Author's Note: This story is dedicated in its entirety to caprubia. She saved our favorite couple from certain death (I'll let you in on a secret—I was going to Romeo and Juliet them at the end of Pariah and let their deaths be the punctuation of this tale). She spent countless hours with me, listening to my crazy ideas for this story, offering helpful advice and ways to tweak the story to make it better. She knows this story probably better than I do, at this point. This story starts rough—very rough. It's painful. But it does move into that classic Princess and Pariah sweetness we've all grown to love, and Draco will get that wedding in the vineyard I've promised for so long. If there is one thing I can say about this third part, it is nothing is as it seems.

"And when the tempests rage,

And all the Oceans roar, at your door,

I could be your man,

But I'd be that much more,

And more."

~"I'll Be Your Girl" by the Decemberists

Chapter 1:

"What's the password, Draco?" Hermione Granger purred as she climbed on all fours into a massive pile of blankets, spanning from one side of Draco Malfoy's private room at Hogwarts to the other.

"I'm not saying the password in my own room, Granger," Draco teased, crawling in after her and climbing over where she had flopped onto her back.

"But I built this blanket fort just for you," she smiled up at him and he leaned down on both forearms and stared down at her in complete reverence.

With a wave of his hand, the blankets hanging overhead dropped across the entryway like the flaps of a tent and they were enclosed in darkness, only twinkling fairy lights illuminating the space. In the soft, romantic lighting, his witch looked radiant. Draco moved one of his hands to wind a curl around his finger. He swiped his other thumb lightly over her forehead, pushing her hair away from her face. "Let's just stay here forever, Draco."

"I would die a happy man, Granger, if I spent my last minutes here on earth with you," he replied, dipping his head to kiss her sweetly.

Hermione wound her arms around his neck and held him close, dragging her lips across his cheek to whisper in his ear. "I love you, Draco Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy felt his eyelids begin to flutter as he awoke. He had not even realized that he had fallen asleep, but the sweet dream of his witch was a welcome reprieve in the nightmare his life had become. The wizard was quite certain he was experiencing a slow, agonizing death. It was the only explanation for the choking, oppressive feeling clenching his heart. Heartache—true, blinding anguish that tore through his chest as though his heart was being ripped out at a painfully slow rate. His stomach was in absolute knots and he had to keep his teeth clenched tightly so that he would not vomit from the nervous desperation he was feeling. He was dying from a broken heart—it was the only logical reasoning for how wretched he was feeling.

He had lost Hermione before he ever truly had her. She had spent her time on the lam, hunting Horcruxes, watching scenes of Draco and their life together. With the War behind them, they had come together so naturally upon their return to Hogwarts. Hermione was fierce, and she had fought like hell to save him—from his own torrential onslaught of negative thoughts, from the ridicule and physical abuse of other students, from the adverse public opinion of him and them. He had fallen in love with her simplicity and how she found joy in the small things—a blanket fort, cloud-watching, dancing foolishly when it was just the two of them, how a bit of cinnamon in her tea brought a smile to her lips. Draco had proposed to his love over their spring holiday and he had meant every word he had said to her: all he wanted in life was to spend every moment of every day of the rest of his life just loving her. And now, some selfish and horrid individual had taken her from him—stripped her memories of their life, their love and their future from her.

Draco was still being held for observations at St. Mungo's, though he showed absolutely no signs of memory loss. This is all my fault. The negative thoughts filled his mind and clouded his rationale as he lay completely still, staring at the white ceiling. His mother had been banished from the room, her incessant fluttering and chattering driving him even closer to the edge of madness.

Draco lay on his back, afraid that if he rolled to one side he would expel bile and the chicken broth the medi-witch had insisted he drink earlier that morning. Three harrowing, woeful days of staying in this grotesquely cheery and bright room, knowing the curly-haired witch—his witch—was only a few doors down the hall. Three days since they had been attacked by an unknown assailant and his world had been turned to shit.

Hermione had undergone extensive questioning upon waking, and Potter and Weasley had come in to inform him that the last event she remembered was attending Dumbledore's funeral. She had no recollection of her whirlwind relationship with Draco. In fact, upon hearing of their union and engagement, Hermione had requested that both he and his mother be barred from her room, as she needed some space to process it all. Draco had gotten word just the day before that she had suffered a complete breakdown and asked everyone to let her be—Potter, Weasley and her parents included. He just wanted to go to her, hold her as he had over the last year, kiss her and tell her everything would be okay—he'd find a way.

Tears streamed from his eyes, soaking his pillow on either side of his head. His face was raw from the constant rivulets and swipes to clear them. His Mark, which had faded to the faintest light pink scar by this point, was having phantom pains and he felt venom running through his arm though he was certain it was all in his head, a nasty side effect of his life's horrid choices.

It was his fault this had happened to Hermione. He should have been stronger the previous autumn and told her he could not court her. He should have left Hogwarts, England, this plane of existence. Anything to have saved her the painful prodding of her mind, the loss of years of her life, the confusion and misery she was likely experiencing.

But, Merlin, did he fucking miss her. Her magic coursed through the watch she had gifted him for Christmas, as strong as ever though she was blissfully unaware of the token. It was the only thing that brought Draco comfort as he lay wide awake in his bed at night, running a hand over the bruised and battered heart that rest within its cage. Every minute of the day was consumed with self-deprecation coupled with the fierce desire to see her, just to lay eyes on her, to run his hand over her mass of curls or kiss her forehead.

Draco had Healer Hobbs on the case, trying to reach into the depths of Hermione's brain to find the lost memories. So far, he had been unsuccessful, but he tried to reassure Draco daily that the task was not impossible, merely a tricky riddle to be solved. All the wizard wanted was to be able to see her and hold her once more, for her to remember the love that had blossomed and grown between them in the last year.

That ever-present desire to be remembered battled with the darker, undesirable thought that she would almost be better off if she never regained all of her memories. Sure, there would be a gap in her timeline, one she would likely wish to know. But everything that had happened in the first year of those two years she had lost had been difficult and at times, absolutely horrific.

If he had the option of going back in time and losing the memories of the War, the stench of lingering dark magic and carnage of innocents within the hallowed walls of Hogwarts, he knew he would be tempted. The nightmares would be gone, the pain and shame he felt at the choices he had made in life. He wished it were him, but he knew, perhaps, he should be grateful that she had lost those memories. Hermione would not remember the horrors of watching her friends fall; of watching Potter fight the Dark Lord; of being nearly starved to death on the run; of being tortured by his aunt on the floor of his home.

But, with losing the memories of the War, she also lost memories of watching him in her scrying mirror; of the way they interacted; how he had done his best to ease her pain when his aunt was atop her; of the Room of Requirement when he had pushed her out of harm's way. She would not remember serving detention with him for sprouting horns on Parkinson's head; any of the scenes of their future together with Rosie and baby Scorpius; the night they had spent in the blanket fort; watching the clouds and the stars together; his proposal—so carefully planned; the Quidditch game where she had first told him she loved him. All of the memories that were once the most magnificent pieces of his life were suddenly the most caustic.

There was a knock at the door and Potter's head peered into the room. "Malfoy, can I come in?" he asked, awkwardly rubbing his neck and gesturing to the chair by Draco's bedside.

"You already have," Draco pointed out needlessly. "Have there been any changes? Will she see me yet?"

The blond sat up easily and cursed himself for the hopeful feeling he got upon seeing his long-time rival. Potter sighed and sat in the chair next to him, running his sweaty palms along his jeans. He set a bag next to his feet. "It's worse than we thought. The Healer—the one who brought her parents back—he'll be in shortly to talk to you. I just wanted to intervene first. And no, she's not ready to see you just yet."

Draco could feel that hopeful bubble that had swelled in his chest deflate with the gusto of a breath of wind. "When is she going to be ready?"

"You need to give her some time, Malfoy. She is having a hard time grasping everything that has happened since Dumbledore's funeral. She told me this morning that she feels as though she betrayed Ron in getting with you—"

"Are you fucking serious? What has he been telling her?" Draco demanded, feeling the last remnants of his sanity shredding to bits. "I will fucking murder him, Potter. I will fucking rip his stupid ginger locks out a clump at a time and shove them down his throat—"

Potter put a hand up and stopped his speaking. "Ron explained right off how they fell apart and that he is getting ready to propose to Alicia Spinnet. He has tried to explain time and again over the last three days how in love the two of you are. It's hard for her to process, considering she still believes you to be a Death Eater."

"Hermione told me that she had harbored secret feelings deep within long before sixth year's fiasco of a finale."

"She's admitted that to Ron and me as well. So, deep down, she knows there is something there and that we are telling her the truth. But, Malfoy, it's just difficult for her to wrap her seventeen-year-old mind around."

Draco did not know how much more he could take of this separation from his witch. He was beginning to go stir crazy in the bed with no one but his nagging mother to keep him company. The knowledge that she was only meters from him but steadfastly refusing to see him was sheer agony. "And Hobbs says there's nothing they can do for her?" he asked, feeling as though the melancholy was choking the life out of him.

Potter was silent a moment and shrugged slightly. "He's trying to be optimistic, but it's not looking good," the raven-haired wizard replied, staring anywhere but at Draco. "He can better explain exactly what he's found, but it's like the memories just aren't there for the Healers to retrieve."

Never in his life had Draco felt so despondent and utterly helpless. Potter seemed to be growing ever more awkward as they sat in silence, each contemplating Hermione's condition. "Potter," Draco's voice was thick with emotion and full of raw desperation, "How am I supposed to make her remember?"

Potter trained his emerald eyes on him and shook his head slowly. "I'm not so sure you can."

Draco's hand went around his own throat, trying to ease the aching as he fought back tears. "So, I should just move on, is what you're saying."

Potter shook his head adamantly. "I know what you're probably thinking—that she would be better off without you. But, honestly, as much as it pains me to say this," a slight grin came across his old rival's face, "You are the best thing that has happened to Hermione. She was truly happy with you. I think you could make her fall in love with you all over again."

"She thinks I'm a Death Eater!"

"Hermione is a logical witch who is able to deductively reason through things. As I understand it, you are persuasive when you want to be and there's something about you that she found appealing. She just needs some time to think and she will see you when she is ready. We're talking about the witch who ignored Ron for a good portion of sixth year because of his fraternizations with Lavender. But Hermione will come around—curiosity will get the best of her, if nothing else," Potter said with a small laugh.

That statement alone made Draco smile a slight upturn of the lips. That was certainly the truth—Hermione's curiosity is what led her to continue scrying to see him, what led her to try and befriend him in the beginning of their eighth year.

"The possibility of me getting her to love me once more feels more like an impossibility."

"What the hell did I just say to you? You're good for her, so you'd better try," Potter told him, rising when the door to the room opened.

Draco felt both a gratitude toward the wizard and a feeling of desperation as he left the room and Healer Hobbs came in. The Healer was wearing a kind smile, but Draco was perceptive enough to pick up on the underlying stress written in the wrinkling of his brow. "Potter tells me you can't do anything."

The Healer's smile fell slightly, and he gave Draco a pitying look. "We've studied Miss Granger's mind quite a bit since she arrived. With a typical obliviation, the memories still exist—they're merely locked away for future retrieval. In Miss Granger's case, it's like someone poured acid into her mind and it ate away holes in her timeline completely."

"What does that mean? You can't retrieve them at all?" Draco questioned, once again feeling as though he were going to vomit.

Hobbs refused to meet Draco's eye as he said, "We're doing the best that we can. I've got the entire team researching this—it's unlike anything we've ever seen."

"I will give you every last knut in my vault if you bring her back to me," Draco vowed, looking at the medical professional desperately.

"I'm not sure if it's possible, Draco. But I can assure you that we are trying to do everything that we can," the Healer told him.

"So, she remembers nothing from the last two years? You saw nothing in her mind at all?"

Hobbs leaned back against Draco's side table and frowned. "We can see little fragments like there should be a memory there, but it's no more than a familiarity with a sound or sight. I do not think she will remember enough about the last two years to recall your relationship. But she may remember simple things, like your scent. Things that will confuse her, if they spark a familiarity."

Damn it all to hell, the Healers words began to sprout hope within Draco. Hobbs shook his head slowly and sighed. "Don't get too excited just yet. When you come into contact with her, these glimmers may be few and far between, if they ever fully manifest."

"But there's a chance that, even if she doesn't remember me, her own mind could assist me in bringing her back," Draco argued, sitting up in his bed and swinging his legs over.

"The possibility is small, Draco. Incredibly so," Hobbs countered. "Where are you going?"

"You've run every damn test on me imaginable. There is nothing wrong with me. Our attacker used a simple fainting spell on me, nothing more," Draco told him, pulling on his trousers under the hospital gown.

"I cannot allow you to go into Miss Granger's room until she has specified she is ready to see you."

"This is preposterous. If I could see her, speak to her with sincerity—she would know I am not the scared Death Eater she remembers me to be!" Draco argued, trying to push the Healer aside to walk through the door.

"Mister Malfoy, you are not going into Hermione's room and that is final. I can have an auror escort you out if it comes to it. Now, I understand you are upset and frustrated—but you are acting like a madman!" Hobbs reprimanded.

Merlin help him, Draco was beginning to feel mad. His witch was mere meters away from him at this very moment, had been for three very long days. There was the possibility that Draco could slowly bring her back to him through glimmers of their life together, supplied by her own mind. If he could only get to her, he could hold her hand and she could try to See their life together.

Draco clutched either side of his head, wishing the Healer would leave so he could scream aloud, so he could smash everything in this room to pieces. He wanted to wail and mourn his loss and he wanted to hex every single person that stood between him and Hermione. He needed to get out. He needed fresh air to fill his lungs and he needed to get away from the hospital. If he stayed, he was likely to do something rash and completely ludicrous, likely ending with a stint in Azkaban.

He snatched the bag Potter had left on the floor, filled with the books he and Hermione had purchased in Diagon Alley, and retrieved his wand from the bedside table. The Healer appeared to be saying something to him, but Draco could not hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Hobbs stood with his hands up to try and stop the blond wizard and Draco pointed his wand between the Healer's eyes. "I'm leaving this fucking hospital."

He stormed out of the room, passing his mother who was trailing after him, screeching something he couldn't quite make out. He kept going, past the Weasleys all sitting in the waiting room, past the orphanage he had tried so desperately to replace, through the atrium, ignoring everyone's stares.

He was out in the overcast London streets within minutes and strode quickly to the apparition point. Posters were plastered all over the lamp posts, charmed to keep Muggles from seeing. He and Hermione's faces flashed, both looking happy as could be. REWARD OFFERED. There was a reward being offered—likely by his mother—for any details in their attack. As he neared the apparition point, he saw a stand displaying the Daily Prophet. The headline across the top read, "ATTACKS ON FORMER DEATH EATERS CONTINUE—CASUALTIES CLAIMED ONCE MORE."

A heart attack seemed imminent as he read and reread that headline to himself. All around, other witches and wizards looking to apparate were staring at him curiously. Some looked upon him with pity and some with contempt. He could not breathe, could not draw breath into his lungs any longer. All Draco wanted was to go home, to their home in Hogsmeade. Maybe if he surrounded himself with her, could feel her presence in more than just the watch, could smell her sweet cinnamon scent, could get to the memory chest and be with her for a while, the terrifying constricting in his chest would ebb.

The blond landed in their sitting room and tossed the bag toward the couch. It landed behind the furniture with a loud thud and he neither cared or went to retrieve it. Draco immediately blocked the floo and strengthened the wards to accept no visitors, should his mother try to find him here. When he was finished blocking out the world he collapsed onto the edge of the couch and looked around. They had not lived together in this home long, but every inch of it was already seeped in Hermione. Her little touches, books she had been reading lain on the coffee table, her scent lingering on every inch of the house.

A sob prickled up his throat, constricting his airways once more and the entire weight and severity of the circumstances bore down on him tenfold. His wailing reverberated off the walls, trembling his bones and choking the life-giving air from his lungs once more. His hands slid into his hair as he dropped his elbows to his knees, bending forward in a crumpled mess. His fingers pulled and tugged painfully at his hair and he was once again reminded that every fiber of his entire being was throbbing with the pain of losing his witch.

The loathsome thoughts tried continuously to creep back in and he was steadily breaking down as his world crumpled completely around him. He had not thought about leaving her now, running away and leaving her to live a better life without him. But Potter had assumed he would do just that. And that fucking headline on the cover of the Prophet. It was his fault this had happened. His past was coming back to haunt him, full force.

What if I left her alone? What if her life is better without me? She could walk down the street without being attacked or being spit on or called a 'Death Eater's whore.' She wouldn't have to worry if her husband will be attacked. She wouldn't have painful reminders of a War she can't recall fighting, but that left scars all over her body.

There was an absolute tempest raging within him, a tumultuous mixture of needing to see her so badly that his entire body ached with a vibrating pain and of wanting to run far away, to leave her and ensure that the new start she had been given would be fruitful and she could live the best life possible—one where she did not get attacked simply walking down the street. All of the clashing and warring emotions and thoughts were clouding his brain and filling him with an insanity that threatened to destroy him.

Draco felt something soft against his leg and through tear-bleary eyes, he saw Hermione's kneazle. The animal was brushing up against his trousers, purring affectionately. The kneazle had grown to be fond of Draco in the time that he had known him, and Hermione had always told him that Crookshanks was more perceptive than most humans. Draco had always considered that just pish posh until he looked into the animals large, brown eyes. It was as though the animal could see into Draco's soul and the blond lowered his hand to run over his thick orange coat. He swiped his tears away with his free hand and stood. "Are you hungry, Crooks?" he questioned, only now remembering that the animal had been alone for days.

He ambled slowly to the kitchen, dreading seeing Hermione's eclectic collection of teacups and the giant apothecary jar of cinnamon sticks he had put next to the sink just for her. Lighting the candles of the chandelier over the kitchen island, he noted that Crookshanks had torn his entire bag of food open and strewn it about the floor. "What in the hell, Crooks?" Draco chided lightly, retrieving the hand broom from the cupboard.

Draco bent to clean the mess by hand and was nearly done when something white caught his eye under the raised island. He tried to reach it, but his watch caught and kept his hand from sliding under. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and used the end to slide the item towards himself, finally pulling it free.

The wizard collapsed onto his haunches, his back hitting the kitchen island with a resounding thud! In between his fingers, he held the silky feather of a white peacock. Draco ran the feather over his cheek, recalling the strange sensation he had felt the night he fed the peacocks, now knowing it had been Hermione's presence all along. Their life together had truly begun the night she had first seen him in her scrying mirror.

Before Hermione had come into his life, Draco had hardly believed in whimsical notions, like fate or soulmates. But as he felt the softness of the feather, which smelled faintly of cinnamon and vanilla, somehow, he knew it symbolized a major shift in the world around him, how he was to navigate each day, how he would bring his witch back to him.

His life with Hermione had begun with an innocent, white bird and it was coming back full circle with this feather. Had she taken it that night—a memento of her strange encounter with her longtime foe? He was unsure of what exactly it meant, how it had come to be under the island in the first place. Draco looked at Crookshanks, who wrapped his tail smugly around his legs and stared with glittering eyes and could not shake the feeling that the kneazle was once again looking right through him.

o-o-o

A/N: You all were amazing at reading and reviewing Pariah. I have bellyached over this part for literal months now, so I would love to hear what you think. Stick with me—the dark times that lie ahead spark a beautiful fight on Draco's part to reclaim his witch and bring her back to him.