A/N: Hello! This is my first fanfic consisting of more serious plot (compared to my other rather light-hearted fic, Wizards). With that said, I hope you guys enjoy!

A beginning with the end.


3 years and 25 days since the Battle of Hogwarts...

Nobody really knew where they were. All they knew was that there was a sea—a beautiful, glassy sea that seemed to sway back and forth. No one knew what the sea was called—Hermione just knew this is where the Order found refuge. This quietness unnerved her because it was so different, so different than the last few weeks. Hermione counted in her head—exactly two years and twenty-five days have passed since the battle at Hogwarts. Two long years of fighting the remaining Death Eaters who, to the Order's surprise, have accumulated forces so quickly that the last two years seemed to be a never-ending guerrilla war. Until twenty-five days ago, they seemed to be winning, for the Death Eaters seemed to be weaker and less organized. And if it wasn't for Lucius Malfoy, they would've been burned alive by the fiendyfire at the devastating attack at the Burrow.

Exactly two years and twenty-five days ago, Lucius Malfoy walked up to Kingsley and the rest of the Order with as much dignity a broken man could have, and Hermione didn't know how else to put it, he changed sides. Lucius warned Kingsley in whispered tones that the war was far from over. They have been fighting ever since—Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy, along with the Order. During the two years, nobody, not even his wife, knew that Lucius carried around six portkeys. Six portkeys covered in cloth deep within his robe pockets that would lead them to this little cottage next to an unknown sea—so isolated, that when they were pulled and dropped by the portkey, Hermione thought that she had died, and this was heaven. She could remember the panic that tightened her lungs and frantically looked around to make sure everyone was alive: Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Kingsley, Minerva, Narcissa, and Lucius. When her list stopped there, she was lightheaded. To her right was the sea, swaying gently, unperturbed by the sudden arrival of witches and wizards, and to her left was a little, battered, white cottage. Gathering the last bits of her strength, Hermione staggered to her feet when a voice, filled with determination and panic reached her ears. Despite the thick fog that was claiming her body, she could remember the familiar platinum blonde hair grazing her forehead and one word—Granger.

At that memory, Hermione gently traced the angry red scar that started from her neck and spread to her left shoulder. No matter how many glamour charms Ginny had used, it was still visible against her white dress. With a sigh, Hermione leaned against the windowsill, running a hand along the long, intricate braid Molly had helped her with. Hermione looked down at her dress that swayed along her ankles. The dress was made of just plain cotton, but given their circumstances, it was perfect—so she smiled.


Draco Malfoy quietly observed Hermione from the doorway. She was only at most, five steps away, but she seemed to be lost in her thoughts—she almost seemed peaceful. A gentle breeze came through the open window, and he watched her white dress dance around her ankles. Draco couldn't see her face, but he knew that she was smiling—she always tilted her head to the right. And when Hermione Granger smiled, she was beautiful. Draco didn't have to see her soft lips to know because even from the back, she was beautiful. He noticed that her hair was braided and rested against her bare back. To Draco, she was a goddess, and he was unworthy.

He put his hands in his jean pocket and looked down at his worn white button-down shirt that his father had found in the cottage for this celebration. He didn't even know whose it was, but lately, no one knew anything, so it was okay. He had rolled up the sleeves to his elbows and almost let out a mirthless chuckle at the sight of his left arm. Ironically, the fiendyfire had lapped on his left arm, where the dark mark had been. Now, it was a marble of red and black starting from his palm to his elbows. He let out a heavy sigh—Hermione's burns were much worse than his. Before he could think about what he could've done to prevent the burns on her body, a gentle, chiding voice made him look up.

"Draco! You're not supposed to see me—it's bad luck!"

With a grin, he reached Hermione in five steps and pressed a quick kiss on the top of her head.

Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to act annoyed, "I'll see you soon, Draco. Now get outside—where you're supposed to be."

Two years and twenty-five days ago, if Draco was at the receiving end of Hermione's commanding tone, he would've despised it. But it was different now—very different indeed. Just as he stepped through the doorway and felt his toes sink in the cool sand, he heard his father's voice.

"You would think that he would have some sense of propriety—traipsing inside to see you, rolling up his sleeves like a common fool," Lucius Malfoy remarked shaking his head.

Hermione laughed softly, "He is a fool, isn't he. I'm impressed you found a suitable shirt for him—thank you, Lucius."

Raising his chin ever so slightly, he replied, "Of course I can find something suitable." Offering up his arm, he cleared his throat, "Now, we don't have much time, and I'm sure Narcissa and everyone else for that matter is dying to see you."

Linking her arms through his, Hermione nodded, "Are you sure you want to keep your shoes on? It's much easier to walk without them you know."

"I'm the only one in this house that has any ounce of manners left—I will leave them on."

Just as they were about to step out, Hermione said softly, "Thank you for everything. Really, I don't know what we would've done without your port-"

"I was just returning the favor, Miss Granger," Lucius stiffly replied. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a single, yellow rose.

Hermione's eyes widened, "Oh my—how, where on Earth did you—"

Lucius politely cut her off, "Consider it a present from me and Narcissa."

Grasping the single stem in one hand, Hermione closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and stepped out into the sand with only the music of the glassy sea and delighted gasps of surprise.


Draco heard the gasps and took deep breaths through his nose before turning around to see—her. He did see her just minutes before, but Hermione Granger was absolutely breathtaking. He saw the single yellow rose in her hand. Subtly meeting his father's eyes, Draco nodded in acknowledgment and between the Malfoy men—that was all they needed. Draco couldn't take his eyes off of her. He knew that the others did their best to make themselves presentable for such an occasion. He knew that they were standing, creating an invisible aisle for her to walk down. He knew that his mother was crying quietly into her handkerchief with Molly quietly soothing her. He knew that Potter was holding Ginny's hand, and Ron was fidgeting. But the one thing, one woman that he knew and felt from his heart was walking steadily towards him. He couldn't fathom how much he loved her or how much she loved him or how it even came to be, but the closer she got, those thoughts dissipated, and he could only stare at Hermione, his Hermione.

Draco didn't realize his eyes were filled with tears until his father placed a strong, supportive hand on his shoulder and for the first time in his life heard the words, "I'm proud of you, son," escaping from his father's mouth. Draco rapidly blinked away his tears and gave a rare smile, a real smile to his future. Kingsley's brief ceremonial words fell on deaf ears as Draco was lost in Hermione's deep brown eyes. They couldn't be out for too long so in a matter of seconds, Draco barely registered the words, you may kiss the bride, before he pulled her to him and pressed their bodies together as he kissed her with so much emotion he could possible pour as their little crowd ardently applauded and cheered.


Hermione smiled as she nestled against Draco's bare chest. For the first time in two years and twenty-five days, she felt peaceful. She felt so calm and safe against Draco's steady breathing against her bare back. For once, she was thankful. Thankful because she knew, everyone knew that even the worst situations could be a source of something so, so—beautiful. Hermione knew that tomorrow, things would go back to normal—all the work, planning, and preparing. But that was okay because she had Draco, her companion—husband. And with that idea painting a brighter picture over all the tragedies, after tonight she would no longer think about two years and twenty-five days ago. After tonight, the days would go back to zero—with Draco, she would never keep time or days, it was just the two of them in the present—always.


Draco held Hermione—his wife, in his arms and smiled as he felt her relaxing into his chest. He gently kissed the red scar that was still noticeable in the dark. He didn't know why she was so self-conscious about it sometimes because he thought she was beautiful-with or without it. At the sound of a quiet hum of approval, he smiled. He was happy. They had been in this forsaken cottage for twenty-five days without any news from the other safe houses. Listening to her gentle breaths and the rhythm of the sea, Draco remembered the last night at the burrow. He held her a little tighter as he recalled the feeling of pure despair, hopelessness that consumed him when he thought she didn't make it out of the fiendyfire. Little did he know that his father, his father of all people had grabbed her, along with Potter and Molly before the portkey activated and landed them here. Draco held her even tighter as he remembered the strange feeling that he felt from his gut that something was wrong just seconds before the fire consumed the Burrow. He tried to cast that out of his mind; the idea that he was still connected somehow to the other side was repulsive. His father had pulled him aside on the second day at the cottage; they decided that this was to stay between them and would alert the Order as soon as they suspected another attack. However, Draco knew that Hermione knew—he just knew.

Draco froze. Something was off. He heard brisk steps coming up the stairs and light flooded the room. No—no, couldn't he get one day with her without the war looming over them? His heart pounded as Hermione stirred in his arms, confused about the light and the sudden chaos of movement and sound. As soon as Draco looked into her eyes, she understood. Draco couldn't move—he didn't want to move. But he was pulled out of his haze when Hermione's warm lips found his with such fervor that instinctively he cupped her face, memorizing her scent, her taste, just in case—just in case it was the last time. The two of them reached under the bed to grab the clothes they put there, in preparation for a time like this, and dressed so quickly that by the time the second person reached upstairs, their fingers were intertwined. A streak of red sliced through the sky, illuminating the glassy sea as he squeezed her hand once, wands at the ready, and descended into the chaos—together.


A/N: Please R&R!