presses her ear against the
floorboards.
She waits — Hermione has never been patient, but she forces herself to sit still and be sure.
There’s no noise from above her, just a gentle light that outlines the panels.
Hermione eases the floor door up, slow and steady. The room she enters is another basement,
this one much less dusty. The light shines out from a single lightbulb.
A lightbulb!
She pokes around quietly, finding more unexplainable Muggle contraptions, and bins filled
with picture books of unfamiliar faces that don’t move.
It’s not until she gently pries open a rubber bin that Hermione feels the understanding dawn.
It’s filled to the brim with children’s toys and books.
All with battery compartments and unmoving pictures.
There was a child — a non-magical child. A child that Madam Rosmerta had gone to
extensive lengths to hide and protect.
Just enough leverage to get her to do almost anything.
Hermione swallows back her dawning horror, and creeps up the basement stairs to the
doorway at the top. She hears nothing beyond, and carefully eases the door open.
The house, when she finally sees it, is unremarkable. It’s a lovely little home, decorated with
cozy furnishings. The fridge stinks of rot as soon as she pulls it open, the food long expired.
Hermione closes it as quickly as she can without slamming it.
Although the home has no upstairs, she finds a large bedroom by the front door. It’s got a
mussed bed that would easily fit two, and an entire collection of magical books shoved onto
the tallest shelf.
Another bedroom is on the opposite end of the house — absolutely as far as it could be from
the other. It holds a small child’s bed, toys scattered over a comfortable carpet, and what
appears to be a working television set.
There’s blood on the floor — enough blood to send Hermione scrambling backwards, her
heart slamming into her throat. The last time she’d seen this much blood, people had died.
Someone had died in this house; in this child’s bedroom, standing before the bed.
Hermione balls her hands against her stomach — she can almost picture Harry’s life, his
mother standing before his crib and daring Voldemort to kill her, daring him to cast the blow
that would ensure her son’s survival.
A loud crack outside the door startles her, and instincts born of war send her apparating away
as fast as she can.
Hermione had learned the hard way that instantly apparating to your destination could be a
deadly mistake; she still has nightmares about being followed into Grimmauld Place. After
that day, she had developed a system with the boys where they would always apparate to a
second location first, then to their endpoint. It had saved their lives many times.
Which is why Hermione finds herself standing in the Forest of Dean, a place she had sworn
to never return to, with her heart pounding and knuckles clenched white over her wand.
She waits silently, barely breathing, but no apparition follows her own.
A warmth on her wrist draws her attention for a moment, and Hermione glances down to
stare at the bracelet she has rarely removed since it was given to her.
The azure stones are hot against her skin — and Hermione remembers Draco’s words: ‘If you
are ever in danger, you can simply touch it and call for me in your mind. I will apparate to
you — no matter if I’ve never been in the location before’
She’s tempted to slap her hands to the bracelet immediately and drag her stubborn husband
straight to the Forest with her, but Hermione knows better than to act without forethought.
Draco is just as smart as she is; something she’s learned in the past two months.
He won’t come, not unless he truly believes she’s in danger.
But now she has a plan.
Since her marriage to Draco, Malfoy Manor recognizes her as an official Malfoy, which
means she’s welcome whenever and wherever she pleases inside.
So far, she hasn’t pleased.
Now, however, determination pulses through her as well as panic. She’s been where she
wants to go before, and she could find her way back there without trying.
She lands hard on familiar, cold marble floors.
Her bracelet is cool again on her wrist, and Hermione just prays she’s correct about her
theory.
She swallows hard before looking up and finds the room almost exactly the way it appears in
her nightmares.
The only difference she can see is there are no doors or windows anymore — this place has
become unplottable to any witch or wizard who’s never been inside.
But she’s been here before; she forces her shaking legs to take exactly twelve steps and stops
only when she stands on the familiar spot that changed her life.
Hermione looks up — a few wall sconces have lit up with her apparition. The chandelier is
missing from the ceiling; the wreckage cleared away from the floor.
Her breath is coming in gasping waves, and for the first time since her very first panic attack,
Hermione doesn’t fight it. She lets it overwhelm her, lets her terror run rampant.
She imagines Bellatrix Lestrange standing in front of her, demanding answers to questions
she either doesn’t know or can’t answer.
She imagines Ron’s screams of fury and Lucius’ raised brows and the evil in his gaze.
Hermione slaps her hand down on her bracelet — it’s so bloody hot it feels as though it could
light her arm on fire. Nausea turns her stomach into knots, and she’s concerned for a moment
that she might faint. She focuses as hard as she can on her memory of Draco’s terrified face;
reality seems to shift — suddenly, he’s standing in front of her again.
Draco’s hands band across her biceps like iron and he’s shouting something, but all the sound
seems to be sucked into nothingness, and Hermione’s so fucking glad to see him, even here,
even in this place where everything is awful.
She’s shoved nearly into his collarbone, and the snap of apparition barely concerns her, not
until she can feel plush carpet under her knees and Draco’s nonsense words in her ear.
“Where are we?” Hermione asks raggedly — her voice is hoarse, and she wonders if she was
shouting as well.
“Home, we’re at home, you stupid witch,” Draco says, his breath hot on her ear. “What were
you thinking?”
“You’re stupid,” she says weakly. There’s no brainpower left for delicate repartee.
He’s still clutching her almost stiflingly close to him, and Hermione realizes she’s still
holding onto her bracelet with one hand, and her fingers have gone numb. She peels them
back one by one and slowly wraps her arms around Draco in return.
“My bracelet works.”
Draco laughs wetly in her ear, and her own tears are still streaking down her face. “I got your
note you were going to do something stupid and then suddenly all I felt was this terror, you
have no idea—”
“Oh,” Hermione argues, “I have an idea.”
He goes silent, and they sit in their front room on their knees, just holding each other.
Hermione gathers all the anger and arguments and reassurance she’s been wanting to throw at
him and breathes.
He waits; unlike her, Draco is patient.
“I’m so mad at you,” she finally tells him.
He pulls away only enough that he can meet her eyes. “You’re mad at me?!”
“Yes,” Hermione snaps, “Because you believed Harry over me. Because you just ran away
instead of talking to me. You scared me.”
“Oh, and you didn’t just give me a heart attack?!” Draco hisses, silver eyes narrowed. The
way he’s still clutching at her belies his anger.
“Yes, and myself one,” Hermione glares. “You weren’t answering me, and it’s almost
Christmas.”
Draco gapes, “You’re daft.”
She tries again. “I know you were mad. I know Harry said something stupid, and it hurt you,
but it’s not true, you absolutely must know that.”
“I do,” Draco agrees, closing his eyes.
“You — what?!”
“I do know that.” Draco answers. This time, when he pulls away, he finally lets her go. It’s
unwelcome, to be sitting before him without his arms around her.
A cold weight settles in her heart — maybe… maybe this wasn’t about her pretending at all,
but instead, about him.
Gryffindors are supposed to be brave; Hermione is, and she knows it, but she’s never felt fear
like this before, not even during the war.
Anger, however, is an emotion she’s comfortable with.
“You left me!” She shouts — her voice, it seems, still has some power left after all. “I thought
you were hurt, but you were just a coward.”
Anger lights in Draco’s eyes and Hermione braces herself; he knows exactly where to strike,
where to cut, to make her bleed.
“I’m the coward?” He spits, “Then tell me, what is it, exactly, that I’m afraid of, Hermione?”
“You’re afraid you like me,” Hermione yells, throwing shaking hands out at her side. “You’re
afraid that I like you. That this isn’t so bad. That maybe a mudblood isn’t so bad, and Lucius
was wrong!”
Draco’s face has gone cold, but she knows him now. He’s furious; he’s scared, and he’s angry,
and she’s crossed a line by saying mudblood and bringing up his father at all. She knows it —
but she’s so tired.
“You think you know everything,” Draco says quietly. It’s almost more frightening how calm
he is, but Hermione plows on.
“You are scared,” she accuses, then softens her voice. “You are. I know you are. I’m scared,
too. I told you that. I know I don’t belong in your world, Draco; I’ve always known—”
“Stop,” Draco says, lifting a heavy palm to interrupt her.
This time she’s willing to wait. He’s scowling, but he’s not running, and Hermione will deal
with his anger as long as he stays.
“We’re playing house, Hermione.” He murmurs, “And somehow, you think I’m the one
who’s trying to leave.”
“You just did leave!” Hermione protests angrily.
“Ask me who I avada’d.” He demands suddenly. “Ask me who I murdered, Granger.”
Hermione blinks — she’s not sure what she’s expecting, but it’s not this. Dread courses
through her; the war had made them into grief, into warriors, into creatures of splintered
spine and blood, and she has no doubt that Draco is as capable of great and terrible things as
she is.
What she needs to know, though, is why it’s so important.
“Who did you avada?” Hermione whispers.
Draco stares her down without a hint of regret or fear; if he’s feeling any emotions at all,
she’s not privy to them.
“On November 2nd, 1998, six months to the day that the battle ended,” Draco intones, “I
killed my father in his Azkaban cell.”
Hermione has no love for Lucius Malfoy, but her hand claps to her heart in shock. Draco has
just admitted to murder; not collateral damage of the war, as Greyback had been to her, but a
premeditated murder.
The repercussions of which she grasps instantly — Narcissa Malfoy, his beloved mother,
dead at 45.
“Your mother,” she breathes, and for the first time since Draco had demanded she ask, he
winces.
“I didn’t realize,” he says softly, “I knew they were bound, of course, but… well, the bond
had never prevented him from hurting her. I didn’t realize his death would cause her own.”
Silence falls between them, and Hermione’s thoughts spin with everything she’s learned
today.
“Why are you telling me this?” Hermione finally asks.
Draco clears his throat. “I was surprised when Potter said you were pretending —”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know,” Draco scowls, “I’m not stupid.”
Hermione matches his frown, “Then why didn’t you just come home, I wrote—”
“I’m in love with you—” Draco snaps. Hermione flinches at his volume, and stares as he
freezes infinitesimally after the words escape him; she’s surprised him into this declaration,
and in a very un-Slytherin move, he’s shown his hand.
“I’m in love with you, Hermione.” He repeats, more calmly this time. “You want to know
why I disappeared? That’s why. I watched for years as my mother fought to escape a man
who didn’t love her, and when she was finally free of him, I held the only person I ever loved
in my arms as she died, and it was my fucking fault. So no. I don’t think you’re pretending,
but I’m tired of watching another person I love destroy herself to get out of this.”
Hermione can’t help but gape — of the many things she imagined Malfoy may have thought
when Harry Potter said the word pretending; this was not one. He had told her, right from the
very beginning, that he didn’t want a marriage like his parents. The shock at knowing Draco
murdered his father has bled into acceptance; Draco Malfoy is many things, and one of them
has always been ruthless. Narcissa Malfoy had been the one thing he had always loved —
Hermione has no doubt that this weakness had been exploited throughout the war.
What leaves her filled with dread is the idea that she has somehow made him believe he is
anything like his father — has she done enough to tell him he’s nothing like Lucius? How
could he think that their marriage was something she wanted to escape, the same way his
mother had wanted to escape her own?
Hermione thinks of how easily she had said he’s mine to Harry. She thinks of how miserable
the last forty-eight hours have been; how she’d sobbed over a husband she had once thought
she didn’t want. How she’d missed him; missed his snark, and talking to him, and how he
read books over breakfast instead of mocking her for doing the same.
Hermione considers all the letters he has written her, and the way he had expected her to hide
away again after he had first made love to her. The way he has given everything; his Manor,
his money, his space, his forgiveness and apologies. He’s given so much more than she has to
this marriage.
It’s a wonder she hadn’t realized before — he’s in love with her.
And he thinks she’s dismantling the WPG to escape him.
“No!” Hermione blurts — Draco is easing away from her, his expression once again a mask.
“No?” Draco questions.
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. Hermione leans forward and falls into him with all the grace
her exhausted muscles have — she’s swimming in leftover adrenaline and desperate not to be
misunderstood.
“You killed your father to free your mother, didn’t you?” Hermione asks, holding tight so he
can’t escape. “Why then? Why November?”
“He’d been approved a Christmas visit home under Ministry supervision. I’d found mother
hiding when she heard the news, inconsolable.” Draco says emotionlessly.
Hermione swallows this information and carefully, gently, releases her hold on him and
presses her palms into his jawline, capturing his face before his.
“I’m muggle-born.” She says, brushing both thumbs against his cheeks softly.
“Shockingly, I’m quite aware of that fact,” Draco replies dryly.
He’s not pulling away, but there’s nothing but ice in his eyes. Hermione fights to find the
correct words — there is no right way to give this to him, but she’s desperate to try.
“I don’t want you to give up everything for me,” Hermione whispers. It’s foolish, but it
weighs on her — in a marriage with her, he loses his large ancestral Manor, his ledgers and
histories of pureblood heritage, and any dreams of tiny pureblood heirs running around he
might have had.
With her — he is a blood traitor, WPG or not.
Draco’s gaze never falters, but he raises his own warm hands and lays them on top of her
own, trapping her palms against his jaw.
“Listen to me, Granger,” he commands steadily. “There is an infinite number of things I

would sacrifice for you, and you’ve never asked me to give up any of them.”
Tears warp her vision. “I’m trying to dismantle the WPG to help people who are trapped in
loveless marriages. It’s never been about escaping you.” She says this all breathlessly — and
though it’s the truth, it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
“And when we dismantle it?” He asks — and she nearly chokes when he says we — how had
she not noticed that he is always, always, on her side.
“We’re nothing like your parents, Draco,” she whispers, the words dragged out of her like
bone and gristle, “there’s nothing here to fight or escape. I love you. I’m in love with you.”
“Say it again—” he demands, his hands dropping from hers to drag her closer to him. She
finds herself practically on his lap, arms twined behind his neck.
“I love you,” she says, “I’d marry you again — over and over and over again.”
She’s hardly capable of understanding how she winds up on her back in front of their
fireplace, but the carpet is still soft under her skin, and Draco is a blazing heat down her
front. He kisses her like he’s breathing her — his hands plunder in her tangled hair, and he
practically tears her blouse off in his haste.
She’s no help. She tugs at the hem of his shirt until he obliges her and removes it, and she
runs her fingers in claws down his back. She sucks on the pulse point on his neck and hopes
she leaves marks; hopes he carries her around with him for the rest of their life.
Draco slides down her body and makes use of his tongue — he curls into her and grips her
thighs until she’s shaking and repeating his name like a prayer. He’s incessant, and she snarls
fingers in his hair to pull him back up. He kisses her, and she tastes herself on his lips, and
when he slides into her, she wonders how the fuck she got this.
“Hermione,” he growls into her neck, and she answers him with a throaty cry when he snakes
a hand between them to rub at her clit until she’s clenching around him all over again. He
drives into her again and again until he’s gasping with passion, and finally stills.
The weight of him eventually turns from comforting to heavy, and she pushes at his ribs until
he rolls over. He mutters a scourgify and drags her over until she’s draped over him instead.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He raises an eyebrow, “I hope you’re not sorry for that.”
“No,” she protests, “that was excellent. I meant I’m sorry for making you feel like you
weren’t important.”
“It’s fine, Granger.”
“No, it’s not.” She argues. “It’s not fine. You’re important. We’re married.”
“That we are,” Draco agrees.
Hermione steels herself. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to stay that way.”
Draco eyes her, looking very much like that cat that caught the canary. “You’re sure?”
Hermione feels the corners of her lips turn up. “Very.”
"I don't care that you're muggle-born," Draco says.
Hermione whispers, "Say it again?"
Draco pulls her closer, and she curls her face into the warmth of his neck. His heart pounds
under her ear, steady and sure and honest.
"I don't care that you're muggle-born," he says into her hair. "I only care that you're mine."
"Okay," she agrees, and his arms tighten around her. The clock hovers right before the
midnight marker, and Hermione closes her eyes, thankful that for the first time in years, she
won't wake up alone on Christmas morning.
Christmas at the Burrow
Chapter Notes
Hello friends! Please enjoy this extra-long, jam-packed chapter that clocks in just under
10k. The next chapter is also a seasonal one, so that should be up around Christmas for
you :) As a reminder, please be conscious of the tags on this fic (for more details on this
particular chapter and the next few, there are extra tags on the bottom). Happy Holidays
everyone!
Saturday, December 25th, 1999 - Christmas Day
Despite his protesting muscles, Draco Malfoy is quite sure he’s woken up in far worse places
than in front of his long-cold fireplace. He groans lightly when he rolls away from Hermione,
his back protesting. He finds his wand and banishes his clothes to their bedroom, and casts a
weightless charm on his wife.
He lifts her with ease, and she blinks sleepily at the motion.
“Draco?” Her voice is sleepy, and when he shushes her she lays her head on his collarbone
and closes her eyes once again.
He settles her under the covers and clambers in after her, content that the sun hasn’t risen on
their Christmas morning yet, and there’s nowhere they need to be until later this evening.
He’s slept poorly for the past few nights, and he knows she’s had the same problem, judging
by the letters she had written in her journal to him.
When he next wakes up, he feels like he’s on fire — the blankets are heavy on him, but what
draws his attention is the feeling of cool fingers on his thighs.
Draco opens his mouth to say something, but chokes instead when he feels Hermione press
open-mouthed kisses to his inner thigh. Her hands slide around his hips and hold him still;
even without their gentle press, Draco thinks he wouldn’t be able to move if he tried.
“Good?” Hermione’s voice is muffled under their blankets, and the idea that he can’t see her
is suddenly so abhorrent that Draco throws the covers off them both.
Granger is settled between his legs, curly hair tied up in a ridiculous bun, and eyeing his
quickly forming erection with a smirk.
It’s quite possibly the most erotic sight Draco Malfoy has ever seen, and he hopes it’s burned
into his brain for the rest of his life.
“Granger—” he says hoarsely.
She doesn’t answer, just lifts a brow and sucks him into her mouth. His head flops back to the
pillow as her tongue skillfully lavs at his skin; and when the initial pleasure abates, Draco
props himself back up to watch his wife work.
Her cheeks hollow out as she sucks, and Draco plunges a hand into her curly hair, cradling it
gently. He groans when she pulls off him with a pop and wraps her slender fingers around
instead, pumping him slowly.
“Granger —” he warns, “this won’t last long.”
She grins and replaces her hand with her mouth again, humming quietly as she sinks down as
far as she can go.
“Merlin,” Draco chokes, “fucking hell, Granger.”
He loses the ability to speak when she speeds up her rhythm, sucking intensely until he feels
as though he can’t take the pressure — he’s seconds away from release when she pulls
entirely off of him. He’s gripping the sheets in one hand with clawed fingers, and his other
hand slips down to palm Hermione’s breast. She’s panting, and she clambers up his body
until she’s perfectly lined up and then sinks down on top of him.
She throws her head back as he fills her, and Draco’s clever fingers find her hips, moving her
gently. She finds her rhythm quickly, and Draco presses his thumb to her clit, making her
moan.
It’s a race to the finish after that — Draco is incessant. He watches as he disappears inside
her, and rubs at her until she’s writhing on top of him.
“I’m —” Hermione breathes, “please don’t stop.”
Draco couldn’t if he tried, and when she clenches down on him with a cry, he follows her
over at the same time.
He’s still panting, and Hermione’s slumped on top of him again, and even though he still
feels like he might die since he’s about a thousand degrees too warm, he doesn’t move. There
are worse ways to go.
“Merry Christmas,” Hermione mumbles into his skin and then rolls off. She doesn’t stray too
far, but now he can see her face.
“Bloody hell, Granger. If that was my Christmas present, I’m already excited for my
birthday.”
Hermione laughs, “That wasn’t your gift, but if I had known you’d accept sex I wouldn’t
have bothered shopping.”
She’s laying on his bicep, and he pulls the arm around until he’s skimming fingers up and
down her rib cage. She hums happily, and he watches her from inches away.
“Let it be known that sex is always an appropriate gift,” He mutters.
She huffs a laugh at his words, closing her eyes and breathing gently. It’s peaceful, in the
dawning sunshine filtering in through their window.
“I found something yesterday,” Hermione says slowly.
Draco flushes ice cold for a moment — the memory of the day before is so full of emotional
highs and lows he’s dreading talking about it. He had been sitting at a table with his journal
out, waiting for another message from Granger; something that would prove that whatever
stupid thing she had done, she had succeeded at and wouldn’t need bailing out from Azkaban,
when suddenly he had felt the strangest pull in his chest, and without thought he’d apparated
— nevermind that he’d been within anti-apparition charms, and didn’t even know where he
would end up.
“You mean when you did something stupid?” He asks, “What exactly did you do,
Hermione?”
She pulls her face back enough that she can see his expression. “I snuck into the Leaky
Cauldron and snooped around, and when I found nothing, I went to the Three Broomsticks
and did the same. Except… I found something.”
“About Madam Rosmerta?”
“Yes,” Hermione bites her lip tentatively. “I think… I think Madam Rosmerta had a muggle
husband. And a child… a non-magical child.”
“A squib,” Draco breathes. “She’s not pureblood and has never cared about blood status.
Why would she be hiding a muggle husband and child?”
Hermione shrugs. “Having a squib is pretty embarrassing in the wizarding world, right? The
Weasley’s have a squib cousin, and they don’t talk about her, even though they’re pretty
tolerant as wizarding families go.”
“True. The Ministry doesn’t even register children believed to be Squibs — there won’t be
any record of Madam Rosmerta’s child if she has one.”
Hermione frowns. “I bet there’s a muggle record of the child. I think… I think the dad must
be dead.”
She explains the entire story to Draco — how there were bloodstains in front of the child’s
bed, and they know Rosmerta’s alive, so who else would die defending the child?
When she mentions that someone had apparated into the house and she’d escaped, Draco’s
expression darkens.
“They must have had wards and charms on the house that notified them of trespassers,” He
says. “That means that whoever is controlling Rosmerta is still monitoring the house. We
have to assume the child is still alive.”
Hermione sighs. “I thought the same. It explains why she’s willing to give out information.
What I don’t understand is Kingsley — there is absolutely no way that Kingsley is behind it
all, or threatening a child. He’s a good man.”
“You’re probably right. It hardly seems like he’d turn around after fighting against Voldemort
and then threaten kids and force marriages. Someone is controlling him.”
Draco watches as Hermione scowls; she’s got the same expression on now that she gets
whenever she encounters a particularly problematic arithmancy problem. It’s rather fetching
and reminds him of many days in Hogwarts library, where he’d be glaring from across the
library and wondering how someone could be so maddeningly annoying, but also so pretty.
“I’m going to make some tea,” He says. Hermione could sit and think in silence for hours if
he let her. “Let’s sit by the tree and enjoy Christmas.”
She nods, but her expression doesn’t change. Draco laughs and drops a kiss on her hair
before he rolls out of bed. He pulls on his most comfortable pants and a knit sweater.
The cottage is chilly outside of their bedroom, and Draco ignites the fireplace with a flick of
his wand.
“Juney,” he calls.
The little house-elf appears instantly, and her enormous eyes take in the cottage with joy.
“Master Malfoy is home,” Juney announces. “Oh, Juney is so glad. Lady Malfoy was
breaking Juney’s heart with her cries.”
Draco winces — he hadn’t realized Hermione had been calling for the house-elf.
“I’m sorry,” he says instantly, “I didn’t realize that me leaving would inhibit you from
visiting. You’re always free to see Hermione, even if I’m not around.”
Juney’s eyes light up, “Truly? Thank you, Master!”
“It’s Draco and Hermione — you might as well use our names, Juney. Hermione’s been
asking you to.”
Juney reaches up and grasps her own crooked ears in both fists, “Oh, Juney could never, no
sir, you are too kind sir, thank you.”
Draco sighs. It’s a lost cause getting Juney to do away with titles, and despite Granger’s
request, Draco has a feeling the house-elf will not be swayed. “I was hoping you would bring
us a spot of breakfast?”
“Of course, Master Malfoy,” Juney’s practically vibrating with excitement.
“And then, since it’s Christmas, you can take the rest of the day off. Why don’t you see if
Thelma is free and you can spend your day with her, Juney? I’m sure Theo won’t mind.”
Juney bows so low her little ears touch their floor, and when she straightens up, her large blue
eyes are filled with tears. Draco shifts uncomfortably, but he’s saved from the emotional
outburst when Hermione appears from the hallway.
“Juney!” She greets, “I’m so glad you’re back.”
Juney turns her weepy gaze to his wife. “Lady Malfoy, Juney is so very sorry she couldn’t
answer your calls!”
Hermione waves her apology. “Don’t worry! Thelma told me you couldn’t answer. You did
nothing wrong.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“It’s Hermione,” Hermione repeats for the umpteenth time, “and I’ve gotten you a gift!”
She presents Juney with a little box and a card, and the house-elf eyes it warily. Draco bites
back laughter — the little creature is probably still concerned Granger’s going to be giving
her clothes.
“Open it!” Hermione says excitedly.
Juney’s hardly the one to refuse, so she opens the card slowly to see Hermione’s messy
writing. It reads: ‘To Juney — our hardest worker and truest friend. Love, The Malfoy’s’.
Draco swallows a sudden lump in his throat at the words — he hasn’t seen ‘The Malfoy’s’ in
writing for so long, and something warms in his chest when he realizes Hermione chose those
words purposefully.
Juney cradles the card, forgetting the small box and stares up at Hermione with large
crocodile tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. She looks lost for words, but Hermione
gestures impatiently at the box.
“Open the rest.”
Juney stares at the box and opens it slowly to reveal a little silver necklace.
“I know you didn’t want clothes,” Hermione explains immediately, “but I thought you might
like an accessory. I don’t know if house-elves wear silver…”
Juney’s tears are back in full force again. “This is the nicest gift Juney has ever received.”
She puts the necklace on with surprisingly deft fingers, and a small little silver “J” with a
sparkly diamond next to it reflects back. Draco’s never seen a house-elf wear jewellery
before, and he supposes it’s because so few house-elves are allowed to own anything of
worth.
“It looks lovely, Juney,” Draco says without thinking. He’s rewarded when Hermione beams
at him.
Juney clutches her card close to her chest with one hand and holds her new necklace with the
other. Hermione bends down to hug her shaking shoulders gentle.
“Juney has never been so honoured,” the house-elf cries.
“Merry Christmas, Juney,” Hermione says. “I’m glad you like it.”
Juney sniffs heartily and turns back to Draco with a crooked smile, “Thank you. Both of
you.”
She disapparates quickly, and Draco stares at the spot where she had been only moments
before.
“That was very nice of you,” Hermione says. Draco snaps his gaze up to see his wife
grinning at him.
“What?” Draco asks, “I didn’t even know you’d gotten her a gift.”
“Not that,” Hermione laughs. “I mean, you gave her Christmas off, and apologized to her for
not letting her see me. It was nice of you.”
Draco rolls his eyes, turning back to the tea in an attempt to hide the flushing on his cheeks.
“Yes, well, my wife has informed me that I must be polite even to house-elves.”
Her slender arms band across his stomach suddenly, and she presses into his spine. “Your
wife is very pleased you listened to her,” she murmurs. The heat of her on his back is
intoxicating, and he turns in her embrace to look down at her. She’s staring up at him with a
soft expression, one that he’s never really seen before.
“Merry Christmas, Granger.” He mutters.
She smiles. “It’s Hermione to you, remember?”
“I like Granger better,” he protests. “Reminds me of the good old days in Potions when your
hair would grow three sizes while you’d outsmart everyone in the room, all while glaring at
me.”
She laughs, “Somehow I don’t remember those as the good old days.”
He huffs. “You’re probably right. I do recall having to dodge some of Goyle’s more miserable
attempts at potions.”
“At least you didn’t sit by Seamus.”
He chuckles at that and releases her when the kettle begins whistling. He pours them both tea,
doctoring them the way they like, and hands her mug to her. They move to the couch, and he
sits down in his favourite spot. She curls up close to him and tugs the familiar green blanket
over their legs.
It’s not so long ago that he remembers her sitting on the opposite end of the couch, terrified at
every inch that disappeared between them.
“I loved my Christmas gift,” she says slowly.
Draco huffs, “Yes, well I’ve been telling you that your talents and brain are being wasted at
the Ministry. You work in a tiny office, Granger — an office! For the brightest damn witch of
our age!”
“It’s a nice office,” she protests.
“Sure,” Draco agrees, “for people who push papers and send bloody memos.”
“Well, I do those things.”
Draco laughs, “I know! That’s the point. Why are you doing those things? I read the proposal
you handed in for the Werewolf Business Loans, you know.”
“What?! When did you read that?” Hermione demands.
Draco shrugs, “I don’t know, a few weeks ago. Your boss shut you down, didn’t he?”
She scowls darkly. “Yes, but it needed a few revisions on section—”
“Hermione,” he interrupts gently, “there was nothing wrong with that proposal. There are no
revisions in this world that would get the Ministry to agree with you.”
She clamps her mouth closed, the smallest pout appearing. “Well, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you use ‘The Granger Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings’ and
hire the four board members the funding allows. Pick four of the best people for the job —
you’re good at this, Hermione. I didn’t just do this as a Christmas present whim. This is what
you were born to do.”
Her eyes fill with tears and Draco sighs — it seems he’s doomed to some sort of emotional
outburst this morning, whether wife or house-elf.
“Draco… this money… it’s so much.” She whispers, swallowing audibly.
He sighs. “Granger — look. Remember how I said you’re good at all this stuff? Well, I’m
good at money.”
“Just because you have a lot of money doesn’t mean you’re good with it, Draco.” Hermione
admonishes.
He laughs, hard enough that he spills a little tea on their blanket. Hermione is scowling at his
outburst.
“Why are you laughing?” She demands.

“Hermione,” he says gently, “I inherited the Malfoy estate when my father went to Azkaban.
Since that time, I’ve grown our Gringotts accounts back to where we were prior to the war.”
“Okay?”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Upon inheriting, the Malfoy estate and all related businesses were
worth just over 300 million Galleons.”
Hermione’s eyes go comically wide, and Draco narrowly catches her tea when her fingers go
limp. He sets the cup on their table over top of a few older rings from other mugs in the past.
It takes his wife nearly three minutes to regain speech — Draco counts. He’s never seen her
speechless for more than 48 seconds before.
“But that’s… that converts to… I don’t even know the math—”
Draco smirks, “It converts to approximately 1.2 billion muggle pounds.”
Her fingers are shaking lightly, and he catches them in his own, settling her. She’s still staring
at him with the oddest expression of dismay and disbelief.
“Are you… are you telling me we’re bloody billionaires?”
Draco laughs, and half shrugs. Her expression grows suddenly wilder.
“But — but we live in a cottage! I’ve made you live in a cottage! With only one bedroom!”
Draco watches as she works herself up. “Granger. I like our cottage.”
“You… you…” Hermione heaves a sigh. “I don’t know what to do about this.” She flops
backwards on the couch and throws a hand to her forehead. She looks so much like a wilting
damsel in some medieval play that Draco can’t keep from laughing.
“You don’t have to do anything about this. I’m only telling you because you were worried
about the Granger Foundation. The money is there, Hermione. You can do whatever you
think is best with it.”
She pulls herself together and reaches for her teacup and brings it to her lips to sip heartily.
When she looks slightly less shell-shocked, Draco sneaks an arm around her shoulders.
“Aren’t you glad you married me now?” He jokes.
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “I was glad I married you before I knew I was one of the
wealthiest witches in Great Britain.”
“Granger,” he complains, “are you not listening? You’re the wealthiest witch in Britain.
Probably in the bloody world.”
She laughs helplessly, sneaking out of his hold to clamber to her feet. “Wait there — I’ve got
to get your Christmas gift. Had I known you had galleons coming out of your ears, I might
not have bothered.”
He chuckles as she disappears back down their hallway. It feels nice to surprise her in a good
way, to be able to show her he can provide for her. Draco’s always known his money made
him valuable. It had been a lesson his father had instilled young. Still, during the Hogwarts
years, Hermione had always made him feel as though it wasn’t important — and it had taken
him until the height of the war when suddenly all the galleons in the world couldn’t solve
their problems, for him to realize that she had been correct all that time.
So he likes the cottage. He likes that, unlike Malfoy Manor, he simply has to walk ten feet
and he can be wherever he wants; he likes that sometimes he has to hunt down enough room
on their bookshelves for his newest acquisitions, and that their cabinet has become so filled
with their mugs that it sometimes spills into the plate section.
It’s nice — not in the same way the Manor was, with ballrooms and sparkling crystal
chandeliers, and hallways that as a boy he had raced down — but in how it’s cozy and warm,
and he simply has to call Hermione’s name for her to hear him.
She re-emerges into their living room, clutching what appears to be yet another book
wrapped in festive paper. Draco almost laughs but resists the temptation at the last second.
She plops down on the couch and thrusts it into his hands.
“Merry Christmas, Draco,” she says. “It’s not much.”
Draco grins, “Another book?”
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t answer.
There’s no card, so he tears the wrapping paper with ease. It’s not a book — instead, it’s a
detailed frame gilded in gold. Inside it is a photo he’s never seen before.
Surprisingly, it’s not from their impromptu photoshoot at Nott Manor — it’s in front of the
Burrow, of all places.
Hermione is standing in her wedding gown, the slightest of breezes rustling it in the photo.
Draco has a single palm pressed against her back, and over and over the photo captures the
way she tilts her face towards him and begins to smile. The sunshine bleeds down on them,
making Draco’s hair shine nearly white, and his answering smile is easy.
“Wow.”
Hermione’s fingers are interwoven, the most imperceptible of tremors shaking them. “It’s not
much, I know, but—”
“Granger—” he swallows. “It’s nice. It’s really nice. Thank you.”
Her expression clears. “I liked it. Ginny took it, you know. I didn’t even realize she had a
camera.”
Draco glances towards their kitchen, where the single black-and-white photo from the
Quibbler still holds a place of honour.
“So this is the actual first picture of us?” He asks.
She nods. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s our only wedding photo.”
He stares down at the image in front of him — he watches it on loop: them smiling at each
other as though the WPG didn’t exist, and they were just two people who got married by
choice.
“You looked lovely in that dress,” he murmurs, brushing gentle fingers on the picture. “We
should have thought to take more photos.”
Hermione’s hand snags his, and when he glances up, he finds the same smile from the photo
directed at him. It’s just as sweet as it is in the frame below.
“I still have the dress,” she says shyly. “We can always take photos.”
He sets the frame on the low coffee table in front of them and wraps his arm around her
shoulder and tugs her close. She comes willingly.
“Thank you,” he says, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“You’re very hard to shop for,” she complains. “Did you know that?”
Draco laughs, “My mother often told me the same thing.”
Juney reappears in their kitchen, plates of food levitating before her. It’s all of Draco’s
favourite breakfast foods, and they settle gently on their little table.
“Thank you, Juney,” Hermione says, still coiled into his side on the couch.
“The Malfoys are most welcome,” Juney declares. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Juney.” Draco answers.
The Burrow is on the same list as Azkaban as a place he’s never wanted to spend Christmas
at, and yet Draco finds himself apparating there alongside Hermione with minimal
complaining. The sun has just begun setting, and he supposes he can live with a few hours of
the Weasley family since he had spent most of his Christmas coiled around Hermione in
some form or another.
The Burrow, when they arrive, is filled with loud voices and laughter — every light seems to
be on, and the aroma of food is heavy in the air. While Draco doesn’t make a habit of
complimenting Weasleys, he’s quite sure he’s going to spend a large portion of the evening
telling Molly Weasley how good her cooking really is.
Hermione doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and enters, dragging Draco along
behind her.
“Malfoy,”
Draco turns to see Harry Potter standing awkwardly by the stairwell. Hermione’s expression
goes dark, and she eyes her best friend with barely concealed annoyance. Draco has to stifle a
smile, seeing the glare that had haunted him throughout Hogwarts suddenly being directed at
Potter.
“Potter,” Draco replies.
Harry spares Hermione a glance and heaves a sigh. “I’m very sorry for what I said before.
I’m a right arse, and I feel terrible.”
Hermione’s glare breaks up, a smile spreading easily across her face, and Draco rolls his eyes
at her total inability to stay angry with either of her best friends.
“It’s fine, Potter. Apology accepted.” He huffs.
Hermione squeezes his hand gently. “I’m very proud of you both.”
“Thanks, mum,” Potter quips, turning away and bee-lining for the kitchen.
Hermione laughs. “He’s been practicing that apology for the past two days — Ginny even
made him sleep on the couch.”
Draco laughs despite himself; to know that even the Weaselette was on his side is happiness
all its own.
Hermione tugs him forward, and they end up in the kitchen. It’s barely contained chaos, and
Draco abruptly realizes just how much the Weasleys had restrained themselves on their
wedding day. By now, Draco recognizes most of the Weasley family members, and he sees
Charlie and Arthur gathered with Percy, all three deep in discussion. Daphne is leaning gently
on the far wall, smiling easily with Parvati at some sort of joke George is sharing. Harry slips
out the back door but doesn’t go far, stopping beside Ginny, where she’s chatting with Ron
and Hannah.
There is another woman standing by Molly in the kitchen, and it takes Draco a moment to
place her. Fleur Delacour, the great beauty of Beauxbatons from their fourth year — Veelas,
Draco has since learned, are nearly irresistible, and Fleur’s half-Veela heritage had caused
quite the uproar in Hogwarts boys during the Tournament.
Draco glances at Hermione to find her already watching him, a frown darkening her face.
Impulsively, Draco swoops down and kisses her quickly, pulling away before she responds so
he can enjoy the surprise light up in her eyes.
“I didn’t know Fleur married a Weasley.” He says cautiously.
“Yes, she married Bill during the war,” Hermione explains, her frown still lingering. “They
have a daughter, Victoire. She’s somewhere around here.”
Draco wisely drops the topic; he’s observant, and anyone could notice Hermione’s tense
frame. Something about Fleur upsets her. He tucks an arm around her waist and pulls her
closer to him until she slowly relaxes into his side.
“Hermione!” Mrs. Weasley calls when she spots them. “So wonderful you and Draco could
make it, dear.”
“Happy to be here,” Hermione answers easily. “Can I help you with anything?”
“If you could get everyone sitting, that would be great. Dinner is ready!” Mrs. Weasley raises
the volume on the final word, catching the attention of her family.
Draco moves to step towards the table and is nearly taken out by a blur of movement at his
knees. A small girl stares up at him, hair so blonde it nearly matches his own. It’s an
incongruous sight in the Burrow.
“Hello,” the child says softly.
“Victoire,” Hermione greets, “This is Draco.”
Victoire narrows her eyes. “You have hair like mummy.”
Draco can feel the flush rising in his cheeks, but he is saved from responding when Bill
appears grinning at his daughter. He scoops her up wildly, and she bursts into giggles,
pressing tiny fingers gently against his scarred cheeks.
“Victoire, stop embarrassing our guests and come eat,” Bill teases, toting his daughter to the
table in his arms.
Hermione hums under her breath. “Please tell me you’re not part Veela and I’ve been
oblivious all this time.”
Draco laughs. “Not that I’m aware of, Granger.”
The table slowly fills — Astoria appears at the last moment, snagging the open seat between
Daphne and himself. Her arms are crossed tightly on her chest, the opposite of her sister, who
has her fingers tangled with Percy’s on the table in front of her. George and Parvati take their
place on the other side of Ron, who has an arm slung on the back of Hannah’s chair. Hannah
is looking better than she had been when they had last seen her at Theo’s house, but Draco
watches her full wine glass with wary eyes.
“Molly, you’ve outdone yourself,” Arthur Weasley announces when Mrs. Weasley finally sits
at his side. She’s flushed red, but absolutely beaming.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m very glad you could all be here this year,” Molly replies. “It’s been a…
unique year, but I’m grateful for every holiday with my family, and I’m especially pleased to
have so many new members of our family join us at the table this year. Happy Christmas.”
Draco is warmed by her words, and judging by the tears pooling in Daphne’s eyes, he is not
the only one.
“Let’s eat!” Ron cries, plopping mashed potatoes down on his plate.
“Ronald,” Hermione hisses — but her admonishment is lost in the cacophony of all the
Weasleys digging into the spread in front of them. Conversations explode outwards, everyone
dragged into some sort of discussion, laughter and smiles all around.
Draco’s never seen anything like it. He’s watched his mother organize countless dinner
parties, most with even more guests than are currently at the Weasleys, but they had always
been rigid. Everyone had been formal and polite — no two conversations happened at the
same time.
Now, he watches as George throws a bun down the length of the table into Charlie’s waiting
hands, and Victoire slams both meaty palms down on her plate, covering Bill in gravy.
He glances at Astoria, sitting so tightly beside him. Her face looks tight, almost as though
she’s in pain.
“Strange, isn’t it?” She murmurs quietly before he can think to even say hello or ask her
what’s troubling her.
He knows from Hermione that Astoria has been living in the Burrow for the past few weeks,
while Charlie stays in Romania most of the time for work. She’s been exposed to this the
entire time — and how different it is from their childhood.
“You could say that again.” He answers, delicately taking a bite of the turkey. It’s delicious,
as he had expected.
Astoria looks at him for the first time since she had appeared in the room. She is pale and
drawn; she had always been beautiful in school, with luminous dark eyes and long hair, but
now she seems a shadow of herself.
“You seem happy.”
Draco swallows at her words. He can hear Hermione laughing at something beside him, can
feel the way her shoulder rubs against his whenever she moves.
He considers Astoria’s words carefully. He knows what he would have said in school — he
knows what his father would have said, what Astoria expects to hear from him.
“I am.” He says firmly, instead.
Her eyes widen the tiniest amount, but her lips turn into a semblance of a smile. Draco
realized he’d almost forgotten what her smile looked like. “I’m glad. Daphne’s happy, too.”
Draco nods. “And what of you, ‘Stori?”
Her smile disappears, quickly as it had arrived. She lifts a hand to smooth the front of her
shirt and swallows.
“I am well,” she answers. The slightest tremble in her voice is the only thing that gives her
away.
“That’s bullshit,” Draco hisses. He keeps his expression neutral, careful not to draw the
attention of any Weasleys.
“I beg your pardon?” Astoria answers calmly.
Draco narrows his eyes. “That’s bullshit,” he repeats. “That’s what you’ve been told all your
life to say, but it’s not true. I’ve known you a long time, Astoria. Be honest with me.”
Astoria’s expression never changes, and she takes a delicate bite of her food instead of
answering. Draco has seen his mother do the same thousands of times — he had watched her
eat even with the Dark Lord at the table, and her expression had never wavered. No one on
this earth has emotional control the way Slytherin women do; Astoria is no exception.
“Let it go, Draco,” Astoria finally says. “Daphne is happy. I can be happy with that.”
He doesn’t want to let it go, but the look she gives him is so reminiscent of his mother, he
turns away. The food, though still delicious, sits heavily in his stomach now, and he can’t
quite finish his plate.
Ron Weasley, however, doesn’t have this problem. He’s serving himself seconds, talking
boisterously at Harry. Hannah’s smile becomes more strained with each gulp from her glass.
A tinkling noise draws everyone’s attention, and Draco is surprised to see Ginny Weasley
clanking a knife against a wine glass. Somewhere, Narcissa Malfoy is rolling in her grave
with each clumsy clunk.
“Oi, you lot, shut it!” Ginny shouts, “I’ve got something to say.”
In the wake of her words, the sudden silence is unnerving.
“First off, thanks mum and dad for having us for Christmas dinner. It’s delicious,” Ginny
says, nodding at her mother. “Anyway — we’re happy to announce that come June next year,
there will be another Potter at the table.”
If Draco had thought that dinner had been chaotic before, he was quickly proven wrong at the
outburst that occurred after Ginny’s words. Mrs. Weasley dissolves into loud joyous sobbing,
while Arthur Weasley leaps to his feet and hugs his only daughter so tightly she begins to
hover off the ground. Faster than Draco would have expected, Hermione appears beside Ron
and Harry and locks them into an embrace that seems almost strangling.
Daphne’s smile is tight, and her knuckles have gone white in Percy’s grip, but she says
“Congratulations,” and Astoria echoes her lightly.
Draco doesn’t offer congratulations — mostly because he’d hardly be heard in the uproar.
While the thought of another Potter would have once been his worst nightmare, Draco’s not
upset. Of all the couples he knows, Ginny and Harry are one of the few who were already
dating when they received their WPG match. Their wedding, and this pregnancy, were joyful
occasions with no strings attached.
Draco supposes that in the next year he’ll probably be watching many of his former
classmates become parents —
He swallows.
Only a few months ago, he had sat across from Hermione Granger as she declared she had to
find a loophole within the year to the WPG. At the time, he hadn’t been offended. So she
didn’t want children yet, or children with him — not surprising. Besides, he didn’t want
children either.
Now — now, though? Draco watches the pride flowing out of Harry Potter’s face, and the
way Ginny is resting her hand on her still flat stomach. He watches Victoire, with ruddy baby
cheeks and a wide smile, and how Bill brushes his hand over her near-white hair gently,
indulgence evident in his every pore.
It’s not something he’s ever thought about — he had been a child, and then he had been a
soldier. There had been no time to wonder what he might become as an adult, without the
war, without the trauma of the father; but then he had buried his mother and been given a
wife he’d never expected nor deserved.
Now, though… now Draco wonders if they could expand their cottage. He wonders if he has
what it takes to be more than his father was. He wonders if Hermione’s opinions have
changed — if she can see future curly-haired children running around as easily as he
suddenly can.
“Harry’s finally apologized for skipping out on Fortescue’s that night,” Hermione announces,
flopping down beside him and distracting him from his thoughts. “Turns out their St.
Mungo’s healer had gotten Ginny a last-minute appointment to confirm the pregnancy, so
Harry had to go.”
Draco forces himself to act casual, “Makes sense.”
Hermione pulls her wand and waves it at the empty plates on the table, and they jump into
the air at her command only to float over and pile themselves neatly beside the sink.
“If you’re all done eating, we’ll head into the family room,” Mr. Weasley announces,
“Victoire — guess what time it is?”
“Presents!” Victoire screams, attempting to wriggle away from her parents’ grasps. It takes
both Fleur and Bill’s wrangling to get her face and hands cleaned off before she goes racing
out a different doorway.
“Are you finished?” Hermione asks. Draco blinks and glances down at his plate. It’s not
empty, but he can’t handle another bite. He nods and watches as his plate levitates and joins
the other by the sink.
“Come on,” Hermione says, standing. Draco follows her into the Weasley family room,
which is filled with an abundance of overstuffed armchairs, and a long threadbare couch.
Each Weasley seems to have their favourite spots, and they all flop down with little care.
Hermione leads him all the way to a smaller settee and drags him down beside her. It’s
squishy, but Draco doesn’t mind.
The tree is tall but skinny, with lights flickering all around and presents wrapped in red and
gold spilling out from underneath it. Bill sits on the floor in front of it, and Victoire clambers
onto his lap easily, gesturing at the presents and babbling too fast to understand.
“Alright, Bill, hand one to everyone, will you?” Mrs. Weasley instructs. Bill begins handing
Victoire presents and directing her to hand them out to their recipients. To Draco’s surprise,
Victoire approaches him shyly and hands him a lumpy present, along with everyone else in
the room.
Draco has always been taught to take turns opening presents with his mother and father when
he was little, but the Weasley’s all rip into theirs at once. He supposes that with seven
children, Molly needed to adjust the one-at-a-time policy.
Everyone unwraps something knitted — Bill tugs his red sweater with the large “B” on the
front over his shirt and then helps Victoire pull on a little toque with pompoms that look like
teddy bear ears; even Draco has to admit it’s adorable.
Upon his unwrapping, Draco finds himself holding an emerald green scarf; it’s soft and
warm, and at the ends of each side is a small knitted snake. Hermione is grinning at him and
holding up red mittens, both with large yellow “H”s on the front.
With the wrapping paper flying everywhere, and the laughter echoing in the room, Draco
doesn’t notice at first — but Astoria is sitting in her own chair, a little back from the rest of
the circle. She’s clutching a cream-coloured sweater with the letter “A” stitched neatly on the
breast; it’s obvious from the tight-knit and tidy stitching that Mrs. Weasley, for whatever
reason, put more care into Astoria’s sweater than any other.
As he watches, Astoria sneaks a hand up and wipes at her eyes. Despite her cold attitude, he
notices she drags her thumb gently over the knitwear, and the smallest smile hints at her
mouth. He’s still staring when she glances up, and they make eye contact. She looks away
and drops the sweater as though it has burned her.
Draco desperately wants to push; he’s tempted to sit beside her and dig and dig until he
discovers why a sweater of all things could upset her, but it’s not the time.
“That colour is lovely, Ron.” Hermione’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he’s dragged back
into the conversation. Hermione is frowning at Ron Weasley, who is tugging on the hem of
his new sweater with something akin to disdain.
“Since when do I not get red?” Ron complains.
Arthur Weasley tuts, “Ron, stop your whinging and thank your mother.”
Ron dutifully thanks his mother, but makes another face at Hermione. “It’s periwinkle.”
Harry Potter laughs, “It’s blue, mate. It’s not so bad. Matches your hair a right sight better
than red does, if you ask me.”
Ron rolls his eyes, but any argument is lost when Victoire receives the next round of presents.
They all watch her open, cheering at the right spots. She tears into the wrapping paper with
glee, and all the Weasleys are indulgent as she shouts with excitement.
Upon sipping at his firewhiskey and discovering both his own glass and Hermione’s empty,
Draco sneaks out of the family room and back to the kitchen. It’s blessedly quiet in there, and
despite knowing exactly where to find the drinks, Draco takes his time. He’s got his new
scarf around his neck, and halfway through pouring Hermione’s wine, he realizes he’s
actually enjoying himself.
It ends when he hears Ron Weasley’s voice behind him. “Malfoy.”
He turns slowly, setting the bottle back onto the counter. Ron stands a few feet away from
him; they watch each other as though they are a mirror, both holding full glasses of wine and
suspicious expressions. For the first time, he can remember, Draco has no interest in arguing
with the red-headed wonder.
“Weasley,” Draco answers quietly.
Ron stares at him — it’s piercing and more intimidating than Draco would have imagined it
could be for a Weasley. After a long moment, Ron sighs.
“Look, I don’t want to argue,” Ron admits. “I just wanted to… warn you? I guess.”
“Warn me?” Draco repeats.
Ron shrugs. “Yeah. Look. I love Hermione. She’s one of my best friends in the world, but…”
“But what?” Draco snaps. He’s so fucking tired of a Ronald Weasley that puts Hermione
Granger down, of the eleven-year-old boy he had known who used her for her brain only to
turn around and disparage her intellect. All the thoughts of not arguing leave Draco’s mind,
and he’s left ready for battle.
“But she’s ruthless,” Ron answers quietly. “She could have been a Slytherin. She’s so smart,
but she can be sneaky, and sometimes she scares the hell out of me. There’s nothing she
won’t do if she thinks it’s for the best. Even if it hurts people. Even if it hurts her.”
Draco scowls. The worst part is, Ronald bloody Weasley isn’t wrong. Even though
obliviating her parents had undoubtedly saved their lives, Hermione had done so because she
had believed it to be the best choice. Had practically torn her own heart out to keep them
safe.
She had kept Rita Skeeter in a jar in 5th year, and avada’d Fenrir Greyback without
hesitation, and Draco doesn’t doubt that if the Dark Lord had truly killed Harry Potter, she
would have fought with everything she had, making any and every sacrifice she felt
necessary to win.
Draco remembers her screaming in his ballroom, denying every word out of Bellatrix’s
mouth, and thinking: this girl is going to die for her secrets, to keep Harry fucking Potter
safe.
He can’t argue with Weasley now, so instead he bites out. “You realize we went through a
bloody war. It changes people. She did what she had to do to survive.”
Ron nods wearily. “I know that, Malfoy. We all know that. I just thought you ought to know
that Hermione has secrets — from everyone.”
Ron turns away and marches out of the kitchen. Draco itches to follow him and start a fight,
but he can’t. It’s Christmas, and he’d said nothing that Draco didn’t already know.
Still, he can’t help but wonder if Ron was referring to her parents, or how Potter thought she
was pretending, or something more sinister. What other secrets of his wife is he not privy to?
He heads back into the family room far less comfortable than he left it, but his spot is still
open next to Hermione so he sits down gingerly beside her and hands over the wineglass he
had poured for her. She takes it with a smile of thanks and turns back to where Ginny perches
on her other side.
“We wanted to tell you the other night, but then Harry opened his stupid mouth. We really are
sorry about that, Ferret.” Ginny says. Draco blinks at her — it takes him a moment to realize
she’s talking to him.
“Ginny!” Hermione hisses, “Don’t be rude.”
Draco rolls his eyes and says, “Apology accepted, Weaselette.”
Ginny laughs good-naturedly. “Anyway — I am sorry. We didn’t really expect this to happen
so fast, though I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
“Why do you say that?” Hermione asks, sipping at her wine.
Ginny shrugs. “Oh, it’s a family thing. The Prewett blood, you know? That’s why mum had
so many kids, even though magical pregnancies are difficult.”
Hermione’s elbow suddenly digs into his side and he winces; he’s about to say something
when a loud laugh from Hannah cuts through the room. Her face is flushed red, and her wine
glass that Ron had brought so recently is already empty. The earlier indulgence has
disappeared from her face, and now she looks more like the girl he had seen at Theo’s.
Heartbroken.
“We better head out,” Ron announces, standing quickly. He tugs his new sweater down, the
royal blue colour nearly matching his jeans. Hannah’s expression has turned from drunken
laughter to a furious scowl.
“Running again?” Hannah hisses. To Draco’s left, he hears Percy and Daphne’s conversation
get louder with Mrs. Weasley, no doubt eager to draw the attention away from the argument
brewing. Victoire is scooped up by her mother, and Bill follows Fleur back into the kitchen;
there’s no surprise on their faces, and Draco wonders how often this scene plays out in the
Burrow.
“Hannah,” Ron warns quietly, holding a hand out to her. She stands obediently, but wobbles
on her feet. Ron reaches out to steady her, and she bats his hand away.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” Hannah snaps. Ron’s patient expression is fading, and this
time his voice is quiet but stern.
“Hannah, we’re leaving.”
He turns and walks away from her, dropping a kiss on his mother’s cheek to thank her for
dinner and his new sweater. His father shakes his hand, brow drawn with worry.
George stands and tugs Ron into a one-armed hug, murmuring something into his ear that
makes Ron’s expression lighten. Ron shoots him a grateful smile and claps his shoulder when
he pulls away.
“Bye Parvati,” Ron says. Parvati doesn’t answer, just stares at him in a very odd, blank way.
Ron frowns but then throws a wave to the room at large. “Happy Christmas, everyone.”
He’s heading for the door, with Hannah slowly following on unsteady feet. She wishes Mrs.
Weasley a Happy Christmas but ignores the rest of the room. Draco resists the urge to jump
up and give her his arm as his mother would have demanded when she wobbles.
Ron and Hannah close the door behind themselves, but they don’t quite make it far enough
away from the Burrow before the shouting begins. Their voices echo through the window
glass, as clear as if they were still sitting in the room.
“You’re such a git,” Hannah yells, “you don’t understand!”
“Then tell me,” Ron snaps. “I can’t understand if you don’t fucking talk to me, Hannah!”
“Fuck you!” Hannah answers; it’s obvious she’s crying.
“You’re drunk!” Ron’s voice answers, coldly. “You’re always drunk, Hannah. You need help.
You need to get it together.”
The crack of apparition makes Hermione jump, knocking into him a little. He spills a splash
of firewhiskey on the chair.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Oh, dear. Well, let’s just move past that, and try to enjoy the
rest of Christmas.”
Bill and Fleur reappear with Victoire, who is yawning hugely and snuggled into her father’s
chest. She seems unconcerned, blinking sleepily at her family; Draco is suddenly glad her
parents were wise enough to take her out of the room.
“Someone has come to say goodnight,” Bill announces. “Victoire, can you go thank your
grandparents for your gifts?”
He sets her down, and she runs to Molly and Arther, who lifts her up without hesitation to
plant kisses all over her face while she laughs. She hugs them both and then slowly makes
her way to every chair, doling out solemn ‘night nights’ to each person.
When she gets to Astoria, Draco can almost feel the room hold its breath. For a moment, he
thinks Astoria is going to ignore her, but instead the witch slowly relaxes, brushing her
fingers against the sweater still sitting across her lap. Astoria leans forward just enough to
wrap one arm around Victoire, who plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Astoria lets her go and
turns quickly to face the window. Draco watches carefully as Astoria swallows hard, blinking
quickly.
He can’t figure it out — she’s obviously heartbroken, but over what?
Conversations slowly begin again, the awkwardness of Ron’s departure fading with the
sweetness of Victoire’s goodnights. When Astoria disappears through the kitchen doorway,
Draco seizes Hermione’s almost empty glass as another excuse and follows her out.
She’s not in the kitchen; through the thin curtain, Draco sees her silhouette outside the back
door. He pulls the door open to find her standing there in large slippers and her new sweater.
It’s freezing.
He steps outside, shuts the door behind him, and waits.
It takes ages — he’s losing feeling in his fingertips, and he’s about ready to give up when
Astoria finally turns to him.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” She asks.
He takes a moment — he knows what she’s asking. Astoria had been younger than him in
school, and although he had known her, they were never close. Still, Draco knows her family;
he’d spent many evenings observing as his parents entertained, his father discussing business
while his mother endured Cereus Greengrass’s venomous digs.
Astoria has never seen a family like the Weasleys; a family that yells and hugs and laughs
and fights both for each other and with each other.
Draco sighs, and answers honestly. “No. Never. They’re so… loud”
Astoria’s laugh is weak. “They are.”
He waits almost another entire minute, shoving his fingers into his pockets to retain warmth.
“Draco, I’ve been an absolute horror,” Astoria confesses. “I’ve been cruel.”
Draco shakes his head. “Don’t be foolish, Astoria. You may be many things, but I’ve never
known you to be cruel. ”
“I know,” Astoria says mournfully. “I meant here. I’ve been awful to them. To everyone. I’ve
not even spoken to Mr. Weasley. I complain every moment to Molly, and — oh, Merlin. Poor
Charlie…”
This time, Draco faces her. Her wide eyes are damp, and despite the winter chill, her cheeks
still look pale.
“Why?” Draco asks. “Did your father ask you—”
Astoria interrupts him. “I don’t speak to father anymore. He went to the Ministry to get
Daphne’s WPG match changed, did you hear?”
Draco raises his eyebrows — he’d expected as much from Mr. Greengrass. “What
happened?”
“Nothing,” Astoria hisses, and he watches as she clenches both fists in fury. “He had a
change of heart.”
Astoria Greengrass has never resembled Hermione Granger so much before — Draco is
suddenly sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Astoria threatened her father into dropping
his case.
“You ensured Daphne’s match,” Draco says.
Astoria doesn’t deny it. “Draco, I have a favour to ask of you.”
“What is it?”
She produces two letters; one is addressed to Mrs. Weasley, the other to Charlie Weasley. Her
hands shake as she hands them over.
“Draco,” Astoria murmurs. “Please give these to the recipients on March 1st.”
Draco stares at the letters in his hand, and Astoria’s shaking fingers. “What are you doing,
‘Stori?”
She shrugs delicately. Her answer, when it comes, is not one he expected. “Did you know
your mother once told me that the only way to save a broken marriage is to leave it?”
Draco gapes at her, “But mother — ”
“I know,” Astoria interrupts again, “I know she didn’t leave her own marriage, Draco. But I
want out of the WPG. It’s not anyone’s fault. I just have to go.”
“You’re running?” Draco demands, “Do you have money? Somewhere to stay? I don’t really
know Charlie, but he would help you, ‘Stori, he wouldn’t—”
“I’ll be gone by March 1st, Draco. Everything is sorted. Just, promise me, promise me, that
you’ll give these letters out.”
Draco stares down at a girl he barely knows — a girl he had once thought he would marry,
simply because his father wanted him to. It had seemed a fate worse than death, at that time,
to marry another pureblood girl who cared about nothing but appearances.
Draco wonders now if Astoria Greengrass might have been something quite unexpected after
all. Despite the cold, her eyes blaze with fierceness, and Draco is quite sure that if he doesn’t
promise this, she’ll never forgive him.
“I promise,” Draco says.
Draco apparates to the cottage with Hermione in tow. She’s grinning widely with wine-
stained lips and stumbling a bit as they land. It’s past midnight, and Draco marvels at the fact
that not only did he survive Christmas at the Burrow, he also managed to make it an entire
night without hexing anyone.
He goes to open the front door when Hermione snatches at his coat. Draco turns to stare at
his wife. Her hair is coming undone from its tidy bun, and she has a black smear beside her
eye from where she’s rubbed her makeup off.
He forgets about the chill in the air and getting through their front door, and instead, Draco
Malfoy reels his wife in to wrap his arms around her.
“I quite love you,” he says. “Did you know?”
"I know," she grins a bit wildly. “I figured it out, Draco.”
“What did you figure, love?” He asks, quite distracted by the way her new mittens are resting
against his chest.
“I figured out the matches,” Hermione says. She pulls away and rushes through the door,
tossing her coat onto the ground. The cottage lights up around them, the fire bursting to life.
Draco shuts the door and hangs Hermione’s forgotten coat up. She’s disappeared down the
hallway.
“What do you mean, Granger?” He asks loudly — he’s unwrapping his new green scarf when
she reappears and slams a large book down on their counter. Draco recognizes it — it’s from
the Malfoy Library.
“Right here.” She announces, pressing a finger to a page. Draco looks over her shoulder to
see a chart of Sacred Twenty-Eight families. It’s something they’ve read over a thousand
times, and most of it, Draco could recite in his sleep.
He sighs. “Granger, I think maybe you’ve had too much wine, we’ve—”
“No!” She says, turning to face him with fire in her eyes. “Tell me how many people are alive
in the Greengrass family.”
Draco frowns. “Four. Astoria, Daphne and their parents.”
“Tell me how many siblings Mr. Greengrass had.” She demands.
“Two. Both sisters. One died at twenty, the other never had children.”
“Tell me how many siblings Astoria’s paternal grandfather had.” Hermione continues, quieter
now but just as intense. “Tell me how many her paternal great-grandfather had.”
“A brother,” Draco says slowly. “Both the grandfather and great-grandfather both only had a
single brother.”
Hermione looks victorious. “After 1710, all branches of the Greengrass tree slowly die out.
They used to be an enormous family; a pureblood dynasty of the sacred twenty-eight.”
“So?”
Hermione sighs impatiently; Draco suddenly feels for Potter and Weasley, who probably
spent many years being led to the answer by Hermione.
“Draco —” Hermione grasps his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Since 1710, not a single female
member of the Greengrass family has had a child. The line has been carried on by sons.”
Draco considers this — Daphne and Astoria are all that is left. There are no sons left to bear
the Greengrass name. He sighs, “Okay, I’m following you, Granger. But what does this
mean?”
Hermione nods sharply, turning back to the book and flipping a few pages. She lands on a
tree that sprawls two pages; it reads Prewett on the top of the page, and in sharp red ink a
large ‘X’ has been written over both pages with the words blood traitors scrawled nearly
across. It doesn’t seem to bother Hermione.
“Molly is a Prewett. Look at their family tree.”
Draco stares at the pages. He’s less familiar with the Prewett family tree; his tutor growing up
never bothered teaching anything beyond pureblood histories, and both Prewett’s and
Weasley’s had been skipped over in his education. It’s suddenly easy to see what Hermione
has been trying to explain.
“Ginny wasn’t exaggerating, Hermione. Magical pregnancies are difficult. Most witches only
bear two children at most. My mother nearly died with me.” Draco says softly. His fingers
trace countless branches of Prewetts.
“There hasn’t been a single incident ever recorded of a Prewett having less than three
children,” Hermione says. "Usually, they range from five to seven."
“They’re trying to breed the Greengrass family back into society,” Draco murmurs. “They
think that pairing Daphne and Astoria with Weasley husbands will increase their chances of
pregnancy.”
Nausea spreads through him — Astoria’s letters seem to burn from within his pocket. He
wonders if she knows why she and Daphne were paired with Weasley husbands. Astoria’s
decision to run suddenly makes sense, and Draco is on the verge of telling Hermione this
when he bites back the words.
Astoria hadn’t told him it was a secret, but he’s a Slytherin, and he knows what she expects
of him.
Ron Weasley’s words tumble around in his head: Hermione has secrets — secrets, secrets,
secrets. Draco thinks that at least that makes two of them.
Chapter End Notes
TW: Pregnancy, fertility issues, pregnancy loss, non-con will be discussed in future
chapters (as always, no explicit non-con will be written, just implied).
Happy New Year
Chapter Notes
Hello dear friends! I'm very glad you enjoyed the last chapter! I was hoping to get this to
you before the actual New Year's, but unfortunately, I managed to get quite sick (not
C*vid, luckily) and was down for the count for a few days. Anyway, I hope you enjoy
this chapter. I'm hopeful I'll get the next one to you a little quicker as we're back to
Hermione's POV. Please mind the tags, and if you require more info, there's a more
explicit warning at the bottom.
Friday, December 31st, 1999 - New Years Eve
Let it be known that it was not George Weasley’s idea to have a New Year’s Eve party,
especially considering he didn’t drink anymore, and he lived in an 800 square foot apartment.
Still, at Parvati’s insistence, George closed Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes early and moved his
shelving out of the way. Parvati helped by hanging decorations and casting cleaning charms
over the floors and counters. For a shop, they managed to make it fairly cozy, with a large
round table in the centre for some card games and visiting.
“How many chairs should I set out?” George asks. They’d invited most of their family and a
few friends, but one convenient part of marrying a seer is that they are never surprised by
unwanted guests.
“Harry and Ginny aren’t coming, the owl will be here any moment,” Parvati answers,
straightening out the tablecloth. “Percy’s working late, but Astoria will come with Daphne
and Charlie. We’ll need eleven chairs, total.”
George rolls his eyes fondly; while their marriage consisted of platonic friendship, George
was glad he’d matched with Parvati. She was clever and sneaky, in a Gryffindor way, the
same as him. She was also as stubborn and terrifying as his mother, as evidenced by his
current 65 days long sober streak. He’s almost looking forward to starting out the new year
without a drink in hand. It’s a big difference from the way he had rung in the year prior,
laying on Fred’s unmade bed as the clock ticked slowly towards midnight, wasted, miserable,
and alone.
Tonight, he is surrounded by family and friends, and despite being forced into a marriage he
had neither wanted nor chosen, George is happier than he’s been in a long time.
Parvati sweeps by him and opens the front door to the shop; within moments a familiar barn
owl swoops down and lands gently on the counter beside her. He extends his talons with a
letter.
“Hi Julien,” Parvati greets, pulling an owl treat from her pocket and handing it to the owl.
“It’ll be Harry and Ginny, now. Ginny’s not been feeling the best.”
George watches his wife as she informs him of the letter’s contents without opening it. Small
things — inconsequential things — seem easy for her to predict. She can always tell
moments before owls arrive, always knows if it’s going to be a busy day in the shop, or slow.
It makes him more nervous when she can’t see anything regarding the WPG or the
Wizengamot. Hermione had mentioned she had a meeting with them in a few days, and
Parvati had spent nearly an entire morning laying on the floor and focusing, but she saw
nothing.
She’s consumed now by thoughts of him in blue, to the point where she’s even purged the
colour from her wardrobe. Her dreams of Hermione burying Draco in small stones continue,
and although she is still sleeping in their living room on her transfigured bed, he can hear her
cry most nights when she wakes up.
A loud knock sounds moments before the shop door opens and Luna’s lilting voice rings out.
“Hello! Happy New Year!”
She comes into view only moments later, and while she has chosen a muted black dress, she’s
paired it with glittering silver tights decorated with stars. Her hair falls nearly to her waist in
long waves, and George can see she has braided silver tinsel throughout the strands. It’s
actually a rather lovely effect, and it’s obvious to see that Theodore Nott is entranced, judging
by the way he doesn’t take his eyes off of his wife, even when he says hello.
“Good to see ya, come on in.” George greets. Luna hands him a large platter of what looks to
be misshapen cookies.
“They’re dirigible plum tarts,” Luna explains sweetly, “They keep Doxy Fairies away.”
George nods aimlessly because he’d long ago been told by Harry that it’s simpler to just
accept Luna than to question her. He sets the platter on the main table next to the other foods
and desserts Parvati had prepared. They’ve prepared a little bar to the side for their guests,
stocked with firewhiskey, butterbeer, and Elven wine. They only skipped the champagne,
because of Parvati’s increasing paranoia regarding it and Draco Malfoy.
“Can I get you a drink?” George asks their guests. “Wine, perhaps?”
Parvati is currently sipping her own wine out of her glass, and George has finally, finally,
stopped staring every time she has a drink when they’re out. On the days where he feels
ready to climb out of his skin, Parvati orders only water and says nothing about it.
Luna grins, “I’m sure Theo would happily take a firewhiskey, but I’m not drinking.”
Parvati appears with Theo’s firewhiskey, and the bell above their door rings again, only for
Blaise and Padma to turn the corner.
Until George married Parvati, he had barely known Padma Patil, who had been younger than
him in Hogwarts, and part of Ravenclaw house. Now, he sees her fairly often, usually with
Blase Zabini in tow. While it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that Blaise and Padma
have absolutely no interest in each other, Blaise is unfailingly polite.
Padma Patil, as it turns out, is a joy. She and Parvati have the same kindness that radiates out
of them, and where Parvati talks to fill any silence she finds, Padma is content to sit and
observe. He watches them when they play their weekly card games, and while Parvati almost
always wins, Padma sometimes sneaks a win out of her sister.
“Hello George,” Padma greets. “We brought some sticky toffee pudding and a few pastries.”
She hands the plates to him, and he places them on their big table with the other foods.
Parvati is already handing them drinks, and Blaise has found his seat beside Theo Nott, who
immediately engages him in conversation regarding some French property Zabini is
considering selling.
George sits on the other side of Padma, who sips at her wine gently. “How was your
Christmas?”
“Oh, it was good,” Padma replies. “Blaise gave me a few books I’d been wanting, so that was
nice. Thank you for the gift, by the way. Parvati brought them over the other day, and I won
our card game.”
George laughs out loud. Weasley Wizarding Wheezes has been developing glasses that allow
the user to see through certain materials, however, they’ve been stuck in the development
phase because George has yet to figure out how to make them useless on clothing.
“I hope they continue to prove useful,” he grins.
Padma's smile turns mischievous, “Yes. I’m glad you’re not selling them yet, though. I had
the shock of my life when Theo Floo’d in to ask Blaise something.” She raises her eyebrows
suggestively, and George nearly chokes on his water when he realizes sweet, quiet Padma got
an eyeful of Theodore Nott.
The tinkling bell draws his gaze, and this time it’s Daphne, Astoria, and Charlie Weasley,
followed shortly by Ron and Hannah.
“Oi, George,” Ron shouts, looking around at their shop which has been transformed for the
evening. “You better be cleaning this mess up on your own!”
George stands up to hug both his eldest and youngest brothers, who return the favour easily.
Daphne and Astoria find seats quickly, and George doesn’t miss the fact that Astoria has
brought a tray of appetizers and set it on the table.
He’s watched her closely since the moment Parvati had mentioned she was sick. Although
she is always pale and slender, there has been no further signs that she is ill. Astoria remains
condescending, quiet, and miserable at every turn; however, George has noticed that her
words don’t always match her actions, such as when she plays with Victoire when she thinks
no one is around with endless patience and gentility.
Conversation has erupted at all ends of the table, and George is glad that, unlike Theo’s
Christmas party, their group seems to have gotten over the awkward stage. He can see Charlie
describing some sort of Dragon encounter, and Luna and Ron staring avidly as he gestures.
Astoria and Daphne are speaking quietly, and Astoria has a small smile on her face,
something that only happens around her sister.
Hannah, on the other end of the table, looks lovely. She’s pulled her hair into a gentle updo
and is wearing a grey sheath dress. She looks far better than she has for the past few weeks,
and George rolls his eyes when he notices his brother has absolutely not put the effort into
this evening as she has. Ron’s got on his ragged jeans that are slightly too short for him, and
his new blue knitted Christmas sweater with the large “R” on the front.
The bell tinkles and their final guests of the night arrive. Hermione’s got rosy cheeks from
the cold, and her gold sweater shines under their lights. Draco follows her in, wearing
perfectly tailored wizarding dress robes. George wonders if he ever dresses for comfort, or if
he always looks this put together.
Hermione heads to the bar and sets down a bottle before returning to the table and finding her
seat beside Draco. Parvati stands once they are seated, and she clinks her silverware
delicately on her glass, a ringing chime echoing through the shop.
“Thank you all for coming,” Parvati says clearly. “George and I thought it would be a nice
way to end what seems to be a very difficult year with our friends and family. Please help
yourself to the food and drinks, and we’ll ring in the 2000s the way they ought to be!”
Everyone cheers and sips at their drinks, conversation once more bursting out. Parvati finds
her way around the table and sits beside him. He’s bookended by either twin, and George
muses that this is probably what his siblings had felt growing up with Fred and him.
“Did you notice?” Parvati asks in a hushed voice. She’s got a smile on that’s almost manic,
and George has absolutely no clue what she’s on about.
“Um… no?”
Parvati laughs. “The stars, George! Remember — the stars? Look at Luna!”
George swivels to watch Luna Lovegood — no, Luna Nott, now, as she sits beside her
husband. She’s grinning widely, and sipping at what appears to be water. Her hair is
twinkling, and Theo is watching indulgently. He catches George’s eye and lifts his
firewhiskey glass in a silent toast.
It’s only then that George realizes what Parvati is on about. Luna — the stars all over her
leggings, Theo’s green eyes, her water glass.
“The two stars…” George says.

“Exactly!” Parvati slaps the back of her hand against his shoulder. “She’s pregnant, George. I
saw it — I just didn’t know I saw it. Theo’s green eyes, two stars falling. They’re having
twins.”
George sighs. “Merlin, Parv. How in Godric’s name were you supposed to understand that
from what you saw? How do you ever figure out anything?”
Parvati rolls her eyes. “That was vague, I’ll admit. But, remember, I normally see people I
know really well. I don’t know Theo at all, and I only know Luna through Padma.”
“At least this means we only have to worry about the blue and the champagne,” George
grumbles.
George has spent the past few hours watching people he never imagined getting along do
exactly that. Draco Malfoy had even laughed at something Ron had said, and Hermione had
lit up with joy at the sound.
Astoria has even cracked a few smiles, mostly at Daphne, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Draco had sat by her for a while, and she had spent some time talking to him as well. Parvati
has been bustling around like mad, refilling drinks and food trays amid the chaos.
“George, may I ask you something?” Padma says quietly. She’s still beside him, and although
Luna had moved to their side of the table briefly to chat to her, he’s noticed Blaise hasn’t
looked her way once.
As far as George is concerned, Blaise is a fool. Padma is lovely — as lovely as Parvati,

obviously, but in a much more subdued way. Her dark hair hangs to her waist, and her dark
eyes shine with intelligence.
“Ask away, little Ravenclaw,” George answers easily.
“Do you love my sister?” Padma’s voice is very quiet, but it’s obvious by the way she never
breaks her stare that she expects an answer.
George winces, but he forces himself to answer her honestly. “No, Padma, I don’t. I respect
your sister, and she’s become one of my closest friends. I’m sorry that it isn’t more.”
Padma shrugs one shoulder but doesn’t seem angry. “It’s fine. I didn’t expect more, I just
wanted to ask.”
“Do you love Blaise?” George asks. He’s not sure why he’s said it — he knows Padma
doesn’t, but it only seems fair that he ask her the same.
She laughs. “No. Blaise isn’t a bad guy, but we have nothing in common.”
“Well, you’re always welcome over here if he’s being a git.” He’s teasing, but he’s also
telling the truth. He knows that Blaise is harmless since he’s sure that Parvati would see
anything that ever endangered Padma, but he can’t imagine Padma’s enjoying herself, sitting
alone in the Zabini estate with a man she has nothing in common with.
“Thanks, George,” Padma says sweetly, patting his hand gently. A shadow falls on him and
he glances up to see Hannah Abbott. She’s not even holding a wine glass, though her
expression does seem strained.
“Hi George,” she greets. “I’m leaving a bit earlier tonight. I know I’ll miss the countdown, I
just… I just feel like being home. I’m sorry.”
George stands up, watching Hannah carefully. She’d begun her drinking nearly the same
moment he had stopped, and even though he doesn’t really know her, George knows this. He
knows that she’s sober in the way her hand is shaking minutely against her hip. In the strain
around her eyes, and the pain that he would have to be blind to ignore.
“Hannah, I’m glad you came,” George says gently. “I know that it’s hard — the drinking, I
mean. It’s absolute shite, actually. If you ever need someone to… talk, or something? You
know where to find me.”
“Thank you,” Hannah smiles, and George glimpses the girl that Ron has told him is kind. She
swallows hard, and her voice is soft when she speaks again. “I mean it, George. You’ve got a
really wonderful family. A really wonderful brother. Ron deserves better than what I’ve been
doing. I know that.”
George softens — he can’t help it. Hannah Abbott went through the same hell they all did in
the war, and then was slammed with the WPG, and losing Neville. It’s hardly surprising that
she hasn’t been holding it together. It’s nice to hear, however, that she’s aware of how good
Ron is. How much he’s trying.
George squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back just as hard before dropping it and heading
for the door. Everyone waves goodbye, and she returns the sentiments before the bell jingles
and she is gone.
Silence falls quickly after she leaves, and George frowns.
“She took that well,” Hermione says. “Much better than I expected.”
Ron is scowling and still watching the door. “She didn’t drink at all. Not one drop, tonight.”
“That’s a good thing,” George interrupts. “Right?”
Hermione nods, but her expression is still worried. “It is. But… Daphne mentioned she ran
into Pansy at Madame Malkins, and Pansy mentioned that Neville’s accepted a position to
teach at Hogwarts next year since Professor Sprout is retiring. Pansy and Neville have
purchased a home in Hogsmeade.”
George winces. “Bloody hell.”

“She took it well, though,” Daphne says softly. “She seemed happy for Neville.”
Ron nods. “You’re right. It’s a good thing. Let’s play a hand of cards, what do you say?”
Hermione summons the cards and shows off using Pansy’s trick from Christmas. By the
scowl on Draco’s face, she still hasn’t shared the secret with her husband, and when she
catches George’s gaze she winks mischievously.
George doesn’t bother putting his all into playing, and Parvati sweeps them easily, winning
the first two hands. Padma manages to win the third round, and then when Parvati leaves the
table to tidy some of the food plates up, Theo Nott wins for the first time.
George finally gets to show off the clock face he’s charmed to levitate above the table and
count down the moments until the new year turns. Instantly, Hermione asks him all the
questions she can think of regarding the clock, and George indulges her. He knows Hermione
could never be persuaded to work at the shop with him and Ron, but he picks her brain every
chance he gets since she’s bloody brilliant and nearly as sneaky as he is.
“Did you know Muggles also celebrate the New Year?” Luna says dreamily.
“Do they really?” Blaise asks.
Hermione smiles at his curiosity and nods. “They do! And some Muggles believe that
whoever you kiss at midnight is who you’ll spend the year with. It’s not real, but it’s a nice
tradition. My parents always stayed up to kiss at midnight.”
Hermione’s expression goes thoughtful, and the clock begins counting down.
Midnight strikes and George watches how Draco Malfoy tugs Hermione towards him and
kisses her easily, as though it’s natural. He watches Luna and Theo do the same. Hermione
leans away from Draco to plant a kiss on Ron’s cheek since he’d looked a bit maudlin.
Charlie has managed to disappear to the other side of the table, but Daphne presses a kiss to
Astoria's forehead, and the sister’s embrace tightly.
Parvati appears and leans down, pressing kisses to both his cheek and Padma’s, who is still
beside him. George laughs and leans over to kiss Padma’s cheek soundly as well.
“Happy New Year!” George yells — and then the part he has been looking forward to since
Parvati told him they were having a New Year’s Party — the fireworks he has charmed begin
to explode. They burst from his charmed clock and light up the entire inside of the store; his
friends’ faces go from shock to amusement, and George knows that the fireworks he’d set to
go off above the store are currently lighting up Diagon Alley as well.
For the first time in over a year, George thinks that Fred would be proud. Fred would be
proud of what he’s doing, of his sobriety, of his jokes and inventions and joy. George wishes
fiercely that his brother were here to see it, as he always does, but for the first time in a long,
long time, George is okay.
When the light show ends, everyone is smiling, even Astoria.

Ron stands. “That was bloody brilliant, Georgie. Really, truly. I’m going to head home, make
sure Hannah is doing well, but thanks for this.”
George stands and yanks Ron into a one-armed hug. His blue knit sweater is itchy against
him where he brushes it, but Ron’s smile is a balm all its own. He heads out of the shop, the
bell jingling cheerily, before the crack of apparition echoes. George has hardly found himself
back in his seat when Parvati begins screaming.
She falls to the floor, and the thud her head makes on the ground is sickening. Padma is
beside her even before George. The speed at which their New Years' celebration switches
from partying to battle is disturbing — Hermione is already casting shields and protection
charms, while Draco looks ready to avada anyone who comes near them. Theo Nott has
disillusioned Luna so well that George can barely notice her shimmering form against his
shelves.
“George!” Padma shouts, and George realizes she’s been yanking on his shirt as hard as she
can to get his attention.
Parvati is nearly seizing beneath them, and George casts non-verbal cushioning charms under
her head as fast as he can.
“George,” Padma says again, “We can’t let—”
This time, it’s Ron Weasley who interrupts them. He crashes into Hermione’s shields with
force, and Hermione stumbles in her haste to take them down.
He’s absolutely coated in blood — his red hair stands out against his white face, but his hands
are dripping onto the floor. His blue sweater has long turned into a sick shade of scarlet, and
he’s screaming.
“—St. Mungo’s, NOW!” Ron shouts, and then he’s apparating away again, faster than
George can follow.
“Go!” Padma shrieks at everyone left. “All of you, go! I’ll stay with Parvati.”
Everyone begins apparating away quickly, the exception being Theo and Luna. George
realizes that they must have portkeyed or flown, as apparition isn’t recommended while
pregnant.
“George, listen to me,” Padma says, and George snaps his attention to her. She’s got one hand
under Parvati’s neck, and a very serious expression on her face.
“What, what’s wrong?” George’s heart is pounding — it’s been so long since he’d seen any
of his brothers coated in blood, and it brings back horrible memories.
“She saw something,” Padma hisses. “That’s why she was screaming. Do you know what it
was?”
George realizes with sinking certainty exactly what it is that his wife has seen.
“It’s Ron,” Parvati’s voice chokes out, and both Padma and George snap their gazes down to
her. She’s gone sallow and pale, and her hand when she raises it is shaking.
“It was Ron the whole time, wasn’t it?” George says furiously. “He’s wearing blue.”
Parvati nods, tears streaking down her face. “I thought it was you — you look so alike from
the back. The red hair. Everything. His hands, though. They were coated in blood, just like I
saw, weren’t they?”
George swallows hard, and Parvati doesn’t need an answer.
“It’s not him, George,” Parvati says, gentle and serious. “He’s not hurt. He’s not going to be
hurt. The blood isn’t his.”
“Then who the fuck is it?!” George yells. When both Patil sisters stare at him with piteous
eyes, George apparates away.
The St. Mungo’s waiting room is as chaotic as always, and George joins the majority of his
party in the chairs. Ron is sitting closest to the door, coated in blood and misery. Hermione is
beside him, with a palm on his back. Draco is standing by the window, obviously on alert.
“Theo and Luna went home,” Charlie says. “I sent Daphne and Astoria to the Burrow as well.
They don’t need to be here.”
“Why are we here?” George asks, dreading the answer.
Ron lifts his head from his hands and stares at his brother.
“It was just like the war all over again.” He says quietly. “She was lying there, so fucking
pale, drowning in all this blood.”
“Who hurt her?”
The noise Ron makes is somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and George realizes exactly
what has happened. He doesn’t need Ron’s answer, but it doesn’t stop him from saying the
words.
“No one hurt her. Hannah went home,” Ron swallows. “And she tried to kill herself. Bloody
might have succeeded, too. Guess we'll find out.”
George feels his legs go out from under him, and he sinks slowly into a chair while his
youngest brother drops his face back into his hands and begins to cry.
Chapter End Notes
.
.
.
.
.
.
TW: Suicide, Blood, Seizures
The Wizengamot
Chapter Notes
Hi friends! Thank you for your response to this story -- I am so honoured by all the
comments and kudos. Although it doesn't feel like it, this story is slowly winding down -
- the next few chapters will be pretty action-packed. So, all this to say, enjoy this
(mostly) fluffy chapter. Drop me a line if you enjoyed :)
Sidenote: There are a few errors I've noticed (and have been pointed out to me by kind
comments) mostly about canon info (it's been a while since I've re-read the books haha).
After I've finished the story I will be going through and cleaning up a bit so please bear
with me.
Thursday, January 6th, 2000
Hermione Granger does not have fond memories of the Department of Mysteries. Phantom
aches shoot down her rib cage with memories of Dolohov’s curse, and she had to take both a
pain potion and a calming draught before her meeting with the Wizengamot because she
couldn’t stop seeing the blank expression of death on Sirius’ face behind her eyelids every
time she blinked.
Harry is beside her — as always. He’s wearing his full Auror regalia, mostly as a show of
intimidation since it’s technically his day off. He’s taking full advantage of his reputation,
and Hermione is beyond grateful.
Draco is on her other side. She had deliberated at length about the wisdom of him attending
the Wizengamot meeting, but he had insight from Lucius about those on the council that she
couldn’t afford to miss out on. As much as Hermione had come to love him, she wasn’t a fool
— Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin to the core, and he had been taught how to read people and
manipulate them to his advantage from a young age — and right now, Hermione needs any
amount of influence she can get.
The black doors swing open before them, and they step inside to be greeted by stern faces of
witches and wizards all her senior. Kingsley sits in the center, bookended by Ernest
Hawkworth and Gawain Robards, Harry’s boss. Robards is notably an excellent head of the
DMLE and Harry respects him; Hermione is almost positive that he is an ally inside this
room.
Kingsley’s expression is closed off, but Hermione notes he looks just as exhausted as she
feels. She wonders if he’s heard about Hannah, or Tracey Davis, or any of the other witches
or wizards who have fit themselves into marriages that are destroying them.
“Miss Granger, you have been granted a hearing with the full Wizengamot, which is quite
unusual. Please tell us why you have called us here today.” Ernest Hawkworth watches her
with narrowed eyes as he delivers the words. Despite Kingsley sitting in the Minister’s chair,
it’s obvious Hawkworth is running the show now.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Hermione says with a calm she doesn’t feel. “I have requested a
meeting with the Wizengamot to discuss the Wizarding Population Growth Act and the many
ramifications it has had on Wizarding Britain.”
“I’m sure you’re unaware, Miss Granger, but since implementing the WPG the economy has
been improving, with Gringotts reporting a 12% increase of vault and galleon traffic, as well
as nearly 3% increases per month for businesses on Diagon Alley. St Mungo’s has seen more
magical pregnancies confirmed in the past month than in the past three years. Would these be
the ramifications you’re referring to?”
Ernest Hawkworth says this all in a slow, confident drawl, and fury licks down her spine.
She’s not the only one; Harry shifts his weight at her side, and although he looks calm, his
jaw is clenching with his particular brand of anger. She’d seen it often in fifth year.
Draco is so still at her side he resembles a statue. Hermione had nearly forgotten the power
his name can wield, even in the war’s aftermath, but there can be no mistaking it today. Draco
is wearing robes that cost more than her cottage, and the darkest Malfoy sneer he can muster.
If Hermione hadn’t spent her morning curled together comfortably with him, planning this
meeting with the Wizengamot, she would have wilted under the power of his stare.
“Mr. Hawkworth, while those—”
“It’s Chief Warlock.” Ernest interrupts coldly, leaning forward and steepling his fingers under
his chin. “Miss Granger, I’m sure that you mean well. But, to be perfectly frank, you’ve no
background in the situation, you’re hardly out of school, and by all accounts, you’ve
informed the press that you’re happily married. Am I incorrect?”
Hermione bristles and steps forward to leave Harry and Draco at her back. Despite her
intention to remain level-headed, she’s hardly inclined to let this stand.
“Chief Warlock Hawkworth,” she corrects coldly. “Your dismissal of both myself and the
abysmal situation the WPG has put so many magical folks into is, to be perfectly frank, the
worst case of idiocy I’ve seen from the Ministry since Minister Fudge’s ignorance of
Voldemort.”
Hissed sighs sneak out at his name, and Hermione counts on this so she launches into her
speech.
“I don’t give a damn if you think I have no background in this situation. You’re a fool if you
think I’m incapable of researching — the growth that Gringotts is referring to has nothing to
do with businesses actually improving, and everything to do with old families and their
money being moved. Specifically, witches subjected to the WPG are being robbed blind by
husbands they never wanted, husbands who are being given family inheritances that they
should have no rights to! Vaults are being merged, and wizards and witches are pulling
galleons and converting into Muggle currency, preparing for — I’m sure — an escape from
your tyrannical and short-sighted law.”
“Miss Granger, how dare—”
“How dare you?” Hermione interrupts, “How dare you use St Mungo’s reports of pregnancy
as a positive thing, when you know that half of those pregnancies result from rape and
coercion? You’re playing with people’s lives, and you’ve fooled yourself into believing that
these children, who are going to grow up to know exactly what you’ve done to their mothers
and fathers, that they’ll thank you for it.”
“Dawlish, get her out of here!” Hawksworth yells, face going red with fury. Auror Dawlish,
sitting on the sidelines, begins to draw his wand. He’s hesitant, which is the only reason that
Hermione is gentle.
She throws her hand out and casts a non-verbal stunning spell, and Dawlish drops back to his
chair, unconscious.
It’s an impressive show of power, and it’s meant to be. She’s been practicing with Draco all
week — the chamber that they’re in is designed to suppress power, and all of them had to
turn in their wands before entering. All she has left in her arsenal right now are non-verbal
spells, whereas the members of the Wizengamot still have their wands.
Hawkworth is gaping, but he inhales as though he’s ready to shout more, so Hermione nearly
yells her parting blow.
“The WPG should be held responsible for the extreme uptick, a nearly 37% increase, of
incidences of domestic abuse — a statistic you obviously didn’t bother to ask St Mungo’s for
—, as well as the disappearance of nearly 13% of Wizarding Britain’s population of fine
wizards and witches between the ages of 19 to 40 — the exact ages of those affected by the
WPG — who escaped Britain as refugees upon the implementation of this law. Lastly,”
Hermione takes the shortest breath to stare daggers around the room, at people she’s never
met and hardly knows, but people who have the influence to do something right. “The WPG
is responsible for the deaths of Tracey Davis and Terry Boudreau, both muggle-born witches
forced into marriages with known pureblood supremacists. It’s also responsible for the
magical coma Order of the Phoenix member Hannah Abbot has been placed under in the
fight for her life.”
“Miss Granger!” Hawkworth’s sonorous is so loud it’s nearly painful, and Hermione flinches
without meaning to. “This meeting is over — you have stunned an Auror of The Ministry,
and you’ll be taken into custody for assault. Arrest—”
“If you arrest Hermione, you’ll have to arrest me.” Harry’s voice is soft and deadly, cutting
through the furor of the Wizengamot chamber with ease. Hermione is once again reminded of
how foolish she had been to overlook Harry’s power. He’s practically crackling with it from
behind her, and every eye in the room has turned from her to stare at the Boy Who Lived.
Whispers break out around them, and Hermione has to force herself not to grin. Whatever
else the people of Wizarding Britain are, they’re all equally enamoured with Harry Potter.
Hawkworth will have no choice but to back down, and Hermione knows they have made
another enemy.
She’s used to having enemies.
“Mr. Potter—”
“No,” Harry cuts Hawkworth off. “If you want to arrest us both, you are more than welcome.
I hope the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will accept my short notice of my
absence. Come to think of it, Mr. Robards, do you think I could have a few weeks off as
Division Leader of the Aurors while I go to prison?”
“Harry, please.” Gawain Robards says. He hasn’t spoken since they entered the room, and
he’s gone pale and twitchy. Hermione almost pities him, since she knows this isn’t Robards’
fault — as Head Auror he simply must sit in on Wizengamot hearings. “We don’t want to
arrest either of you, do we, Hawkworth?”
Hawkworth’s glare doesn’t waver, but he does take a deep breath. “No. No arrests are
necessary, as long as Auror Dawlish doesn’t want to press charges.”
Dawlish, recovering at the side from Hermione’s stunning spell, shakes his head easily.
Hermione spares him a small smile — they had been allies once, and this is his job — it had
been obvious he didn’t want to arrest her.
Kingsley speaks for the first time, and his voice is so foreign in its weakness that Hermione
blinks. “The Ministry needed a solution for the aftermath of the war, as you all well know.
The WPG was the solution. There was no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Harry says sternly. “The Ministry used children to fight a war for
them, only to betray them with this law. You made us into soldiers against Voldemort, and
now you’re surprised when we won’t fall in line. The Ministry made its choices.”
Hermione takes a breath into the stillness Harry’s words have inspired and settles her anger.
This is her opportunity to do something.
“All we’re asking is that The Ministry reconsider the Wizarding Population Growth Act as a
solution for the problems Wizarding Britain is facing. We recognize that the WPG can’t be
abolished overnight, and instead, we propose The Ministry takes the first step by granting
divorces to those couples who desperately need it. Allow for divorce petitions, be transparent
about the matching process, and consider other options for both economic and population
increases.”
“I assume, Miss Granger, that you have some other options for us to consider?” Ernest
Hawkworth snaps, contempt written on every inch of his face.
Hermione steps forward and flicks her fingers, summoning a thick envelope from where it
has been tucked into Draco’s outer robe. She shoos it towards Hawkworth wandlessly, and
the envelope slides into his hand as though he had summoned it himself. It’s an extraordinary
show of magic.
“I believe you’ll find a variety of choices in there.” She says smugly. “Also, it’s Mrs. Malfoy,
if you don’t mind.”
She spins on her heel and steps through her companions; Draco follows her slowly, but not
before pinning every Wizengamot member with silver eyes. He is just as powerful magically
as she is, and they all know it. They were there, in his trial for his crimes under Voldemort’s
reign.
Lastly, Harry Potter — the man who finally destroyed Voldemort, the greatest Dark Wizard in
a century, shakes his head at Kingsley. Another Minister who has disappointed and lied to
him. Harry’s presence is electrifying, and Hermione can feel the echoes of his magic even as
she walks towards the door.
The Ministry is as power-hungry as they come, as Draco had so helpfully pointed out months
ago — and they’ve made a mistake by creating partners out of the most powerful magical
beings in Great Britain. With Harry at her side, Malfoy’s influence at her fingertips, and the
Weasley family behind her, The Ministry is now at the opposite end of the Order of the
Phoenix.
And now they know it.
Hermione steps through the Floo into Grimmauld Place with a smile on her face, and Draco
and Harry nearly stumbling over her heels. Ginny, Ron, and George are all sitting on the
newly purchased couch, obviously waiting for them to return, and Hermione almost wants to
cry at the sight of them.
It’s been one of the worst weeks in recent memory, with Ron spending almost every hour of
the day at the hospital at Hannah’s bedside. George has been working overtime at the shop,
covering for him, and it’s obvious from their drawn faces they’re both exhausted.
“The bad news is that Ernest Hawkworth is rotten arse of a man,” Hermione declares. “But
the good news is that The Wizengamot has decided to consider our petition to allow divorces
under the WPG when the marriage is beyond repair.”
“What does beyond repair mean?” Ron asks darkly.
Hermione sighs. “I wish I could tell you, Ron. I gave them all of my suggestions for
improving the economy and stimulating population growth, without resorting to something as
barbaric as the WPG. The package also included a step-by-step plan for removing the WPG,
and the first step was allowable divorce, so it’s a good thing, either way.”
Ginny smiles. “It is definitely a good thing! At least it will make some of the Wizengamot
members think, and with the article Luna is publishing tomorrow regarding your meeting, the
public should take notice!”
Hermione nods, and hope she hasn’t felt in weeks bubbles up inside her. The Quibbler has
been printing submissions it had received following Hermione’s last interview with Draco;
readers have been sharing everything from WPG horror stories to success stories, and the
Quibbler’s sale numbers are nearly as high now as they were in the two years before the war.
Tomorrow, Luna is running the article Hermione wrote, which is nearly an identical copy of
what she had given Hawkworth this morning — which is to say, all the options The Ministry
of Magic has for stimulating economy and population without the use of the Wizarding
Population Growth Act.
“They definitely will, even if Hawkworth is an arse,” Harry says, sitting gently beside Ginny
and stealing Ron’s spot. “As long as word of Ginny’s pregnancy doesn’t get out, The
Quibbler should be the most prominent bit of news this week.”
Keeping Ginny’s pregnancy a secret has been wearing — it’s one of the few bright spots the
Weasley family has right now, but they have all been sworn to secrecy. Harry Potter’s child
will be considered a silver lining to the WPG, which is the opposite of what they want.
“I think… I think Hannah will be happy,” Ron says softly. “Y’know, when she wakes up. At
least she might have a choice now, even if she can’t have Neville.”
Ginny claps, “Wait… couldn’t Neville theoretically divorce Pansy — maybe they could—”
“No,” George interrupts. “No, Gin. That is theoretically possible now, thanks to Hermione,
but we can’t put that hope in Hannah’s head, nor that choice on Neville. We’ll tell her about
the divorce option if and when the Ministry gives more information about it.”
Ginny deflates a bit, but Hermione’s secretly glad George said something. While Neville has
been less than forthcoming about his feelings regarding Hannah and Pansy, it’s hardly fair to
throw this choice at his feet when they don’t even know if it’s even possible yet.
“At least Charlie can get rid of the harpy now,” Ginny mutters.
Draco stiffens at her side. “Astoria is a person.”
The group falls quiet, and Ginny’s eyes dart guiltily away. While Astoria has hardly
ingratiated herself to the Weasley family, she’s mostly just silent and sulky, not exactly a
harpy.
“Sorry,” Ginny says. “That was mean. Perhaps I should have said, now Charlie and Astoria
can both be rid of each other since it has been obvious from the very first moment they read
each other’s names that they were ill-suited.”
Draco doesn’t correct her, but Hermione has learned him, now — he disagrees with
something Ginny has said, but she just can’t figure out what. Astoria is, by all accounts,
miserable as Charlie’s wife and desperate to escape. Meanwhile, Charlie is escaping every
moment he is able through the international portkey Romania had gifted him after the WPG’s
announcement. Of all the couples Hermione has spent time with, they are by far the most
desperately in need of divorcing.
“In other news,” Harry announces, drawing everyone’s attention from the mystery that is
Astoria Greengrass. “I followed Hermione’s map of Rosmerta’s tunnel above ground and
pinpointed her actual house. I’ve been staking it out in the Cloak whenever I get the chance,
but so far, no one has come in or out while I’ve been there. There is a notice-me-not charm
on the house, but Rosmerta may have cast it herself to hide her family before any of the WPG
stuff.”
“We’re going to have to draw whoever took the child out,” Ron says. “There’s just no way
around it. ‘Mione said someone apparated in as soon as she got inside the house, so they
must have wards.”
“We’ll need to use someone as bait.” Hermione groans. She hates plans that involve live
people as bait. There are simply too many variables!
Harry grins at her words, and for a second she’s back in the Forest of Dean, making plans that
inevitably go to shit. “You got that right. I say next weekend I take us all to the house, and I’ll
go up to the door and when anyone arrives we stun them. Then we can ask them anything we
want to know.”
“Potter, you realize you’re asking us to stalk, assault, kidnap, and interrogate strangers for
you?” Draco drawls.
George laughs. “Newbie, he’s been doing this to us for years — join the club!”
Draco rolls his eyes but says nothing else. Hermione leans into him, and his hold on her waist
tightens minutely. It’s a comfort; his warm arm bands around her lower back and his heart
beats steadily against her shoulder. She wonders if he’s as tired of plotting and planning and
warring as she is — wonders if he thinks about how good they are at this, at war.
Hermione misses the days when she was simply good at books and cleverness — though now
she can say that she has friendship and bravery in spades as well.
“Would you all like to stay for lunch?” Ginny invites.
George says, “Thanks, Gin, but I left Parv in charge of the store this morning so I better get
back.”
“I’ll take some lunch if you’re offering,” Ron answers quickly. “Hospital food is shite, it is.”
Ginny laughs and stands easily, Harry following her. He’s become a puppy dog in a man’s
body, trailing Ginny everywhere around the house, offering to reach things and rub her feet.
Currently, Ginny is loving his indulgence, but Hermione is waiting for the inevitable
appearance of Harry Potter at her cottage door when his helicoptering becomes overbearing.
“We better get going, too, actually,” Hermione says gently. “Draco and I have hardly slept for
days preparing for that stupid meeting.”
Harry nods easily. “Yeah, get some well-deserved rest. We’ll see what the fallout brings in
tomorrow’s papers, and hopefully, by Monday, we’ll have a plan.”
They step onto the snowy porch of Grimmauld Place after saying their goodbyes, and
Hermione stares up at her husband. He’s watching her carefully, but as always, his expression
is nearly inscrutable — though, she has fashioned herself into somewhat of a Draco Malfoy
professional reader these days, and it’s easy to see that he’s pleased by the finest of lines
gathering around the corners of his eyes.
“Did you know when you’re older you’re going to have wrinkles from smiling,” Hermione
mock-whispers.
Draco rolls his eyes. “Malfoys do not get wrinkles.”
“Everyone gets wrinkles, Draco,” Hermione argues, fighting a smile.
He wraps his arms around her and tugs her close enough that her head fits under his chin like
a puzzle piece. She returns his hold and ties her fingers together against his spine.
“If a Malfoy must have wrinkles,” Draco murmurs, “then I suppose they might as well be the
smiling kind.”
Hermione’s laugh is covered by the crack of apparition, and when they land gently in front of
their cottage, they release each other from their embraces. The cottage has a dusting of snow
on it still, and Hermione had convinced Juney to leave the Christmas decorations up for just
one more week. It’s the first time the cottage has ever been decorated, and she’s loathe to rid
herself of the homey Christmas feeling.
She hangs her coat on the lowest hook of her coat rack, and Draco snags one of the taller
ones. He’s still wearing his dress robes from the Wizengamot meeting, and he looks every
inch the handsome wizard she married.
“Enjoying the view, Granger?”
Hermione snaps her eyes up from where she’d been staring to find her husband smirking at
her. She flushes at being caught, despite the fact that she’s theoretically allowed to look as
much as she wants.
Draco doesn’t give her a chance to answer. He strides forward and snags the edge of her
smart blazer, tugging her to him. She moulds herself to him easily, fitting against him as
though it is where she always belongs.
“You were magnificent today.” He breathes, pressing gentle kisses down her neck. She rolls
her head to give him more access, and his other hand sneaks into her hair, neatly tied back
into a chignon. She can feel the curls coming loose from their restraint, wrapping around his
fingers as though they want to hold him as well.
“Thank you,” she replies breathlessly. Her own hands sneak up the front of his wizard robes
— he’s radiating heat, and Hermione feels like a cat in the sun.
“Granger,” Draco murmurs between kisses, “come away with me?”
Hermione lets out a breathless laugh, “What? Where?”
He pulls back, only enough that he can stare at her. His eyes are endlessly grey — how had
she ever imagined him cold, she doesn’t know, because he watches her with fire licking up
her spine, and she would burn worlds down to keep him in her arms.
“When this is all over, come away with me,” Draco says seriously. “Anywhere you want,
Granger. Tell me where and that’s where we’ll go.”
“Anywhere?” She teases gently. “What if I want to go to Antarctica, or… or the North Pole?”
Draco doesn’t crack a smile, just twines a single curl in his fingers — oh, but she must look a
fright, with her tidy chignon half fallen down and love bites traced up her neck.
“If you want to go there, that’s where we’ll go.”
She presses closer to him, so close that she’s not entirely sure where she begins and he ends.
“I want to see the ocean.”
“Okay,” he breathes.
“And Paris,” Hermione adds. “Maybe New York.”
“Okay,” he repeats, pressing his forehead against hers. He’s hard against her lower stomach,
and Hermione desperately wants him — but she always wants him.
“And Sydney. In Australia.” She adds quietly. It’s far too serious for this type of intimate
dreaming. It must show in her voice because he pulls back enough to study her face.
“Why Sydney?”
She swallows. “My parents are there. I mean, they won’t know me. I’ve spoken to mind
healers, and the damage I did is irreversible, but—”
“Stop.” Draco interrupts. He raises both hands to press them against her jaw, stroking his
thumbs across her cheekbones. “You saved them, Granger. They are alive because of the
choices you made — you did the very best you could with what you had, and your best saved
their lives. That’s not damage. That’s selflessness.”
She can feel tears burning and she wants to escape his hold, hide away as she always does,
but Draco doesn’t release her. He’s not finished.
“We’ll go there, then. First,” he says gently. “There’s all the time in the world, Hermione. We
can speak to the best specialists available. If there’s nothing for it, then we can introduce
ourselves, and they will fall in love with you all over again.”
She exhales shakily. She wants to demand promises from him, extract whatever it is that
makes him so sure. He kisses her before she has a chance, soft and sweet, the way she’d
always imagined a future husband might kiss her; the way she never could have imagined
Draco Malfoy doing only a few months ago.
And suddenly, it’s easy to see it — perhaps Draco will knock on her parents’ door, charming
his way into a conversation and maybe dinner. She will shake restlessly at the table, and her
father’s warm brown eyes, so like her own, will wash over her in concern. He will not know
her; but it won’t matter, because he will still tell his horrible jokes, and her mother will serve
her favourite foods without knowing it — and Hermione will project her apologies silently,
her guilt fading away with every moment that she sees their happiness in this new life, this
life she gave them.
And Draco will be there.
She pulls away and twines their fingers together, tugging him down their short hallway with
ease. Their bedroom has transformed in the past week — her bluebells still light the
windowsill, but the photo she gave him for Christmas sits at his nightstand on top of his
familiar journal. Their bedding is rumpled, but not with restlessness and fear, but with
passion.
Hermione sheds her blazer, and Draco’s fingers rest on her shirt’s hem, pulling it gently over
her head. She undoes the rest of her hair while he steps out of his robes. They face each other
when they are undressed, and Hermione lets her eyes trace over the scars she has become so
familiar with, evidence of the war in his Sectumsempra scars and fading Dark Mark.
His fingers are as gentle as they always are over the cursed words on her forearm; Hermione
sometimes wonders if wherever Bellatrix Lestrange ended up, she knows her nephew, her
own blood, spends his nights curled around her, caressing the word mudblood and proving
that it doesn’t fucking matter to him, again and again.
“I love you,” Hermione whispers. Their room is half-lit with the last of the afternoon sun, and
Draco’s eyes gleam almost silver. She pulls him down on top of her, letting his weight settle
onto her skin. If only she had known that this awaited her — that all those years of pain and
blood would end in this.
Draco kisses her deeply, his hands roaming up and down her body. He presses gentle fingers
against her thighs and pushes them apart so that he is cradled between them. Hermione
instinctively wraps her ankles around him, locking him in place.
“I’m going to give you everything, witch,” Draco murmurs into her ear. Hermione’s breath
catches on a moan when one of his palms snags her breast, and he rolls clever fingers over
her nipple until it’s pebbled with desire. She’s burning at her core, but Draco is unhurried.
He moves down her body with ease, pausing at her breasts to pay them attention, and
Hermione barely recognizes the throaty cries emanating from her mouth. He kisses her
hipbones and lets his tongue run from her navel down, down, down.
Draco teases endlessly, sucking and blowing cool air onto her clit in turns until she’s writhing
in pleasure. He pins her in place and licks at her in earnest, letting one hand join in and
curling two fingers into her at the same time.
Draco raises his head for a moment when she feels like she might explode. His eyes are
burning. “Come for me,” he commands, the words imprinting onto her skin.
Hermione can do nothing but obey, and when he lowers his mouth to her again, she breaks
apart with his name on her lips. He doesn’t stop, even when she’s overstimulated and
gasping, only moves back up her body in turns.
She snakes her hand down and grasps at his cock, rewarded with his choked gasp. She directs
him to her center, and he presses into her slowly, savouring every moment.
It’s slow — they’ve made love now multiple times, and Draco is always considerate, but this
is new. He watches her as though he’s seen nothing like her before, and she forces herself to
slow down and stare back. He murmurs words into her skin, and though she doesn’t hear
most of them, she knows what he’s saying, anyway.
He bottoms out and pauses; their combined breath is gasping in the silence of the room.
She squeezes her thighs against his hips, “God, Draco, move.”
He trails his hands down her arms until he finds her wrists, and then pins her to the bed. He
moves excruciatingly slowly, sliding in and out of her as though he has all the time in the
world — and he does, she supposes.
Hermione can feel heat pooling in her navel again, and she whines when he releases one of
her wrists to snake his own fingers down to her clit. His thumb presses firmly and Hermione
nearly chokes on pleasure — and finally, finally, he moves, rubbing his thumb in tandem with
his hips snapping against hers.
“Fuck, Hermione,” he pants. “Fuck.”
She’s beyond words, and with no warning she feels herself spiral off the edge, clamping
down on him as she orgasms. Draco is hot on her heels and follows her down, her own name
echoing off his lips.
They lay in a heap, sweaty and sticky together. Draco is still puffing against her neck, holding
most of his weight on his arms so he doesn’t squish her. Hermione wouldn’t mind — thinks
she would somehow sink further into the mattress and become one with him.
He eventually rolls over, grabs his wand from his nightstand, and cleans them both off with a
quick charm. Draco gathers her up easily in his arms and she settles against his chest, the
metronome of his heartbeat steady and reassuring.
“Hermione, do you…” Draco trails off slowly, and Hermione blinks her eyes open. It’s not
like him to leave a question unfinished, and her curiosity is piqued.
“What?”
Draco shrugs; it’s awkward because she’s half on the shoulder and it squishes her face into
his neck. She almost laughs but holds it back at the last second, because she desperately
doesn’t want him to think she’s laughing at him.
“You said once you had to find a loophole within the year.” Draco finally says. It’s low and
soft, and absolutely not a question. Hermione forces herself not to go stiff. She knows exactly
what he’s talking about, and she’s not ready to give any answers. Not even sure if she knows
what her answers could be, because it’s not that she hasn’t thought about children. She thinks
about it every time she sees Ginny resting a hand on her stomach.
“I did,” she whispers.
Draco lets the silence wash over them, and Hermione relaxes incrementally. His voice, when
it comes, is so gentle she can feel tears prick at her eyes again.
“I’m not in a rush, Granger,” he says. “I just… wanted you to know that the thought isn’t
terrible.”
She lets herself picture it, in the way she never could with Ron. She imagines tiny blonde
children with serious grey eyes. Imagines Draco learning how to be something he never had;
can picture how patient and tender and kind he would be, the same he is with her.
Hermione imagines how children could soothe their still-aching wounds from the war;
pictures tiny people who have never seen hatred and cruelty and death running around in
innocence, lighting up with a curiosity for the world, the way Hermione had when she was
young.
She imagines how far she would go so they never had to see it — imagines the love she has
for her parents, for Harry and Ron, for Draco, and multiplies it infinitely in her brain, and
wonders if her heart has the capacity to risk that kind of pain and love anymore.
“I don’t need an answer,” Draco says, continuing as though she hasn’t been leaving him in
silence. “I just wanted to tell you.”
“Okay,” she says hoarsely. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

Divorce, Lies, and Murder
Chapter Notes
Hi friends! Sorry for the wait for this one, I've been recovering from a bug, but all is
well now. The next few chapters may take a bit longer since I'm simply drowning in
schoolwork, but I'm really hoping to plow through since this story is coming to a close.
Please mind the tags, and drop a comment if you enjoyed it, I love reading them!
EDIT: Minor edits; Marcus Flint was meant to say Terrence Higgs. Thanks wonderful
readers for catching that.
Friday, January 7th, 2000
Draco Malfoy simply doesn’t know everything. In school, he thought he did, but there is
something about joining an evil megalomaniac and taking part in a war that sheds light upon
every single flaw and ignorance a person can have. Fortunately for Draco, surviving said war
allowed him the chance to re-evaluate what he does know; which is actually not very much,
incidentally.
He now knows that blood simply does not make a witch or wizard better or worse; character
does. He paid for this knowledge in pain and fury, and he’s now become a person who would
fight a war over it — would die for those who he once thought inferior.
And while he also knows that the Wizarding Population Growth Act is a deeply unfair and
awful piece of legislation, it’s also the reason he married the greatest witch he’s ever known.
Not only is Hermione Granger (now Malfoy — and the thought is enough to send pleasure
into his bones) formidable and intelligent, but she’s also kind, which is a trait that Draco has
learned is infinitely rarer.
It’s hard not to be consumed by these thoughts as he watches his wife cooking in their tiny
kitchen. She’s actually a shite cook, but she had awoken this morning determined to make
him eggs without Juney’s help, and he hadn’t tried very hard to stop her. It almost reminds
him of potions class, the way her hair keeps growing larger with each passing minute, but
instead of being in a murky dungeon with Severus Snape and years of hatred between them,
they’re in a sunny kitchen, smiling stupidly at each other whenever their eyes catch.
It’s about as close to heaven as Draco Malfoy ever imagined getting.
Which is why he’s nearly unsurprised when Juney appears before him, large crocodile tears
spilling out of her bright blue eyes. Her tears are at odds with the unfamiliar fury painted over
her tiny house-elf face. She thrusts a piece of parchment at him violently and pins him with a
scowl. Draco’s almost proud of the little thing — his father would have tortured her for her
insubordination, and it means a lot that she’s so unafraid of him.
“For you, Master Malfoy,” she hisses, apparating away almost before finishing the moniker.
Draco glances at his wife, who appears nearly as baffled as he feels until he looks down at the
paper in his hand, an official-looking document with the Ministry of Magic’s official emblem
painted across it. He steps towards their counter and flattens it with shaking hands so
Hermione can see it. Eggs forgotten, she presses herself close and they read as one.
"The Ministry of Magic is very pleased with the way the Wizarding Growth Population Act is
progressing and is thrilled to announce that we have seen substantial growth in our economy,
our international wizarding relations, and pregnancy and birth numbers, all of which has
cemented the future of the magical world.
With such success, the Ministry of Magic is happy to offer the WPG - Compatibility Act. This
act is specifically designed for those matched couples who are finding their current
marriages no longer viable. To receive a Divorce, the couple must petition the Ministry of
Magic for form T-978. Upon receiving this form, the couple must attach their magical
signatures to the form by tapping their wands to the applicable section.
To petition the Ministry of Magic, please contact ‘The Office of Magical Marriage’.
Regards,
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic
Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot”
Hermione actually laughs out loud, excitement exploding out of her. “We did it! We actually
got in a divorce option!!”
Draco is not celebrating. He has lifted the letter to read the second missive below, which is
much shorter and much, much worse.
‘To Draco Malfoy & Hermione Malfoy;
You have been approved for magical Divorce. Please see the T-978 form attached, pre-
signed. Simply tap your wands to finalize your magical Divorce.
Signed,
The Office of Magical Marriages’
“Granger,” Draco chokes out, heart pounding nearly out of his throat. “What the fuck is
this?”
Hermione freezes mid celebration, scrambling back to her place at his side and reading the
words faster than he did.
She stares at him, and he stares back.
He doesn’t want this; he desperately wants to keep this witch. He wants to curl around her at
night and wake up to her in the morning and watch as she steamrolls anyone who dares get in
her way. He wants to love her and support her and grow old and change the fucking world
with her.
She’s shaking — in a way she hasn’t done in a long time. The long-term effects of the
cruciatus curse tend to appear in times of great stress or exhaustion, and while she used to
forget to feed herself when she locked herself in her office for hours at a time, neither he nor
Juney would let her go hungry any longer.
Oh, Juney. Draco swallows hard; his poor house-elf thought he requested this.
“No.” He says, the word tearing out of him violently. Hermione flinches, as though he’s
yelled.
“What?” she whispers back.
Draco straightens his spine. “No. Fuck that, Granger. I don’t want a divorce, and I know you
don’t either. You’re mine, you said so yourself.”
“But I’m—”
“Don’t you dare give me some shite excuse like I’m sacrificing something, or that you’re
muggleborn.”
“Your family magic depends—” Hermione’s voice is so much calmer than his, and Draco
panics.
“You are my family!” He roars, and Hermione stills in the silence his words evoke.
He calms minutely, reaching out to grasp her shoulders gently. She sinks into his fingers, her
body betraying her hesitance. “There are only two Malfoys left in this entire world,
Hermione. It’s just me and you. If you don’t want this, then I’ll sign this right now, because I
won’t chain you here. But don’t you fucking dare tell me I’ll be better off. I won’t be.”
It pains him to see the tears tracking down her face, and she nods tremulously. “Okay,” she
whispers. “If you’re sure you want this, okay.”
Draco’s relief at her agreement is palpable, and he reaches out to pull her close to him. She
twines around him in a way he’s becoming familiar with and presses her nose into his
collarbone.
“Are you sure, Granger?” He asks quietly, “I want you to want this, too.”
She leans away just enough to meet his eyes. “I want this. Nothing’s changed, I just… want
you to have all the options.”
“You are the only option,” Draco says firmly, and she smiles tremulously at him.
He lets go of her only to pull his wand out, ready to incinerate the bloody letter; fucking
Hawkworth, sending them this as some sort of sick power play.
“Wait,” Hermione says suddenly, moments before he is about to cast. She’s pulled entirely
away from him now, curling her arms around herself in the way she does when she’s scared.
Draco lowers his wand and stares at her expectantly.
“I have…” she swallows hard. “I have to tell you something before you destroy the form.”
For the oddest moment, an image of Ron Weasley pops into his head, the warning he had
delivered at Christmas: Hermione has secrets — from everyone. Draco pushes the thought
away and focuses on his wife.
She takes his silence as permission to continue. “Do you remember in fifth year when your
father failed a task at the Department of Mysteries?”
Draco winces, his hand unconsciously creeping up to his chest. The Dark Lord had been
furious, and particularly sadistic; the crucio he had delivered to Lucius had paled in
comparison to his mother’s punishment, given simply for being the wife of someone who had
failed.
“Well, I was there,” Hermione continues. “With a few others. We have a charmed coin from
when we were part of Dumbledore’s Army — you remember when Umbridge had you all
pull us into her office? Anyway, the coin lets us communicate. We called our reinforcements
that night because we thought someone was in danger at the Ministry. We had to fight a few
Death Eaters that night. Dolohov was one of them.”
At this, Draco focuses — he’s not blind, and from the beginning, he had watched as
Hermione had flinched at every mention of Dolohov’s name, as though he haunted her even
from the grave. He remembers how she had gone cold when he had asked after her scars,
choking out Dolohov and Bellatrix’s names with fear.
“What did he do?” Draco asks, and the fury that licks up his spine is so palpable that Draco
knows if Dolohov was still alive, he’d murder him.
“He hit me with a rather nasty curse as I mentioned before.” Granger’s voice cracks and tears
trail down her face, “It was too much for Madam Pomfrey, and she sent me on to St Mungo’s
for specialists. I obviously survived.”
“But?” Draco demands, because she’s not reliving this trauma just to tell him — he knows
how terrible the war was to her.
She straightens her spine. “I can’t give you the children that you want, Draco.”
And it’s not until she says the words that he realizes just how much he wants. Mourns the
loss of children he’d never dreamed of before, all in the space between seconds.
Then he swallows this down because he’s not a fool; he had never even entertained the idea
of children before Granger had been planted into his life. The loss of one-day children is
nothing compared to the loss of her.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. Her eyes flick up from the floor to meet his. “I’m sorry Dolohov
did that to you. I’m sorry he took your choices away.”
“Draco…” she murmurs.
He swallows. “Nothing changes, Granger. I won’t lie and tell you I’m not a little sad —
you’d be a great mum and I’ve never had a big family before. But nothing changes between
us. I want you.”
It’s as if he’s given permission because suddenly he’s got an armful of witch and she’s
sobbing harshly into his shirt. He gathers her closer and strokes a heavy hand down her spine
until her near hysteric breathing quiets.
“Ron wanted a family,” she cries, “and I couldn’t — couldn’t—”
“Let’s not talk about the stupidity of Ronald Weasley right now, love,” Draco murmurs.
Inside he’s reeling — Ron and Hermione arguing at their wedding, at the Nott’s Christmas
party, at the Burrow, when he had warned him.
“He’s the only one who knows,” Hermione explains. “And he wanted me to tell you, but I
was too scared. He’s not being cruel, Draco — he hates lying. He wanted you to know before
you got in too deep. In case you… in case you didn’t want me anymore.”
Draco clutches her closer; it’s an odd feeling to realize that Ron Weasley has actually been
trying to be fair to him. He almost wants to thank him — wants to punch him in his stupid
fucking face, too, but also thank him.
“I do want you, Granger.” Draco reiterates. “And it occurs to me that Mrs. Weasley has more
than once referred to you as another daughter.”
She sniffles. “Yeah.”
He presses his face into her riotous curls. “Then where did you ever get the idea that children
had to be from their parents to matter? Molly and Arthur Weasley love you just as much as
they love all their other children. If you want kids, Granger, then we can make that happen.
You have all the money at your disposal — you can ask for second opinions, find specialists,
find a surrogate, adopt, whatever. Look, I know you — you are very capable of loving anyone
and anything — I mean, you love Potter, and he’s the worst; so if you want kids, then say the
word and we will have them.”
Her face stays buried in his chest for a long time, and he waits patiently. When she finally
pulls away, she’s blotchy and red-eyed, but she’s staring at him as though she’s never seen
anything like him before.
“Harry isn’t the worst,” she argues weakly.
Draco rolls his eyes, “Let’s agree to disagree.”

She hums, and the smallest smile appears. “I love you madly, Draco Malfoy.”
He wants to laugh — wants to run marathons and paint her name in the sky and destroy
anyone who ever hurt her.
“So can I incinerate this bloody awful paper now?”
Hermione flicks her fingers toward the nearly forgotten paper and whispers: “Incendio”. It
bursts into flame and crumbles into ash on their countertop.
Draco gapes. “Just how much wandless magic have you been practicing, Hermione? You’re a
bloody menace.”
She grins. “Too late to divorce me now.”
Draco doesn’t deign to even answer. He presses forward and kisses her, trapping her against
cupboards and savouring every inch of her body against him.
“We should go to Theo’s,” Hermione says, breathless when he pulls away.
Draco flops his head against a cupboard, clunking loudly. “Why are you always thinking
when I’m kissing you?”
She laughs, musically. “I’m not! But we should make sure they didn’t get any divorce papers.
I think we’d be the only ones to get them; Hawkworth probably wanted to see if we were
lying about being happy. But we should be sure, just in case.”
He sighs dramatically, holding back his smirk when she laughs out loud at his theatrics.
“Alright, wife. Let’s finish our bloody breakfast first. I don’t fancy walking in on Theo if he
received divorce papers.”
“Luna wouldn’t sign them, obviously.” Hermione laughs. “They’re absolutely mad for each
other.”
“Exactly,” Draco drawls, sending her a faux-scowl. “Do you know what regular couples do
after they’ve had a row when they’re mad for each other, Granger?”
He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, leaving her spluttering and blushing to her ears.
They don’t make it to Nott Manor for another hour, and their eggs rest forgotten on the
countertops.
It’s Luna that opens the door when they apparate to Nott Manor, and Draco nearly blinks at
how mundane she appears. She’s always been pretty, but he doesn’t recall ever seeing her
without some sort of gaudy bauble or ridiculous outfit.
Now, she’s wearing what is obviously Theo’s collared shirt in typical Slytherin green over top
of loose navy pants. Her hair is down and spread over her shoulders and she peers at them
without her usual wide-rimmed pink Nargle glasses.
“Draco, Hermione,” she greets. “Come in.”
They step into the foyer — the Christmas lights have been removed, but Draco notices that
there are more plants than ever in the front room. It’s a lovely effect, and he’s quite sure it’s
all Luna’s doing since Theo’s never owned a plant in his life until Luna gifted him with a fern
— and yes, he did have to ask Hermione what the bloody fuck a fern was.
“Who is it, Lu?” Theo’s voice carries down the corridor, but before anyone can answer, he
turns the corner.
“Hi, Theo!” Hermione chirps.
Draco is almost insulted that his best mate looks worried to see them, though he supposes
that they’ve been appearing on their doorstep with a new crisis each week since the WPG
was announced.
“We should sit,” Luna announces, leading the way towards a small sitting room. It’s one
Draco doesn’t recognize, since Theo more or less spent his time in only two rooms before
Luna crashed into his life. It’s lovely — the furniture is all light wood and twinkling lights,
the obvious work of Luna.
“How are you two?” Theo asks, settling into a loveseat beside Luna. She curls up into him,
tucking her knees to her chest. Draco imagines the way his mother would have fainted at the
sight of her bare toes, all twinkling in different colours.
Still, he’s disappointed when Hermione sits beside him so properly, even though he can
almost still taste her on his lips.
“We’re good. The Ministry announced a divorce law,” Hermione says. “Which was
wonderful news until we discovered a pre-signed approval form for divorce for Draco and I
underneath it.”
“You’re getting divorced!?” Luna nearly yells. Her feet crash down to the floor in a thump,
and it’s the closest to angry Draco has ever seen her. “That’s ridiculous! Hermione — he’s in
love with you!”
Hermione blushes, and Draco holds back a smirk. “She’s quite aware, Luna, but thank you.”
Luna’s mouth drops open even more. “Then why would you get a—”
“We’re not divorcing!” Hermione’s voice has gone a bit shrill. “We came to see if you got
divorce papers.”
Theo sits forward abruptly, and Draco nearly flinches; while both he and Theo have always
known they look like their fathers, this is the first time Draco’s ever seen his friend look so
bloody dangerous.
“We’re not divorcing.” Theo hisses. Luna laughs.
“I know!” Granger squeaks, and Draco lays a hand on her thigh, so she stops shaking the
couch with her incessant jitters.
“No one is divorcing!” He announces. “We incinerated our papers. We were wondering if you
received such papers, or if we were just specially chosen by the Ministry.”
Theo relaxes once again into the back of the couch. “We only got the news release, no
divorce papers.”
“Great. A parting gift for that dreadful Wizengamot meeting, then.” Granger grumbles.
Luna giggles again, “Hermione, don’t be silly. It’s strategic. You’ve shown you’re standing
together, and now you’re too powerful. They want you to split up because it’s better for them
to hold all the power.”
Both Draco and Hermione gape at Luna. He doesn’t know why he’s so shocked. Years ago,
when Luna had been imprisoned in the Manor, her cunning had surprised him. Despite her
dotty personality, she had survived weeks living in the same house with multiple Death Eaters
and Voldemort himself. Luna was every inch the intelligent Ravenclaw.
An intelligent Ravenclaw who suddenly grasps at her chest, letting out a little shriek of pain.
Theo leaps to his feet in a blink, and Hermione is nearly just as fast to pull her wand.
There’s no threat — Nott Manor is warded to the teeth, and the only people alive who can
circumvent the wards are standing in the room.
“Sorry,” Luna breathes. “It just stung for a second and surprised me, is all. It’s been so long
since I’ve felt it.”
Slowly Draco turns to see what Luna’s on about, only to find her pulling a long gold chain
out of her shirt, with a Galleon on the end. Hermione nearly falls to her knees beside where
Luna is still sitting on the couch, stark fear painted on her face.
“What is it?” She demands. “What does it say, Luna?”
Luna frowns. “SOS - CC - Meet with Ariana 5 PM.”
Hermione glances at the clock and back at Luna. It’s the first time he’s ever seen his wife
communicate without saying words to anyone other than Potter or Weasley.
Hermione’s gaze softens, and she reaches out to rest one finger on the coin at Luna’s neck.
“You keep it on you?”
“Of course I do,” Luna says gently. “What if you needed me?”
Hermione takes Luna’s hand and presses her face to it, an unbridled show of affection. “You
are a wonderful friend, Luna,” Hermione murmurs gently.
Luna smiles, “I know.”
They both stand as one, and Draco watches as Luna sneaks a hand down to clasp Hermione’s.
They’re both scared; it strikes him how fucking young they are, even now, years after they
fought a war.
“Do you remember how I told you earlier that I went to the Ministry of Magic with the
Dumbledore’s Army group?” Hermione asks.
Draco winces — Dolohov’s curse. Only a moment later, he connects the dots; she had
mentioned an enchanted coin, just like the one resting against Luna’s chest on top of her
shirt.
“It’s one of the charmed ones?” Draco asks. “So the message had to be sent from someone
you know.”
“Cho Chang,” Theo murmurs. “CC. Right?”
Luna nods gravely. “Yes. And Ariana is Dumbledore’s little sister. Her portrait is in the
basement of the Hog’s Head Tavern.”
Hermione grasps her wand and says fiercely, “EXPECTO PATRONUM.”
A shimmering otter bursts from her wand and laps circles around them. Draco wants to laugh
at the sight — he’s hardly been given the chance to see many Patronuses, and he didn’t even
consider the fact that Granger had one.
“Go to Harry. Tell him to check his coin. Ron too, if you can make it there.” Hermione
instructs, and the otter bounds away through the walls, disappearing.
“That was bloody brilliant,” Theo breathes. “Luna, can you make a Patronus?”
Luna nods shyly. “Yes. It’s a hare. I’ll show you later.”
“Okay, Draco and I will go to Hogsmeade first. We’ll disillusion ourselves the best we can
first. You two come in about ten minutes, so it’s not too close together.”
Theo and Luna nod gravely at Hermione’s instructions, and she spins on her heels and
marches towards the door. Draco throws a wave over his shoulder trying to catch up with her.
Fear settles in his stomach; he carries it all the way out of Nott Manor, and through his
apparition with Granger. By the time they’ve snuck into the Hog’s Head, he’s vaguely
nauseous. He’s familiar with the feeling if nothing else. It had occurred often when the Death
Eaters had been on the verge of battle — he feels like they’re about to go to war again.
There are a few customers sitting sporadically spaced out, most blurry-eyed and fist deep into
a tankard. Hermione nods at a man with a grey beard behind the bar who watches them with
discerning blue eyes, even though they’re disillusioned. He’s familiar in a distant way, and
Draco can feel his fear ramp up.
“Who is that, Granger?” Draco asks hoarsely — he knows the answer before he asks, but he
still has to say it.
“Aberforth,” Hermione murmurs, squeezing his hand and sending him a sad smile.
“Dumbledore’s brother.”
Draco chokes on anguish the entire way down the rickety steps into the basement; even if
Aberforth were standing in front of him, he’d have no way of forcing whatever apologies he
should make out of his throat.
Luckily for him, he doesn’t have long to ponder the mystery of Albus Dumbledore’s brother.
Cho Chang is standing in front of a portrait of a young woman, hand outstretched as though
they’d been communicating.
Draco hardly knows Cho, but even he is shocked at what he sees. She’s nearly
unrecognizable; her shoulder blades jut out of her back like broken wings, and her wrists are
so thin he thinks he could crush them between two fingers. She’s emaciated beyond any
scope he’s ever seen before, and when she turns to look at them with a fierce glare, she’s got
a wicked burn across her left cheek. It’s angry and red, and definitely not that old.
Beyond that, her sleeveless arms are covered in bruises. Most look like handprints.
Hermione stares at Cho Chang, and they don’t speak. Tears begin to track down her cheeks,
but Cho’s gaze never wavers, not until creaking signifies people are joining them in the
basement.
Luna takes one look at Cho and nearly falls all over herself; they scramble together with
desperation, and Luna wraps Cho into her arms and clutches her tightly while the other girl
hides in her collar.
Draco once again finds himself unbearably grateful to Luna bloody Lovegood.
Only moments later, what appears to be an entire crew clambers down the stairs. First,
Neville Longbottom with Pansy Parkinson in tow, Fred and Parvati, Ron, Susan Bones,
Padma Patil, Seamus Finnigan, and a few others Draco doesn’t recognize. Harry Potter is the
last, and he closes the door gently behind him.
“Bringing the snakes in?” Seamus Finnigan hisses, gesturing blindly at Theo, Draco, and
Pansy.
Hermione sighs. “Seamus. Surely you know we’ve married them, right?”
“Unwillingly.” Cho’s voice rings out, and Seamus’ argument drops when he catches sight of
her, half-hidden behind Luna’s body.
Everyone else follows suit, and as their group recognizes the abuse that Cho has obviously
been dealing with, wands and righteous fury appear. Harry Potter steps forward but doesn’t
approach Cho further, and it is Luna who speaks instead.
“Cho, tell us who hurt you?” Luna asks in her gentlest voice. “We can fix it. We’ll protect
you.”
“I don’t need protecting,” Cho hisses.
She steps out from her hiding place half behind Luna, showing the extent of her bruising and
neglect; broken murmurs and furious whispers break out behind him.
“Terrence Higgs is dead,” Cho says calmly. “I woke up this morning, looked at myself in the
mirror, and walked back to my bed and avada’d Higgs where he lay sleeping.”
Shock suspends that moment in silence, and it is Pansy Longbottom nee Parkinson that
breaks it.
“Good for you.” She announces viciously. “Do you need us to get rid of the body?”
Cho’s glare, so furious and hardened, cracks just a little. “You would help me?”
Pansy tosses her hair as if in annoyance. “To be honest with you, I’ve been looking for ways
to get rid of Terrence Higgs since first year.”
Cho laughs, but halfway through it cracks into a sob, and suddenly the group is converging
on her, wrapping her up in arms and love and support. It’s overwhelming, and Draco finds
himself hovering at the back with Theo and Pansy. There’s more than one person crying, and
Pansy is shifting from foot to foot. She’s been adamant since she was fifteen that she’s
allergic to tears.
“Draco, do you still have that particularly beautiful solarium at the Manor that your mother
so loved?” Pansy murmurs.
Draco gapes at her. “This is hardly the time, Pans.”
She waves his protests away. “This is a perfect time. Narcissa was always so well prepared.
Such a good Slytherin. So many… strategic secrets.”
“What the fuck are you on about, Pans?”
Pansy sniffs at his words. “Come on Draco. You don’t think your mother cleaned up more
than her fair share of your father’s messes? There’s a perfectly good mulching machine in
that solarium, and it creates the best fertilizer. There’s a reason her flowers were always
simply brimming with life.”
Draco stares at Pansy. “Are you telling me my mother put dead bodies in her bloody flower
beds?!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco,” Pansy says primly. “I was simply inquiring about your gardens,
and if the Malfoy wards would allow me entrance.”
“They would,” Draco says after a long moment — he’s not entirely sure if he wants to know
if Pansy is telling the truth about his flowers or not.
Luckily, Pansy doesn’t ask anything further. She spins away from him, moving towards the
epicentre where Cho Chang still stands. Pansy barely exchanges three words with her before
she’s off again, clambering up the stairwell and disappearing out the door.
“You’re really trusting her?” Seamus questions. Cho turns red eyes on Neville.
“Do you trust her?” Cho asks.
Neville nods.
Cho shrugs. “Then I do, too.”
Slowly, the group breaks apart enough to give everyone room to breathe. Luna stays beside
Cho, and Theo hovers close to Hermione and Draco.
“Why didn’t you call us sooner, Cho?” Susan Bones asks gently. “We would have helped
you.”
Cho scowls. “He took my coin away. He didn’t realize what it was, but I had it on a necklace
like Luna does, and that meant he thought it was jewellery. I wasn’t allowed jewellery.”
Draco has always hated Terrence Higgs, but he’s about ready to follow Pansy up those stairs
and go to his mother’s solarium and mulch him twice for good fucking measure.
“I’m sorry, Cho,” Hermione says softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Cho nods. “Me too.”
“As of today, Hermione got the divorce law passed,” Harry says into the silence. “Which is a
good start. But we need to do more. At this rate, it’s going to be years before the Ministry
abolishes the WPG, and new witches and wizards will graduate Hogwarts this year and be
matched before they even have a chance to live.”
“What do you propose, Harry?” Fred Weasley asks.
Harry shrugs helplessly. “I honestly don’t know. We could hold a march, maybe?”
“A march?” Cho laughs dryly. “Have you all lost your goddamn minds? A march?! Why
don’t we take ourselves to the Ministry and demand a revolution?! Oust everyone in charge!”
Harry winces. “We don’t want this to come down to a fight, Cho. We need to be peaceful—”
“We were made in war, Harry Potter!” Cho snaps. “We’ve never known peace! Look around
— this room is missing members, members who died so that we could live. So we could love
and grow up and not be so fucking battle-worn. You want peaceful? Fine. Don’t forget that
you married the love of your life — but I’ve been living with a monster for months. I’ve been
fighting a war this entire fucking time, and I didn’t choose this war! If you don’t want to help
me, then get out of my way. I’ll go to the Ministry myself.”
“Stop!” Hermione’s voice rings out, cutting through the electrifying hum of the basement.
“Stop. I think you’re both right.”
Ron Weasley sighs. “Obviously you’ve got an idea, ‘Mione. Fill us in.”
“Next Friday there’s supposed to be a Ministry fundraiser, with a few of their employees;
Arthur Weasley was planning to attend with Molly, and Harry and I were also invited. We’ll
spread a rumour of a protest happening the following week, so we can gauge who liked the
idea and who is upset about it. Then, we will have the protest march — Luna, could you print
something about it in the Quibbler?”
“Of course,” Luna agrees. “It will pair nicely with today’s article, anyway.”
Draco blinks — he had forgotten that the Quibbler was supposed to have published Granger’s
article on the Wizengamot meeting today; Juney hadn’t delivered it when she had dropped
the divorce papers off in her fury.
“What exactly is a protest march going to achieve?” Cho Chang asks. She’s obviously
frustrated, and Draco can hardly blame her. “Sure, we’ll get some notice, but people already
know the WPG is rubbish. How will it change anything?”
This time, Harry Potter speaks. “It’s not going to change anything,” Harry says seriously.
“But it will be a good diversion. We get as many people as we can to flood Diagon Alley and
the Ministry, and the Aurors will be stretched thin. Hawkworth will be vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable for what, exactly?” Draco asks abruptly. He’s still standing far enough back with
Theo that most of the Dumbledore’s Army members glance behind them, nearly surprised, as
though they’d forgotten the Slytherins were there.
“Revolution,” Hermione answers easily. “We’re going to take over the Ministry of Magic.”
Any Other World
Chapter Notes
Hello friends! Honestly, I'm sorry I'm making you wait so long between chapters these
days. Life is far too busy. I was in a bad car wreck last week and it's set me back on all
of my to-do's (I'm alright just banged up and dealing with insurance garbage). We are in
the home stretch now, and I'm hoping to get this story wrapped up ASAP :) I'm
particularly fond of this chapter, and it's the last Theo Nott POV we see in this story, so I
hope you enjoy it too!
Monday, January 10th, 2000
Theo Nott is not exactly sure how he managed to get pulled into this harebrained Potter
scheme, but he supposes it has something to do with the fact that his beloved wife offered
Nott Manor up as an asylum.
Cho Chang had moved in following the meeting of Dumbledore’s Army, and while Theo
remembers the Ravenclaw as a quiet, serious girl from Hogwarts, it’s obvious this war has
remade her into something other.
She follows Luna around the grounds closely, blinking in the sunlight as though she has
forgotten the feeling of warmth. She wraps herself in the blankets Luna has insisted on
placing in every sitting room and stares out the windows for hours at a time. Her wand never
leaves her fist, and she has covered the bedroom they had given her in more wards than Theo
even knew existed.
It’s rewarding, in its own ways. Cho’s only been at Nott Manor for three days, but sometimes
Theo hears Luna laughing down the hallways at something she said. Only the day before,
Theo had watched an unfamiliar smile spread across Cho’s face when Luna had taught her
how to feed the swans. Thelma has been beside herself with having a guest in the Manor, and
she has insisted on full meal spreads three times a day, and although Theo’s not sure how she
knows, it’s obvious that she’s cooking all of Cho’s favourite dishes.
It’s also impossibly difficult — Theo is no stranger to being feared. His father and his
grandfather before him had reputations that oozed over everything they touched, and he had
inherited that with his name. From their dark features, to their height, to the damnable Dark
Mark branded onto every Nott’s arm. So he can’t blame Cho when she flinches every time he
enters a room. The night prior he had laughed too loudly at something Luna had said, and
Cho had nearly fled to her room in a panic.
Despite this, Luna is a balm, as always. She wraps herself around him at night and they both
ache with what has been done to their friend. Luna cries at the scars Cho will carry for the
rest of her life, and Theo wishes desperately that he was someone else, anyone else during the
war. Wishes he could access a time turner — wishes he could create one. He’d go back, back
to himself as that skinny twelve-year-old in the second year, and he’d demand that he be
different. Demand that he stand up to his father, and burn down the Death Eaters; demand
that he find Luna Lovegood and be the person who she deserved right from the start.
Theo is no fool, however. He knows he cannot change the past; even if he could, he wouldn’t.
There is nothing that would make him endanger Luna now.
Being a better person for her, though, is something he is actively pursuing. Even when it ends
up that he’s crouching behind a hedge for the better part of two hours while sodding Harry
Potter is out investigating the house in front of them.
After the DA meeting, Theo had been summoned to his own home’s office to find Harry
Potter standing in the small room. He had gathered Ron, Hermione, Draco, and George
Weasley inside, and explained to them the mystery of Rosmerta’s missing child, and what
Hermione had found during Christmas.
Since then, Theo has been involved in a top-secret mission that involves staking out
Rosmerta’s house; it’s far less fun than he might have imagined since it mostly involves
hovering behind large hedges in freezing cold weather and staring at a house that has yet to
show any signs of life. Just this afternoon, Theo had arrived to relieve a miserable Ron
Weasley. The man had genuinely thanked him for being on time before apparating back to St.
Mungo’s, where he had been spending nearly every moment at a still-sleeping Hannah’s
bedside.
Ron had been the one to design the roster for observing Rosmerta’s house, and Theo had
been surprised to see how easily both Harry and Hermione deferred to his strategies. Despite
this, the state of Ron’s bloodshot eyes and trembling hands indicate that it’s only a matter of
time before he’s going to be removed from the roster for his own safety. Exhaustion is just as
deadly as stupidity.
So far, there has been no sign of Rosmerta’s child, or any other wizards and witches around
the house. Hermione had sensed a broken fidelius, some protective wards, and a notice-me-
not charm, but without approaching the house again, they have nothing else to go on.
The current plan is to rescue the child prior to the march they have been organizing, which
has been dubbed the Marital Rights March. So far, the entirety of Dumbledore’s Army, and
most of the Order of the Phoenix, have been enlisted to spread the word of the march. Luna
had drafted the Quibbler article for the Friday of the Ministry Fundraiser so that the members
invited could talk about it there without suspicion.
A faint crack draws Theo out of his thoughts, but he doesn’t worry, since only moments later
Hermione is peeking around into his hiding spot.
“You’re early,” Theo notes. She’s nearly half an hour ahead of schedule.
Hermione shrugs, eyes worried. “Harry hasn’t found anything yet?”
Theo turns his eyes back to the vacant house. The saviour of the wizarding world is
somewhere down there, hiding under an invisibility cloak and toeing the lines of the wards.
“Nothing yet.”
“We’re going to have to breach the house.” Hermione sighs.
Theo snaps his gaze back to her. “What?”
Her own expression turns fond at his shock. “You sound like Draco. You Slytherins, always
content with lurking.”
“You sodding Gryffindors,” Theo snaps. “Bound and determined to run headlong into
danger!”
Hermione huffs a laugh quietly. “It won’t be that bad. I have a plan, but I’m sorry to say it
involves you.”
Theo already hates the plan. “What have you concocted, Granger?”
“It’s Malfoy.” She says primly. “And the fundraising gala is in four days. I was hoping to
have George lead the mission, but unfortunately, the Ministry has hired him to consult for
entertainment. Apparently, his New Year’s fireworks drew some interest, and the Ministry is
going all out for this event. He’ll be at the gala with me, Harry, Ginny, Draco, and Ron.
While we spread the word about the march and keep an eye out for dissenters, I need you,
Blaise, Neville, and Pansy to be here.”
“You want a trio of snakes?” Theo gapes.
“And Neville.”
Theo scoffs, “Oh yes, that brings me so much confidence.”
For the first time, Hermione’s expression goes glacial. “Neville Longbottom is not only one
of the finest wizards I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, but he has more than proven his
worth. I’m more than confident he’ll hold his own amongst you snakes, seeing that he is the
only one with the bravery to literally behead one.”
Theo swallows. He actually likes Longbottom, he’s just got more years knowing him as a bit
of a clumsy oaf rather than a war hero. Hermione’s not wrong though. Neville has more than
proven himself, and if Theo’s honest, he won’t be sad to have him at his back.
“I know, Hermione,” Theo says softly. “I’m sorry. I’m just… not used to these types of
schemes.”
“I know.” Hermione’s expression softens. “If it helps, Ron is trying to get out of the gala so
he can be here. The Ministry wants us all there though, to have the stupid ‘Golden Trio’ show
their alignment with the Minister. Utter shite.”
“Not surprising though.” Theo sighs.
“So… will you do it?” Hermione says after a moment. “Will you help us get inside the house
and rescue Rosmerta’s child?”
Theo swallows. He knows Luna would want him to help; truthfully, he’d want to help, even
without Luna’s influence. There’s something inherently wrong with kidnapping a child, squib
or not.
“I will.”
Hermione catches his hand between hers. Her eyes are warm and something like pride seems
to shine out of them.
“Theo Nott, I’m really glad I got to know you,” she says quietly. “I’m really glad Luna got
your name.”
Theo extricates his hand, feeling the telltale heat of a blush on his cheeks. “Yeah, well, you’re
alright, too.”
There are words caught in his throat that he wants to say to her; words of gratitude for her
kindness. For her patience with Draco Malfoy, who has been his best friend his entire life.
For standing up at his trial and saving him from Azkaban, even though it couldn’t have been
easy.
For fighting against a megalomaniac that tried to destroy all their lives when Theo himself
hadn’t possessed the courage to do so.
“Nott.” Harry Potter’s voice startles him, and when he ripples into view only a foot away, a
shiver chases down his spine. He hates that invisibility cloak.
“Potter.”
“Harry,” Hermione greets, catching him in a quick embrace. Theo’s recently gotten a crash
course in how affectionate Gryffindors are; he’d nearly fallen over when Ron had clapped
him on the shoulder as he thanked him, and his fingers tingle from where Hermione had just
held his hand.
Theo has never had physical affection before, and now he seems to be swimming in it. He
goes to sleep tangled against his wife, his hands pressed gently to her swelling stomach, and
wakes up to her kisses. Even the Gryffindors around him bump into him gently when they
think he’s said something funny.
Theo knows Draco is as surprised as he is; even Narcissa, who loved Draco more than
anything in the world, was never particularly physically affectionate with her son.
He had never understood Potter’s speech at Voldemort’s death — had never understood how
love could be so potent a weapon, but he knows its power now. He has seen it: Molly
Weasley standing in front of Bellatrix Lestrange, prepared to battle the most dangerous witch
ever born for her family’s safety. Narcissa Malfoy staring fearlessly into the Dark Lord’s eyes
and lying, lying to the most powerful Legilimens ever to exist, for Draco’s life.
He feels it now, too. Feels the terror that love has carried into him; fear, unlike anything he’s
ever felt, that it will all be taken away. That he’ll wake up alone in his Manor, with only
Draco Malfoy as a comrade, half-alive and miserable.
“Theo’s in,” Hermione says breathlessly. “They’ll raid Rosmerta’s when we’re at the gala.”
Harry grins at him, green eyes bright. “Bloody brilliant. Who’s going to go in, be the bait?”
“Bait?!” Theo yelps. “What do we need bait for?”
Hermione giggles. “Theo, someone has to go trip the wards and draw whoever is watching
the house. Then the others will disarm and stun them.”
“And how will they do that?” Theo retorts. “These are obviously trained people.”
“Nott,” Harry’s biting back laughter. “You do realize we’re also trained, right? Hermione will
have everything ready. She’s very good at traps and wards with stunning rebounds. Saved my
arse many times.”
Theo sighs — and love births courage. He’s never been particularly brave, but here he is,
standing with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and prepared to take on the Ministry.
Prepared to stand with other Slytherins and Neville Longbottom and wage war if it must be
done.
Theo thinks of Cho; how only that morning she had been curled in a chair close to the
window, the sunlight painting her vibrant bruises down her arms. He thinks about how he
barely knows her, and yet he burns with fury at her mistreatment.
“Okay, fine.” He says. “Tell me what to do.”
Hermione throws her arms around him and Theo can’t help the laugh that escapes his throat.
For the first time in a long while, Theo finds himself sitting in his study alone, with a glass of
firewhiskey in hand. He’s got his feet up on his desk and is staring out his window past his
fern plant. Luna and Cho are barely visible in the distance, feeding the Thestrals and visiting.
He had thought about joining them but decided against it when he heard their laughter
drifting towards him in the evening air.
Instead, he’s thinking over Granger’s plan. It’s a good plan when all is said and done. She’d
planted multiple wards that released stunning curses upon each entrance to the property, and
even a few inside the doorways with some impressive distance wand work. Theo planned on
entering the house thirty minutes after the Ministry Gala’s official start, drawing whoever
was still monitoring the house and then having Neville, Pansy, and Blaise come from behind
to stun anyone who was missed.
Hermione had also promised an artifact she had borrowed from the Ministry that would
release a powerful sleeping charm upon breaking — it was a last resort, as it would require
all of them to time bubble-head charms precisely with the artifact’s release, but it was a
strong backup plan.
The real trick, however, was the illegally brewed veritaserum that Granger had handed him to
use for questioning whoever showed up. Theo’s eyes had nearly fallen out of his head when
she had given it to him; it was nearly impossible to get before the war, and now it was
unheard of. All the best Potion Masters in Britain had fled during the war or been killed;
Slughorn was still at Hogwarts, but the Ministry had been watching him extremely closely.
Thelma appears, startling him with her apparition. She grins crookedly at him and announces.
“Master Malfoy is here.”
Draco strides in only a moment later, and Thelma frowns at his improper entrance. Theo
almost laughs, since he’s never known to follow customs when coming to the Nott’s house,
and Thelma is surely used to this by now.
“Shall Thelma bring the Masters tea?”
“No thank you, Thelma,” Theo answers. “We’ll be fine.”
She disappears with one more scowl in Draco’s direction.
“Your wife is a menace,” Draco announces, grabbing a glass and pouring himself a hearty
dose of firewhiskey.
Theo does laugh, then. “Oh, sure. We both know it’s your wife who is the real menace!”
Draco flops into the chair in front of his desk and sighs. “What’s Granger done this time?”
Theo pulls out the tiny vial from his breast pocket. “Somehow acquired enough illegally
brewed veritaserum to drug five grown wizards.”
Draco’s expression grows incredulous before he drops his face into his hands. When he meets
Theo’s gaze again, he looks torn between resignation and pride.
“I’m not even surprised,” he finally announces. “She probably brewed it herself.”
“No way,” Theo argues. “It’s one of the trickiest potions to create!”
Draco smirks, “She brewed Polyjuice Potion in the Hogwarts girls’ bathroom in the second
year. By herself.”
Theo gapes. “You’re joking. How?! Why?!”

“She apparently wanted to infiltrate the Slytherin Common Rooms to find out if I was the
Heir of Slytherin that year and killing all the muggle-borns.”
Theo realizes at that moment how absolutely horror-filled their childhood had been. “And
now she’s married to you.”
“Yes, well, I do believe that same year at Hogwarts you complained that Loony Lovegood
wouldn’t stop stepping on your toes with no shoes on in Herbology.” Draco retorts.
Theo flushes. He’d forgotten that entirely. “Oh, Merlin, don’t you ever tell her that.”
“As long as you tell her to stop setting her baby Thestrals on me — I’m going to start Floo-
ing in to avoid the yard, I swear.”
Theo laughs heartily and raises his glass to Draco. They grin at each other and sip gently on
their firewhiskey. They’ve done this a million times before, and yet this feels like the most
peaceful it’s ever been.
The silence stretches. It’s Draco who finally breaks it.
“I have to tell you something.”
Theo raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“It’s a secret.” Draco huffs. “Astoria asked me to keep a secret.”
Theo’s curiosity is piqued — Slytherins are good at secrets, and the only way to be good at
secrets is to not share them and hoard them for the right time. Draco is doing the opposite.
“So then, why are you telling me?”
Draco scrubs a hand down his face tiredly. He’s been taking shifts monitoring Rosmerta’s
house, too, and he looks as exhausted as Theo feels.
“At Christmas, I talked to her alone. She was acting strangely — she said she felt bad, that
she’d been awful to Molly Weasley and Charlie. She said she talked to her father, threatened
him a bit and forced him to change his mind and not register a complaint about Daphne and
Percy’s marriage."
“Sounds like she’s coming around — why the worry?”
“Because then she asked me a favour.” Draco swallows and falls silent.
Theo drags his feet off his desk and plants them on the ground. The comfortable warmth has
faded into a cold dread he’s familiar with.
“What?”
“She asked me to deliver two letters on March 1st.” Draco draws out two crinkled envelopes
from his outer robe. “She said, one to Charlie and one to Mrs. Weasley.”
Theo swallows. “Why couldn’t she plan to deliver these herself, Draco?”
“I don’t know,” Draco answers. “She told me that the only way to save a broken marriage
was to leave it — she said she wanted out of the WPG. That she had to go.”
“Where is she going to go? Where will she stay?” Theo demands. It’s not unexpected that she
might run from the WPG, but he’s never known Astoria Greengrass to be impulsive. She
would have planned everything out. She also would never leave Daphne.
Draco sighs. “Stori wouldn’t tell me. She just made me promise to deliver these letters. But
something is wrong, Theo. I know it.”
“So what are you going to do?” Theo asks. He trusts Draco implicitly. Whatever else he may
have been, he's a damn good people reader. If he thinks something is off, it is.
“I’m going to open the letters. Right now. With you.”
Theo’s gaze falls to the envelopes clutched in his best friend’s hand. It goes against
everything Slytherin inside of him to read Astoria’s letters.
“Alright,” he rasps. He slams the rest of his firewhiskey and sets his glass down. “Alright.
Open them.”
Draco opens the letter addressed to Charlie Weasley first.
"Dear Charlie,
By the time you receive this, I will be gone.
I have learned so much about you these past few months, and so I know you will think this is
your fault. It’s not, Charlie. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I was an awful
bitch for our entire marriage. You were gracious and kind and welcoming, even though you
were just as terrified and furious as I was. In every other world, you were the perfect
husband.
Perhaps in another life, we would not have met so battle-worn. In another world, it might
have been nice. You would have learned to love me, perhaps. I know I would have learned to
love you.
As it stands, I must thank you. You welcomed my sister and I into your family, and have
treated us with kindness and respect that we have never before known.
Please don’t blame Daphne or Draco — I tricked them into this and they didn’t know.
Forgive me.
Yours,
Astoria Weasley”
Theo stares at Draco when he stops reading. The words hang over them, darkening their
camaraderie. Draco’s knuckles have gone white from where he grips the paper.
“Read the next one, mate,” Theo says softly.
Draco sets Astoria’s letter to Charlie on the desk with shaking hands. “Theo… that sounded
like—”
“Read the next one, Draco,” Theo demands.
Draco swallows the words he was about to say — they don’t need to be spoken out loud yet.
They both know that letter wasn't a runaway's final words.
Draco drags Mrs. Weasley’s letter out gently. It’s longer than Charlie’s, and there are small
translucent circles dotting the page. Tears.
“Dearest Mrs. Weasley,
I have written this letter thousands of times, and yet it is still never good enough. Please
accept my most sincere and deep regret for the pain I have caused you, your family, and
Charlie. Please know that I have never known a deeper sorrow than what fills me now.
You have been the kindest, most gentle mother I have ever known, and I have treated you with
ice and cruelty at every turn. It is entirely because I love you and your family so — from
nearly the moment I entered your home; I have been surrounded by something I have never
before had. You all love each other so deeply — it is the greatest honour of my life that I am a
Weasley.
I could not bear to lose you all — and so I never let myself have you. It would be cruel, I
think, to let you all love me, as it seemed so easy for you to do, only for me to disappear.
If I had this life, I would spend it with you all. I would make up for all the heartache I have
caused. I would wear the beautiful sweater you made me and stand beside Charlie and spend
the rest of my life trying to deserve him.
But, this life is not my own. By the time you read this, I will be gone. It’s important to me you
understand — that you hear, perhaps, why I have done what I have done.
You see, Molly… and oh, how I wish I could have called you that in person. Molly... I love
Daphne. I love my sister more than I love magic. More than water or air, or even the entire
world around us. I have watched for years as she has sheltered me from everything you can
imagine — school, our father, even Voldemort.
I would die for her, of course. And therein lies the rub. A blood malediction dating back
generations has plagued every female of the Greengrass line. None bear children and none
survive far into adulthood. I don’t think Daphne knows — and I beg of you, I beg , do not tell
her. The day the war was done, I performed blood magic. Illegal, dark stuff. I don’t regret it.
This curse ends with me, Molly. Daphne is free.
Love forever,
Astoria Weasley"
Draco’s hands are shaking so badly he can’t put the letter back in its envelope. Theo takes it
from him gently, even though he’s feeling the same fury and horror even now.
“Theo—” Draco chokes off and glances down. Even now, even after everything, they don’t
know how to show this emotion.
Theo shakes his head. “She’s dying.”
“Yes.” Draco agrees.
They stare at the opened envelopes and letters on his desk, and Theo wonders where the fuck
they go from here. Do they take this secret to Astoria’s grave, as she seems to want so
desperately? Do they tell no one and stand by as she dies slowly and silently and hated by
those she loves?
“Hermione told me,” Draco murmurs. “She told me the Greengrass line kept dying out. We
assumed they matched to the Weasley’s because the Weasley’s have so many children… we
assumed the Ministry was trying to breed the Greengrass’ back in.”
“They are,” Theo fumes, “they’re just doing it the entirely wrong way. Why didn’t she see a
curse breaker? What blood magic has she done!?”
Draco looks as though he’s aged in the past ten minutes. “If I had my guess, I would say she
took Daphne’s curse on herself. I have no doubt that the Greengrass’ would have researched
this. It’s probably never happened that one sibling would take the entirety of the curse upon
themselves before.”
“They don’t usually have daughters, anyway, from what I’ve read.”
Draco shakes his head. “Double the curse, double the illness time. Merlin, Theo, she even
told me. At Christmas. She said ‘Daphne is happy. I can live with that’.”
“Daph's going to be devastated,” Theo says.
Draco sighs. “They all will be. This may be what Stori wants, Theo, but it’s wrong.”
Theo nods slowly — he knows why Draco is so upset. It’s more than just Astoria dying —
it’s that they both know this is all Astoria has ever been taught. Slytherin heiresses know they
must bear tragedy after tragedy with a pretty face and stoicism unmatched. Astoria will waste
away slowly, dragging herself from everyone who cares about her, and she’ll die alone. It’s
what Narcissa Malfoy chose as well.
“This isn’t what they’d want,” Draco says suddenly. “This isn’t what Molly or Charlie or any
of them would choose. They’d rather have her. They’d rather be there and comfort her.”
Theo stares at his best friend — Draco Malfoy, nearly unrecognizable from the prat who’d
made all the wrong choices. Eyes blazing with a sense of righteousness, of a surety he’d
never had before.
“So what are we going to do about it?” Theo asks.
A muscle jumps in Draco’s jaw. “I’m tired of watching people I love suffer and die, Theo.”
“I don’t think we’re going to be able to fix this, mate,” Theo says gently. “Blood maledictions
are no small thing.”
“I know.” Draco sighs heavily, and then gently tucks both letters back inside their envelopes.
“I know.”
Theo watches his best friend. He doesn’t really remember who they were before the war.
Doesn’t really know who he is — but he knows what he wants to be. He wants to be better,
wants to be what Luna deserves. Wants to do all the right things, or at least try to.
“Draco, I think we need to tell Astoria that we’re tired of losing people without saying
goodbye. She thinks this will be easier for everyone involved, but it won’t. She says she’ll be
gone by March 1st? Well, that means we have just over a month to show her how much we
care. To show her she was a good friend, a good sister.”
“Yeah,” Draco rasps slowly. His eyes are ancient in the waning sunlight. “Will the death ever
stop, Theo?”
“I don’t know, mate.” Theo clears his throat, cursing the sudden knot he can feel building.
“But I think that to die surrounded by the people who love you might not be such a bad way
to go.”
Draco nods and swallows hard. “Yeah,” he rasps out. “That sounds pretty good to me.”
They don’t say another word, not until long after the sun has gone down. When Draco stands
to leave, he makes his way around Theo’s desk and presses a gentle hand to his shoulder.
Theo raises his own hand to set it on top. He lets the grief roll through him, and he knows
Draco does the same.
Draco steps away after a long moment and heads towards the door. He stops briefly and
glances back. For a second Draco looks as though he’s fighting with himself.
Finally, he clears his throat. “I’m really proud of you, Theo. I mean that.”
Draco disappears before Theo can answer — but he wouldn’t know what to say, even if
Draco was still standing in front of him.
Instead, Theo puts his study back in order using his hands, because sometimes magic takes
away the motions that help him think. He waters his fern, and he closes the door gently. The
Manor is quiet, and he heads towards his bedroom.
It’s dark aside from the swell of the moon behind their curtains, and Theo slips into bed
beside Luna. She turns to him, pulled into his rotation by something greater than gravity.
Her hair is splayed all over his pillow, and her eyes blink sleepily at him. “Hi,” she says.
Theo tucks her as close to him as he can get, moulding every curve into his own skin and
breathing for the first time in what feels like hours.
“Hello,” he hums gently into her hair. Her toes are freezing when she tucks them under his
calves.
“I tried to stay awake for you,” Luna says, pressing her nose into his collarbone.
He doesn’t answer, and her breathing stays slow and even. He thinks about the babies,
growing slowly and surely within Luna, and more precious than anything in the entire world
to him. Thinks about exactly who he’d become to keep them safe. Thinks about the ways he
will tell them how much he loves them; will teach them to fly and pet Thestrals and ride on
his shoulders and speak and grow — Theo thinks he will wear sodding Hufflepuff colours
everywhere he goes if that’s where they get sorted.
Theo thinks about Astoria’s father, with two beautiful daughters; how could he ever allow
this to happen? How could he have allowed his daughter to think she was too much trouble to
care about when she was dying?
“I love you,” Theo says into Luna’s hair. “I’m going to tell you every day for the rest of our
lives.”
“That sounds nice,” Luna murmurs, half-asleep. “And the babies, too?”
“Of course, Lu,” Theo promises — and oh, the weight of this promise. How easy it is to
promise his entire heart away — how brave this love has made him. “Of course the babies,
too.”
The Ministry Celebration
Chapter Notes
Hello all! I am actually a bit ahead on this story for the first time in a while, so I'm
tentatively promising an update in the next week or so. There are only four planned
chapters left, although I do have a few timestamps I'm considering after all is said and
done. Anyway, onto this chapter, in which multiple plans are executed :) Feel free to
drop a comment, I love reading them.
As much as George has grown to resent the Ministry, he’s grudgingly accepted that they
know how to throw a gala. Their annual fundraiser seems even more lavish than usual this
year; the location they had chosen was a sprawling mansion, which held an outrageously
large ballroom. The tall ceilings had thrilled George when he had first seen them — the
magical firework display he had designed relied on the space, and George was looking
forward to actually seeing his charms in action; the last time he had created something this
extravagant had been with Fred in Hogwarts, and they had hardly had time to take in the
show as they flew off on their brooms.
Guests had been arriving for the past hour, slowly trickling in and shaking hands with the
members of the Ministry and the Wizengamot who were present. Kingsley had yet to arrive,
but George had seen Robbards earlier, scowling as he berated some Auror. They were in
charge of security, and George did not envy the job. The Ministry was not well-beloved by
their people at the moment — the Quibbler’s articles regarding the WPG matches had not
spun them in a favourable light. A handful of stories of found happiness and love didn’t
forgive the literal hundreds of stories of misery and devastation the WPG matches had
caused. Luna had included all of them, with each issue of the Quibbler containing a few
anecdotes. The Daily Prophet sometimes reprinted the positive stories, but never the negative
— and the magical people of Britain were taking notice.
Today’s issue had been… well, for lack of a better word, magical. Luna had enchanted every
Quibbler article to project a holographic charm similar to the Chocolate Frog cards, and they
all shone with a small image of marching witches and wizards, hands in the air and carrying
signs. The headline read in bold font: “March for Marital Rights — Show Your Support on
January 22nd!”.
The article itself had been clear — people were to arrive in Diagon Alley and the Ministry of
Magic’s public floors with signs for a peaceful protest; the goal was to interrupt and spread
the dissatisfaction witches and wizards had for the Wizarding Population Growth Act. Luna’s
writing had been articulate and compelling, interwoven with the importance of peace and
reconciliation in the aftermath of the war. George had been impressed by the entire article,
and nearly since the moment the Quibbler had been delivered this morning, he had heard
hushed conversations, witches and wizards eager to give their opinion on the matter.
With so much chatter of the March happening at this evening’s gala, it shouldn’t be quite as
difficult for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to discover who agrees its time to disband the WPG,
and who has a vested interest in its continuation.
As well, George is eager for Parvati to arrive. Not only because he is dying to ask her for the
millionth time whether she sees anything about Neville and the three Slytherins’ rescue
mission happening tonight, but also because she has grown increasingly withdrawn and
distant in the past few weeks. He had woken to her screaming only a week prior and raced
into the living room where her cot remains set up. Parvati had been nearly hysterical,
repeating the champagne over and over as she sobbed in his arms. He hasn’t woken to the
sound since, but George is starting to suspect it’s only because she’s placed silencing charms
around her cot, because it’s obvious she’s exhausted.
A gentle hand on his arm startles him, and George turns only to come face to face with
Hermione. She’s wearing an emerald floor-length gown with black lace on the bodice, her
ever-present beaded bag in her hand.
“Hermione,” George greets. “You look particularly ravishing this evening!”
Hermione blushes and rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Listen, when does the firework
display begin?”
“At 9 PM promptly. They want the speeches and more formal dances out of the way so that
it’s dark enough for the show.”
“Perfect,” Hermione glances around quickly. “No Kinglsey, yet?”
“Not so far as I can tell.” George shrugs. “Hawkworth and Robards are here, avoiding each
other.”
Hermione snorts. “That’s because Robards has a brain, and no one with any lick of sense
would subject themselves to Hawkworth.”
George laughs — it’s true that Hawkworth is nearly universally disliked; it’s becoming more
and more obvious that the Wizengamot has lost their fondness for their Chief Warlock. This
evening so far he has floated from person to person, with no conversation lasting more than a
moment.
“Oh, I see Parvati. She looks beautiful!” Hermione gasps. George wheels around to find his
wife looking uncharacteristically subtle — she’s wearing a formal lehenga, with a beige lace
overlaid on rich scarlet silk. George smirks at her hint of Gryffindor colours and is pleased to
see she is looking awake and cheerful. Her long hair falls down nearly to her hips, and her
dark eyes are outlined in kohl.
“Hi Hermione,” Parvati greets when she reaches them. “You look nice.”
“I could say the same for you,” Hermione grins. “I love the red and gold touches.”
Parvati flushes. “Gryffindor pride, right?”
George bows to her with a flourish, tricking a laugh from her throat. When he is standing
once again Hermione has disappeared towards Malfoy, but Parvati is still standing in front of
him.
“Any new… sights?” George asks in a hushed tone.
She shifts uncomfortably. “No, nothing. Sorry.”
He rests a gentle palm against her shoulder blades. “Don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong.”
A server in formal wizarding robes appears in front of them, holding a tray of drinks and
snacks. “Drink?”
“White wine, please,” Parvati answers quickly. George glances at her quickly — she still
drinks, but not in front of him very often. She must be as nervous as he feels, with all the
moving pieces of this plan.
“Water for me,” George adds. “I’m technically on the clock.”
They take their crystal glasses, and George sips at the water without the familiar pang of
longing for alcohol. As painful as this process has been, he’s finally in a place where he
doesn’t miss liquor and its effects with every moment.
“George, where is Ginny?” Parvati asks.
“At home,” George answers, then nearly whispers. “Ginny’s supposed to stay out of the
spotlight for a while. We don’t want any… other news… interrupting our Marital March
plans.”
His sister is barely showing, with only a hint of a curve at her stomach, but everyone had
agreed that news of her pregnancy being leaked or even hinted at could hurt the momentum
they had building against the WPG. As much as George knows the secrecy is necessary, it
feels awful. He is almost positive that no baby has ever been more loved and wanted, and yet
they have to hide their news.
“Good evening witches, wizards, and honoured guests,” A voice booms from the small stage
to the side of the dance floor. The gala attendees turn as one to see Ernest Hawkworth
standing in front of the pedestal.
“We are so excited and thrilled to have you all here, celebrating another year come and gone
with the Ministry of Magic. While it’s been a challenging few years, we are happy to see our
people united and safe, once again. I’d like to give a big thank you to Gawain Robards, the
Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and our Aurors, who work tirelessly
to improve our world, and who are providing security at our Annual Fundraising Gala this
evening.
“I won’t take up too much of your time, but I’d like to point out a few things happening this
evening. Snacks and drinks are being catered and served throughout the room; we’d like to
thank The Leaky Cauldron, and Magic Meals Restaurant in London for their sponsorship and
help in this endeavour. You can also find a bar on the far side of this room, next to the Silent
Auction — be sure to bid on any items, as the Auction ends after our special 9 PM
entertainment, brought to you by Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Now, without further ado, we’d
like to kick off an evening of dancing with our Minister and his wife taking the floor: Mr. and
Mrs. Kingsley Shacklebolt, everyone!”
Hawkworth steps down from the podium and begins applauding. The audience follows suit,
and the ballroom doors open to show Kingsley and Rosmerta. She’s got her arm twined with
his, and he escorts her to the dance floor. The band begins and Kingsley whirls Rosmerta into
a formal dance. Although Rosmerta looks stunning, her expression seems tight and unhappy.
“Not quite her cheery self,” Parvati murmurs beside him.
George sighs, “Would you be? If you had a child being held hostage?”
Parvati leans gently into him, her warmth comforting yet unfamiliar. He is friends with his
wife, and he has held her after any particularly frightening visions, but beyond that, they
mostly stay away from each other.
George had told her the day she appeared at his door that he didn’t want a relationship, and
Parvati has never tried to change his mind.
“You do look lovely, by the way.” He says suddenly.
Parvati glances up and blushes, bringing her wineglass to her lips. It’s been refilled, and
George frowns.
“Thank you,” she says demurely. “You look handsome, as well.”
He laughs at her shy tone, “You’re too kind, Parv. Listen, I’m going over to chat to Harry for
a moment, would you mind finding Ron? He was near the bar table last I saw, but I wanted to
ask him how Hannah’s doing.”
He heads towards Harry as Parvati heads to the bar. Harry looks strained to even be present at
the Ministry event, and George knows it’s because he hates being here when Neville, Blaise,
Theo, and Pansy are doing the dangerous mission.
“How’s it going?” George asks.
Harry runs his hand through his hair, messing up any semblance of combing he had going on.
“It’s good. Dawlish is just outside the door watching for latecomers, but he’s thrilled to hear
of the March. To be honest, most of the Aurors I work with are dreading the whole March
because they’re worried it will turn violent, but they also hate the WPG, so… I guess they’re
on board?”
George sighs. “Yeah, I’m not surprised, mate. No one wants another war, and this reeks of it.”
“No more war,” Harry Potter promises. “None of us want that.”
George falls silent and stares out at the dance floor. Kingsley and Rosmerta are still dancing,
but other couples have now joined them, and the dance floor is looking more lively.
“Ginny says hi, by the way,” Harry adds suddenly. “She wants to do a get-together soon,
maybe this Sunday depending on… well, things.”
“I’m sure Mum would be thrilled,” George grins. “I’ll come by for sure, just drop me an
owl.”
Draco Malfoy heads towards them from the ballroom doors. He’s wearing black wizarding
robes with an emerald green trim to match Hermione’s. Guests sidestep him as he passes, and
George wonders if there will ever come a time when Malfoy is regarded as anything more
than a Death Eater.
“George, Potter,” Malfoy greets. “Theo says they’re in place.”
“Good, shouldn’t be long now,” George notes. It’s 8:30, and Kingsley is bound to give
another speech before the fireworks. The minute the fireworks begin, Harry is set to send the
message from his DA coin to Neville’s, and then everything will be underway.
If all goes according to plan, everyone should be back in their beds before midnight, and
Rosmerta’s kid should be safely ensconced in the Nott Manor.
Rosmerta, as well, needs to be notified. This is George’s only other function in the plan — he
is to corner Rosmerta after the firework display and hand her the illegally made portkey that
is burning a hole in his pocket. It will send her straight to Nott dungeon. Hermione had
argued for hours that it was barbaric to send her into a dungeon, but she had been outvoted by
Theo, who had adamantly refused to risk Cho and Luna’s safety before they could confirm
Rosmerta hadn’t been imperio’d.
George glances around the room, noticing that Parvati is standing near a pale and exhausted-
looking Ron. His youngest brother has spent nearly every waking moment with Hannah, who
has yet to awaken from her coma. The healers at St. Mungo’s seem baffled, as there is no
physical reason for Hannah to still be unconscious — her body is healed, scars thin and
unobtrusive, as though it had never happened at all.
“Good evening,” Kingsley’s sonorus fills the space, and the band decrescendos into silence.
He’s standing behind the podium with Rosmerta at his side. “It is wonderful to be among you
all today and celebrating with dances and great company. Please remember to check out the
Silent Auction before our fireworks display.
“While it has been a challenging few years, we at the Ministry are so pleased to celebrate like
this. Being Minister of Magic has been a true honour for me,” Kingsley takes a deep breath
and glances around the room. “I know we are still re-building since the war, but I am pleased
with our progress. I am eternally grateful to all the charitable donors and sponsors who have
made this evening possible, and to those who give their continued support to the Ministry.
Please join me in toasting: May we continue to live peacefully, and give grace, comfort, and
love to our fellow magical folk. May we continue to grow stronger, more understanding, and
learn from our past.”
Shining crystal glasses appear before them, Harry snags his midair as though it is a snitch and
sniffs. “Mine is firewhiskey, I’m sure of it.”
George smells his own. “Mine is water.”
“What a curious spell,” Harry mutters. “Hermione is probably dissecting it as we speak.”
George laughs and glances over to find Hermione staring instead at her husband. Draco
Malfoy has an uncharacteristically soft smile on his face, and he wraps an arm around her
waist as he snatches her glass out of her hand. Hermione’s laugh is nearly audible from
across the room as he teases, and George rolls his eyes at their flirting.
Draco gulps down her drink and grins at her. George turns his head back to Harry,
disparaging remark on the tip of his tongue when a shrill scream rends the air.
He snaps his gaze toward the sound and finds Hermione Granger sunk to her knees on the
ground, with Draco Malfoy convulsing at her feet. She’s screaming for help and trying to
hold him still, and George doesn’t realize he’s moved until he drops to the ground beside
them.
Ron is holding his legs down, and Hermione is shouting in his face, but it takes moments
they don’t have for George to realize what she’s yelling about.
“My bag!” She screams, gesturing at the purple-beaded monstrosity behind him. “My bag,
please, my bag!”
George scrambles to snatch it and hand it to her, and he watches as Hermione upends it over
Draco, who has gone a swollen purple colour.
Hermione is sobbing, but after only seconds that feel like hours, nearly a dozen tiny stones
fall on Draco’s chest, coating him.
George stares at them blankly — and then it all clicks together. Parvati had told him, months
ago… Malfoy drinks the champagne, and Hermione buries him in a mountain of tiny
stones… she’s desperate to bury him.
Hermione nearly claws Draco’s lips open before shoving the stones in his throat. He stops
convulsing immediately, though his eyes are still rolled back in his head.
George meets Hermione’s teary gaze. “Bezoars?” George asks hoarsely — they weren’t
stones… “You… you carry bezoars?”
“Of course,” Hermione replies hoarsely. “Of course I do. Ever since Ron had to take one. I
always have them.”
George reaches over Draco Malfoy’s unconscious body and clamps a hand tightly on
Hermione’s shoulder. “Hermione… you just saved his life.”
Hermione shakes her head, tears spilling out of her eyes. “No. No. He just saved mine. It was
my champagne, George. He drank it to tease me.”
George gapes at her, and she gathers up the bezoars she didn’t use and tosses them back in
her beaded bag. Auror Dawlish and Harry Potter are standing beside them, holding back the
crowd. Harry looks thunderous, and George knows he heard what Hermione said.
“We lifted the anti-apparitions for five minutes. Let’s get you to St. Mungo’s.” Harry says
authoritatively. He reaches down and clasps Hermione’s elbow, nearly dragging her to her
feet. Dawlish casts a levitation charm on Draco and then disappears with a pop.
“George,” Harry reaches his hand out and shakes George’s hand. “I’ll be back when I can.”
He disappears too, and amid the horror of the last few minutes, it takes George a second to
realize that Harry has pressed his gold DA coin into his hand. He comes to his feet and tugs
his robes back in place. Robards is shooing people away into other corners of the ballroom.
“You okay, Weasley?” Robards asks.
George nods, “Yes. Just… shocked.”
“I think we all are, son,” Robards adds, a little gentler. “But, whether we like it or not, the
night must continue on. I hope you’ve planned a suitably flashy firework display, Shacklebolt
will need it to recover from that scene.”
It isn’t Kingsley that takes to the stage, however; it’s Hawkworth, and he looks furious. His
sonorous is slightly too loud when he booms, “Our apologies for that most unfortunate event.
We are so glad Ms. Granger is suitably prepared for all situations. Please, everyone, find
somewhere comfortable to enjoy this most fantastic display from Weasley’s Wizard
Wheezes!”
Applause is smattering and scattered, but George isn’t worried. He flicks his wand and lets
the first charm go, triggering the entire event. The ceiling turns black as a night sky, and
twinkling stars shoot across the room. It had been a particularly tricky thing to do, using
Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, but containing it to only one section.
George gently taps his wand against the coin in his hand, muttering “Now, now, good luck.”
It burns hot, and then the message is gone. He slides it into his pocket and spends a moment
desperately praying that the mission for Rosmerta’s kid goes well. They can’t afford any
more accidents.
Parvati returns to his side after a moment, and she’s trembling. Ron flanks her, and George is
glad to have his brother nearby.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Ron mutters, “but thank bloody Godric that I got poisoned at
Hogwarts. That bezoar saved my life, you know, and now it’s saved Malfoy.”
“I thought you hated Draco Malfoy,” Parvati whispers.
Ron huffs. “Well, I do as a matter of principle, really, but I suppose he’s not so bad.
Hermione loves him, and she’s the smartest witch I’ve ever met, so I reckon he’s got to have
at least some redeemable qualities, right?”
“Plus the glass he drank was meant for her,” George adds, quiet and furious. He wonders now
if she ever told Draco she had bezoars in her bag. If she had drank that glass, would anyone
have known how to save her?
Ron’s expression grows dark. “You’d think since the Ministry is so concerned about this
being a peaceful protest that they would stop trying to murder us.”
Lightning flashes across the roof, crackling in spiderwebs and stretching out — it turns gold
and tiny red flowers sprinkle down like rain, covering the floor in petals for only moments
before disappearing. The crowd’s applause has gone from sparse to nearly deafening.
“We’d have to prove it was the Ministry,” George adds quietly. “I don’t know how we
would.”
Ron shrugs, defeated. “We can’t. Not yet. Stick to the plan.”
George watches as Rosmerta slips out the ballroom doors, most likely for the washroom.
There’s an Auror trailing behind her, either a protection detail or a guard.
“On that note, I’m off to do my duty,” George mutters. He slips away unnoticed, timing his
exit perfectly with a light show that spirals out, slowly morphing into the shape of a unicorn.
It’s utterly enchanting, and no one notices him.
He follows Rosmerta and her detail down the hall, turning the corner.
The Auror is blocking him, wand drawn. “Can I help you?”
“Depends if you know where the toilet is, mate?” George says, giving his words just a hint of
a slur. The guard’s wand doesn’t drop, but his shoulders relax momentarily, fooled into
thinking a drunken idiot has followed them.
“It’s just back down the hall but on the left side. You just missed it.” The guard explains.
George almost feels guilty, but he dutifully salutes the guard and turns himself around, barely
waiting until he’s turned the corner to snatch his wand. He ducks back around the corner and
aims at the guard’s back.
“Stupefy,” George hisses. The red beam hits square between his shoulder blades, and the
guard goes down with a muffled thump. Rosmerta turns and opens her mouth as though she’s
about to scream, but George is ready.
“Petrificus Totalus,” he casts, “Immobulus.”
Rosmerta is frozen, standing tall with her mouth gaped open. George hurries towards her,
casting a levitating spell and pulling her into the closest room. It’s an empty study, and he
turns toward the witch.
“Madame Rosmerta, we’ve met, but I’m George Weasley,” he explains. “I don’t have much
time. I’m going to release you, but please don’t run. This is a portkey.”
He holds up a silver barrette, and steps forward, clipping it gently into her updo. He pulls his
wand and dispels the magic that holds her captive. She launches herself away from him but
doesn’t scream.
George sighs. “At precisely midnight, that portkey will activate for only a single minute. It is
your choice if you want to go or not. All I can tell you, is that if you choose to touch it, it will
transport you to that which you love most.”
Shock ripples across her features, closely followed by suspicion. “How would you know
what it is that I love?”
George stares at her — he wishes he could promise her the missing child, wishes he could
give her hope. He can’t, though. He doesn’t know if the plan has worked or if the child is
even alive. He doesn’t even know if Rosmerta can be trusted.
“I can’t tell you.” George shrugs. “But I can promise that if you do choose to use that
portkey, no harm will come to you.”
He steps away from her and slips out the door despite her protesting noise. He has been gone
too long already. The guard he had stunned is still sitting in the hallway, and George casts a
mild obliviate, just enough to scramble the guard's last few minutes, before disappearing
down the hallway.
He re-enters the ballroom to cheers and screaming. The entire ceiling is ablaze with colours,
rainbows exploding in every direction. It’s chaotic and beautiful, and if George had timed it
right, the entire cacophony will disappear into only a final image of the year 2000, lit up like
candlelight.
He finds Ron and Parvati and is only stationed beside them for a moment when the show
blazes out, just as he planned. He feels a burning warmth in his pocket, and he sneaks a
glance at the coin.
‘Got her.’
He turns to his brother. “Meet you at Theo’s?”

Ron stares at him, and something must give him away because suddenly his younger brother
is grinning at him. “Yeah. Yes!”
George laughs, and Parvati leans into him again. Ron nearly races out of the room before he
can get caught up in the speeches and the silent auction announcements that are sure to start
again.
“You okay?” George asks his wife.
“Yeah,” Parvati murmurs. “Just… tired.”
“I hear you,” George agrees. He sneaks an arm around her waist and lets her rest against him.
He’s desperate to get to Theo’s and hear the updates, and inquire as to how Draco is doing,
but he can’t go yet.
“I didn’t realize,” he says quietly into Parvati’s hair. “In your vision. We always thought they
were rocks, but they were bezoars.”
“Yeah,” Parvati says weakly. “I guess so.”
George frowns at her non-committal tone but is distracted by Kingsley drawing their
attention again. He thanks George for the display, and the audience cheers raucously, giving
George cause to bow formally in all directions, drawing laughs and cheers around the room.
It takes ages, but finally, the Silent Auction winners have been drawn, and the crowd has
started to thin out. George and Parvati make their way to Kingsley, who is standing with
Rosmerta beside a few guards.
“Kingsley,” George says as he approaches. The guards immediately block their path, and
George rolls his eyes.
Kingsley himself is the one who motions the guards out of the way. “George Weasley, that
was a wondrous display of magic.”
“Thank you, sir.” George grins. “This is my wife, Parvati Weasley.”
Kingsley nods to her. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’re just heading out, but wanted to thank you for inviting us, and for the employment of
Weasley Wizard Wheezes,” George says. He turns his gaze to Rosmerta, briefly. “Madame
Rosmerta, good to see you.”
She says nothing but watches him with calculating eyes.
“See you around, Shacklebolt.” George reaches out and shakes Kingsley’s hand; instead of
the strong grip George had become used to during the war, Kingsley is clammy and limp.
George releases him and turns away, dragging Parvati out of the ballroom with him. They
walk quickly to the apparition spot since the anti-apparition wards are back in place.
“What time is it?” George demands.
“11:30, why?” Parvati replies breathlessly.
They make it to the apparition point, and George gathers Parvati into his arms. They appear
again in their living room, but George takes a moment before letting go.
Parvati is staring up at him, endless dark eyes both trusting and frightened. He instinctively
tightens his grasp.
“This war, it never really ended,” George says breathlessly. “We’re still all plotting and
blackmailing and lying to each other. Both sides keep asking for peace and planning for war.
They made a mistake tonight, though.”
Parvati stares up at him. “What mistake?”
“They tried to kill Hermione,” George laughs darkly. “Not only is Harry furious, but
Hermione is, too. Not to mention, when Draco Malfoy is fully healed, he will be out for
blood.”
Parvati snakes her arms around his middle and squeezes him. It’s comforting, and George
rests his head on her silky hair and lets her presence relax him after this terrible evening. This
feels new — he’s held her before, but her body feels right in his embrace, and George thinks
for the first time that maybe he’s made a grave mistake himself.
He pulls back, just enough to watch her. Parvati is beautiful, always has been, but George is
just realizing how ridiculous it is that she sleeps in his living room when they’re married. Just
realized how lonely he was, how lovely she is, how grateful he suddenly is that they were
matched. Parvati has brought him sobriety and balance, and while that may not be what
makes a marriage, it’s not a terrible place to begin.
He leans down without thinking and kisses her; it’s instantaneous how she opens for him,
reaching up on tiptoes to kiss him back. He traces his fingers down the spine of her gown,
resting his hands on her waist. Her arms press against his shoulder blades, urging him closer
and closer.
“Parv,” he breathes in between kisses, “Parvati—”
She stiffens minutely and pulls away, ragged breathing in the darkness of their living room.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, George. It’s too fast.”
He rests his forehead against her hair for a moment, and then slowly pulls away until they
aren’t touching. It feels akin to losing a limb.
“Sorry,” he says. It’s all he can say — he’s not sure what about it was fast; they’ve been
married for ages.
“Let’s get changed and head to Theo’s,” Parvati offers, “We have to meet Blaise there,
anyway.”
George nods again, turning slowly and heading to his room. He closes the door behind him
and sinks to the hardwood floor. He wonders if he’s just ruined a good thing, because Parvati
only wants to be friends.
It doesn’t feel like it though, the way she had fallen into that kiss. It felt like she had been
waiting for him, all this time.
So why would she pull away?
Chapter End Notes
Parvati's lehenga can be found here:

https://www.utsavfashion.com/product/embroidered-net-lehenga-in-beige-and-red-
lcc235?
geoip_country=ca&gclid=Cj0KCQjwmPSSBhCNARIsAH3cYgYgNXkU_QHkK7XjhF
E7yWTT_A2qhcoqSmvROyKaKs3ldNoKWwDvYlMaApdKEALw_wcB&gclsrc=aw.d
s
A Following
Chapter Notes
In a shocking turn of events, I also have the next chapter written. It will be up next
Sunday. Three more to go, folks. I'm so grateful for all the comments and kudos. This is
my first Harry Potter fic, and it's been a real delight to share this with you all :) Drop me
a line if you enjoyed, as I always love reading them. As always, mind the tags.
Hermione has known since her very first year in Hogwarts, the minute after battling a cave
troll, that there is one unchanging truth about herself. She will be anything, do anything, for
those she loves. Right now, she is considering using all of her considerable intelligence and
power and setting the entire Ministry of Magic alight with fiendfyre with Kingsley
Shacklebolt, former friend or not, inside it.
However, it would require leaving the St. Mungo’s room that Draco is lying unconscious in,
and she’s not quite ready for that.
Her head is pillowed on the side of his bed, close to his hand but not touching. He’s got a
variety of monitoring spells on him; a few she has seen before in Hannah’s room, but some
are new. He’s pale and sallow, and it reminds her of sixth year in the most intensely awful
year.
They’ve only been here an hour and the Healer who had updated her after their emergency
entrance had been kind and positive. Hermione had been quick enough with the bezoar that
they expected no lasting damage, and Draco should be waking up soon; however, the poison
that had been used on him was unidentifiable.
While Hermione respected that Professor Snape had spent years helping their cause without
any acknowledgement, she was still bitter over his treatment of students, especially Harry.
Yet, she would have hugged the man if he’d been here (not that he’d let her), simply because
Hermione was smart enough to recognize how brilliant he’d been at potions. Snape made
Slughorn look like a bumbling first year.
Still, it would have been difficult to discover the poison’s origin even if she had a Potion
Master; the champagne glass had been smashed, every trace of liquid gone.
A knock at the door has Hermione raising her head, still gripping her wand tightly in her fist.
It’s only Harry though, who walks through the doors.
“Hey,” he says softly. He looks like hell.
“Hi,” Hermione replies.
Harry pulls a chair to the other side of Draco's bed. “Ron stopped by to see how Hannah was,
but still no change. If you’re up for it, we’re all heading to Theo’s now.”
Hermione glances at Draco. It physically pains her to leave him here, but she knows there’s
no other option. She has to go to Theo’s — everyone is there, Rosmerta will be there soon if
she takes the portkey, and there’s still the child to deal with.
“Harry,” Hermione says shakily, “exactly how much influence do you have at St Mungo’s.”
“About as much as you, I reckon,” Harry laughs, “But I can put an Auror on the door, a loyal
one, if you want.”
Hermione sighs. “Get Dawlish. I trust him. And Harry, do tell him I’ve set up wards all over
this room. If anyone enters this room, I will know exactly who they are and what they are up
to, and I will respond accordingly.”
Harry lets out a weak laugh. “I’d be surprised if you hadn’t done that. Dawlish is loyal
though. Come on, Hermione. The sooner we go, the sooner we’re home.”
Tears spring to her eyes — he had said that, once, during the Horcrux hunt. It had felt like a
lie then, but she had still held the words inside of her where most of her hope had gone in
those awful months.
Harry leaves first, giving her a moment with Draco. Hermione leans over her husband,
pressing the softest kiss she can muster to his cheek.
“Draco Malfoy, when I get back here you better be awake,” she whispers threateningly.
There is no response forthcoming, and the silence hurts her worse than anything else Draco
Malfoy has ever said to her.
Hermione imagines that Nott Manor hasn’t been this busy in years. She apparates to the front
door with Harry and Ron, wands out and ready. It feels like old times — but in the worst of
ways, terrified of every noise and ready for anything. Constant vigilance.
The door opens quickly, Luna filling the doorframe. She’s wearing the most casual outfit
Hermione has ever seen her in, simple muggle jeans and a light pink sweatshirt. Her long
blonde hair is tied back in a complex braid, and her wand is tight in her first and extended in
front of her.
“What colour robes did I wear to Bill’s wedding?” she demands, without a smile.
“Yellow,” Harry answers quickly. Hermione glances at him, shocked at his memory.
Luna’s smile breaks through, “Oh, thank Rowena. We’ve been waiting for you, but I had to
be sure, you know?”
Harry laughs. “Luna, you once recognized me through polyjuice with only my expressions as
a clue.”
She shrugs and rests her free hand on the curve of her stomach. “Theo is nearly worse than
Mad-Eye, he’s so paranoid.” She laughs fondly, half rolling her eyes, “constant vigilance
might as well be the new Nott motto.”
“Better than always pure, or whatever Malfoy’s is,” Ron grouses. Hermione realizes how
exhausted she is when she doesn’t even bother to correct him.
Luna steps aside, and they enter the foyer. It’s lit well, and Hermione can feel even more
wards than usual pressing down on her. Pansy and Neville are leaning against the far wall,
with Cho sitting cross-legged in an armchair near the window.
She barely blinks and suddenly Theo is standing in front of her, desperation absolutely rolling
off of him. “Is Draco okay?”
She nods thinly. “Yes. He’s at St. Mungo’s, guarded well. He’s still unconscious, but the
Healer assured me he will make a full recovery.”
Relief washes over Theo, barely visible before his expression turns furious. “I’m going to
murder Kingsley.”
“Get in line,” Hermione grouses. “But it was Hawksworth.”
Harry’s eyes snap to her, shocked. “How do you know?”
“First of all, Hawksworth hates me more than anyone. He was visibly angry that Draco drank
the glass, and I saved him.” Hermione explains. “Also, that curious spell that filled our
glasses with whatever we wanted to drink was very unusual.”
“I knew you’d wonder about that,” Harry says fondly. “What was it?”
Hermione huffs. “All the glasses except mine were charmed with house-elf magic. There’s
nothing else that could make that so personalized. But my glass had champagne in it.”
“So?” Pansy snaps from where she’s leaning against the wall.
“So… I didn’t want champagne,” Hermione answers. “Every single person in that room got
exactly what they wanted, except me. I was dying for a pumpkin juice; I even mentioned to
Draco that I was thirsty. That’s why he drank my glass, to tease me.” Hermione’s voice clogs
suddenly, and she can’t finish her thought.
How curious to think that only six months ago she would have avoided Draco Malfoy like the
plague, and now she can’t bear to imagine a moment without him.
“You realized it was personalized after you asked us what was in our glasses, didn’t you?”
Ron asks abruptly.
She nods miserably. “Yes. I suspected that something was off about it. My glass appeared a
few seconds after Draco’s, but I didn’t think about it at the time. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” Theo says seriously. “You saved his life, Hermione.”
Hermione blinks back tears. “It was my glass, Theo.”
“Oh, get over it, Granger,” Pansy snaps. “Draco Malfoy is disgustingly in love with you.
He’ll tell you himself as soon as he wakes up that he’d drink poisoned champagne any day
rather than you get hurt.”
Hermione snorts at Pansy’s abrasiveness, but she feels better either way.
“Plus, only you knew about the bezoars,” Neville adds, much more gently than his wife. “If
you’d been poisoned, none of us could have saved you.”
Logic. She’s good with logic. Neville is right. She shakes off the guilt she’s been wearing like
a second skin and focuses instead on the next task.
“Alright,” Hermione agrees. “So, I take it the mission was a success?”
Neville grins. “Madame Rosmerta’s daughter is currently sleeping in Theo’s guest room,
warded to the teeth and being guarded by Blaise. Her name is Louise, and other than being
obviously traumatized, she’s otherwise healthy.”
“And the guards?” Harry asks.
Theo smirks. “Hermione’s wards were brilliant, the stunners took out half of them before we
even saw them. We stunned everyone left standing and got them all trussed up. Didn’t even
have to use the artifact.”
Theo pulls out a small copper cube, covered in ancient ruins. He hands it carefully to
Hermione, and she drops it gently into her small beaded bag. She had used a combination of
Harry’s invisibility cloak and powerful confudus charms sneaking that out of the Misuse of
Magical Artifacts division. It had been the most illegal thing she’d done since the war.
“Where are they now?” Ron asks.
Pansy smirks. “The one perk of associating with known death eater relatives is that you have
a lot of dungeons available to you. They’re currently all under a deep sleeping spell in
Malfoy Manor’s dungeon. I figured Draco wouldn’t mind, and it’s about as difficult to escape
from the Malfoy dungeon as it is Azkaban.”
“How did you get through the wards?” Hermione asks.
“Jealous, Granger?” Pansy grins and Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. I used to visit
Narcissa during the war when Draco wasn’t around. I had pretty unlimited access, and Draco
never bothered changing it back.”
Hermione opens her mouth to retort but a crack of apparition silences her. Theo heads to the
front door, his wand in his grip, and Hermione reaches down to press her fingers gently
against the handle of her own wand.
When Theo opens the door, it’s George and Parvati, out of their gala finery and back in
regular robes. Theo scowls, “What happened the very first time we met, George?”
George rolls his eyes. “Peeves dumped water on you and Fred and I ran him off. You didn’t
thank us either you wanker, I might add.”
Theo heaves a sigh of relief. “Thank-you. Now come in, we’re waiting on Rosmerta.”
George steps inside with Parvati close behind and catches sight of everyone in the foyer.
Hermione watches his eyes skate over everyone, searching for a missing face.
“Draco’s still at St. Mungo’s,” she says softly. “The Healer assures me he’ll make a full
recovery, but he hasn’t woken up yet.”
George nods slowly. “It’s a damn good thing you had the bezoars, Hermione. I totally
blanked.”
A loud siren rings through the entrance, and Hermione watches every witch and wizard in the
room yank their wands out and ready within seconds. Grief scorches her for a moment; they
are so prepared for war, that there is no rest.
“It’s just my wards,” Theo explains. “Someone is in the basement.”
Hermione follows Theo with Harry by her side, everyone else remaining in the main room.
Theo opens a heavy oak door, revealing wide steps leading down into a dimly lit room. It’s
not particularly nice, but Hermione admits it is a far cry more comfortable than the Malfoy
dungeons, considering what Luna had shared in the aftermath of her rescue.
Rosmerta is standing in the middle of the room, wand out and trembling, clutching the hair
barrette George had given her with white knuckles. They don’t get a chance to speak;
Rosmerta takes one look at Harry and bursts into tears.
“Do you have her?” She demands, wand dropping.
Harry stiffens. “We must make sure you are yourself before we allow—”
“I am myself!” Rosmerta shouts. “Harry Potter — I have known you since you were but a
boy — so cast what you must, ward what you must, break my damn wand if you must, but
please I beg you — is Louise here?”
It is Theodore Nott, in the end, who can’t stomach her visible pain. “Louise is here,
Rosmerta. She’s safe and well guarded. We got her out.”
Rosmerta sinks to the ground as though every ounce of strength inside of her washes out. Her
wand clatters to the floor and she brings her palms up to her eyes and wails — the hair on
Hermione’s arms stands straight on end, and she wonders if she’s ever seen grief so strong.
Theo approaches her gently, picking her wand up and sliding it into his pocket. He holds his
own wand gently and murmurs, “Finite Incatatum”. When no sign of charm or magic occurs,
Theo crouches down to eye level.
“Madam Rosmerta,” He murmurs. “If you will allow me to hold on to your wand and cast a
non-apparition shield around you, for the time being, we can take you to your daughter.”
A shuddering breath leaves her before she meets Theo’s gaze. “What do you want from me?”
Hermione can’t stay quiet any longer. “Nothing — we figured out ages ago that you were
feeding the Ministry information on each of us and our families. We know you helped design
the matches, making sure to pair powerful couples or good business partners. I investigated
and found your house,” Hermione swallows at the memory of blood. “I knew you were
helping because they took a child from you.”
Rosmerta nods miserably and chokes out a sentence between tears. “They killed my husband.
He was a muggle — he didn't stand a chance — I’m so sorry.”
Theo takes her hand and pulls her to her feet slowly. When she’s stable, he pulls his wand and
casts a few tracking charms and wards for apparition. “It’s not your fault.” He says when he’s
done.
Madam Rosmerta finds Harry’s face. “I’ll tell you anything you want, Potter. Everything I
know! But please, please, take me to Louise.”
Harry nods and turns back to the stairs. Rosmerta dutifully walks behind him with Hermione
at her side, Theo bringing up the rear. She emerges into the front foyer, blinking at the
brighter lights and all the familiar faces.
“You… you all helped?” She whispers after a moment, gaze switching from face to face,
taking in the medley of Slytherins mixed in.
Neville shrugs bashfully. “Of course. It’s not right, what they’ve done. To any of us.”
“I’ll go get Blaise,” Pansy offers, “Bring the girl down here.”
Harry leads Rosmerta to an overly cushioned armchair where she sinks into the pillows.
She’s still wearing a gown from the gala, and high heels.
“Thelma,” Theo calls.
The house-elf appears instantly and takes in their newest guest. “Yes, Master Nott?”
“I was hoping you could get us a few snacks and drinks?” Theo asks gently. “I know it’s a bit
late.”
Thelma beams. “It is never too late for snacks with friends.”
Within minutes, there are trays of biscuits and sandwiches on the coffee table, but they are
nearly forgotten when Blaise appears carrying a small, sleepy child.
“Mama,” Louise shrieks at the sight of Rosmerta, nearly falling out of Blaise’s grasp as she
leans. No one stops Rosmerta when she leaps to her feet and sprints the few steps. They
collide gently, and Louise tangles her tiny fingers in Rosmerta’s curls, wrapping her legs
around her waist. Rosmerta falls to her knees again, and while she’s still crying, she’s
pressing kisses to every inch of skin she can find on her daughter’s head and face.
Hermione loses the battle with blinking back her tears, and glances around at her friends, all
looking at the emotional reunion with pride. Hermione feels it fill up somewhere inside of
her, the way it always does when she makes the right choice, when she does the right thing.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Rosmerta is whispering weakly, voice lost in Louise’s
riotous curls, but the sentiment filling the room all the same.
It’s Blaise who extends his hand and helps her to her feet gently, his hand resting carefully
under her elbow to keep her steady. Hermione is nearly overcome by the idea that tonight,
Slytherins saved this baby, and Rosmerta has felt their kindness echoing over and over again.
It would take years to change the reputation of Slytherin house, but Hermione realizes
suddenly that it could be done — these people, her friends, could do it.
“You don’t have to thank us,” Pansy Parkinson says, in the friendliest voice Hermione has
ever heard her use. “Instead, why don’t you help us take down the Ministry of Magic?”
“Pansy!” Theo hisses, but Rosmerta laughs brightly. She heads back to the cushioned chair,
her daughter still plastered to the front of her. They sit as one, and she rubs Louise’s back
over and over.
“Sure,” Rosmerta agrees easily. “Tell me what you need me to do?”
Hermione jumps in before anyone has a chance because, throughout all of this, the one
mystery she can’t seem to solve is the why of the matches. “Tell me why certain matches? I
know the business thing, the power thing, whatever. But George and Parvati — why them?
Why Ron and Hannah?”
Rosmerta sighs. “When the WPG first was first thought into being, I was already being
blackmailed. I don’t really know everything, I was just constantly asked for information. I
know the Abbott’s are a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, and Weasley’s are pureblood, whether
they like to admit it or not.”
Hermione flinches imperceptibly, and her voice feels like it’s been dragged over glass when
she answers. “So it’s about blood. It’s still about blood?!”
“Not totally,” Rosmerta says, “It was mostly about power. George and Parvati are both twins.
Twins are incredibly powerful in the magic world. The odds of them having twins was
higher, so they got paired.”
“And Malfoy and Hermione?” Ron interrupts, his face flushed with anger. “Because that’s
obviously not about blood.”
Madam Rosmerta’s eyebrows raise and she turns her eyes towards Hermione, who shrinks at
her look. “Shall I tell them, or would you like to, dear?”
“I beg your pardon?” Hermione replies.
Rosmerta half shrugs, but the movement is lost when Louise grasps her tighter. “Hermione
Granger was initially paired with Harry Potter.”
The silence is suffocating — Hermione reels at the words. It all clicks together; Harry,
probably the most powerful wizard in great Britain, and her own words to Draco, ages ago,
about being the third most powerful witch in the country.
They were matched — matched in power, in personality, in everything — and Hermione had
arrived on Kingsley’s door and threatened him to ensure Harry got Ginny.
Harry’s face has gone dark, “Who was Ginny Weasley matched with, initially?”
Rosmerta rolls her eyes, “With Kingsley himself, obviously.”
Hermione can hardly catch her own breath. “But… you?”
“Don’t you get it yet, dear?” Rosmerta sighs. “I was intended to be with Draco Malfoy. They
thought either he’d kill me, or I’d kill myself, I suppose. It didn’t quite work out that way, but
don’t be fooled; I was to be executed in a matter of days. You’ve all saved more than one life
tonight. I am in your debt.”
The room is sombre and still other than Rosmerta’s constant gentle strokes up and down
Louise’s spine. Luna has gravitated towards Theo and is pressing against him gently, and
Hermione wonders if she’s facing the same realization that Hermione is having — with only
a moment’s work, she changed everything. How easy it could have been for her to never
match Draco, and never know what she was missing.
“Last question, and then we’ll let you get some rest,” Harry says finally. He doesn’t address
Rosmerta, though, and instead faces Hermione. “Exactly how did my match get changed,
then?”
Rosmerta snorts, and Hermione shoots her a dark look, but before she opens her mouth to
explain, Ron sighs heavily. “I don’t know why you’re surprised, mate.” He says, scrubbing a
hand over his red hair. “I’ve known since the moment you opened your letter and it said
Ginny’s name that Hermione was up to something.”
“What?!” Hermione gasps. “How would you know that?”
Ron shrugs. “Honestly, ‘Mione. I’ve known you since we were eleven. The moment they
announced the WPG I could nearly hear your brain working overtime with how you would
fix it. You should have seen your face when Harry opened his letter. You looked the exact
same way you did when we got our OWL results.”
“What?” Hermione scowls. “What did I look like?”
“Smug,” George answers suddenly. “I remember it, too, now that you mention it, Ron. I
brushed it off, at the time.”
Hermione sighs, “Yes, okay, fine. I went to Kingsley’s house the minute they announced the
law, and I threatened to burn down the bloody Ministry if he didn’t give you Ginny’s name.
And it all worked out, I might add.”
Harry’s annoyance fades into exasperation. Hermione’s half expecting a scolding, but instead,
Harry strides across the room and pulls her into a tight hug. It’s unexpected — Harry’s
always been receptive to physical affection, but he rarely initiates it.
“Thank you,” He says quietly. “That may be the bravest thing you’ve ever done, and I’ve
seen you ride a dragon before.”
Hermione finds herself blinking back tears once again because she thinks something has
finally gone right.
Saturday, January 15th, 2000
Hermione wakes up more exhausted than she had gone to sleep. She had left Theo Nott’s late
into the night after they had settled Rosmerta and Louise into a spare bedroom and warded it
to the teeth. George had offered to stand guard until they decided if they could trust
Rosmerta, and Theo had gratefully accepted, nearly falling asleep on his feet after their
mission. Parvati, Blaise, Pansy and Neville had all returned home, but Hermione had returned
to St Mungo’s with Ron.
Ron, who is now gently shaking her shoulder and staring at her with a hopeful expression.
She glances at Draco, who looks peaceful but still unconscious.
“Hi Ron,” she says quietly.
“I was thinking we could grab a coffee and some breakfast in the cafeteria,” Ron murmurs. “I
could use real food.”
Hermione nods and forces herself to her feet. She tugs the blankets up to Draco's chin and
pulls her wand to test her wards. Dawlish has been replaced by another Auror this morning,
but Harry had sent a note assuring her he was also trustworthy.
They leave the room quietly, and Hermione leans against the door after she shuts it. Ron’s
presence at her side is steadfast and reassuring, and it occurs to her that he has been half-
living in St Mungo’s for weeks.
“How are you?” She asks, turning suddenly to examine him.
He laughs, “I’m alright, ‘Mione. Promise.”
“I’m exhausted,” she admits.
Ron nods. “Yeah. But we’ve been more tired than this before, and we made it then. We can
do this, Hermione. I know it.”
She reaches out and grasps his hand tightly. “Did you know, that you are the only person in
the entire world that can make me feel optimistic when I feel like shite?”
He tugs her closer and wraps her in a hug — and Hermione forces herself to breathe because
she feels like she could burst into hysterics that never end at any moment. Ron is solid and
familiar and smells like the Burrow, like memories and happiness and comfort. Hermione
rests her head on his collarbone and listens to his heart thud solidly.
“Thanks,” she whispers. He releases her and shoots her a grin before turning towards the
cafeteria. She follows him in comfortable silence.
“You know what I think about, sometimes?” Ron questions.
“What?”
He gestures to the hallway. “All these doors. All these people. Some of them have got kids
and spouses and friends, lying sick in there. They don’t worry about the WPG — they only
worry that the person they love gets better.”
“Ron, this is not making me feel better…” Hermione warns.
“It’s not supposed to,” Ron admits sheepishly. “I just think that it’s important sometimes to
look around and realize what we’re fighting for. It’s bigger than us, you know? I didn’t really
realize it, with Voldemort. But I see it now.”
“It is bigger,” Hermione agrees.
Ron is silent for a few moments. “Hannah wanted to be a Healer.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Ron shrugs, “Yeah. I want that for her. I want her to wake up, and find something that makes
her happy.”
Hermione stops and turns to look at her best friend. “Of course you want that, Ron. Hannah
knows that. I don’t think she ever once doubted that you wanted her to be happy. I know I
haven’t been around as much as I should have, but this was not your fault.”
“I miss her,” Ron admits. “I just want her to wake up. I brought all these applications for St.
Jouge’s Hospital in New York City, and I filled them all out for her. I thought… well, maybe
she’d like to start fresh when this is all over. Become a Healer, and help other people. Get
away from all… this?”
There are no books or words that Hermione has memorized sufficient enough to explain
Ronald Weasley; his goodness settles into her bones the way it always does when he surprises
her. There’s a reason she’s never been able to stay angry with him, even if he deserves it. No
one in the world loves like Ron does. It’s written into his DNA — he is the best part of every
bit of Weasley, and Hermione wonders if Hannah will take those applications and leave Ron
behind.
She’d be a damned fool to leave him behind.
“Hannah is going to wake up, Ron,” Hermione assures him. “And when she does, you can
show her those applications and encourage her to follow her dreams. But maybe give her the
chance to tell you if she’d like to stay. There are things worth staying in Britain for, you
know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ron nudges her gently as they walk. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”
She grins. “Anytime. Let me buy you breakfast.”
Hermione is reading one of the Malfoy family grimoires that Draco had brought to their
cottage upon her insistence. It’s dark and awful, and Hermione is only reading it because it’s
distracting enough that she forgets to listen for the constant beeping of the heart monitoring
charm.
“Trying to finish me off, Granger?” Draco’s gravelly voice croaks.
Hermione drops the 200-year-old book with a crash and nearly launches out of her chair,
landing beside him and grasping for his hands. His silver eyes meet hers, and she’s torn
between falling into sobs of relief and hugging him until he can’t breathe.
“Did you just throw a single edition of an ancient family book filled with dark magic?” Draco
asks, offended.
Hermione finally goes with the second option, pressing herself gently down to him and
wrapping her arms around him. Draco’s one hand snakes around her shoulder and presses
into her hair, fingers tangling in curls.
“Malfoy, I will kill you if you ever do that to me again,” she breathes.
Draco huffs a laugh, “Miss me, Granger?”

She raises her head just enough to meet his eyes, not in the mood for teasing. “Malfoy, I was
—” her voice chokes off, and Draco’s expression changes from gentle to terrified.
“Don’t cry!” He says, “I’m fine! Please—”
“Shut up,” Hermione hisses, and presses closer to him while still half-hovering, hesitant to
hurt him. He sweeps a palm down her back in soothing motions and presses close-mouthed
kisses to her hair. Hermione is reminded of Rosmerta, only the night before, holding Louise
so close to her. A love that is devastating and healing all in the same breath.
“You drank my champagne,” she chokes out. “It was mine, and it was poisoned.”
“Look at me, Hermione,” Draco commands, and Hermione raises her eyes to meet his. “It’s
not your fault the champagne was poisoned. I’m so fucking glad I drank it.”
“No,” she groans miserably, pressing her face back into his hospital gown.
“I am,” he says again. “I am. I assume by my general alive-ness that you somehow managed
to save me?”
Hermione sniffs and pulls back just enough that she can rest her head on the pillow beside
him. She could enlarge the bed with a simple spell, but even millimetres feel like miles.
“Yeah. I carry bezoars in my bag.”
A most familiar and beloved smirk graces his features. “That’s my girl,”
She laughs weakly. “Always prepared.”
“You saved me,” Draco repeats softly. “If you had drank that champagne instead, I would
have killed everyone at that party in revenge, and yet, you’d still be dead. But you,
Hermione, saved my life, and now I get to be here with you, instead.”
“I love you,” she murmurs, so close to him she forgets they’re in a hospital and anyone else
in the world exists. “If I hadn’t had the stupid bezoars, I also would have murdered everyone
in the room. I’ve already written down twelve different ideas for assassinating Hawksworth.
They’re in our notebooks. I thought they might cheer you up when you finally awoke.”
Draco laughs, and it’s beautiful. His eyes crinkle in the corners, the way they only do when
he’s comfortable and finds something truly hilarious. Hermione loves that sound more than
anything else in the world. Her breath nearly stops hearing it again.
“How did I get lucky enough to marry a witch who celebrates my health with murder plans
and treason? A secret Slytherin you are, Granger.”
Hermione grins, “I haven’t even told you the best part yet —”
He interrupts her by kissing her, slow and sure and sweet, setting fire to her bones. Hermione
can only focus on the press of his lips and the weightlessness seeping through her.
She may have threatened Kingsley over Harry’s match, but if she had known, if she had
realized a love like this existed, she would have gone to war for herself.
Hermione pulls back, only far enough that she can meet his eyes. “I have to tell you
something.”
“Is it the best part?” Draco teases breathlessly.
She nods. “You said I’m a secret Slytherin — but when I threatened Kingsley to ensure Harry
matched with Ginny, you called me a Gryffindor.”
“Okay?”
Hermione smirks. “And if I hadn’t done that, I’d be matched with Harry and you’d be
matched with Madam Rosmerta.”
Draco gapes at her. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Hermione laughs. “Rosmerta herself told me that. So in the end, I was rewarded
for doing the Gryffindor thing.”
She shares the story of Rosmerta and Louise, and how Neville and the Slytherins rescued her;
somewhere along the way she chokes up, and Hermione realizes how much she loves her
friends. Just how far she would go for them.
“You’re a sodding Hufflepuff,” Draco finally announces, and Hermione’s tears turn to
laughter. He’s grinning at her, and she finally feels like she can breathe for the first time in
two days.
“Can we go home?” Hermione asks.
Draco smirks. “I thought you’d never ask, Granger. I need a sponge bath, and I have a feeling
you’d be a willing sponger.”
Hermione snorts but doesn’t both denying his claim, since she's desperate for a bath and his
hands on her as well. She pulls herself out of the bed and threatens Draco into staying exactly
where he is while she finds a Healer to release him.
The Auror is still stationed outside the door, and Hermione nods to him when she passes.
She’s barely rounded the corner when she runs into Molly Weasley.
“Mrs. Weasley?”
Molly’s eyes light up and she tugs Hermione into a surprising but much-needed embrace.
“Oh, Hermione, dear. I’m so relieved you are okay. How is Draco doing?”
“He actually just woke up,” Hermione says when she steps back. “I’m headed to find his
Healer to see if we can go home soon.”
Mrs. Weasley looks exhausted but overjoyed at the news. She presses gently fingertips into
Hermione’s cheek. “That is wonderful, dear. Would you like me to go sit with him? I was just
heading to check on poor Hannah, but I’m in no rush.”
Something inside of Hermione eases, “Would you mind terribly? It would be a relief to have
someone in there with him.”
“It’s no problem, Hermione.” Mrs. Weasley assures her. “Ron isn’t expecting me for another
hour, anyway.”
Hermione impulsively embraces the witch again, the smell and comfort of the Burrow
greeting her. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Molly tuts and smiles gently at her. “Go, dear. He’s safe with me.”
Hermione believes her — after all, she was the one who told Draco that Mrs. Weasley was
the most powerful witch in the country.
It’s just over an hour later that Hermione finally returns to Draco’s room, and finds Molly
engaged in a wizard’s chess match. Draco looks perplexed, and Hermione grins. She’s never
seen Mrs. Weasley play wizard’s chess, but Ron had once admitted that while it was Arthur
that he often played at home, it had been his mother who taught him to win.
And Ron Weasley was the best wizard’s chess play Hermione had ever seen.
“She’s cheating, Granger,” Draco complains as soon as he catches sight of her, “I’m sure of
it.”
Hermione laughs. “Draco, you should know better than to challenge a Weasley at chess.”
Molly turns and beams at the sight of her. “Oh, Hermione, I’m so glad you’re back. I must be
off, now. Draco, dear, let’s finish this game next time you two come for dinner?”
“Are you off to see Hannah now, Mrs. Weasley?” Hermione asks.
Molly frowns, “Oh, no. I’ve just thought of something I must do at home — I’ve left Astoria
there alone, you see. Poor Charlie had to go back to Romania for this week so he can be
home in time for the march.”
“What does Astoria need help with?” Hermione wonders.
“Granger,” Draco interrupts, “stop being nosey. Can we go home now?”
Hermione rolls her eyes, but warmth blossoms in her chest at her husband's smile. “Sure,
Malfoy. You’ve got full clearance to leave.”
Draco sits up immediately, and Hermione rushes to help him stand. “Excellent. Molly,
raincheck on the game — you’re a wonderful opponent, but I find myself eager for a bath.”
Hermione feels herself flushing beet red and scowls furiously at Draco. Luckily, Molly seems
distracted with her coat and chessboard, and she barely shares her goodbyes before she’s
heading out of the hospital room.
“Molly seems concerned, don’t you think?” Hermione asks Draco after he’s dressed in her
robes again.
Draco sighs. “Granger, she’s got four hundred children, and they’re all Weasleys… if she
wasn’t concerned I’d be worried.”
Hermione goes to smack him gently on his bicep, but he catches her fingers and tugs her
towards him instead. Draco wraps his arms around her and presses his lips to her hair, just
above her ear. Hermione can feel his heart against her chest — steady and sure and alive.
“My mother told me something once,” Draco says softly. “And she made me promise to
never repeat it. I’m going to tell you, though.”
Hermione swallows. “You don’t have to.”
“She’d want me to, I think,” Draco murmurs. It’s silent for a long moment, and when he
finally speaks, his breath is hushed against her ear, and sparks skate down her spine. “My
mother met a seer — long ago. She didn’t know her, just bumped into her in an alley one day
when she was just a girl; she only realized she was a seer years later.”
“What… what did the seer say?” Hermione asks.
“You — the betrayer. You will follow love, unlike anything you’ve ever known, through
hatred and emerge a lion.” Draco intones quietly.
Hermione swallows — it is not so hard to understand the seer’s words now, years later.
“Can you imagine her fear?” Draco whispers. “When the sorting hat was put on her head?
With Bellatrix and Andromeda watching from the Slytherin table, and my mother knowing
that a seer had proclaimed her a lion at only eight years old?”
Hermione nods because while she thinks the housing system at Hogwarts is wholly flawed
and divisive, there is nothing so terrifying as disappointing your family.
“Mother was announced a Slytherin, and a few years later fell in love with my father,” Draco
explains. “For a long time, she forgot the words. But Lucius Malfoy was not exactly a love
unlike any other.”
“That’s why she told you,” Hermione breathes. “Because it was you, Draco. She loved you
more than anything in the world. She would have followed you anywhere. She betrayed
Voldemort for you.”
“I know.”
Hermione waits for more, but he is not forthcoming. He continues to hold her, but patience is
not a particular skill of hers. Finally, she asks, “Draco, why did you tell me this?”
Draco pulls back, just enough to press his forehead against hers, even though he’s half bent
over to do so. “Because. I’d follow you anywhere, Hermione. Through anything. And I
thought you ought to know that.”
Hermione swallows at the words because the only answer she knows how to give him isn't
enough — all these words, all these books, and no one has ever thought of anything better
than 'i love you'. It doesn't matter though, because one thing Hermione has discovered within
Draco Malfoy, is someone who knows her in a way she never thought she'd be known. And
so instead of the words that she'd like to say to him every moment of each day; instead of
odes or poems or a love that she'd shout from the stars, Hermione kisses him.
When she pulls away, the expression on his face is endlessly soft, and so she teases. “Draco
Malfoy, a secret Gryffindor?”
He laughs again, loud and searing — and she's not afraid of anything.
The Twin
Chapter Notes
This has been written since before Sunday but I just wasn't happy with it, so I spent a
few days tweaking. As always, warnings apply :) Please drop me a comment or a kudos
if you enjoyed! Only 2 more chapters to go, folks.
Friday, January 21st
During the war, George and Fred had spent every night before any major battles staying up
late, drinking firewhiskey, and distracting each other from what felt like impending doom.
The night before Fred’s death, George had done his best impression of Flitwick, and Fred had
laughed so hard he cried. It’s still one of George’s most treasured memories.
It’s only fitting that tonight he brings home the smallest bottle of firewhiskey he can find, and
a different bottle of non-alcoholic champagne.
Parvati is sitting at their counter, sipping at the firewhiskey and grimacing after each gulp.
He’s drinking his fake champagne and trying his best to pretend it’s real liquor. The
firewhiskey is almost gone, and Parvati is swaying in her stool, so George is calling the
evening a success, even if he’s still sober.
“Did you know, one time Fred and I managed to trick Snape’s office wards? We went in and
moved everything he owned exactly four inches to the left; as pranks go, it was definitely our
most subtle but perhaps the most effective. He was flustered for weeks.”
Parvati laughs until she hiccups. “One time, Luna and I found a cat near Hagrid’s hut and
played with it for nearly an hour before it transformed back into McGonagall. Scared the hell
out of us.”
George bursts into laughter at that image. “I didn’t even know you and Luna hung out in
school.”
Parvati shrugs weakly. “Well, she’s Padma’s friend, so I knew of her, I guess.”
George takes her in; she’s flushed from the liquor and is wearing pyjamas. They have barely
spoken since he kissed her, but now it’s all he thinks about. The heat of her skin under his
fingertips, her smile when he figures out tricky charm work on any of his new inventions, the
way she has eased into his life and made it impossible for him to want her gone.
So he leans over the counter and kisses her again. She tastes like firewhiskey and sin, and
George nearly scrambles to get closer to her. Parvati stands suddenly, rocking into him, and it
feels as easy as breathing when he loops his hands under her thighs and lifts her. She wraps
her legs around him, and her fingers clutch at the neckline of his pyjama shirt — and George
wants.
He stumbles over to her makeshift bed and they collapse as one together. Parvati chases his
lips every time he pulls away, and George can hardly string two thoughts together between
the heat of them.
George presses his fingertips under her shirt, skating along ribs and dark skin. He grips the
hem and tugs it over her head.
“Parvati—” he gasps, intoxicated.
She pulls back violently, almost out of his grip. George stares at her and watches as she
crumples suddenly, shoulders curling in on herself as she bursts into tears.
It washes over George in needles of cold dread. The unfamiliar freckle on her left shoulder,
the slightly uneven fall of her long hair. The way she’s sobbing in quiet huffs, her grief
palpable and yet still tucked away.
This was no Gryffindor.
“Padma?” George breathes the question.
She looks up slowly, and when their gazes meet, George is furious.
“I’m so sorry, George. I’m so sorry. She said this would work.”
He feels rage the way he hasn’t felt since the height of the war, but it’s not directed at the
crying witch in front of him. How dare Parvati do this, both to her sister and to him?
“Where the fuck is Parvati?!” George demands, standing hastily and fixing his crooked shirt.
His hands are still shaking with adrenaline and lust.
“No, please, George. Please, don’t do this to her. I’m begging you,” Padma pleads quietly but
earnestly, and it nearly breaks his heart.
“She did this to us, Padma.” George hisses. “Tell me where she is.”
Padma shakes her head rapidly, and George knows it doesn’t matter what he says, Padma will
never give up her sister. It’s irrelevant, either way, because George can’t wait another second
in this apartment that had for the briefest moment felt full again.
He turns away and storms off to his room. When he emerges, Padma is where he left her.
Silent tears track down her cheeks, and she’s still staring at the floor. He’s got his jacket on,
and righteous anger coursing through him. The sight of her tears makes something in his
chest feel tight, but he can’t stomach looking at Padma right now.
He slams the door behind him and doesn’t look back.
He finds Parvati an hour later in the front foyer of Blaise’s mansion, and it’s obvious to him
now that he knows what to look for. Parvati has always gravitated towards anything bright,
and Padma often wears more traditional clothing. Parvati smiles with her teeth, eyes
sparkling and full of secrets only she knows; her laugh is loud and musical, easy to arrive and
slow to disappear. Padma sends grins from under her lashes at his jokes, giggles coming out
of her like it’s a surprise to even herself.
“How fucking dare you,” George begins, hoarse from trying to hold his yells back.
Parvati stares at him, even and calm. George thinks he could strangle her.
“I’m sorry that my deception has hurt you,” Parvati says, instead of an actual reasonable
answer.
All attempts at restraint leave him, and George is screaming, “What possible reason could
you have to do this to me? To Padma? We don’t deserve this! People aren’t chess pieces,
Parvati!! You can’t just use them to your own ends, just because you think you fucking know
better!”
“I do know better,” Parvati snaps, raising to her feet since the first time he arrived.
“No! You think you can toy with us?” George snarls. “Well, fuck you. I just left your sister
crying her heart out, and she couldn’t even give me a reason—”
“She has a reason,” Parvati says, voice calm and even once more. “As do I.”
George clenches his fists, “Tell me what reason could be good enough to put us in this
situation, Parv. I really can’t imagine anything that would warrant this type of lie.”
Parvati bites her lip. “I can’t tell you.”
George stares at his wife, and he wonders if he should be surprised by this. They are born of
war, after all, and they’re used to making hard choices. Used to making choices alone — with
the possibility of deadly consequences.
“If you don’t tell me, then I will make you,” George says, quiet and sure and deadly. He is
every inch the soldier his mother never wanted him to be, and it shows.
Parvati blinks. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.” George answers. He’s gripping his wand so tightly it could snap — he’s furious, but
he’s also never been in the business of hurting witches and he hates that she’s driven him to
it.
“Please, George,” Parvati whispers. “Don’t make me tell you this.”
George forces himself to take a deep breath, relax his hand slightly, and think. He can’t
imagine a reason that explains this, but he’s also not a seer. Parvati has never shown herself
to be cruel before now, but something must have made her do this.
He thinks of all the futures she sees in her head, all the threads of fate woven together
intricately, that only she can see and influence.
Thinks of the way she had known about the bezoars, and Draco Malfoy’s face so still and
pale — thinks of Ron coated in blood.
“Tell me, Parvati.” He says seriously, lowering his wand. “You have to tell me.”
Parvati’s eyes slide closed, and she breathes slowly, the smallest hitch in her exhale. When
she faces him again, her dark eyes are damp.
“George — I had hoped that Padma could fool you. I didn’t realize you would identify her so
quickly. I wanted this, because if I could force her to be Parvati, just for the next week, I
could save her.”
George’s stomach drops. He’s angry with Padma, too, but he’s fond of her as well, and the
way she had felt pressed against him lingers in his brain.
“What do you mean by save her? What’s going to happen to her?”
Recent actions aside, George would say he knows who Parvati is. Over the past few months,
he has seen her calculating and kind, miserable and joyful. She has saved him, more than
once, and as furious as he is with her currently, he owes her. He knows it.
It makes watching her fall apart painful; her face crumples, tears streaking down her cheeks.
Desperation pours off of her, more than even when she instated the blue ban on clothing.
“She’s going to die.” Parvati gasps. She can’t continue on. She breaks down into loud
choking sobs — so different from Padma’s hushed crying back at the flat.
George isn’t sure what to do; his anger, so vibrant only minutes ago, is fizzling away with
each cracking breath his wife pulls. It’s pure instinct that has him reaching out, and when his
fingers are gentle on her shoulders, she falls into him, clutching at his shirt. Her sobs are loud
against the fabric at his shoulder, and he squeezes her as tightly as he wanted someone to
squeeze him when Fred died.
Because this desperation? He knows this. Parvati is many things: a seer, a Gryffindor, a young
woman, a veteran of war, his wife, and a twin. Of these titles, it is the last that brings her the
most joy. George is sure of this the way he is sure of little else in this world; there would have
been nothing, nothing, George wouldn’t have done, wouldn’t have tried, if it meant saving
Fred.
While Fred might be gone, Padma isn’t — and it is only now while he holds Parvati tightly
that he notices all the parts of him that are dormant when only an hour prior he had felt heat
lick up his spine in a delicious and unfamiliar way.
He wants to save her.
“Parvati, I’m still furious with you,” George announces. “But Padma is my friend, too.”
Parvati’s sobs quiet, but she doesn’t move her head from where it has pressed into his
collarbone. “You’ll help me?”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” George asks quietly.
Parvati finally pulls away, staring at him as though she’s never quite seen him before. It’s
unfamiliar; she’s always looked at him as though she knows exactly everything about him.
A slow, sincere smile breaks out. She looks more like Padma when she smiles. “You’re really
going to save her?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t want to?” George demands, affronted. “Padma is kind. She’s a
friend. Of course, I would want to help her. I just wish you had asked me.”
“I’m sorry,” Parvati says, more earnest this time. “I am. I was just scared, I think. That it
wouldn’t work. I only have one shot at this, and only one plan. You might not like it.”
George sighs — why the Ministry thought it necessary to pair him with a bloody seer, he’ll
never know. “Well, I already like it better than forcing your twin to pretend to be my wife
without telling me, Parv. Out with it.”
Parvati winces. “Unfortunately, I need her to keep pretending to be me. It keeps her out of the
way, and Blaise won’t notice she’s even out of the house. I talked to him earlier, and he didn’t
even look at me. You’re a better duelist, anyway, if it comes down to that.”
George heaves a sigh. “I hate this. What exactly have you be doing since she’s been
pretending to be you?”
Parvati swallows. “Getting my parents out of the country.”
George blinks. “What? Why?”
Parvati sighs and takes his hand. She wraps her fingers around it tightly, and George is
shocked at the serious expression she wears.
“It’s going to be bloody, George. It’s going to get worse.” Parvati murmurs. “And it’s a fight
we must have, I know that. But I won’t risk my family, and I won’t risk yours.”
George swallows hard. “You’ve seen it? The March and the Ministry take over?”
“Not everything, I’m sure.” Parvati shrugs. “I never do see it all. But I’ve been searching
every moment since we made this plan, and it is the best option.”
George squeezes the hand she’s still hanging on to. “Can you see my family? Are they safe?”
Parvati nods quickly. “Yes. Your parents, your siblings, they all survive. I can’t see any future
where they don’t. I promise George, I promise I would see if it was a possibility.”
George stares at her, and he desperately wants to trust her, but the betrayal of her recent
actions still sting.
“George,” Parvati whispers. “I love them, too. I promise, I swear on my sister that I would
never send them into this if I thought you would lose any of them.”
George sighs. “Okay. I believe you. I’m trusting you. But you better make this whole
pretending stunt up to me, and to Padma.”
A shadow falls over Parvati’s eyes, but she nods solemnly. “Okay, George. Tell her I’m sorry
and I love her, okay? Tell her I’m getting our parents out tonight, and I’ll see you at the
March tomorrow.”
She releases his fingers, half gone numb from her tight grip, and George forces a half-smile
for her sake. He leaves Blaise’s less angry than he had arrived, but resentment stirs in his
stomach. Parvati has left him a mess to clean up.
Worst of all, George can hardly stop his hands from shaking. All he can taste on his lips is the
kiss he had shared with Padma — and was she pretending? Did he accidentally force that
upon her?
He’s still reeling when he arrives back at his flat, and Padma is nowhere to be found. The bed
which had been mussed from their earlier activity is now made neatly, and the kitchen is
spotless, with no sign of their prior drinks at all. George walks slowly down the hallway and
freezes when he notices Fred’s door is ajar.
He pushes it open — he’s terrified of stale air and Fred’s smell and a thousand memories he
doesn’t know how to deal with. Instead, he finds nothing amiss, other than Padma sitting on
the floor against the bed, clutching a frame in her hands.
George wants to yell; no one but Fred belongs in here — but he can’t.
Padma is still crying. Tears course down her cheeks, and she doesn’t look up at all. George
goes to her, crouching down and crawling on all fours until he’s beside her.
She’s sweeping her finger over a moving picture. It’s George and Fred, both grinning with
their arms wrapped around each other. They’re holding their official business license for
Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
“You both were so alive in school,” Padma whispers, breaking their silence. “You took up
hallways with your laughter and jokes. You were magnetic; even older students and
Slytherins liked you. I used to watch you two, you know. I was so jealous that you had your
twin, while I got sorted away from mine.”
George thinks back to his very first year of Hogwarts, and how scared he had been. He’d
known Fred was, too, even though they had both put on a brave face. The twin calls of
Gryffindor had lit his soul up with relief.
“I cried myself to sleep every night for nearly two years,” Padma admits. “Parvati and I had
never been apart before. We shared a room at home, too. And you know how Parvati is?
She’s friendly and outgoing, and you’d never know she sees secrets and futures everywhere
she looks. It took me ages to make a friend, and when I did, it was Luna, and no one else
would speak to us.”
Until the very minute Fred died, George had always pictured them growing old together. Had
never imagined being apart for longer than an evening. He understands, probably more than
Padma means him too, exactly how painful those first two years were.
“When Fred died—” Padma’s voice dies, and for the first time, George looks up from the
picture in her hands.
“Yes?” George says, raspy.
Padma blinks, glancing at him for a moment. “When Fred died, I spent months feeling guilty.
Guilty that I had always resented you both, for always getting what I wanted. But then, he
was gone. And for whatever reason, it felt like my fault. Like I had spent so long resenting
you both that I made it happen.”
“You didn’t,” George murmurs. “That wasn’t your fault, Padma.”
She sniffs. “I know that, now. But I didn’t realize how guilty I was until Parvati finally
confessed and told me she was sick over the whole thing. It devastated her that she hadn’t
seen it — she even knew Fred in school. I spent weeks comforting her, telling her it wasn’t
her fault. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me it wasn’t mine either. Fred’s death
brought us together again, you know? Not in a good way, or anything. Just… it made us both
realize what you had lost. We came together to grieve, I suppose.”
George swallows. He knows exactly what he’s lost. He reaches over and takes the picture out
of her hands. He rubs his own thumb down his brother’s face — his own face, that he looks at
in every reflection he comes across. There is nothing in this world that George wouldn’t have
done if it meant saving Fred.
“Padma, I need you to do something for me,” George says suddenly. She turns to him, hands
empty in her lap. Her eyes are red and puffy, and even though George is angry, he also wants.
She’s the only person other than Fred that has sat in this room in years, and somehow, he
wants her to stay.
“Tomorrow. Can I convince you to stay home?” He nearly begs.
Padma shakes her head slowly and solemnly. “You know the answer to that, George Weasley.
My sister will be out there.”
He nods slowly, but he’s not surprised. “Yeah. I had to ask, though, you know?”
She lays her head gently against his shoulder, and George lets his head drop onto hers. The
silence is long but not uncomfortable, and George knows he can’t just ignore the thoughts
thrumming through him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally.
She doesn’t move, just tilts her face until her breath is puffing at his chin. “For what? You
don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry.”
“I’m still mad at Parvati — and you for this whole pretending thing,” George admits. “But I
didn’t mean to… well, I’m sorry if you were… uncomfortable.”
Padma pulls away and blinks at him. “Uncomfortable pretending to be Parvati? Or

uncomfortable being your wife?”
He winces. “Uncomfortable with me kissing you.”
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is almost endearing, and Padma splutters. “No — I
mean, I — it’s just… you thought I was Parvati.”
“Yeah,” George agrees. “But I’ve only ever kissed you, Padma.”
Her mouth falls open and George wonders if he’s made the right decision.
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah. I realize now it was you at the Ministry Gala — and that was the only time
I’ve ever thought I wanted Parvati in that way. And it turns out it was you.”
Her blush turns into a small smile, and she drops her head back down on his shoulder. George
lets her be, because he’s just as confused as she is, if not more.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Padma whispers after a long moment. George releases a breath he
didn’t even realize he was holding. The silence that follows her words is charged with
tension, but George doesn’t move. As much as he wonders if he should kiss her again, he’s
not quite ready. He’s still clutching the photo of Fred and himself in his hands, and he can
still taste his rage at Parvati in his throat even though he’s calmed down. It’s not the right
time.
The floor grows hard under them, and their backs stiffen from leaning against the bedframe,
but George forces himself to stay awake until he hears the steady breathing of Padma against
his collarbone. She’s warm and soft and safe — and George is not ready to lose a single thing
more.
He lifts her gently, and her head lolls against his shoulder. George brings her to his room and
tucks her beneath the covers. He lies on top of the blankets and watches her forehead wrinkle
in her sleep.
There is comfort in having someone beside him —, and he hopes that Padma feels it, too.
Tomorrow, they march. Tomorrow, they fight.
Saturday, 22nd - The March for Marital Rights, Part 1
George arrives at Diagon with Padma at his side. He finds his family relatively easily since
Bill stands out like a sore thumb — over a head taller than anyone nearby, scars raked down
his face, and signature Weasley red hair. He drags Padma over to them.
“Oh, George, I’m so glad you’re here.” His mother says. “Parvati, hello, dear.”
Padma flushes at the wrong name. “Hi, Mrs. Weasley.”
There are crowds forming all over the alleyway, some with charmed signs floating above
their heads. A few he can read: OUR LIFE OUR CHOICE, while another reads The Ministry
of Maniacs!!!, and DISMANTLE THE WPG, and SHACKLEBOLT IS SHITE!!
George sees witches and wizards he recognizes from school and his store, but also dozens of
people he’s never seen before. He wonders exactly how far the Quibbler’s reach has gone,
with Luna’s father living abroad now; are there foreigners fighting this battle for them? It’s a
hopeful thought, especially with tension so palpable he can hardly breathe in the air.
It feels like the war, all over again.
“Where is Harry?” George asks his father, who curiously has Pansy Parkinson hovering
behind him, wand in her fist and familiar mean glare on her face, only now it’s not directed at
them.
“They’re infiltrating the Ministry — Hermione had reconfigured a few of the internal Floos
to accept them. Ron, Hermione, and Harry are all there, and Draco, Neville and Theodore are
standing by to follow.”
“How will they know when to go?” Padma questions.
Arthur gives a half-smile. “Hermione Granger is the most prepared witch I’ve ever known.
She has protean charmed galleons with a few of them, and she and Draco share a curious set
of notebooks that are twinned for messages.”
George reminds himself to give his monthly speech to Hermione about how she should work
for him at the shop — the woman’s a genius, and if she only shared his love of mischief,
they’d be unstoppable.
“Dad, tell me honestly, what is the end goal here?” George demands quietly, staring out over
the crowd, which seems to be multiplying by the minute. The energy is electric, and witches
and wizards shout and cheer over the din.
Arthur grimaces and glances at his family, of which only Molly is paying attention to their
conversation.
“George, it’s always been intended as a peaceful protest,” Arthur says, as though that answers
his question at all.
George is no fool — and he’s seen his parents attempt to shelter their children at the height of
the war before. They’re prepared for anything, even if they only want to shout and hold signs.
Even if they’d like for this to be nothing more than a peaceful March. Instead, they have
prepared for their youngest son to infiltrate the highest level of the wizarding world’s
government and usurp Hawksworth and Kingsley as necessary, while they sit on the outskirts,
anxious.
It’s not a protest — it’s a guerilla operation with a decoy.
George looks to Padma and prays he’s made the right choice in letting her come along. He
had spent the night staring at her, considering placing her under a sleeping spell, drugging
her, or chaining her to the damn bed without a wand; yet, he couldn’t do it — not because he
doesn’t want to keep her safe, but because he had been present when Harry had banned a now
visibly pregnant Ginny from attending this event.
Ginny still wasn’t speaking to him — and despite multiple people begging her to be
reasonable, especially before the eve of a possible battle, the Weasley temper had gotten the
better of her.
Harry had been immovable, however, and so Ginny was at home in the Burrow, staring at
Molly’s clock and praying for the hands to remain at Safe. Luna and Rosmerta were with her,
as well as little Louise, who didn’t understand what was going on and still cried if she
couldn’t find her mother for longer than a minute.
A sonorous voice fills the air, demanding and powerful and oddly familiar: “Witches and
Wizards — we deserve better than the Ministry’s mandated Wizarding Population Growth
Act! We deserve the freedom to marry WHO we want WHEN we want!! We didn’t fight a
war with Voldemort to be chained down by this law!!”
The gasps at Voldemort’s name turn to raucous cheers, and George feels energy unlike
anything before at the sight of Cho Chang standing atop an enlarged picnic table. Bruises still
mottle her face, and she is filled with an intensity bordering on madness.
It’s electric — the crowd is cheering, signs raised in the air. George is yelling before he even
knows what he’s doing, and he’s not the only one; what feels like hundreds of witches and
wizards are alongside him, shoes thudding against the cobblestones. George wonders if the
resonance of this moment can be felt even in Muggle London.
“What do we want!?” Cho screams.

“CHOICE!” The crowd roars back at her.
“MARRIAGE RIGHTS FOR ALL!!!” Cho holds her wand in the air, sparking off red
fireworks, a sight that George hasn’t seen since Dumbledore was alive.
Which is exactly when he sees a green light shooting for Cho. It hits her in the chest, and
George watches her topple backwards at the same time as the sound seems to return to his
rushing ears.
The crowd is screaming.
Red and green spells — it’s so familiar.
They are war, and they are chaos, and they are soldiers, and they are ready.
George falls into a crouch with Padma and his family at his side. The crowd makes it difficult
to locate where the spells are coming from, and the panic from the protestors has turned into
a stampede.
“Aurors!” Arthur shouts, and Charlie charges forward with Bill at his side, wands raised.
Pansy Parkinson reaches his side. “Weasley — get the fucking coin! Get the coin and tell
them NOW!!!”
She’s gone in an instant, casting curses that make the hair on his neck stand on its end.
They’re dark and vicious, and Pansy is fearless in a way that George has never seen. He
wonders how the hell they even won the war if that was what they were fighting.
He grips the charmed galleon and taps his wand against it, his frantic words appearing on the
surface: ‘NOW, GO!! FIGHT ON DIAGON’.
George looks up, and half of the protestors are either apparating away as fast as they can or
sheltering between buildings. A few witches and wizards are locked in duels — it’s almost
worse, in a way than the Battle of Hogwarts, because this time, George can’t tell who is on
his side or against him. A few Ministry Aurors are firing curses into the crowd, but he sees
Dawlish battling on their side, and he can’t be the only one.
Padma is nowhere to be found, but he sees glimpses of red hair further down from him.
George grips his wand and casts protego’s and leg-locking jinxes or stupefy’s; anything that
will fell an opponent without killing them because George isn’t sure who he’d be if he
crossed that line.
He spots Blaise, ahead, and turns to head towards him — he’s surrounded by five different
wizards, and barely holding his own. George shoots spells, exhaustion already permeating his
bones. Blaise charges after a wizard who has turned to run, and George is shocked at the fury
on his face. He’s casting unforgiveables, and George wants to stop him, but the crowd parts
enough that he freezes.
Lying on the cobblestones where Blaise had been standing, blood pouring out of her chest, is
Parvati. George collapses to his knees beside her, forgetting the spells flying above his head
for a moment, fury and desperation making his breath catch on sobs. She’s still conscious,
and her dark eyes don’t hesitate before they find him. They’re not scared, which is the most
terrifying part of it all.
“You stupid witch,” George gasps. “How could you — you knew — how—”
“George,” Parvati’s voice is quiet, and he leans forward to catch every single treasured word.
“It was supposed to be her. It was always supposed to be her.”
George can feel tears and sweat weeping down his cheeks and he’s so angry — he’d
forgotten how much fury he could hold in the height of war, but it’s all there, right where he
left it three years ago. He understands Blaise now — he’s ready to cast crucios.
“We could have saved you both!” George rails, and even though he’s got his wand in his first,
he’s never been more useless, more fucking decrepit; he only knows episkey, and it would
take a lot more than that to cure Parvati’s wounds.
“Never,” Parvati snaps. “Not in any future. One of us would die. Always.”
“You made me choose,” George cries. “You didn’t tell me, but you made me choose.”
Parvati’s hand, limp and covered in her own blood, rises of its own volition to press at his
cheek. Her gaze is soft and kind, and George wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to tell
Padma of this. Padma, who is only moments away, down the same fucking street — and she’s
missing this. She’s going to miss this.
“I chose,” Parvati insists. “And you know, you know — there was no choice.”
George drapes himself over her gently, pressing his forehead into her own and gathering her
shoulders. He thinks often about how Fred died alone; so he presses his forehead harder into
Parvati’s and lets his tears drop onto her face and he thinks about how if it was him — if it
was Fred — fuck. There is no choice.
“The match,” Parvati gasps. “It’s her. It’s her, George. Please.”
George nods because while he doesn’t believe in the WPG and the matches, he believes in
Parvati. He believes she had seen what he has only just discovered — the way Padma fits
with him, easier than anyone other than Fred ever did. He thinks of the fact that tonight he
will watch her fall apart, watch as she breaks into two separate people, one of which who will
never live again.
He thinks that maybe between the two of them, they might make something whole.
“Okay,” George says. “I know. I know, Parv. I know.”
He says it over and over, and he doesn’t stop when her hand falls limply to the ground, or
when his knees grow numb from the cobblestone, or when the shouts of spell-casting fade
from his ears.
Chapter End Notes
Yes, yes, I know, I suck. I will get the next chapter to you ASAP (probably in a week).
Together
Chapter Notes
Hi friends, we are coming to a close here. One more chapter only to go. Thank you all
SO much for your kind words, your kudos, and your support. You have made my first
foray into the Dramione fandom a very wonderful experience. All tags and warnings
apply, and of course, any comments are always appreciated. I'll see you soon with the
last chapter.
Saturday, January 22nd - The March for Marital Rights, Part 2
Draco is terrified. It’s a familiar feeling, but it never gets any easier. This time, unlike in the
war, he’s got Neville Longbottom and Theo Nott standing at his side, and the knowledge that
he’s doing the right thing.
It still didn’t make watching Hermione disappear into the Floo beside Potter and Weasel any
more bearable. As much as he’s always hated her two idiot friends, even Draco admits that
they’re an incredible team. If he was going to entrust his wife’s safety to anyone, it might as
well be them.
As of right now, he is creeping through the lowest levels of the Ministry. While the Golden
Trio went for Shacklebolt’s office, intent on finding anyone in their way, Draco’s team was
searching below. Hawksworth would either be with Shacklebolt on the top floor or else in the
Wizengamot chamber.
So far, it had been suspiciously quiet. The only people they’d run into were civilians, just
doing their jobs. They’d been stunned and placed gently against the hallway walls; Draco had
no intention of hurting anyone who wasn’t directly responsible for the WPG.
“I fucking hate this,” Theo breathes. “Where the fuck is everyone?”
Draco grimaces. “I don’t know, and I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Neville hisses suddenly, his hand plunging into the pocket of his robes to dig out a familiar
galleon. He glances at the coin for seconds before his face falls — and Draco’s stomach
drops.
“They’re fighting on Diagon,” Neville announces quietly. “George says we have to make the
move now.”
They run, forgetting all thoughts of secrecy — if a battle has broken out on Diagon Alley,
they’re running out of time. It’s the best distraction they have.
A witch turns the corner in front of them; she’s an Unspeakable, and her wand doesn’t have
time to leave her pocket before Neville’s stunned her. It’s the first time they don’t bother
moving anyone out of the way. They just run past her prone body. Draco pushes down
memories of a different battle, where bodies laying on the ground weren’t just stunned or
unconscious.
They burst into the Wizengamot chamber, and dread coils inside Draco’s stomach, because he
knows this scene.
There is a black wrought iron cage suspended above the ground, menacing and heavy with
spell work. Draco has been inside that cage, and he’ll never forget the feeling of humiliation
and helplessness that coated him.
Inside, is Gawain Robards. His eyes are wild, and his hands are bound, but he’s conscious.
He spots them and throws himself against the bars of the cage. Neville raises his wand arm to
cast, but Draco and Theo slap it down at almost the same time.
“It’s warded,” Theo says breathlessly. “We’ve both been in there.”
Horror washes over Neville’s face and Draco spares a moment to swallow down the guilt he
carries — how he had tormented the man in front of him when he was only a boy! And now,
Neville Longbottom is someone Draco trusts; furthermore, he’s someone Draco genuinely
likes.
“How do we get him out?” Neville demands.
Theo shrugs, but Draco knows the answer to this. “We don’t — we either need a member of
the Wizengamot to pronounce him innocent of whatever they sentenced him for or a very
talented curse breaker who could take down those wards on the cage.”
“We can’t leave him like this!” Neville argues hotly. Draco winces because he’s always
known the weakness of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. It’s their emotions. His parents had
taught Draco from the moment he could walk that logic must rule passion. The way of
Slytherin — and Ravenclaw, though they deny it sometimes.
“We don’t have a choice, Longbottom,” Draco says sternly. He raises his wand, though,
because there is something he can do. He casts the counter-curse to the tongue-tying spell that
is obviously afflicting Robards, and the wizard falls to his knees in relief.
“Thank you,” he croaks.
“I’m sorry we can’t help you further,” Draco says. “We need to find Hawksworth.”
Gawain nods. “It’s fine. Hawksworth is in the upper levels — Department of Magical Law
Enforcement. He’s taken control of the Aurors; the few loyal to me have run.”
“Kingsley did this?” Neville demands.

Gawain stiffens. “Kingsley Shacklebolt is dead. They killed him weeks ago after he proved
too strong for the imperius curse. Hawksworth thought he had it all under control — he was
going to be the next Minister when Shacklebolt’s death was officially announced. But Alecto
and Amycus are pulling the strings now. Hawksworth is nothing but a pawn.”
Draco curses. “Fuck. The Carrows escaped Azkaban?”
“So did Dolohov.”
“Dolohov is dead.” Theo barks — and Draco nods weakly. He’d been so sure, and he’s
desperate for Theo to be correct.
Robards shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Months ago, before the WPG came
into effect, four people escaped Azkaban. The Carrows, Macnair, and Rookwood. I tracked
them myself and found out Dolohov was responsible. Hawksworth and the Wizengamot
came down hard on Kingsley, demanded it be kept out of the news.”
Neville is halfway through another question, but Draco can hardly hear the words — he feels
like he might collapse. Hermione is somewhere in the Ministry, and she has no idea what
they’re up against. “We have to go. We have to go NOW!”
“Go!” Robards says, “I’ll be fine.”
Draco turns without further encouragement, and they burst out of the Wizengamot hearing
room at a sprint. Draco casts stunners at anything that moves, and he isn’t the only one. They
leave a trail of Ministry workers on the ground and throw themselves into the elevator.
“Fuck, fuck!” Draco shouts, slamming buttons to take him straight to the DMLE. Neville is
shaking, but his face is determined.
“Take a breath, mate,” Theo cautions. “You need to be sharp for them.”
Draco forces air into his lungs because Theo is right. There are no darker or more dangerous
witches and wizards than those inside the Ministry alive today — Dolohov made the Carrows
look like kittens during the war.
The elevator lurches to a halt, and the permanent lights go dark. It’s pitch black until the door
slides open, and when it does, all Draco can see is the sunlight filtering down from the
atrium, lighting up the golden statue in the centre of the hall, remade in the war’s wake to
depict a witch and two wizards holding hands. Although it was not supposed to be the golden
trio, it was suspiciously similar. Hermione hated it.
“Little Draco Malfoy, come to join us once more?” A raspy voice intones, and goosebumps
break out over Draco’s skin.
Rookwood emerges from the shadows, and the sunlight shows an expression riddled with
madness and hate. He’s got scars all down one side of his face and he limps with each step he
takes. Draco isn’t foolish enough to believe his injuries from the war or his stay in Azkaban
make him any less dangerous.
“Augustus,” Draco says, stepping towards him. He’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake, and
he reminds himself that Hermione needs him. His magic is strong — he stands a chance
against Rookwood, but two oily figures step out behind his shoulders, and Draco forces
himself to remain aloof in the face of the Carrow twins.
“The very last Malfoy,” Alecto coos. “Unless we count your mudblood wife.”
Amycus grimaces. “When we find her, we’ll rid you of her, Draco. Lucius would want that.”
Relief blossoms inside Draco’s chest — they don’t know where she is. He wants to laugh
with joy.
“But… how curious?” Rookwood murmurs, with a familiar cruel expression. “Lucius
Malfoy, dead in his cell, at only 46.”
“Yes,” Amycus agrees. “Can you explain that to us, Draco?”
Draco stiffens his spine and reminds himself that he has two friends at his back. “I can.”
Rookwood gestures with the hand holding his wand, and Theo flinches in the corner of his
vision. They’ve both been on the receiving end of that wand’s crucio.
“It was easy to kill him,” Draco admits suddenly. “You might have been proud, Augustus. All
those times you told me I didn’t have it in me, and yet I didn’t even blink as I cast the avada
that killed him.”
Rage mottles the Carrows' faces, and they raise their wands, curses on their tongues.
Rookwood raises a palm and they freeze. Draco knows exactly who is in charge here.
“Forgivable, perhaps.” Augustus Rookwood says suddenly, and Draco blinks. “Your mother
was a treasure, and Lucius had no idea what to do with something so valuable.”
At this, rage ignites inside Draco. His mother was not an item to be bartered — and it is not
so difficult to remember the way so many Death Eaters stared at her, as though all of her
robes and dignity and honour were nothing more than a gauzy film they could undress. The
only thing Lucius ever did right by her was not sharing her with these monsters.
“My mother is dead.” Draco hisses. “And I’ll not hear a word about her.”
Rookwood laughs darkly. “Sensitive, little Malfoy. How about that mudblood you call a
wife? We thought you’d kill her, you know.”
“Yes,” Alecto sneers. “It was your chance, you see, to be redeemed. If you’d killed the bitch,
we’d have taken you back.”
It happens quickly after that. Draco casts the fastest stunner of his life at Rookwood, while
Theo’s powerful protego appears in front of them. From the corner of his eye, Draco sees
Neville plunge his hand into his robe to snatch the enchanted galleon. He taps his wand
against it frantically and then takes aim at Amycus Carrow.
Rookwood counters Draco’s stunner easily, but Draco had expected that and sent a leg
locking jinx in quick succession; however, he loses valuable time with the second cast, and
Rookwood’s next spell strikes him in the chest. It’s only a silencing charm, though, and while
Draco struggles to breathe, he doesn’t panic, just channels his focus and casts a non-verbal
petrification spell. It hits a barely upright Rookwood in the shoulder, and his locked legs end
up toppling him over, his socked feet slipping out of his still-stuck shoes.
Theo’s duelling Alecto, and Neville’s got Amycus — they’re both losing ground, though, and
it’s only a matter of time before something gets through. Draco casts a combination of
protego’s and curses, praying they connect. The Carrows may be followers instead of leaders,
but they’re experienced duelists and it shows.
Green flames down the hallway startle him, and Draco spares a moment to glance away.
Aurors and unfamiliar witches and wizards are stepping out of the Floos, wands drawn and
scowling.
Panic rolls around in his stomach — these are not allies. It’s three against dozens, and the
numbers keep increasing. Draco slams his hand on Theo’s shoulder.
“Protego, all of us!” He shouts, and Neville and Theo instantly follow his order. A visible
wall of protection lights up in front of them. Draco has only seen a combined protego
maxima charm once, and it had been at Hogwarts Castle, with all the staff coming together.
Theirs is strong, but Draco knows it won’t last. Even now, curses are slamming into the wall,
and it sputters before reforming.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Theo pants, sweat staining his brow,
“No way out,” Draco hisses, pouring more magic into his wand.
Neville huffs, “They’ll come. You’ll see. Just wait.”
Draco turns to look at the Gryffindor, and dread coats him when he realizes what’s happened
— the coin.
“You told her to come here?” Draco demands. “She’ll be killed.”
Neville snorts, and Draco’s always known Gryffindors were brave, but Longbottom seems to
be enjoying this. “Have a little faith, Malfoy.”
He has no faith. He only has desperation coating his bones. He told Hermione he’d follow her
anywhere, but he doesn’t want her to die. Fuck — he wants to live. He wants them both to
live, and expand their cottage, and get a dog or a kid or a fucking library. Anything she
wants.
“STUPEFY!” A voice cries, and Draco realizes he’s seeing familiar red hair among the
crowd. George Weasley, covered in blood, is casting like a madman. Pansy and Blaise are
beside him, and for every stunner George sends, they shoot out dark curses.
Wizards go down — one grasps at his chest before he coughs, and a spray of blood mists into
the air. The sound of bones cracking echoes in the chamber, and Neville flinches.
A few more familiar faces appear; Molly Weasley is magnificent; she’s nearly dancing
around two witches half her age. Draco watches as she casts a household charm meant for
collecting dishes, but the two witches go flying against each other, stacking in a perfect heap.
“Incarcerous,” Draco shouts, letting the protego drop. It hits the witches, and Molly glances
up at him with a thankful smile.
“CRUCIO!”
The word registers at the same time as the pain. Draco hits the marbled floors of the Ministry
and writhes. His blood boils under his skin, and it feels like every vein inside of him expands
while his skin contracts. His bones are cracking and reforming, and he can feel himself
slamming his face against the floor, simply to feel something else.
It’s not his first crucio — but it is just as terrible as always.
In between silent screams and sobs, Draco sees flashes of Theo’s wand — and it’s shooting
green, not red.
Time seems suspended, and Draco wonders if he’s finally going to die.
The entire atrium rocks and even Draco feels it within his haze. The pain stops, and he’s
twitching on the cold floor.
He looks up, and in front of him is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen in his entire life.
Hermione’s hair seems larger than life, and she’s got blood coating one side of her abdomen.
But her arm is in front of her, and her wand is steady. A peculiar copper cube is settled in her
other palm, extended and glowing in ancient ruins.
The atrium is silent.
Hermione leans down and sets the cube on the ground, wincing with every movement. Draco
tries to force himself to stand, to help her, but nothing cooperates.
She turns and looks at him, and her eyes are wild and wet with tears. Her knees crack against
the floor as she drops, and her hands are cold and shaking when she presses them into his
cheeks.
“You’re alive,” she croaks.
He nods — or at least, he tries to.
She closes her brown eyes and leaves them that way. Draco wants to ask her to open them, to
talk to him, anything; but all he can manage is moving his hand to the top of her thigh.
Hermione’s eyes open, determined and furious.

She stands again, and he forces himself to follow her with his gaze. Hermione steps over
bodies — and Draco isn’t sure if they’re alive or dead.
He realizes what she’s about to do when she stops, exactly in the centre of the battle. She
raises her wand.
“Hermione, no,” Draco hears Ron Weasley’s voice as though from far away.
“Yes, Ron,” Hermione says. “Enough. This is enough.”
And Draco Malfoy watches as Hermione Granger, a muggleborn witch, casts three killing
curses in a row without a single break or falter; a feat that not even Lord Voldemort himself
could pull off so rapidly.
When she’s done, Hermione looks up at her friends, still standing amongst enemies. Draco
pulls himself to his knees because even though he doubts his legs would hold him, he’s not
about to lie down while this happens.
Harry Potter is a few arm lengths from Hermione, and he watches her with exhausted,
resigned eyes.
“Can we all help tie up everyone who is unconscious? They’ll need to be tried and
sentenced.” Harry asks loudly. “Hermione, how long will the sleep from that box last?”
Hermione shrugs weakly. “I’m not sure. They weren’t done testing on it when I nicked it. I
think a week, but it could be less.”
“Robards is in the Hearing room,” Theo’s voice comes from Draco’s left, and he turns to see
his best friend cradling a broken arm, but otherwise healthy. “We need a curse-breaker or a
member of the Wizengamot.”
George Weasley steps forward, alone. “We also need to collect the dead. There are bodies on
Diagon.”
“I need St. Mungo’s,” Theo admits. “Anyone who needs medical attention should come with
me. The Floos are connected again.”
A small crowd moves towards Theodore Nott; among them are some former classmates, but
also grown witches and wizards Draco barely recognizes. Charlie Weasley is half-carrying a
slumped over Zacharias Smith. Blood pours from a slice across his left eyebrow, but he
doesn’t seem particularly bothered. Draco almost hysterically thinks that he’ll look almost as
rugged as Bill now.
Pansy Parkinson appears in front of him, and Draco takes in the sight of her. She’s got a
bruise forming on her neck that looks suspiciously like hands, but she tucks her fingers under
his elbows and drags him to his feet, without asking whether he’s ready. He sways at first, but
it turns out he’s stronger than he thought when his knees stop shaking. Pansy is solid under
his grasp, and after a moment Draco realizes Neville Longbottom is standing half a step away
from him, eyes on Pansy.
“You okay, Pans?” Neville asks quietly.
Pansy nods easily. “Yeah. We have to get Draco to St. Mungo’s, though.”
“No,” Draco argues. “Take me to Hermione.”
He’s lost sight of her in the crowd’s movement. Unconscious bodies are being trussed up and
placed against a far wall under Molly Weasley’s careful supervision. Theo is disappearing in
green flames, with a line out of the same Floo, all headed to Healers. George Weasley drags
the four death eater bodies to a space in front of the golden statue and conjures a sheet over
them. Draco wonders if he does so out of guilt for their deaths, or just because he’d rather not
look at them.
“Where is she?” Neville asks — and Draco snaps his eyes to the Gryffindor. So he’s not the
only one who can’t see her.
He forces his muscles to stop seizing under him and steadies his feet. “We have to find her.
Hawksworth and Dolohov are still out there.”
“Where would she go?” Pansy questions, scowling at the room. She takes a step away from
him, and Draco stays steady on his feet with pure willpower alone.
Neville sighs. “Ron and Harry are gone, too. I’m guessing they either went to Shacklebolt’s
office or the DMLE.”
Draco opens his mouth only to feel the strangest sensation — he’s only felt it once before,
and it grows stronger and wilder with every moment, just the same as it had then. The last
time he had followed it and found Hermione curled over in Malfoy Manor, standing in the
spot he had last seen his aunt torture her in, hand clamped to the bracelet he’d given her.
He apparates away instantly without thought of where he’s headed.
Draco lands hard on stone floors, but he’s still on his feet. His wand is clenched in his hand,
and he glances around wildly. There are glowing orbs on shelves stacked all around him, and
he can’t see anyone — can’t see Hermione.
He hears them though, suddenly. Dolohov’s voice echoes around viciously, punctuated by a
shrill scream of pain. It’s not Hermione’s voice, though, and relief seeps into his bones for a
moment. The noise had covered the crack of his apparition, and Draco raps his own wand
against his head. His disillusionment spell blends him into the murky dark of the room, and
he’s praying the advantage of surprise will be enough. Draco creeps quietly towards the
screaming, and freezes when he’s finally close enough to see the source of the noise. Rage
unlike anything he’s ever felt storms through him, and he has to force himself not to move.
Hermione is limp on the ground. She’s got blood all down her side from earlier, but her left
leg is splayed out in a terribly crooked manner. She’s twitching, and Draco’s not fool enough
to believe she hasn’t been crucio’d. She must have pressed her hand into her bracelet as a last
resort.
Hawksworth hasn’t been quite so lucky — he’s still conscious and shrieking so loudly Draco
can hear his vocal cords nearly shrivelling. He’s got blood coming out of his ears and eyes,
and the last time Draco had seen a crucio this intense had been with Bellatrix and a Muggle.
The Muggle hadn’t lived.
It’s hard to summon any pity for the snivelling wreck in front of him. Hawksworth has played
with a fire he can’t control and ruined so many lives in doing so. He should have known
better — but instead, he thirsted for power and it’s destroyed him, the same as Voldemort.
The same as Draco’s own father.
“Please, please,” Hawksworth begs when Dolohov takes a break from his torture. His voice
sounds like garbled glass shards in his throat. Draco’s not sure if he’s begging for his life or
for Dolohov to put him out of his misery.
Hermione’s lashes flutter, and Draco stills — there’s no sign of Potter or Weasley around, but
at any moment Hawksworth will succumb to Dolohov’s wand, and his attention will turn
back to Hermione. Draco can’t afford to wait for them.
Draco’s hands are sweaty, and he grips his wand tightly. He raises it slowly so Dolohov won’t
notice his disillusionment from where he’s hidden behind a shelf, and wonders if he’s strong
enough for this. Antonin Dolohov was always exceptionally gifted in both spell work and
cruelty. There is no room for mistakes.
Then — Hermione groans. It’s a pathetic sound, and Draco’s tentative plans fly out of his
brain at her obvious misery.
Dolohov flicks his wand and Hawksworth goes sliding along the stone floor into a shelf. He
doesn’t move.
“Wakey wakey little Mudblood,” Dolohov nearly coos. “The last time I met you here, I
nearly killed you. There is no escape this time.”
He twitches his wand hand, and Hermione is suddenly being levitated into the air. She gasps
as her leg catches on the stone, biting back a cry. Draco flinches — but for the smallest
moment Hermione glances in his direction and he stills. She can’t see him, he knows she
can’t, but Draco is suddenly sure that she knows he’s there. He hopes she does — because no
matter how this plays out; he has no intention of watching Hermione be tortured again
without interfering.
When she’s finally stationary, floating nearly a foot above the ground, Hermione blinks up
and stares at Dolohov. Fury paints her face, outshining the sweat and blood and pain.
Brave Gryffindor.
“Fuck you,” she bites out.
Dolohov tuts at the curse. “Dirty mouth on a dirty bitch.”

Hermione spits — mostly blood, and it lands on the lowest hem of Dolohov’s robes. His face
mottles in fury, and he flicks his wand again. Hermione crashes to the ground, and the scream
she releases when her leg hits the stone raises the hair on his arms.
Dolohov is raising his wand, torture and death written on his face, and Draco can’t wait any
longer.
“EXPELLIARMUS,” Draco bellows, his spell connecting into Dolohov’s back. His wand flies
out of his hand, and Draco catches it as though it is a live snake.
Dolohov turns around, shock clear on his face. It morphs into pleasure at the sight of him.
“Young Master Malfoy,” Dolohov greets. “Come to play with the Mudblood?”
Draco stiffens his spine and doesn’t let his wand drop a single inch. “Get the fuck away from
my wife, Antonin.”
Dolohov sneers, “Blood traitor — but I should have known. You always were as weak as
your mother.”
“Deprimo,” Draco hisses. It’s not necessarily a dark spell, intended for shattering doors or
glass or earth; when aimed at a person, however, it rips a cavernous hole into their flesh.
Draco hopes the shelf behind Dolohov gets painted with his blood.
The spell dissipates moments before connecting, and Draco realizes Dolohov’s hand is in his
pocket and actively casting a shield. His meaty fist drags a new wand out of the pocket and
aims at him, and Draco flinches and throws up the fastest protego he can. It’s just enough that
it blocks the curse Dolohov shot at him; luckily, the curse is weak for Dolohov — the spare
wand must be Hawksworth’s, and not cooperating very well.
It’s all the edge Draco needs. Antonin has decades of experience, but Draco is a Malfoy. He’s
born and bred from a powerful and clever line, and Dolohov is holding a shoddy wand.
Draco shoots anything he can think of at the Death Eater in fast succession. Dolohov is
reduced to throwing himself out of the ways of the jinxes, his protego’s barely holding off
simple spells.
It’s only once Dolohov collapses after a particularly nasty hex that Draco approaches. Even
kneeling at his feet and gasping for air, Antonin Dolohov is terrifying. Draco can feel hatred
coiling and poisonous inside of him; a familiar feeling he was bathed in during the war.
Draco reaches into the memories he usually tries to forget and remembers his Aunt Bella —
the lessons she taught him.
He sucks in a breath and pictures the hatred he feels as a tangible thing; he summons any
memories of fury and pain. It’s almost how Hermione had described casting a Patronus, only
in reverse.
Dolohov flinches in preparation for what’s coming; he’d trained under Bellatrix, too, after all.
Any shield charm Dolohov attempts will be destroyed utterly under the force of Draco’s
spell, and he knows it.
He doesn’t cast a protego, though. Instead, Dolohov throws his arm towards Hermione, who
is still flat on the floor but watching with wide eyes.
“Crucio—”
“Avada Ked—”
Dolohov’s words are choked off, and instead, the air is filled with the sound of screaming.
Draco doesn’t let up, and he watches as Antonin Dolohov contorts under the power of his
fury — it’s not enough. Draco’s not sure if it will ever be enough. It’s addictive, the power,
and Draco hates Antonin enough that he’s prepared to take this exactly as far as Bellatrix
would.
“Draco,” Hermione calls.
Antonin’s gone silent — his screams unheard but still sounding in his mind. Draco doesn’t
need to imagine all the people Dolohov has done this to; he watched firsthand, so many
times. This is the most powerful crucio Draco’s ever cast — the first one with any real hatred
behind it, and it shows.
“Draco,” Hermione begs. “Please.”
It’s this, more than anything else. He’s never heard her beg before. Never heard her so
helpless, not even on the floor of Malfoy Manor.
He breaks the spell and turns to her. She’s got tears down her face, but she’s alive. She’s so
fucking alive it takes his breath away.
“That’s enough, Draco,” Hermione tells him. “No more.”
He blinks.
Dolohov is wheezing on the floor, and his eyes are rolling around in his sockets, taking in the
room as though he’s got no idea where he is anymore.
Draco’s not about to be fooled though. He murmurs an incarcerous and watches in

satisfaction as thick bindings coil themselves around Dolohov’s limbs. Draco stumbles over
to Hermione and collapses beside her.
“Episkey,” he mutters, dragging his wand lightly against the slice across her ribs. It doesn’t
close, and he casts the spell again, panic filling him.
Hermione’s hand reaches up and touches his gently, breaking his focus. Draco blinks at her;
the world feels muted yet vivid, and he only realizes that he’s in shock when he meets her
endlessly tender expression.
“It needs dittany,” Hermione explains gently. “I left my bag with Ron. We’ll have to go get
it.”
Draco nods — all the words he’s ever known have suddenly left him.
“Draco,” Hermione says softly. “Draco — we’re both okay. It’s over. You’re safe.”
Her fingers are still twitching, and Draco can’t even bear to look at her leg, but when she
reaches both hands towards him, he nearly falls into her. She wraps her arms so tightly
around his ribs he can hardly breathe — but he doesn’t want her to let go.
She’s shaking in his embrace, and he realizes the shoulder of his robes are getting damp. He
wonders if he’s crying, too.
“Granger,” he rasps. “Where the fuck are we?”
She laughs wetly. “The Department of Mysteries. Hall of Prophecy. This is where — in fifth
year… this is where Dolohov cursed me.”
Draco suddenly resents the fact that Dolohov is breathing, even if it sounds like it is coming
out of his chest in gasping waves.
“I should have killed him.”
Hermione shakes her head against his collarbone. “No. No. I killed the others. We need him
to confess. We need everyone to know the truth.”
“Let’s not worry about it right now,” Draco says. He feels suddenly like he’s coming back
into his body, his own personal gravity provided by Hermione’s grasp. “Where are Potter and
Weasley, anyway?”
“They’re… they’re in the Death Room. Dolohov surprised us. Hexed Harry pretty bad before
Ron and I could counter him. I left my bag with Ron and followed Dolohov in here. He had
Hawksworth petrified on the floor here, and when I approached him, Dolohov managed to
sneak up on me. That’s when I grabbed my bracelet.”
“I felt it,” Draco assures. “I came right away.”
She releases her hold on him only enough that she can stare into his face. Her eyes are wet
with the shadows of pain and relief.
“I didn’t know if you’d be able to apparate in here,” she whispers, frightened all over again.
“But I knew you’d come if you could.”
“Of course I would,” Draco murmurs. “I’d follow you anywhere. Even this incredibly creepy
fucking place.”
Draco leans in and kisses her — it’s small, but it feels like everything falls back into place
when he does it. When he pulls away, he helps her lay back on the stone gently.
“I’m going to have to immobilize you,” Draco warns. “You know that, right?”
She nods. “Yeah. My leg. Can you levitate me out? You must be exhausted.”
He is, but he’s never going to admit it. “I’m fine. Which way to the Death Room — which,
by the way, is a terrible name for a room and let it be known that I never want to go there.”
Hermione laughs weakly and points down an incredibly dark hallway lined by glowing orbs.
“It’s down there. Just… just don’t go near the Archway, okay, Draco? Please.”
“I won’t,” he promises, before drawing his wand. “Immobulus.”
Hermione freezes, and Draco levitates her beside him. He feels bone-tired, but he heads the
way she had pointed, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, but never letting
Hermione drop.
The doorway to the Death Room is covered in ancient runes, and Draco tries not to glance at
them before pushing open the heavy iron lock. He steps into a chamber, empty except for a
mound in the centre, on which sits a large Archway surrounded by an eerie mist. Draco
immediately wants to go to it, but he forces his eyes away.
Ron Weasley has his wand pointed at him and surprise on his face. “Malfoy? How the fuck
did you get down here so fast?”
Draco stumbles in, Hermione following behind him. Her leg is still bent at a horrifying angle,
but it’s not moving. Ron goes pale.
“I… I know how to apparate to her. Through any barriers.” Draco explains, before stumbling
to a stop beside Weasley. Potter is laying on the dirt, pale and covered in blood, but his green
eyes are blinking open with awareness.
Draco lays Hermione down on the dirt beside him and tries to summon up enough energy to
cast another spell. Ron must see the exhaustion on his face, because he points his wand at
Hermione and mutters, “Rennervate.”
Hermione blinks at the sight of them and promptly bursts into tears. “You’re both okay!”
“Of course we are, ‘Mione!” Ron assures her. “Did you doubt us?”
Hermione sniffs. “I doubted you’d find the dittany in my bag.”
Ron laughs. “You’re right. That was the hardest part — not duelling dark wizards or
anything, but instead accio-ing a tiny bottle I’ve seen you pull out a million times.”
Draco smiles when Hermione laughs at Ron’s words. Weasley hands the tiny bottle over to
him, and Draco pulls her shirt up to reveal a terrifying amount of blood and a deep laceration.
“It’s fine,” Hermione says, noticing his expression. “Put the dittany on. It’s fine.”
Draco pours far more dittany than strictly necessary on the wound and ignores all of his
wife’s protests. Dittany is expensive, sure, but he’s more than prepared to buy gallons of the
stuff if it will help.
The slice closes before his eyes and Draco can almost feel Hermione’s relief from where he’s
sitting.
“I can hear him,” Potter says suddenly.
Draco blinks and turns to him — both Ron and Hermione are already watching him, a
mixture of sadness and pity coating them.
“I’m sorry… who are we talking about?” Draco asks.
Harry Potter meets his gaze. “Your cousin, actually. Sirius Black. He was my godfather, and
he died here. I can hear him.”
Draco blinks. “Potter, after all those years at school where people thought you were crazy,
have you not learned that perhaps you should not say you can hear dead people?”
Harry laughs, and the darkness of the room feels less.
“He’d be proud,” Hermione adds. “Sirius, I mean. Of all of us, I think.”
Ron Weasley nods and then looks at Draco. “I think he’d be proud of you too, mate. Thanks
for coming to help.”
Draco realizes abruptly that his throat feels clogged at the praise — praise from Ron Weasley.
He clears his throat and glances away.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hermione declares. “I need St. Mungo’s, and so does Harry. Plus, we
left Hawksworth and Dolohov tied up, but they need to be tried and put in Azkaban.”
Ron winces. “I need St Mungo’s too, actually. Not as much as you two, but I think I broke a
rib.”
Draco drags himself back to his feet, but Ron is the one who immobilizes Hermione and
levitates her this time. Draco lets Potter wrap an arm around his shoulders, and together their
rag-tag crew stumbles out of the Department of Mysteries.
They don’t have to make it far; they run into Neville just outside of the Wizengamot chamber.
His eyes bug open at the sight of them, and he rushes forward to grab Harry.
“What happened to you four?!” He demands. “One minute I was standing by Draco, and the
next he disapparated inside the Ministry!!”
“It’s a long story,” Harry says wearily. “But Draco left Hawksworth and Dolohov down in the
Department of Mysteries. Take a few people and go get them — they need to be locked up.”
“They may, uh, they may not be conscious,” Draco warns. The sight of Dolohov’s eyes
rolling around in the dark feels far away, but Draco wonders if he took the crucio too far. He
doesn’t regret it — but Hermione was correct. They do need Dolohov to admit to these
crimes.
Neville shouts down the hallway until Pansy appears with Molly Weasley in tow. Molly
rushes to their side, embracing them all gently, one at a time. Draco doesn’t even flinch at her
hug.
“Set her down, Ronald,” Molly commands, gesturing at an immobilized Hermione.
Ron does, and Draco sighs with relief when he does it slowly and gently. Molly Weasley
gently brushes them aside and flicks her wand at Hermione, who blinks her eyes at her
sudden freedom.
“Dolor Torpet,” Molly says, and a soft pink glow surrounds Hermione, who sighs in relief.
“That will feel better, dear. Numbing spell — only works for a few minutes, so I must be
quick.”
Hermione opens her mouth, and Draco can already hear the thousands of questions his witch
wants to ask about the spell, but Molly is already running her wand down Hermione’s leg, a
shimmering diagnostic appearing above her knee. Draco’s only ever seen a diagnostic cast by
actual mediwitches, and he’s surprised Molly Weasley knows one.
“Where did you learn that spell?” Draco asks.
Molly huffs, “Draco, honestly, I have seven children. I learned how to cast a simple
diagnostic and a few healing charms after we went to St. Mungo’s for the thirteenth time with
Bill.”
“I wish I had asked you,” Hermione groans. “I read so many healing books when we were on
the run. I never thought to ask!”
“Don’t worry, darling. I can show you later,” Mrs. Weasley assures. “Now, brace yourself.
Brackium Emendo!”
Hermione’s leg snaps straight again with a sickening crunch, and Draco watches his wife go a
greenish shade before fainting, her head clunking against the floor.
“Oh dear,” Molly mutters. “Should have put a cushioning charm there. She’s alright boys, she
will still need St. Mungo’s, but the break is re-aligned and on its way to healing.”
“You’re amazing, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry breathes, relief written all over his face.
Molly stands and dusts her hands off on her robe, turning back to them. “Now, you lot go
straight to St. Mungo’s, you hear? Arthur and I have things covered here.”
“Is everyone alright?” Ron asks eagerly. “I saw George earlier… there was a lot of blood.”
Molly purses her lips, pain flickering across her expression, and Draco’s stomach drops.
“Your brothers are fine, Ronald. Go to St. Mungo’s. We’ll handle it here.”
She spins and begins marching away before they can ask anything else, and Harry sags into
the wall where he’s standing. He’s pale and drawn, and Draco wonders if this is what the war
had been like for him. How jealous he had been of the Chosen One in those months, when he
had been stuck as an unwilling Death Eater — but perhaps it had been its own kind of torture.
“We’ve lost people,” Harry murmurs.
Ron nods and casts a new immobilizing and levitating charm on Hermione. He tugs Harry
upright again and claps a hand on Draco’s shoulder.
“We did,” Ron agrees. “And because of them, for them, we must start over again.”
Draco huffs, but he starts taking steps forward, Harry Potter’s arm looped over his shoulder,
and both of them limping towards the elevators.
“How the hell do you propose we do that?” Draco grouses, achy and tired and filled with
sorrow.
“Together, of course.” Harry Potter answers, glancing at his best friends, bloodied and
battered and determined. “It’s the only way to start anything worthwhile.”
Remember Us As War
Chapter Notes
Hi folks! This has been a ride. I began writing this story in November of 2020 after a
friend introduced me to the world of Dramione. What I expected to be a 50k story ended
up being over 170k words, and I have loved every minute of it. Thank you to the kind
readers who followed along, gave me kudos and comments filled with encouragement,
and generally been the best readers I could hope for. This story is now complete, and I
*hope* it wraps up satisfactorily for you all; however, I AM intending to write a few
timestamps for some of the more 'ensemble' characters who we might still have
questions about (cough *Astoria* cough).
Drop me a line if you enjoyed "Remember Us As War", and thank you for your support
:)
Wednesday, January 26th
“There’s nothing good that comes out of war. It’s simply hell on earth, and people survive,
and people don’t.” - Michael Cimino
Hermione awakens in St. Mungo’s. It’s easy to identify it; soft white walls and antiseptic
smells, gentle voices, and muffled crying. All hospitals, muggle or magic, have the same
feeling of dreadful hope.
By all rights, Hermione thinks she should feel like she was beaten within an inch of her life,
and yet she feels fine. Tired, perhaps, and she can feel her fingers trembling on top of the
white sheets, but there’s no pain.
She pulls the sheet up and looks at her lower body. Her one leg is bandaged, but straight once
again. Her abdomen looks as though the slicing hex never happened, other than a thin, pale
scar.
“Magic,” Hermione murmurs. It will never stop being amazing.
The only real surprise is that her hospital room is empty. There are flowers on top of the
dresser, and a familiar coat draped over the chair, so she knows that Draco’s been here, but
she can’t imagine where he might have gone.
Despite her logical brain, Hermione can feel panic swelling; her heart thunders in her chest,
and her breathing becomes choppy. Flashes of the battle fill her mind — from the Battle of
Hogwarts, and Greyback crouched over students, muzzle dripping with blood — to the sight
of Hawksworth begging for his life, and her leg snapping out away from her knee; Hermione
is no stranger to trauma, but even her incessant need to know more about it doesn’t stop her
panic.
A Healer slams open the door and walks in, taking in the sight of her. She casts a diagnostic
spell and watches it as it hangs in the air.
“Shhh,” The Healer murmurs. “You’re fine. You’re okay. You’re at St. Mungo’s. My name is
Vivienne.”
Healer Vivienne summons a small bottle and unstoppers it. Hermione shakes her head; she
desperately doesn’t want to fall asleep.
“It’s just a calming draught,” she explains. “It won’t put you to sleep.”
Vivienne sets it into Hermione’s hand, and she gulps it down. After seconds that drag like
hours, she regains control of her body. Embarrassment takes the place of her panic, and
Hermione covers her eyes with trembling fingers.
Healer Vivienne’s fingers are cool and gentle against her wrist. “Mrs. Malfoy,” she says
softly. “Please relax.”
“I’m sorry,” Hermione gasps. The Healer grips her wrist firmly, but not painfully. She lowers
it slowly until Hermione has no choice but to stare into her face. Vivienne’s got kind blue
eyes, and Hermione focuses on that.
“Please don’t be sorry,” Healer Vivienne murmurs. “I’ve seen this every day for the last three
years. There’s been so much fighting and loss in the Wizarding World, it would be a shock if
you didn’t have some sort of trauma. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Hermione swallows and forces herself to breathe; after what feels like ages, she squeaks,
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Healer Vivienne smiles at her. “You are okay, or you will be. You’ve been unconscious for
nearly four days, Mrs. Malfoy. You had extensive damage to your left leg, most of which has
now been repaired, though you can still expect to limp for a while. More concerning was the
trauma to your brain. I’ve been informed that you have experienced the cruciatus before?”
“Yes,” Hermione whispers. Memories of Bellatrix blend with newer memories of Dolohov,
their wands aimed at her.
“Then you understand the side effects. You had a serious intracranial hematoma, a brain
bleed. It took us a while to stabilize you. To be honest, we have no idea how the damage
wasn’t worse. Something out there must have been watching over you.”
Hermione swallows hard, her eyes flickering down to her bare wrist where her bracelet
usually sits. She remembers Draco saying there had been nothing to show it would offer
protections — but there is no other explanation.
“But… I’m okay?” She asks, after a long moment.
“You’re going to be just fine,” the Healer assures her. “But try to take it easy for a while.”
“Thank you,” Hermione breathes.
“Don’t thank me,” the Healer laughs. “Mrs. Malfoy, if I may, I’d actually like to thank you.”
Hermione blinks. “What? Why?”
“A lot has happened while you were unconscious,” Vivienne explains. “The day after the
Diagon March, every witch of wizard of legal age was able to cast their vote for a new
Minister of Magic; it was the first time in history we’ve ever had an elected Minister by the
people.”
“Who? Who is the Minister?” Hermione demands. A democratic voting practice is already
more than she could have ever dreamed of!
“Arthur Weasley, ma’am,” The Healer answers.
Shock blossoms within her, followed closely by the strangest feeling of relief. If she could
have chosen anyone, Arthur would be incredibly high on her list. He’s always been kind,
plus, he’s familiar with all the convoluted traditions of magic society that always escape her
understanding; as well, he genuinely believes Muggles to be valuable and wants to learn from
them.
“Are you… serious?” Hermione whispers. “Mr. Weasley… really?”
Healer Vivienne reaches out and takes her trembling hand, squeezing gently. “Truly. And it
was a nearly unanimous vote. 97% popularity, I’m told. And you know what the first thing he
did was?”
“Demolish the WPG?!” Hermione’s voice catches, excitement and relief fighting inside of
her. They won!
“Not quite,” Vivienne answers. “The first law Minister Weasley put in was the Protection
from Discrimination Act. It states that all witches or wizards, regardless of blood or heritage,
must be treated with equal dignity and respect, and be afforded the same education and
protections of any other individual.”
Hermione can’t seem to help herself — she bursts into uncontrollable tears, despite the
calming draught swimming in her system. Healer Vivienne squeezes her hand over and over,
grounding her. She doesn’t rush her, and Hermione struggles to decide how she feels. There’s
a spreading elation; for so long, she has struggled and fought and advocated that muggleborn
witches and wizards are just as good as any other. This law is something she always thought
she’d have to spend her life fighting for, but now it’s here.
She’s also furious for the eleven-year-old girl she once was who never had this type of
protection from the wizarding world.
“Thank you,” Hermione finally chokes out. “Thank you for telling me that.”
Healer Vivienne nods, blue eyes looking suspiciously teary as well. “I’m Half-Blood, Mrs.
Malfoy. As far as I’m concerned, Minister Weasley is the best thing to happen to our world in
the last decade; and somehow I think I have you to thank for that as well.”
Hermione shakes her head. “The Wealsey family has always been a remarkable wizarding
family. Arthur and Molly welcomed me as their own from the very first moment they heard
of me. This is… this is the best possible news I could hope for.”
Her door swings open again, and Healer Vivienne straightens up. “I’m so glad I could bring
you this news. I’m sure your husband has lots to tell you.”
Hermione’s eyes stray behind her shoulder to find Draco — and she aches at the nearness of
him.
“Thank you, Vivienne,” Hermione murmurs. The Healer steps away and exits the room,
shutting the door gently behind herself.
Draco steps forward the minute they are alone, settling at her side and pressing gentle fingers
to her jaw. Relief and exhaustion seem at home on his face, and Hermione can hardly
remember a time when they smiled without worry.
“She told you, then?” He asks. “About Arthur?”
Hermione nods. “And the new discrimination law. I can’t wait to read it.”
Draco huffs a laugh and leans forward to press gentle lips against her forehead. She closes
her eyes at his closeness — if she weren’t bound to this damn bed she’d curl against him for
possibly the next ten years, content to never move again.
“Granger, you basically wrote it. I lifted most of it directly from your proposal for werewolf
rights, and he just changed it to include blood prejudice.” Draco says.
“But — but… the werewolves?!” Hermione protests.
Draco smooths his hands down her frizzy hair, and she can hardly bear to imagine what it
looks like. “He’s already drafting another proposal with Bill. He wants your opinions on it,
but safe to say I think you’ll be busy.”
“I guess I might have to hire on a few people to support ‘The Granger Foundation for the
Welfare of Magical Beings’ after all,” Hermione teases.
Draco grins. “Well, I’m glad I took the time to liaise with him, then. You’re officially hired,
Granger. Arthur has signed all the contracts to work with your Foundation already.”
“Draco! What if I didn’t want to do it!? What else did I miss in four days?” Hermione
protests. Her head spins with the possibility of consulting directly with the Ministry.
Draco sobers instantly, and Hermione can feel her stomach tangle into knots. It’s exactly how
she remembers it from the days following the Battle of Hogwarts; somehow, everyone seems
to wear the same expression when counting their losses.
“Hawksworth confessed everything under veritaserum.” Draco says. “He’s lucid most of the
time, but he’s gone blind in both eyes and has extensive nerve damage from Dolohov’s
torture. They placed him in St. Mungo’s for the rest of his life under high security.”
“And what about Dolohov?” Hermione asks, the name like poison on her tongue. Phantom
pain seems to echo in her leg, and she wonders if she’ll ever escape the sound of it snapping.
Draco winces and looks away. “He’s… he’s not lucid. I took it too far.”
Hermione swallows. She had known, even before asking him. She can still nearly taste the
way Draco’s cruciatus curse had burnt the air around them in the Ministry. If she hadn’t
pleaded for him to stop, Dolohov would be dead right now, under the pain of Draco’s wand.
Which would have been both a mercy and also something she doesn’t want Draco to carry.
Even now, she can feel a darkness inside of her from the killing curses she cast; and while she
knows they were necessary, she’s not entirely sure she’ll ever feel as clean as she once did.
“You saved me,” Hermione says, because there is simply no other way to get him to forgive
himself.
Draco nods once. “I know. I don’t regret it.”
“And that’s why it worked,” Hermione whispers. She remembers the way he had said the
same to her once after she confessed to killing Greyback.
“Yeah,” Draco agrees. He shakes his head as if to disperse the thoughts, and Hermione forms
some attempt at a reassuring smile.
“How are the Weasleys?” Hermione asks. “Theo? Cho? Neville?”
“Weasley’s are fine. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing St. Mungo’s couldn’t handle. Neville
was scraped up a bit but is all healed. Theo is okay, too. He’s back at Nott Manor with Luna.”
He falls quiet, and Hermione replays his words. He’s missing information.
“Tell me, Draco. Tell me who we’ve lost.” Hermione whispers seriously. “I know you don’t
want to, but you have to.”
He winces and drags her hand into his own, tangling their fingers together. She watches him
breathe for a few moments, gathering himself.
“Cho is dead,” He says. “Parvati, dead. Dawlish as well. A few others we don’t know
personally. Quite a few Aurors — some were following orders and got caught in the crossfire,
and a few defected to our side and fell. Blaise lost a hand to a dark curse, but he’s okay. The
curse that Dolohov hit Potter with took most of the hearing in his left ear, but he’s alright.”
Hermione squeezes his hand so tightly that her bones creak and slams her eyes shut. So much
death and pain, and for what?
“Hermione,” Draco’s voice is soft and intense and incredibly close. She nods, but can’t quite
answer. His other hand sneaks behind her shoulders, and she’s suddenly pressed against his
chest, her nose into the warmth of his neck. She clutches at him and tries to imagine a world
where it wasn’t like this — where her friends grew up without fear, where Tonks and Cho
and Remus and Dobby and Narcissa lived.
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione finally chokes out. It’s not her fault, and she knows that, but there
are times in life when there are simply no good words, and that’s what she’s sorry about.
“Me too,” Draco answers.
Friday, January 28th
The bustle of the Burrow is subdued, despite the delicious meal Molly Weasley has served.
They speak in quieter voices, and everyone’s gaze catches on the scar on Charlie’s brow, the
limp Hermione has yet to rid herself of, the way Potter subconsciously turns his head so he
can hear with his good ear.
The empty chairs beside George and Ron.
“Blaise and Padma got their divorce finalized,” George says. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s
unconsciously bouncing his leg under the table. Despite this, he’s drinking water, and
Hermione doesn’t know if she’s ever been more proud of him.
“Same with Dean Thomas and Katie Bell,” Draco answers. “Theo said Luna will be printing
that in Monday’s Quibbler edition, along with any other divorces from these past few days.
The numbers are starting to add up, and it’s only week one.”
Mrs. Weasley nods, “Yes, Arthur was saying they’ve granted more divorces in the last week
than in the last four decades.”
“It’s true,” Percy agrees. “We’ve also been dealing with an abundance of pregnancies, and
many of them unwanted — the parents followed the WPG and now they are stuck with an
impossible situation. Do you remember Marietta Edgecomb? She and Michael Corner are in
such a situation.”
“That’s terrible,” Ginny murmurs, her hand resting on her slowly growing belly. She’s sitting
beside Harry again; her ire at being banned from the March had faded upon learning what
actually happened and the danger her family was in. There was simply no room for anger
when faced with another war.
“Angelina finally got rid of that snake, Adrian Pucey,” George adds. “She’s moving off the
continent, though. She wrote to me to apologize for leaving. Said she can’t bear to stay any
longer, after all the loss.”
They fall silent, and Hermione sips at the pumpkin juice in front of her. Cho’s upcoming
funeral is heavy on their minds, but so is Parvati, whose funeral they had held only the day
prior. Padma had been a walking ghost at the event, and George had directed her into her seat
gently. Her hand had been nearly white-knuckled as she gripped his sleeve.
She hadn’t left George’s flat since, other than to sign off on her and Blaise’s divorce.
“How is Padma?” Ron asks. He’s obviously been thinking along the same lines as Hermione.
George sighs. “She’s alright. I think she’s going to stay with me for a while. I have a spare
room, and her parents have already left again for their house in France. Can’t bear to stay
here, and I don’t blame them.”
“George, are you sure?” Molly murmurs. “Are you sure you’re okay with her staying?”
A curious expression flickers across George’s face, but he nods slowly. “Yeah, mum. It’s
nice, I suppose, to have someone there. I got used to that with Parvati. And Padma
understands. I wish she didn’t —” he chokes briefly, then clears his throat. “I wish she didn’t
understand what it’s like… but she does. And so maybe we’re good for each other in that
way.”
Molly glances away, tears filling her eyes. Hermione can’t even imagine how difficult it
might be to watch your children go through this. It’s the only comfort she has from
obliviating her parents; at least they don’t have to see this. They don’t have to look at her;
with her new limp, scars down her sides, and trembling fingers. She isn’t the little girl they
sent to Hogwarts anymore.
“When are you getting your divorce, Ron?” Arthur asks quietly. It’s the question that’s been
on everyone’s mind, but Hermione’s not surprised that Arthur was the one who broached the
topic.
Ron scowls. “I think I’ll discuss that option with my wife when she wakes up.”
“Ron, be serious—”
“Mum, I am serious,” Ron interrupts. “This is a decision between Hannah and myself.”
Molly purses her lips. “I understand that, dear, I really do. But don’t you want—”
“What I want, Mum, is for Hannah to wake up,” Ron says seriously. “And when she does —
because she will — I will be there. Just because the WPG forced this marriage on us doesn’t
mean she isn’t my friend. I’m going to be there when she wakes up, and we will decide what
is best for both of us, then.”
Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. She’s so fucking proud of her friends — of all of
them, really.
“Of course,” Molly answers after a moment. “Of course, you’re right, Ron. I’m sorry.”
The fight fades from Ron’s eyes and he slumps. “It’s okay, mum. It’s hard, I know. But I’m in
no rush for the divorce, and Hannah’s Healers have been saying there’s been more brain
activity recently. So I’m okay with waiting. It’s only been a week since the WPG ended,
anyways.”
Hermione watches as Ginny sends her brother an approving smile — for so long Ron has
been known for his temper and impatience; now, he has been forged by trauma and strategy,
and he’s grown used to sitting silently at Hannah’s hospital bed and telling her stories.
As always, Hermione is proud of him; but how she wishes this maturity hadn’t been forced
upon them.
“What about Charlie?” Ginny asks. Charlie had returned to Romania quickly after the March,
leaving them behind. He had plans to return the following week, but Hermione hadn’t even
seen him since before everything happened.
Molly’s eyes flicker towards the stairs as if waiting for Astoria to appear from where she has
closed herself in her room. The silence is thick, and Hermione can’t understand why Molly is
hesitating.
“Charlie is… not in a rush, for now,” Molly says. “And neither is Astoria. I’m sure that they
will… separate soon.”
Ron and George wear identical scowls at the answer, but Hermione can’t quite parse why
Molly is obviously hedging. There’s something she’s not telling them.
Hermione opens her mouth to demand answers, but Draco’s hand is suddenly squeezing her
knee. She glances at him with narrowed eyes and he shakes his head imperceptibly.
“My sister would rather stay with me for now, I’m sure,” Daphne announces. “My father and
Astoria don’t always see eye to eye.”
“Understatement,” Percy mutters, and Daphne swats him with the back of her hand,
fondness radiating from her. It’s obvious the two have no inclination to divorce, and
Hermione is happy to see at least one couple in the Weasley family that was brought together
by the nightmarish past few months.
“So, Hermione,” Arthur says, drawing the conversation away from divorce. “I heard you
have some news to share with us!”
Hermione grins. “I do! As you all know, I’ve been working with Mr. Weasley on some newly
drafted laws for the Wizengamot to look at. Draco has been pestering me to hire some extra
help now that we’re so busy, so I’ve actually been writing to Professor Grubbly-Plank to
assist with writing a few of the proposals for magical creatures!”
“And…?” Draco prompts, a knowing glint in his eyes. He’s been nothing short of miraculous
— listening to her recite paragraphs of legal jargon with excitement, and offering actual
useful suggestions. As much as she loves Ron, it’s so easy to see how they didn’t fit together
now; each day Draco astounds her with the way he smooths her edges, and she his.
“And — and! I’ve convinced Juney to take on a part-time role as a consultant for house-
elves.” Hermione declares.
Draco rolls his eyes. “Juney was devastated.”
Hermione waves his words away. “She was fine after I explained we weren’t firing her!”
Ron covers his chuckle poorly with a cough, and even Harry looks suspiciously like he’s
trying not to laugh, but Hermione ignores them.
“And! I also hired Alicia Spinnet — do you remember her from school? — to help with some
administration,” Hermione finishes.
Harry shakes his head fondly. “Of course we remember Alicia. That’s brilliant, Hermione.”
“Yeah,” Ron agrees heartily, “Always knew you’d change the world, ‘Mione.”
Hermione blushes at the praise and glances at Arthur. “Well, your dad has been brilliant as
Minister. He’s basically doing all the work—”
“No,” Arthur Weasley interrupts, firm but kind. “Absolutely not. It is all of you who are
changing this world into something better. I’m so incredibly proud to be your father and your
friend.”
Molly beams at her husband’s words and nods. “It’s true. Arthur and I have been blessed with
a large family that we love — and I include everyone in this house in that sentiment, red hair
or not.”
Hermione’s hardly able to swallow down her tears at their words, and she isn’t the only one.
Daphne, wiping at her eyes and smiling at her husband. Harry, arm wrapped around Ginny’s
shoulders, sitting amongst the only family he’s ever known. Draco, who rolls his eyes but
cannot disguise the fondness in his expression, or the way his fingers tangle in her own.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione sees movement, and she glances towards the stairs to
come face to face with Astoria — who has a deceptively calm expression on her face.
“‘Stori!” Daphne says, “Come join us. Molly made a feast.”
Astoria looks to Molly, but Mrs. Weasley is already waving her wand and summoning a new
plate from the cupboards. It floats down to rest on the empty spot beside George.
“Oh, it’s fine, I can just go—”
“Nonsense,” Molly interrupts. “Come eat. We’d love to have you.”

Hermione watches as Astoria glances around, whether for someone to tell her she’s not
allowed, or to save her, she’s not sure. But eventually, Astoria walks to the table and sits
down between George and Daphne. She’s pale and thinner than Hermione had seen her at
Christmas, looking almost sickly, but she reaches forward to take a homemade bun, a smile
playing at the edges of her lips.
“Granger, eat your food,” Draco says quietly.
Hermione turns to him — and she’s as surprised as she always is that he is hers and they are
safe. Her ring feels as comforting on her finger as her bracelet does on her wrist, back where
they rightfully belong.
She doesn’t even answer, just smiles at him softly. There are some sentiments that don’t
require words, though, and this is one. She takes a large bite of her potatoes and he tries to
hide a genuine smile at her actions. His palm is heavy and grounding on her thigh, and she
loves, loves, loves him.
Sunday, January 30th
Hermione is sitting on their back patio where Draco has placed an illegal temperature charm.
Despite softly falling snow, she is warm and dry, wrapped up in a large sweater. Her steaming
cup of tea warms her fingers, and she gazes out over the backyard of their cottage.
She’s considering applying for an expansion allowance for her cottage from the Ministry.
She’s thought about it before, when she first purchased the cottage, but had never pursued it
since the cottage was protected by a fidelius, and she wasn’t willing to let anyone in. Back
then, she had dreamed of an entire room filled with books, and a single chair for her to read
in; now, though, her dreams are shaping slightly different images. She thinks about twin oak
desks, situated amongst books and soft couches; a place where she can work alongside
Draco, but also where they can fall together into comfort. Another place to be safe. Another
place to grow together.
She also has the good fortune to know the Minister exceptionally well — she would be
comfortable giving Arthur the location of the cottage, and Harry already knows it, so the two
of them alone could grant the expansion.
The door opens behind her, and she doesn’t even flinch when large palms rest on her
shoulders and a warm press of lips hit her hair.
“Enjoying our illegal spell, Granger?” Draco asks, plopping into the chair beside her. He
looks devilishly handsome, and it tempts Hermione to forgo her chair altogether for his lap.
“I enjoy most of our illegal spells,” Hermione retorts, “including many of the warding spells I
put on the cottage myself.”
Draco grins, “Don’t forget the undetectable extension charm you placed on your trunk.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t help the laugh that spills out. It feels nice to be with him without
the shadow of doom around them. From the very first moment she received the WPG letter,
with his name spelled out in curling print, Hermione hasn’t been truly able to relax.
Now, though, she knows he is here because he wants to be, and she wants him here. Now,
their marriage is as real as any other in every sense — there is no WPG binding them, no
laws demanding children or marriage or obedience.
There is only them.
So Hermione stands from her chair and takes the three steps to where he sits. She slides into
his lap, and he brings his arms up to cradle her. She frames his face with her fingers, and even
though they tremble and shake almost incessantly these days, she doesn’t let it distract her.
The shakes and scars and limp she now lives with are proof that she did exactly that — she
lived.
She presses a soft kiss to his lips and drags her fingers into white-blonde locks. Draco’s
hands trace up her spine, and they luxuriate in the feeling of time.
She pulls away only to whisper her lips across his jaw, and his hands frame her rib cage,
dragging up her oversized sweater until he can feel her warm skin underneath. Hermione digs
her own hands into his shoulders, and rocks herself gently on his lap, exactly how she knows
he likes it.
Draco groans, flopping his head backwards. Hermione places love bites down his now-
exposed neck, and when she reaches the juncture of his shoulder, rocking her hips back and
forth as she goes, Draco stands abruptly.
She scrabbles at his shoulder, but he’s got both hands under her solidly. He slams their back
door open, her tea forgotten on their table. He presses her into the door of their bedroom,
inconveniently closed.
“Granger—” Draco rasps, letting her go until her feet find the floor. He sounds as wrecked as
she feels. She finds the buttons of his shirt and deftly unbuttons them, and he interrupts her
by dragging the sweater over her head.
When he’s done, he steps back, admiring the way she stands there in only her underthings.
She opens the doorknob behind her and slides inside, very purposefully swinging her hips as
she heads towards their bed.
He follows her — as he has always promised he would.
They crash together on their sheets, and Hermione gasps his name as he kisses down her ribs,
exactly where the thin white scar still shows. His other palm is rough and warm on her inner
thigh, and he ghosts his fingers over exactly where she wants him to touch, and Hermione
whines.
“So impatient,” Draco murmurs, lips dragging against her navel on their downward
destination. She can’t quite summon an answer before he reaches her center, and when he
licks at her, every sentence she’s ever known leaves her head.
Her fingers are gentle in his hair, but she is nearly writhing beneath his ministrations, on the
cusp of release. Every time she thinks she is going over, he pulls away, finding new sensitive
and ticklish spots on her knees, her thighs, her hips.
“Draco,” she breathes, “please.”
He hums against her, but her pleading has worked, because suddenly he is nearly face to face,
silver eyes all at once tender and intense. She drags her calves over his hips and digs her
heels in, forcing him to exhale in shock as he sinks deeply into her.
They moan as one, and it feels like eternities and seconds pass before he pulls out, the drag
intensely erotic.
“Fuck,” Draco sighs into her neck.
Hermione clenches down around him, just to hear his breathing go shaky, and presses her lips
to the shell of his ear. “I love you,” she murmurs because she knows it drives him wild.
He wraps his arms around her, dragging her body over his as he turns. She’s staring down at
him, and she lets her hips rock experimentally against him. Draco slams his eyes shut, biting
at his lower lip.
She drags her nails gently down his chest, catching on his nipples. His eyes fly open again,
taking her all in.
It’s only then that she realizes she’s not nervous — there is no part of her he hasn’t seen,
nothing he doesn’t love. He knows her scars and her shakes and her fears and her bravery —
he knows her, and he loves her.
So she throws her head back, and he reaches to where they are joined, thumb flickering up
and down until she is gasping and rocking against him; only when she cries out his name
does he drag her down to press their chests together, thrusting a few more times until he
comes with her name on his lips.
After her pulse returns to normal and Draco has cast a cleansing spell, Hermione allows
herself to curl up against him. They rest like this, soaking in the afternoon sun. She’s got her
head resting over his heartbeat, and he’s playing with a curl aimlessly.
“I have an idea,” Draco says eventually, his voice soft in the stillness of their afternoon.
Hermione is almost asleep, but she blinks her eyes open at his words.
“I love your ideas,” she murmurs teasingly, thinking of the lovebites on her skin and the heat
still suffused in her veins.
He laughs briefly, and her smile curves into his skin. “I’m serious, Granger.”
She sits up slowly, pulling the sheet up enough to cover herself. His gaze invariably dips
down to her chest, even though he’s only just seen her naked.
“Tell me your idea, then.” She prompts. Draco’s eyes return to hers but skitter away quickly,
and Hermione realizes he’s actually nervous about whatever he’s trying to say.
“I’ve been thinking about Marietta Edgecomb.” Draco blurts.
Hermione blinks. “Okay?”
Draco sits up, closing the distance between them. “Well, she’s pregnant, right? And she’s not
the only one, Percy said. There are so many pregnancies resulting from the WPG, and lots of
those matches are divorcing, right?”
Hermione nods slowly. “Yes?”
“Hermione, so many of those witches and wizards didn’t want a family yet. The WPG forced
into it them,” Draco says. “And some of them want the kids now, I know. And lots of
divorcing couples want shared custody. But Marietta… well, she doesn’t, and neither does
Michael, right?”
“You want to take their baby?” Hermione asks, frowning. It’s not the worst idea, and she’s
coming around to the idea of children, but she’s just not sure if it’s the right time.
“No,” Draco shakes his head. “No. I mean, sure, if you wanted to, we could, but that’s not
what I was thinking.”
Hermione tilts her head — it’s so rare that she doesn’t follow the train of conversation that
she can feel herself scowling at this unknown.
Draco sighs. “Listen, Granger. I’ve got this giant Manor that I have no intention of living in
ever again. You hate it, and I can’t sort out my good memories from my bad. But my Aunt
Andromeda is barely scraping by living in her tiny flat with Teddy, and she’s technically a
Black.”
Understanding crashes into Hermione like lightning, and she can almost feel the press of her
heart expanding into her ribcage. “You want Andromeda and Teddy to move into the
Manor?”
“Yes,” Draco nods decisively. “And I thought maybe I could open the Manor up to the
orphans from the war. Teddy can’t be the only one. It’s large enough, we could convert an
entire wing into a wizarding orphanage, and I could hire staff—”
“Hannah,” Hermione interrupts suddenly.
Draco blinks. “What?”
“Hannah loves children. She always wanted a big family, and once she wakes up, she’d jump
at this chance. Ron said she’s interested in becoming a Healer, but she could take courses and
look after the children.” Hermione explains.
Draco nods. “Yeah… yeah, that’s a good idea.”
“I’ll tell Ron to tell her,” Hermione says. “He told me he talks to her when he visits her. Tells
her about what is happening now after the WPG. How if they want a divorce they could get
one, but he’s waiting for her to wake up to decide. Maybe this would be something she’d
wake up for.”
“Then we’ll do it,” Draco decides. “I’ll ask Arthur to grant some licensing, and we’ll open
the first Wizarding Orphanage in Britain. It gives Marietta and other witches in her situation
an option, at least.”
Hermione leans forward and presses her forehead to his. Her heart is so full it could burst,
and the feeling slowly pushes away some of the grief and horror she has been mired in.
“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she whispers. “This is a really good idea. I’m so proud of you.”
He swallows audibly and snakes his arms around her to pull her into his lap again. He takes a
moment to gather his words, but Hermione doesn’t mind. She rests her head against his and
soaks up his warmth and devotion. She’s spent her entire life trying to feel like she belongs
somewhere, to be good enough — but with Draco, she doesn’t have to try.
“Everything inside of me that is worthy of anything,” Draco whispers, serious and

determined, and so very genuine. “Began with you, Hermione.”
He presses a gentle palm against her jaw, as though she is spun from the most delicate glass,
and Hermione drags her fingers up his skin, her ring twinkling from her hand. Draco leans in
and kisses her, and Hermione presses forward until she cannot tell where she begins or ends,
because it is only them, always them, together.
Saturday, February 5th
They bury Cho on the Nott Manor property. Luna plants astrantia, verbena, and zinnias all
around her grave as symbols of her unwavering bravery, friendship, and strength. Minister for
Magic, Arthur Weasley, presents her with a post-mortem Order of Merlin First Class for her
role in the Diagon March, which her parents collect in tears.
It is Harry Potter, though, who swallows his discomfort for the spotlight and speaks at her
funeral. His words, recorded by Luna, are shared through the Quibbler and Daily Prophet
over and over for the following months.
“Cho Chang was one of the strongest witches I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. She was a
good friend, an invaluable ally, and a young woman who knew the pain of loss from a young
age. I’m sorry to say, that like so many of us here today, she never had the chance to know
peace.” Harry says, his voice echoing over the peaceful grounds.
Hermione glances around at the small group. There isn’t a dry eye in the crowd. She can see
Thestrals grazing in the distance, and she knows they are visible to every last witch and
wizard in attendance.
“Please join me,” Harry invites. He brandishes his wand and conjures a peace lily. Hermione
follows his lead, and soon the entire funeral is holding pure white peace lilies. They all let
their flowers drop, and watch them float gracefully down to rest on the mahogany casket in
the ground.
“For Cho. May you have the peace that you always deserved and never received.” Harry
says. “Please do not remember us as war; but as forgiveness, as hope, and as loyalty that
never wavers and friendship that never fails. We will always remember you the same. Rest in
peace.”
End Notes
This fic has now been translated to Brazilian Portuguese, thanks to pixys-malfoy, you can
find it here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/327676912-lembre-se-de-n%C3%B3s-como-
guerra-mas-chame-nos-de
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!

Remember Us As War But

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Remember Us As War But

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Remember Us As War But

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Remember Us As War (but call us forgiveness)

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/26806840.

See the end of the work for more notes

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I call us part dread, part song

part story, part wrong.

We built our castles in each other

out of splintered spine and blood.

We met in grief and

were held together by its mud.

Took crowns made of bones

placed it on each others heads.

We loved each other with

fragments of ourselves that were dead.

This is why we couldn't rely

Perhaps in a different time

I would have named us hope.

Perhaps in a different universe

we would not meet so battleworn

And I would call us forgiveness,

and not remember us as war.

August 2nd, 1999 - Monday

She unrolls the parchment slowly, trepidation filling her.

“To Miss Hermione Jean Granger:

Draco Lucius Malfoy ”

September 13th, 1999 - Monday

Had he known she was dying?

Hermione laughs, “What about Ginny?”

“That’s over a month away!” Harry objects, “It’s only September!”

Hermione smirks, “One can never be too prepared, Harry Potter.”

Harry shrugs, “I suppose that is what they expect.”

“ To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,

Chapter End Notes

Additional Warnings (POSSIBLE SPOILERS): Pregnancy, Infertility, Unwanted

October 21st, 1999 - Thursday

"No Bill?" Harry questions.

"Mrs. Weasley, this is delicious," Hermione compliments.

Molly waves her off, "You're too kind, dear."

"Merlin," Molly Weasley breathes, "It's just like my old clock."

Harry flushes, "Yeah, Ron insisted you'd want it."

"To Mr. Harry James Potter:

If a witch or wizard cannot procreate, the marriage may be annulled or maintained,

No elopements or marriages will be allowed, recognized, or honoured in the next 24 hours.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot"

She could get any name. It could be anyone.

It's something the rest of them might never have.

"Hermione Granger," he intones, "I should've known you'd come."

Hermione nods slowly, "I'm sorry to hear it."

He exhales, "I'll try, Hermione. I make no promises."

She apparates with a crack.

Please, let it be someone kind.

October 22nd, 1999 - Friday

“Where’s Dad?” George asks.

“Oh, just in the garden. I think he just needed a moment.”

“Hope he’s not working himself up too much,” George mutters.

“Where’s Dad?” Percy asks, an echo of George’s earlier question.

“Garden,” he answers at the same time as Molly.

Hermione frowns out the window, “Should we go get him?”