This story will be told in three parts: dawn, noon, and evening, followed by an epilogue in three chapters. This is basically my way of trying to figure out how something that's supposed to be as binding as marriage can be torn apart. How does a marriage fail? Can we simply conclude that two people just aren't right for each other? What if they are, but they still fail? What could have been done?

I've written the characters as I thought they would be after living through a war. People change - which begs another set of questions: what if the person you fell in love with isn't that person anymore? Are you supposed to adjust and work to save your love, or should you concede and accept that the person you are now and the person your partner has become aren't as right for each other as you used to be?

This is not a tale with a happy ending - or is it? Based on the questions I've posed, you, dear reader, can decide.


Dawn – Part I

February 2 – Avignon, Provence

A soft mattress under her back. The powdery floral scent of the pillows. A soft breeze whistling in from the right, coaxing her hair to dance along with it and tickle her cheek, which in turn coaxed her into consciousness.

She opened her eyes, and there were white sheets so voluminous that they practically swallowed her. Above her was the high ceiling and its gold-gilded coving, which properly matched the cream paint on the walls. Cream gleamed pale yellow from the gentle rays of the sunrise. Flat on her back on the bed, she could spy the verdant hills beyond the vineyard, beyond the trees framing the lawn, beyond the ivy-covered wrought-iron railing of the balcony, beyond one of the two tall French doors that gave the room its warm, vintage feel.

Lightweight white curtains fluttered over the doors soundlessly. She tracked them from their suspension on the wall and, pushing herself up against the pillows, to the plush old chaise they caressed. The old thing must have been centuries old, as was mostly everything else in the house. For this reason, she had a certain reverence for this chateau and all the other historical quasi-landmarks she'd been living in for the past three years, this fairy-tale life which sprung from the most bizarre circumstances and from a most unlikely source.

For how else could she describe waking up every morning to an insane feeling of contentedness, so potent that it made her giddy and start the day with a smile on her face? She'd known this kind of joy before, the type that blossoms from the love of kind, caring parents and the doting of other adults who were more than impressed by a precocious child. That was definitely torn from her in her adolescence – suddenly, she had to prove her worth, and to sacrifice, and to fight. She did it for nearly a decade, shorter than her previous life but so straining that she'd forgotten what the first half of her life had been.

Compared to that, it felt like a crime…unnatural to be so unapologetically happy every day for the rest of her life. But when she thought about it, maybe all she had gone through had been enough to reward her with this. Her childhood had given her an overflowing supply of love enough to last her through a war and to keep her aware of the difference between right and wrong. Her adolescence had taken that love and turned it into such a passionate belief of goodness that she'd risked her life for it. That correct decision had birthed a better life, a safer world for herself and everyone she cared about, and, most importantly, an even stronger faith in love's saving grace that when she met its male incarnation, she neither doubted nor hesitated, despite his unlikeliness.

It was like the first twenty-odd years of her life had been preparing her for this separate existence, had led her to this moment of pure bliss, watching her husband and infant daughter on the old chaise, basking in each other's company and in the unoppressive warmth of the early morning sun.

Draco, as always, looked completely besotted with the baby. He was bouncing her on his lap, but Hermione did not worry because she knew he had a firm grip on their daughter, and that no harm would ever come to her as long as he was with her father. The baby was giggling, and though she wasn't facing her mother, Hermione knew Pippa's brown eyes and pink lips mirrored the mirth Hermione could see on Draco's face. Both blonde heads shone in the weak, mid-winter sunlight, and the baby's golden curls bounced as her father lifted her high one last time and brought her down to kiss her on the cheek. As he did so, his grey eyes swept past the bed, and he was greeted by his wife's smile.

He turned Pippa around to face the bed and held her against his chest. "Look, baby girl," he whispered into her ear, but loud enough that Hermione could hear. "There's Mummy."

Hermione pushed the blankets off herself and pranced from the bed, eager to hold her child. She held Draco's gaze as he released Pippa into her mother's arms. "Good morning, Mummy," he greeted her.

She returned his greeting with a kiss, and he immediately leaned into the chaise to make room for her. They quickly moulded to each other as she sat between his legs, and he proceeded to drop kisses on her shoulder while she cradled Pippa.

"Good morning, my darling love," she told the baby. "Do you know it's your birthday today?"

"I think she does. She was already awake when I fetched her from the crib," Draco chuckled, "which she's getting too big for, by the way."

"Good thing it's your birthday, isn't it?" Hermione cooed. "Grammy Cissy will probably have a new crib for you."

The baby had long been distracted by Hermione's curly hair, getting her hands tangled in it. Narcissa had been delighted by Philippa's long, pale fingers and the prospect of teaching her first grandchild to play the piano. Draco's parents never stood a chance against their son's baby daughter – Narcissa had gushed about how identical Pippa had been to Draco at birth with her thick tufts of pale hair, and Lucius worshipped the girl for looking so much like his beloved wife with her golden tresses and defined bone structure, although Draco predicted that his daughter would grow up to be Hermione's blonde twin. Hermione argued, though, that Pippa would end up nearly as tall as her father and even tower over her.

"Look how much she's grown, Draco."

Draco paused his adoration of his wife's neck. "Imagine, Pip," he said, and the baby looked up at the mention of her name, "You were tinier than Hogwarts: A History a year ago!"

Hermione laughed out loud at her husband's reference. Philippa was born premature, and both her parents had been scared to hold her at first because she had been so small and truly fragile. She hugged her daughter closer as, through the open doors, they watched workers head into the vineyard to survey the vines for the upcoming season.

"I think I'll break out the '82 Bordeaux."

Hermione turned halfway to face her husband, raising a brow. "At a children's party, Draco?"

"No, silly, tonight at the adults' dinner once Miss Pippa and her guests have been tucked into bed," Draco drawled. "And why shouldn't I? Today we're celebrating my baby girl's first birthday, and her beautiful mother who bravely brought her into the world." He ended his speech with a kiss on Hermione's temple.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. But I seriously don't think I can go through that again."

"That's perfectly fine," Draco reassured. "That is perfectly fine. I have you, I have Pip, and we're jolly and healthy and all that."

Hermione leaned back against Draco's chest. "Really?" she quietly breathed, although she knew Draco's words were nothing but sincere. Childbirth had taken a hard toll on Hermione, and for the couple of days that she'd been unconscious, Draco was left on his own to fret about whether his newborn daughter would survive. Two instalments of relief had washed over him, first when Hermione woke up, then when Aurora Philippa Narcissa Cerise Granger Malfoy made it through the critical first week.

In reply, Draco tightened his embrace around Hermione. She melted into him all the more and he laid his cheek on top of her head. She closed her eyes as his warmth soothed her, as her daughter's weight in her arms tethered her to the world, as Draco's cool breath on her hair reminded her of his constant, faithful presence.

Draco's hand reached up from around Hermione's waist to stroke Pippa's curls. He gave Hermione another kiss on the cheek before nudging her forward so he could stand.

"Well, come on, Pip," he said, lifting Pippa, who gladly went with her father. "D'you feel like grapes for breakfast? Let's get out of Mummy's hair so she can set up your party, eh?" He winked at Hermione and made for the door, heading to Pippa's nursery. "Maybe while we're gone, she'll sneak in your birthday pony!" he whispered conspiratorially, eliciting giggles from the baby.

"She is not getting a pony!" Hermione called out with a grin. "And don't feed her grapes before she's had her milk!"

She rose from the chaise, shaking her head. With her wand, she made the bed before the house elves could rush in to do it. The poor things would already be beside themselves cooking appetizers for the kids, appetizers for the adults, the children's lunch, the adults' dinner, tidying up the winery, and preparing rooms for the guests, all of which Hermione had scheduled to the minute. She herself had to supervise the transformation of the front parlour into a giant playhouse, choose a place setting for the formal dining room, make sure the guests took their Portkeys into France on time, and greet them when they actually arrive.

Before heading in for a shower, she chose a flowing dress and matching shoes and jewelry appropriate for a day of organizing parties and playing her part as Philippa's mother, Lucius and Narcissa's daughter-in-law, and Draco Malfoy's wife.


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