A/N: Hello...I'm a bit excited and anxious here. This is the sequel to my story Shared Hell, and it's the first time for me to write a sequel, so I hope I won't disappoint you. The atmosphere is slighty different, but it's a different story, after all. It starts where Shared Hell left off, so maybe it makes sense to look into that again.

Without MrBenzedrine (who is also my stellar beta) and Kyonomiko this story wouldn't be possible. They took my constant doubting and whining with a stride and assured me again and again that this isn't totally hippogriff shit. Also, a huge thank you to the Cabin Crew for listening to me, especially for LaBelladoneX and her helpful and kind advice about Ireland.

Disclaimer: To my utter surprise, I don't own the Potterverse. And my writing is too much fun to make money with it.

"Have you ever been here?" Hermione asks Draco, taking in the cottage in front of her in wonder and a bit of suspicion.

"Yes, once. Two weeks directly after the Final Battle." His voice is quiet, even though they're alone with only the wind and the sea as company. "Mother sent me here after I had a complete break-down one night. She told Father something vague about me having to forget. The first week, I was drunk and high, but then I found my sanity again. At least enough to appear 'normal'."

Without really reacting to the exposure of how the Second War had damaged him, she says, "So that's how you knew where to Apparate."

Draco hums his acquiescence and lets Hermione take in the sight in front of her. For once, Narcissa Malfoy has foregone all the glory and pomp the Malfoys were so well-known for - her cottage is really only a simple, cozy, inconspicuous cottage. Whitewashed stones and a deep roof on the outside, it has a beautiful view down to the shore and the water. The air, despite the wind, is heavy with the scent of herbs, probably from a garden inside the walls encompassing the cottage. A beautiful, quiet place whose magic only grows apparent when Draco steps forward, crossing over invisible wards that shimmer for a second upon the contact.

"Won't the wards, I don't know, reject me?" Hermione asks.

"You're such a muggleborn."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Clearly not an insult, but the irritation must be apparent on her face, because he immediately tries to appease her.

"It means that, sometimes, it makes a difference. You're a true genius. You know how all the spells work, and you can recite the most complicated potion recipes half-asleep, but you have never learned to accept the magic as something...fluid. Something almost sentient." Before she can communicate her thoughts, he continues, "The magic in these wards doesn't care for a certificate or a rule. It recognizes the blood running through my veins: the magical signature of the Black family." For the first time since they met in Azkaban, he looks calm. In control. And it makes her shiver because of reasons she doesn't want to ponder now.

"But I'm not a Black - not even a Malfoy," she interjects. He chuckles.

"The magic doesn't care. It recognizes my Black lineage. And it acknowledges our magical cores merging, interlacing. Even when the connection isn't stable yet."

Decidedly skipping the stability of their relationship, she wants to know, "So, I'm not going to be burnt or something?" She still eyes the barrier skeptically, not trusting this ancient magic.

His fingers run through the curtain of magic, making sparks fly. "No. Because of the...recent status of our bond, it might tickle a bit."

Breathing deeply, she steps though the wards. A flicker of mischievousness or insanity makes her cringe and cry out when her skin touches the magical border.

"Hermione!" Draco jumps forward and pulls her towards him. His big, grey eyes, shallow from the exhaustive journey they have both been through, check for damage.

Giggling, she admits, "Sorry, I couldn't help myself."

The breath he releases is shaky. Only then she notices he has been frightened for a moment. He frowns, and she can't help but feel…scolded? "Right. Too early for Weasley-category jokes, I suppose."

Draco immediately disappears for the shower, leaving Hermione to inspect the small house. Three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a kitchen and the surprisingly spacious living room downstairs - cozy, functional furniture everywhere, though in a perfect shape. So much more common than what she has expected from Narcissa Malfoy.

The living room has a beautiful view into the garden behind the house. Hermione looks at the plants growing there, and isn't surprised when she discovers that more than the half of them are plants with magical use. Even in the shadow of the fruit trees - apples, prunes, pears, all old varieties if she is right - grow useful stuff: nightshade, henbane, dittany, sage, even knotgrass.

She hears Draco coming down the staircase, carrying a fresh scent with him - a drastic contrast to her own stench. "Enjoying the scenery?"

"Somewhat. Your mother really is a Slytherin, isn't she?"

"Because she had a plan B by owning this cottage?"

Smiling, she tilts her head towards the garden. "Because you you could brew seventy-five percent of the common, deadly potions with the fruits and plants in this garden."

"Or have a very enjoyable high," he says after looking outside. "I guess you can't be friends with a brilliant potion master like Severus Snape without picking up a thing or two."

"The house and the garden appear looked after."

"I suppose Mother has assigned one of her private elves attend to this." He looks at her. Or at least, that's how it feels, for her eyes remain fixed on the garden view. She can't pinpoint what makes her so reluctant to look at him. "I found some clothes that should fit you and put on after a bath."

"Are you telling me I smell?"

A crooked smile. "I found a brush, too."

She looks at him then. After a shower and a shave, he looks...different. Reminding her more of their school days than of the past hours.

"Go, get into the bath I've run I'm preparing us something to eat."

No. Draco Malfoy isn't the same boy as he was in school. There is a certain softness in his voice, an awareness of her entire being, of her needs now. She can feel it under her skin. In her innermost core. In her magic.

And magic never lies, right?

He's grown. He's changed. She almost curses out loud - rationally, she's been aware that Draco is attractive since she has developed an interest in men. But she is a bit spooked that even now, only a few hours after their bonding, the bond whispers into her ear how handsome he is.

With a smile that feels forced, she nods and leaves for the bathroom.

The bath is heavenly. Draco must have added something for the water to smell like lavender. She groans in bliss, trying to ignore the way her skin feels too thin over her bones in the warm water once all the dirt and grime is washed away. It takes an eternity to brush through her curls. Some strands are probably unsavable, and she uses small scissor she finds to clip her nails.

The clothes, folded neatly and of the best quality, must have been the most casual thing Draco could find in his mother's drawers: a silken powder blue blouse, a camisole, a skirt two shades darker in a flowing fabric, almost functional tights, and...she hesitates...a piece of simple, black knickers.

She donns the clothes, and every layer feels more surreal. As if she's transforming into someone else.

Or is she only feeling like herself again? Who is she even? An escapee? A war hero? A warrior? A wife?

Despite the chiasmata playing with her mind, the grumbling of her stomach reminds her that Azkaban has kept her barely fed. Just when she closes the bathroom door behind her, what she hears from downstairs makes her stop dead in her tracks. Two voices. One of them Draco's. Carefully as not to make anyone aware of her, she walks down the stairs, hiding behind a pillar when arriving at the bottom.

"Have you two consummated the marriage yet?" Now that she is closer by, Hermione can identify the voice as Narcissa's. Even though she's only had a few encounters with Draco's mother, those she had are very memorable. What does she want? Did Draco call her?

"No."

"Then maybe there's a way to reverse it."

"Mother-"

"Come on, Draco. Would you think about the consequences of your actions for just one moment? Of what you're doing to your family with that?" The coldness in the witch's words makes her angry.

"I don't care. Where was this 'family' when they threw me into Azkaban? In the darkest hours of my life?"

Narcissa starts to talk, but Draco interrupts her forcefully. "Don't. Don't you dare to compare what happened in the war, in Malfoy Manor, to what happened in that place. You have no idea." He pauses, the tension apparent in his voice. Or in his magic? Hermione can't differentiate, but she knows she's shivering. "Or maybe you do? Maybe you don't care?"

Narcissa gasps audibly. "Draco-"

"Hermione was there when you weren't!" Hermione wants to step in, to tell Draco's mother to go to Hell, but she's too overwhelmed to move.

"What do you think I could have done?"

"I don't know! And I'm beyond caring at the moment." A tense pause follows in which Hermione feels Draco's anger prickling over her skin. "Look, Mother, I love you. But all I care about is keeping Hermione and me safe."

"That's the bond, dear."

"That's not the bond. That's a witch and a wizard saving each other's lives. It's escaping Hell only to know it isn't over yet. It's being used as a tool in a conflict neither of us have any responsibility for causing. It's my father playing with the big guys and subjecting his own son to a fucking Marriage Law!" Hermione has never heard Draco use this tone before. It is…impressive. Intimidating. Powerful.

And it makes her feel safe in a way she doesn't want to ponder. Because Draco stands up to his mother for her, for their decisions, sudden they may be.

A second later, she hears Draco slamming his hand on the table in the living room. Now it's her turn to gasp because his feelings stretch out, flooding the bond. She had no idea it could feel like that.

She feels…everything for a moment, drowning in emotions that aren't her own. Anger. Fear. Despair. A strange hunger for more.

And then, everything goes black. How ironic.

She wakes what seems to be a few moments later with Draco leaning over her.

"How-"

"Slowly, Hermione." He reaches around her shoulders and pulls her into an upright position.

"She's coming to." A female voice. Draco's mother, she remembers.

"She is." He sounds concerned. "You better go now."

Even with her barely regaining control of her senses, Draco's voice sounds cold, repellent. But it's not directed at her - and that circumstance brings her peace.

After Narcissa has left without another word, Hermione and Draco share a simple meal of soup, bread, and some fruits in the living room. Even though there's a physical distance maintained between them, there's an undoubtable thread pulling them together.

For the first time in months, maybe years, Hermione feels at peace when she falls asleep in the bedroom next to Draco's.

In a real bed with sheets made of reliable cotton.

In a house where she can hear nothing but the sounds of nocturnal insects and the coming and going of the eternal sea.

Leaning to the wall where she knew he slept behind, somehow mourning the loss of the direct connection they had through the whole in the wall, the sheer exhaustion of the days behind her forces her to fall into a dreamless sleep.