A/N: WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. FUTURE SCENES VERY DARK.

Summary: Draco suddenly loses the one person that has kept him sane since the end of the war. When the woman who he rejected years before tries to win his heart again and pull him out of his grief, Draco drags her down into his world of obsession and darkness. Warning: Major Character Death. Very Dark.

Rating: M smut/language/graphic descriptions of violence

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger; Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass

Beta love to PhoenixPixie

Draco Malfoy crossed his legs and picked an imaginary shard of lint off the wool of his grey trousers. He ran his fingers down the crisp crease of fabric on the top of his thigh, pinching it into place. This small distraction—one he taught himself years ago—was something he invented to help keep boredom at bay. Afternoon Tea in the parlor at Malfoy Manor was so dull it almost made him wish he wasn't a member of Pure-blood society. Almost.

It had been exactly three days, six hours, and nineteen minutes since he had seen his wife. Her return this evening couldn't come soon enough.

Draco's mother sat across the room, her own legs crossed delicately. Surrounded by his family's ancient possessions—those that had survived the brief reign of Voldemort at Malfoy Manor, that is—she looked completely in her element. Draco smiled at her in admiration. His mother exuded such ease, such grace, even after the horrors that had transpired within these walls.

But the horrors had ended years ago now. Three years, to be exact.

Being allowed to return to the Manor had been one of the gifts Draco's wife had arranged long before she had become Mrs. Draco Malfoy. They paid their price already, she had argued to the Wizengamot, you have no right to their home. Keeping it from them is unjust, she had said.

So, of all people, Hermione Granger had been the sole reason the Malfoy family had occupied the Manor again.

And it was this exacting sense of justice that first made Draco take notice of the woman who would later become his wife.

Before Draco and his mother had been allowed to return, however, everything in the Manor had been carefully examined for any traces of dark magic. Draco suspected that proceeds from the majority of the items that had not passed the Ministry's tests lined the pockets of a certain group of Aurors whose connections would put Mundungus Fletcher to shame.

Neither Draco nor his mother had ever mentioned the loss, however.

Draco glanced around the room. The pristine Persian clean of damning stains, the bright chandelier now hanging in the foyer just outside the doorway, and the new tea service-no longer baring the Malfoy crest, of course-would never take the place of what had been taken from them. To Draco, they were no better than frauds.

But at least they had been allowed home.

Silent house elves drifted in and out of the sitting room, refilling their tea cups and replacing dirty plates with unused ones. The graceful Malfoy matriarch had never allowed elf magic to automatically refill cups or vanish dishes. Unlike Draco's wife, his mother much preferred a subservient elf hovering in a corner and anticipating her smallest need.

His wife…

Draco uncrossed and recrossed his legs, fighting back the sigh that threatened. How long until Hermione returned this evening? He resisted an urge to cast a Tempus. It would not do to show lack of interest in the conversation at hand; his mother would only interpret that as insolence. And insolence was never tolerated at Malfoy Manor, even after the war.

Draco indulged in a memory while a part of his mind continued to participate in the conversation. Dual attention was yet another skill he had honed over years, a necessity in Pure-blood society should one not want to go mad during something supposedly as innocuous as Afternoon Tea.

His mind wandered to the night before his wife left.

"How long will you stay this time?"

"Three days, maybe four. That's all."

"You know what I think of it."

"I do. I can't explain it, but I have to go. I…just want to see them, even if…if they don't know me."

"Hermione…"

"I know. Please, Draco. Give me this."

And he had, as he always had, because he could deny her nothing.

"Draco," his mother said, calling him out of his memory. Her barely detectable emphasis had been as loud as a formal rebuke. "You must promise to bring Hermione for dinner next week. I miss seeing her. We do enjoy such delightful conversations."

"Certainly, Mother," Draco responded, inclining his head towards her as she smiled back at him placidly.

It was a carefully orchestrated game they played, he knew. Narcissa would invite her son and daughter-in-law to the Manor and they would accept. During dinner, the witches would smile politely at each other over the rim of their wine glasses while Draco looked on without comment.

His mother was always careful to host their dinners on the patio, far from where his wife's arm had been mutilated by Aunt Bella's knife—even though the old room had been wrapped in new paint and furnishings. And Hermione, for her part, never spoke of anything more weighty than the latest engagement of an eligible wizard as rumored by Witch Weekly.

For that, and many other things, he was thankful. After two and a half years of marriage, he knew the witches more than tolerated each other—whether they admitted it or not. Draco believed the two strongest, loveliest women he knew might actually have grown fond of one another.

Should they ever become friends, all would be right in his world.

"It would be our pleasure to come next week," Draco continued, inclining his head in her direction again and reaching to refill his tea, noting the wide eyed, horrified stare of the house elf standing in the corner. He smirked at it. "I—"

He gasped as a sharp, excruciating pain sliced through his right hand. It felt as if something had severed. Something had broken.

Of course, something had. His bond. Merlin, his life.

He watched, confused, as his hand cramped in agony and the teapot rattled against his cup. He released it with a shrill cry as the pain began to coil up his arm, threatening to ruin more of him.

The delicate porcelain shattered. A breath later, he found himself crumpled on the floor next to it, as destroyed as it was.

"Draco!" His mother flew to his side and dropped to her knees. "Draco!"

Through the misery in his hand, he registered his mother's cry and the near instantaneous CRACK of Apparition. Long grey fingers grasped his collar. What is Hermione's house elf doing at the Manor? Just as the pain in his hand began to subside, he felt himself being twisted away.

Draco glanced around to discover that he was laying on the cold tile in a hallway…St. Mungo's?

Turning to the elf, he croaked, "What—"

Staring at him with the beginnings of tears in its eyes, the elf CRACKED away.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco looked up to find a lime green clad Healer stepping into the hall from a room several feet away. His features were twisted in surprise. Something in the Healer's voice told Draco that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

The Healer reached behind him and pulled the room's door shut.

"Yes?" Draco said, trying to shake the aftereffects of the side-along and the increasing dread.

He clambered to his feet, cradling his hand.

"Did you just arrive?" the wizard asked, almost as if he were stalling for time or, perhaps, searching for the right words to say.

"Yes. My wife's house elf brought me here."

"I suspect the house elf wanted you here as soon as possible. Sometimes that happens in these cases."

"I don't understand."

"Mrs. Malfoy Portkeyed to St. Mungo's. She—"

"My wife is here?" he said blankly, although things were beginning to make horrific sense somewhere deep within his mind.

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm so—"

"Where is she?"

"Please, Mr. Malfoy. There was nothing—"

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice getting slightly louder.

The Healer took a step closer to Draco.

"Your wife Portkeyed directly into the hospital with extensive injuries. The elf arrived immediately after she did, I assume because the elf detected that your wife was here and required her presence. Your wife passed just after the house elf arrived. She Apparated away, I assume to bring you."

"What…what happened to her?" Draco asked hollowly, feeling like he might collapse to the tile again.

"Your wife had grave internal injuries. There was nothing we could have done."

Draco struggled for air. "Explain."

"Trauma to both the head and internal organs."

"I..."

"We do not know the cause of her injuries. She died within moments of arriving." He cleared his throat. "I'm certain this comes as a shock. I am deeply sorry."

"I felt it."

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"I was in the parlor. I…felt it. I felt our bond break. I felt her die."

The Healer focused on at the tile at his feet and said nothing.

Draco took a deep breath. "I want to see her," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I must inform you that the injuries that took her life are…extensive and…obvious," the Healer said gently.

"I want to see her," he repeated.

"Of course."

After leading Draco a few steps down the hall and pausing for a moment with his hand on the knob, the Healer opened the door to the private room where Hermione lay. Draco pushed past him and felt the blood drain from his face.

Blood. The thing he had once despised about her a lifetime ago—the thing that driven the insanity of the war, and the thing that would always separate them according to Pure-blood society—coloured most of the sheet that had been draped over her. The amount held him frozen, aghast.

There couldn't have been this much blood inside her. Inside anyone.

"You're not making any sense. You and I can't…you've forgotten what I am." Hermione thrust her bare arm up at him, brandishing jagged scars in the shape of letters on her ivory skin. Her lips twisted in a snarl. "I'm a—"

Draco put his finger to her lips to stop the word she was about to use.

"I know exactly what you are, Granger." He stepped close enough to feel her warm breath on his neck. "You're mine."

Her eyes widened and he saw the last of her anger give way. He reached out to caress the side of her face, brushing away an errant curl. It was then that he bent to kiss his future wife for the first time.

The click of shoes across the tile wrenched him out of his reverie. Draco glanced up from the bloodstained sheet; the Healer had moved from the doorway to stand next to him.

"Since she arrived by Portkey, I assume she did not arrive from your home," the Healer said, folding his hands behind his back while not looking at Draco.

Draco stepped closer to the bed. "No. She was traveling. Internationally."

"Then I also assume that once she was injured, she reworked the Portkey to bring her here. It is a miracle that she was able to do so."

"My wife is…" Draco stumbled. "My wife was a very strong witch."

"Of course."

"Will you contact my mother? And…and Harry Potter?"

"Certainly." The Healer grasped Draco's left shoulder. He flinched under the touch. "I'm so sorry."

And the Healer—whom Draco still did not know the name of—turned and left him alone with the body of his wife.

When faced with the prospect of lifting the sheet that covered Hermione, Draco hesitated. He knew every nuance and swell of his wife's skin, every tender angle. Her body had been flawless. Perfect. Could he bring himself to look at it now?

Should he even look at her, lying there broken and bloody? Would seeing it taint the warmth of her kiss from the moment before she had Portkeyed away only three days ago? But should he turn away from it now, would he grow to regret not seeing her one final time?

Hermione turned on her side, leaned on her elbow, and propped her head up with her hand. Her delicious body was only half covered by the white sheets. "Hey."

"Hmmm…" Draco said through the blissful haze of their first bonded morning.

"Tired?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Not too tired…" He rolled onto his side and stared at her. Her hair was the messiest he'd ever seen it—not that he was surprised after their…debauchery last night. Merlin, this barely covered, gorgeous witch was his. His.

"Come 'ere," he whispered as he moved toward her. She struggled towards him in the tangled mess of sheets. "I want you closer."

He bent his head to press kisses up her neck and along her jawline, ending at her ear. "Mine," he murmured around his advance.

"Is that so, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked. He could hear her smiling through in her words.

"Yes it is, Mrs. Malfoy." He smirked at her. "I seem to recall you said so yesterday. And I have witnesses to prove it."

She smirk-smiled back at him, her lips thinning in an amused line and curling upward on one side. It was the same look she had given him last night under the moon as she spoke the ancient words…words that, for untold ages, had been spoken to bond witch to wizard for the rest of their lives.

Draco had been surprised at her choice to use the old ceremony—and also pleased. It had been a not-so-subtle way to remind the wizarding world that neither of them subscribed to the old Pure-blood prejudice. As with so many things, Hermione had known what needed to be done, even when he hadn't.

Then again, she had always seemed to know precisely what needed to be done.

As Hermione had recited the ancient vow in unison with him the night before, he sensed the magic surround their hands; he felt the bond settling into his flesh and weaving into his soul. It was rapturous. And terrifying.

"…and with these words, I aver my spirit and thy spirit are now our one spirit; my magic and thy magic are now our one magic; my blood and thy blood are now our one blood…"

From the corner of his eye, Draco had seen his mother flinch at the last. Most of the other older Pure-bloods had squirmed, looked away, or shifted their weight as they stood around the circle.

So be it.

They shared everything now. Even blood.

And everything he had wanted was now his.

Draco pinched his eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. Wait. Wait. According to the vow he took, it was their blood that had been splattered all over this cold, white room.

How appropriate.

He was as dead as Hermione was.

Draco bent his head and wept.

The Ministry owl carrying the official report of the incident that took Hermione's life arrived sometime via owl in the early morning of the next day.

His wife's car had been hit by a truck just outside Sidney city limits.

Five Muggles—two policemen, two emergency responders and one eye witness—had been Oblivated. During an interview, they had reported that they had seen a severely injured woman reach for what appeared to be a pointed wooden stick, chant something at a pen, and then disappear.

Merlin, what the fuck did he care about some Muggles that had to be Obliviated?

Draco wadded up the parchment and barked an Incindio at it, watching it fold in on itself as the flames reduced it to ash.

Car accident. What a fucking banal way to die.

Draco dragged a hand through his ragged hair. Sleep had barely come. He had dozed off once only to wake and reach for her—as he always did, even when she had gone to visit her parents. This time, though, their cold bed held no promise that she would ever return.

A tea he'd fixed for himself sat untouched on the side table; he stared at it and tried to focus. When had he made it? Oh. He huffed a laugh. Hermione's house elf had argued with him for ten minutes over who should make it. Master is incapable of brewing tea, it had said. Draco had won the argument by threatening to give it the rest of the day off.

Wait until I tell Hermione that her stupid elf—

He would never have a chance to tell her anything again, would he? Not even goodbye.

He crumpled into a ball and began to sob.

Three Weeks Later

"Have you seen Draco since the funeral?"

As delicate as Cordelia Greengrass appeared to be at first glance, her eyes were as sharp as a raptor's.

"No, Mother."

The elder witch took a sip of her tea and regarded her daughter from her station on the wingback chair in the mansion's drawing room. "It's about time, don't you think?"

Astoria turned away to gaze out the window. "It's only been three weeks."

Her mother set her teacup down without a sound. "You have a unique opportunity, Astoria. You must go to him. He needs comfort. Now that a modicum of time has passed, he may be ready to accept it."

Astoria kept still under her mother's flint gaze.

"You still pine for him."

It was a statement, rather than a question. Her mother knew her well.

"What does it matter?" Astoria countered, annoyance colouring her tone despite her best effort to keep it out.

Her mother's eyebrows raised a fraction.

"Draco needs you. You could remind him there is life after the loss of a bondmate," her mother responded levelly. "Think, Astoria. Should you help him, he would be indebted to you. He will need to marry again, to produce an heir. You would be the logical choice."

She gazed out the window. Rain trickled down the glass, falling in ribbons and distorting the scene beyond.

"I'm nothing like her."

"I agree, you are nothing like her…with one notable exception," her mother amended, with a tight smile. "You both loved him and would do absolutely anything for him." She took another sip of tea. "I wonder, Astoria, if that is still true."

Astoria bristled under her mother's stare.

"I don't look like her," she offered.

"Perhaps," her mother said as if she were bored. "But you are a witch."