Author's Note:
This story tied for third place at the 2011 Dramione Remix! Thank you to all who voted!
Chapter Three
Draco sat at his desk, his quill moving quickly over parchment. Merger agreements, though important, were essentially all the same: a brief outline of Malfoy Holdings and the company which it had acquired, an outline of the merger's terms (assurances of continued employment, production guarantees, corporate restructuring and the like), and a long-term business agenda that would, Merlin willing, carry them into the twenty-first century and secure his fortune for the next three generations.
It took time but, with Malfoy Holdings expanding at the rate it was, they became easy almost to the point of mindlessness. Draco was grateful for it. He had enough to worry about without obsessing over sentence structure. He was halfway through drawing up the deal for his latest purchase (an up-and-coming Wizard technology development firm named after a fruit, of all things), when Demetrius burst into the study, Narcissa hot on his heels. Draco started and snapped his quill, pooling ink all over his freshly composed documents. He frowned: his work was unquestionably ruined.
"I don't want to play outside! I want to play with Daddy!"
"It's a beautiful day, Mitri, and your father is working. Come along. If you don't want to go outside, how about we play hide and seek with the elves? Doesn't that sound fun?"
"NO!"
"Demetrius!"
"NO! They always cheat! They always let me win!" Demetrius stomped his foot and launched himself onto a chair across from Draco's desk.
Draco tossed his quill into the wastebasket at his side and used his wand to bin the soaked parchment. Then he sat back and sighed. Tantrums were an all-too-common occurrence in Malfoy Manor and the sight of his child red-faced and stomping was enough to send him round the twist. Narcissa had assured him that they were a completely normal part of three-and-a-half year old's behavior, often citing Draco's own childhood indiscretions as proof. But the fact that they existed made them no easier to avoid.
Avoidance, Draco had learned, was key. Though Demetrius was usually a sweet, mild-tempered boy, he had inherited a double-dose of stubbornness and snark that, in Draco's opinion, made his tantrums much worse than a typical toddler's should be. The 'ten seconds to meltdown' look Narcissa shot him indicated that this could be one of those fits. If not diverted soon, calming him would take the rest of the day and considerable bribes.
The little hellion.
"Demetrius, are you behaving for Nana?" The little boy pouted, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and glared at Draco with too-familiar almond-brown eyes. Despite the boy's pique, Draco's heart at once softened and throbbed with pain.
By the gods, he missed her.
"Nana's the one not behaving," the boy replied petulantly.
Narcissa rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Draco bit his cheeks to prevent his smile from showing, though Narcissa could obviously read the laughter in his eyes.
"Are you lying?" he asked sternly.
"No," was Demetrius's equally stern reply.
Then Draco gave him The Stare – one of Lucius's more effective parenting tricks. It worked as expected. Demetrius broke eye contact and shimmied in his seat. After a minute of silence and more uncomfortable fidgeting, Draco asked again.
"Nana was being good," Demetrius mumbled.
"That's what I thought. You were being the naughty one, weren't you?"
He looked at his lap, giving Draco all the answer he needed.
"Nana is very kind to you, Demetrius, and Malfoys always repay kindness with kindness."
"I'm a Malfoy…" Demetrius hedged.
Draco nodded. "That you are, so remember it from now on. Yes?"
Demetrius nodded too, and adopted Draco's serious tone. "Yes, Father."
Draco grinned, confident the lesson had been learned. For today, at least. "Now, why don't you want to go outside with Nana?"
Demetrius leapt to his feet and bounced on the fine leather chair. "I do want to go outside! I do! I do! I do! I-"
"What have I told you about jumping on the furniture?" Draco's tone swept his son's legs out from under him and his hard glare stilled the usually restless boy. "Tell me, like a civilized child, why you won't go outside with Nana."
Chastised for no more than a moment, Demetrius resumed bouncing in place. "I want to go with you! I want to go on the brooms! I want to play Chaser and Keeper!"
"Manners?"
"Please?"
Draco sat back in his chair and folded his hands. This would turn out to be a business negotiation. He could sense it. And, like all trade-offs, Draco was determined to come out the victor, even if the loser was his own son. "Nana can play Chaser and Keeper with you," he said mildly.
"She doesn't let me fly high like you do."
"Well when you stormed in here, you scared me and made me break a quill. I have to start all over again on the work I was doing."
"Sorry, Daddy."
"I forgive you. But this means if I fly with you now, I'll have to do more work later. That means Nana will have to put you to bed."
"What about the monsters?"
Draco allowed himself a smile. "Nana is the queen of monsters," he said lightly, throwing Narcissa a wink. She scowled. "That's why it's so important to be nice to her. The monsters listen to her and, if you're nice to Nana, they can be your friends, too."
Demetrius swiveled in his chair, awestruck at Narcissa's remarkable new power.
"Can you talk to them?" he asked her.
Narcissa grimaced but bobbled her head. "Sometimes," she said. "When they're not distracted by squirmy little boys."
Demetrius's grave expression nearly made Draco crack a rib from holding in his laughter.
"Okay," he responded seriously. "But you got to tell the monsters to not eat me."
Narcissa bowed her head. "I promise."
Demetrius smiled widely and jumped up from the chair. "Let's go fly, Daddy!" He bolted out of the study and down the hall toward the backyard. Draco watched him go, very satisfied at how cleverly he had solved that monster issue. Narcissa read his mind.
"I should hex you for that," she deadpanned, walking around the desk and hitting his arm lightly. "Queen of the monsters… How dare you?"
Draco laughed and rose from his chair, stretching to pop the joints of his lower back. "At least you know he'll go down easily tonight."
Narcissa rolled her eyes and took Draco's arm, leisurely following Demetrius's path.
"He reminds me of you when you were a boy." Her voice was nostalgic, her eyes uncharacteristically soft.
"Your stories make me sound like a terror."
"You were your father's son – how could you not have been a terror?" Draco laughed. "But you were a terror who knew what he wanted, just like our Mitri. You won't be able to out-bargain him for long."
"That's why I'm doing it now."
Narcissa smiled. "Yes, he'll do well in this world. But he needs-"
The tension between them went from sheerest silk to meter-thick concrete instantaneously. "Stop it," he snapped. "Not today."
"Then when, Draco? I realize you don't want to hear it, but it's my duty as your mother to say it." He shrugged her off and surged ahead. Anything to get away from what he knew was coming. "Damn it, Draco, you will listen to me!"
Her shrill command echoed through the hall, stopping Draco in his tracks. She spoke to his back, yet each word found home in his chest.
"She's been gone for four years. She's not coming back. It's time for you to accept it. I know that you loved-"
"Love," he corrected sternly. She ignored him.
"– her, but you have to think of your future!"
Draco shook his head. "Demetrius isn't ready. He wouldn't understand."
"You underestimate him. Demetrius is a bright boy. He's accepting and so eager to love."
"You think I don't know that?" he growled.
Narcissa straightened. "I think you choose to see his innocence and vulnerability instead of his strength. You can't bear to tell him what happened to his mother because you can't admit it to yourself."
"She's not dead!"
"She's as good as!"
Draco felt as if a lead weight had dropped into the pit of his stomach. He reached out his hand to find the wall, steadying himself. The pain rendered him speechless, breathless. Narcissa pressed her advantage.
"Demetrius is at an age where a woman's influence will make all the difference. And he will start asking questions that you will have to answer. He deserves to know the truth, Draco. He's your blood. You owe him that much."
"You don't know how it feels," Draco croaked. "To lose her."
Narcissa drew in a shuddering breath. "Do you forget your father so easily?" Heat flared up his neck. "I loved Lucius. When he left us, I thought I would never be whole again. Then Demetrius arrived. He saved me, Draco, just like he saved you. It's time you do something for him now."
Draco shook his head and stared up at the ceiling, willing his tears not to fall. "I'm… I'm not sure I know how anymore."
Suddenly, Narcissa's hand was on his shoulder, comforting and warm. "That's what you have me for, dearest. I know a few young ladies who may be suitable. I'll arrange a dinner for this Saturday."
He shook his head. "No. A Sunday brunch. Here." Narcissa lifted a pale brow, but nodded in understanding when Draco said, "Demetrius."
"I'll make the arrangements. It's time for you to step out into the world again, Draco. To start living again." She smiled and sighed, smoothing his shirt. "Now, go fly. I'm sure your boy is climbing the walls in anticipation." She kissed his cheek lightly and walked away.
Narcissa's insistence that Draco find another woman never failed to upset him. But today was different. Instead of the familiar surge of frustration and anger, he felt overwhelmingly tired. Gone was his insistence that he did not, in fact, need another woman, nor Demetrius a mother; that were doing fine on their own; that Demetrius was a happy and well-adjusted child, right on schedule for a perfect, normal childhood; that Draco was perfectly content with his life and couldn't wish for anything more.
Truth was that Draco did wish for more. Every single goddamn day. Truer still was that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, content. Truest of all was that Demetrius, no matter how ardently Draco might wish it, was not normal.
Demetrius was Draco's whole world. Curious and precarious, bright and confident, beautiful in every way. Innocent. Perfect. Charming in the way only a three year old could be.
But that was the problem. Demetrius was three. All three years olds were carefree and cute. So in that respect, he supposed Demetrius was normal. For three. And he could probably remain normal through most of his childhood. At least until age ten, anyway. It was age eleven that posed the problem. At eleven, everything would change.
That's when Demetrius would receive his Hogwarts letter. That's when he would take off from King's Cross Station to live for months at a castle that was miles and miles away from everything familiar. That's when he would learn how to control the magic that was in his blood, where he would meet his peers and learn a different kind of history from what Draco had taught him. That's when he would learn about who he was: the son of a missing-in-action war hero and an ex-Death Eater billionaire.
Of course, there was always the option of sending Demetrius to Beauxbatons. Draco could easily relocate to France, and the continent hadn't been as tainted by the terror of Voldemort's short reign. It was there, if anywhere, that Demetrius would be safest from the truth.
But the more Draco thought about it, the less attractive the option became. Beauxbatons, though it was a good school, was not Hogwarts. They didn't have a Quidditch team, for one thing, or separate houses. They wore those silly silk uniforms and observed ridiculous and unnecessary codes of conduct that Draco found rather stifling… Small matters, yes, though the absence of Quidditch would be slightly intolerable. And though it would be beneficial to expose Demetrius to a new culture, France was, well, France. And Hogwarts? Well, it was Hogwarts. There was something about the place, something wonderful and right that just made it feel like the best choice. Even though it had not always been easy to be there, Hogwarts felt like home to him. Draco wanted his son to feel that, too.
He couldn't keep Demetrius from the truth forever, either. Even at Beauxbatons, word would get out about Demetrius's parentage – not only that he was the son of an ex-Death Eater, but also that he did not have a mother. Though much of society had abandoned prejudice, both against blood and the Malfoy name, there was a persistent stigma attached to single parents. Single fathers, in particular. It didn't matter that Draco was wealthy and connected. Demetrius would be singled out. Bullied, even. Draco knew firsthand how inhumanly cruel children could be. He shuddered at the thought of Demetrius learning about that from the mouth of some foppish, French fool instead of him.
No, Beauxbatons wouldn't solve anything. Telling Demetrius the truth was unavoidable, and the moment for that dreaded conversation was fast approaching.
It was times like these, when he felt so riddled with uncertainty and fear that a mental collapse seemed imminent, that he missed Hermione the most. Draco missed her more than he would miss oxygen had it, too, been suddenly and violently ripped from his life. And though losing her had punched a gaping hole into his existence, he couldn't forget her. Couldn't stop loving her.
Could he?
How fresh was the wound of her disappearance? How vibrant was his memory of her? Her face was easy to recall, both from pictures and their son. Draco saw her in Demetrius's expressions so clearly sometimes that it made him ache, but Hermione had always been so much more than a furrowed brow, a bitten lip, and sparkling eyes. She had had wit, ambition, and more kindness than one human being had any right to possess. She could have outstanding patience, but her temper had triggers that fired at the lightest touch. She could be logical and objective almost to the point of madness, but wept whenever she saw acts of compassion. She was multifaceted and complex, and he remembered studying her for hours, trying to perfect a logarithm to predict her behaviors, and consistently failing when he put his theory to use.
His memories of her were strong, but time was a sly thief. It stole the details, the quirks that made her so utterly unpredictable and so unquestionably his. Her smell, for example. He remembered femininity and citrus and warmth, but those were just adjectives. He had long since lost the ability to conjure that swooping-sinking-twisting feeling in his stomach that would sometimes happen when she entered a room or cuddled close to him at night. Her voice, too, had faded. Her tone when she lectured, when she scolded, when she laughed… Draco had thought these memories were permanent, unalterable, but they had disappeared with her.
It wasn't fair.
The thought, petulant and childish though it was, was true. It wasn't fair to lose her in the prime of her life, of their lives, when things were supposed to be easy and pleasant. They were supposed to raise a family together, to die side-by-side of old age, fulfilled and content. And now they would never have the chance. Now she was gone and Draco was still here, living with the constant, lancing pain of what memories he retained, hating the hurt he felt because of them, and positively loathing that the sting of it diminished a little more every day.
But perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps Narcissa was right to insist that Hermione was well and truly gone. Why else would Hermione not be with him? What else could keep her away from their son but death?
Nothing could. Nothing should.
At least, that's how it was for Draco. When he had first realized that the pink, squalling thing on his porch was his child, Draco became instantly and irrevocably devoted to his son. Nothing would have stopped him from seeing Demetrius's eyes open for the first time, hearing his first word ("Da" – Draco was sure it counted), witnessing his first, hesitant steps down the charm-buffered hallway of the manor, cheering on his first successful trip to the loo, or laughing at the glorious mess of his first spaghetti dinner.
Nothing but death would ever keep Draco away from his boy. And Hermione had always lived with such passion and energy that Draco assumed it had to be the same for her, too. Yet she had missed them all, and would continue to miss even more of Demetrius's 'firsts.' What else could he possibly conclude but the worst?
Draco cursed and shook himself. Narcissa was right. Damn it, she was right! Hermione was gone. Hermione was dead. And he was wallowing. He had isolated himself on purpose, shunned his and Hermione's friends in favor of self-pity and solitude. He had isolated Demetrius, too. Deprived the boy of friends, extended family, of happiness. Draco had lost Hermione, but Demetrius was losing much, much more, and Draco had been ignoring that truth for far too long.
It was not fair for Demetrius to have a father stuck in the mire of personal tragedy. It was not fair for him to only receive love and praise from one parent. It was not fair to harbor him from the truth, to subject him to the cruelty of ignorant children and an intolerant society with only one outlet for support and advice. It was not fair to make his son suffer when he could do something to prevent it.
The mere thought of Dememtrius's pain was enough to solidify Draco's decision.
It was good that the ghost of Hermione was fading. Had faded. It would be easier for him to move on if he could forget her. And on Sunday, he would do his damnedest to not hold his guest to unreasonable standards. He would accept that she wasn't Hermione and never would be. He would be realistic about her personal flaws, how good of a match she would be for him, and how good of a mother she would be to his son. He couldn't promise success right away, but he would try. Eventually, he would succeed.
He would succeed because Demetrius deserved every good thing the world had to offer.
He would succeed because it was finally time.
"Daddy! Daddy!" A hurtling three-year-old slammed into Draco's legs, wrapping them in a vice grip and releasing them almost immediately. Draco stumbled and steadied himself by placing a hand on his son's head. Seeing Demetrius was like seeing the first green of spring after a terrible winter. He was magical, there was no doubt.
"Ready to fly, Mitri?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I want to be Chaser! Why are your eyes all red?"
The observation, tacked on so haphazardly to far simpler issues, caught Draco off guard. He ruffled Demetrius's wavy, platinum hair. "Nana told me a funny joke."
"Tell me!"
"Manners?"
"Tell me, please?"
"Maybe when you're older. Now where's my broom?"
"I'll get it!" And Demetrius zoomed away.
Draco smiled, touched his trouser pocket, and felt strangely at peace.
It was time.
Hermione took the lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in search of her supervisor. Her disheveled hair, stiff, torn clothes, and generally unpleasant odor turned several heads. Before she could even reach her desk, she was flanked by two security wizards who took her by the arms. She put up no fuss as they escorted her into Interrogation Room Alpha – a pretentious name for a perfectly square, drab room with a table, three chairs, a single door, and no windows.
For the next three hours, every Ministry official that had ever worked with her (and a few who had not) tried to establish positive identification. Apparently, if one was missing for four years, it was more likely to have one's wand and identity stolen than it was to reappear. It didn't help either that the last two spells she had used were the Killing Curse. The real Hermione Granger would never kill anyone.
Oh how little they knew.
Barraged with both spells and questions, she waited through it all with imperturbable patience. But when a man named Quircke from the Department of Mysteries who she had never seen before threatened torture if she didn't 'confess,' Hermione cracked. She yelled both at the smarmy man before her and the officials on the other side of the wall to bring in Harry and Ron, that they would know her in an instant. Quircke muttered that, until they were sure of her identity, it was best not to involve anyone with 'emotional investment.' She would've cursed the bastard if they hadn't confiscated her wand. As they had, she did the next best thing.
"You listen here, you son of a bitch," she growled, curling her fist into the front of his robes. "I have been doing your work for four fucking years and if I want to see my two best friends, then that is my bloody right."
The Unspeakable was quick with his wand, but her friends were faster. Hermione felt the power of his hex fizzle away against the strength of Harry's shield around her. Quircke flew out of her grasp into the opposite wall, pinioned solidly by a grim-looking Ron.
Harry turned to her. He looked into her eyes for a full minute, completely silent. Then, with a small cry, threw his arms around her and clutched her to him.
"Knew it was her," Ron croaked and Hermione felt his long arms wrap around both her and Harry. Finally reunited, Hermione allowed herself to break. She sobbed into the crook of Harry's neck while managing to bury her body into the hollow of Ron's shuddering chest.
Their reunion was interrupted by Robards. He gently pried the trio apart and attempted to usher Harry and Ron out. They realized what was happening at once and, predictably, threw a fit.
"You can't make us go!"
"She just got back! She needs us!'
"A favor, Robards – you still owe us for Bangladesh!"
"Not to mention for saving the fucking world."
"I won't talk to anyone else!" Hermione declared, silencing them all. Robards wasn't backing down and Harry and Ron were right: she needed them here. They were the only ones she could talk to right now. The only ones she trusted.
Robards opened his mouth to protest, but she was faster. "I talk to them or I talk to no one." The steel in her tone made it clear that she would not be swayed. The Auror regarded her carefully then nodded once.
It took her over five hours to tell it all, including clarifications and questions. When Kingsley asked her to start again, she outright refused, referring him to the multiple transcripts she knew had been taken.
After a tearful goodbye with Harry and Ron and receiving promises from each of a visit soon, Hermione was Disillusioned and sent to a private room at St. Mungo's. Due to the clandestine nature of her mission and the lives it had cost, the Ministry had decided that discretion was priority number one. Rather counterintuitive, she thought, as half the MLE had listened to her statement, but she was tired and more than willing to play along if it meant a shower, a change of clothes, and a bed.
Harry and Ron arrived at the start of visiting hours the next day, more punctual than she thought possible. They visited every day thereafter, updating her with everything that had happened while she was away.
Harry and Ginny had had their second child and were planning a third. Ron had reunited with Lavender Brown, who was far more ferocious after her run-in with Greyback. She was pregnant with their first child and due in October. Neville was teaching Herbology at Hogwarts and had married Luna Lovegood. No children yet, but they were certainly trying. George had married Angelina, and the joke shop was booming, sometimes literally. Arthur Weasley had had a medical scare – something to do with a malfunctioning electrical socket – but he was fine now. How could he not be under Molly's diligent care? Her own parents had both retired comfortably to Australia. The Weasleys and Potters wrote them often. She was relieved to hear they were doing well.
There was more – so much more! – and Hermione found herself lost in the details. But it was so nice to hear their voices that she let them continue, basking in the familiarity.
The end of the week approached and, with that, the end of her confinement at Mungo's. The Healers had given her approval as soon as she could fall asleep without needing potions. As long as she attended weekly therapy sessions with a Mind Healer of her choice, she was free to go. As expected, it was the Ministry that needed convincing.
Kingsley arrived ten minutes before she was set to leave, right after she had gotten out of the shower and right before she had started packing her embarrassingly small bag. They exchanged five minutes of meaningless pleasantries (she continued to pack) before he reached the heart of the matter.
"To be quite frank with you, Ms. Granger, your return is a public relations nightmare. I'm sure you appreciate what a sensitive issue this is and what your homecoming means for the Ministry."
Hermione took a deep breath and braced herself. She had known this conversation was coming. "I understand better than most just how sensitive an issue this is, Minister."
"Then are you certain you feel well enough to go?"
It was a loaded question. One that Hermione didn't feel deserved an answer. "I'm sure you can appreciate my reluctance to stay here any longer than I have to, Minister." She worked hard to keep the venom out of her voice, but failed.
Kingsley shifted his weight, then nodded. "Of course, of course. You need your life back. We have no problem giving you your freedom. However, we have not yet informed the families of the deceased."
He let his words hang for a moment. Bile bit the back of Hermione's throat. She clenched her jaw and stopped packing. What Kingsley said next would be very important to them both.
"I understand if you want to go public with your experiences. It is your right and I believe that your story must be told. But I am asking you to wait, Ms. Granger. Let us go to print first."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I'm not an idiot, Minister," she said sternly, "so cut the political bullshite and be honest with me. You want me to wait because you want our stories to match."
"Don't they, Hermione?"
She bristled at the use of the familiar. "You know full well that they don't. Owls sent and never answered. Reinforcements requested and never given. You abandoned us in the field," she spat. "We were just collateral damage of a botched and ill-planned assassination. Or will the Ministry be coming clean about how you treated us? A new level of transparency, that would be."
Kingsley paled. "You were soldiers. Your companions died for a cause they believed in."
"We were people condemned to die in pursuit of justice," she shot back, "and don't you dare make it out to be anything but."
She turned to storm out of the room but Kingsley grabbed her arm.
"You could hurt a lot of people, Ms. Granger."
His voice was low and fierce; hers was a strong echo. "You already have."
"I made the decision I thought was right."
"And it was wrong. And now you have to live with that. Just like I do."
They stared at each other for a very long time, nostrils flared in anger, chests heaving, eyes flashing.
"I need your silence," he said slowly, accenting each word. "Everyone else is gagged, but you… You could destroy us. You could topple this administration with a single interview."
"I know," she replied. It was tempting.
So tempting.
"When will you tell their families?" she asked.
"Monday," he replied. "I'm going myself."
She shook her head. "That's not good enough. You should have told them the minute I got back. Tomorrow."
"Sunday? But it's-"
"I don't fucking care if it's your mother's funeral. You will tell them tomorrow or I will call up Rita Skeeter. We're old pals, she and I," she said with a smirk. "I'm sure her quill is simply dying to eviscerate something."
Kingsley looked down his nose at her. Though he was a good eight inches taller and five inches broader, Hermione did not look away.
"You are not the girl you once were," he muttered, finally releasing her arm.
"I'm not. And you're not the man I thought you were."
He sneered but let the barb pass. "I have your silence?"
"For tomorrow. I'll decide whether or not to keep it for longer when I see Monday's morning paper."
He regarded her carefully again and, after a moment: "Make the Vow."
The words were a blow. Red sparks shot from the tip of her wand but her expression might as well have been carved from stone. "Good day, Minister."
And with that, she left, satisfied with her threats and reasonably confident Kingsley would pull through. She hoped he would. She hated reporters.
As her flat had been foreclosed upon, Hermione was directed to a Ministry-approved safe house. It was well stocked with food, clothes, and – best of all – a note granting her a hefty leave of absence (though she was certain she would never go back), four years of unpaid salary, an immense bonus, and an Order of Merlin, First Class.
All things considered, she slept well that night.
Her good mood was gone when Sunday morning broke, however. Because no matter how trying her confrontation with Kingsley had been, it would not be half as bad as what she was going to do today.
Draco listened without really hearing, stared without really seeing. He had been actually listening and seeing for the past two hours, which was quite long enough to form a well-rounded opinion of his first – dare he think it? – suitor, Annabelle D'Aphonus.
Despite her loud laugh, too-wide mouth, obvious desire to say the right thing, laugh at the right time, and look perfect perfect perfect, she wasn't half bad. Her body was slender and graceful, her neck long, her fingers slim and delicate. Her blue eyes sparkled in the June sunshine and her dark blonde hair was radiant, hanging straight and smooth down to the middle of her back. She had a nice smile (even if it was a bit toothy), good manners, and seemed more intelligent than the usual Pureblood woman even though she was twenty-three to his twenty-seven.
Most importantly, she seemed sincerely engaged with Demetrius, asking him questions about his broomstick, his invisible friends, the games he played with the elves, and the prospect of starting school lessons in the fall. She even sketched and animated a Minotaur for him on one of his mother's favorite linen napkins. Draco appreciated this about as much as Demetrius did, but for an entirely different reason.
So she was lovely and charming and good with children, but the possibility that she was only interested in his money was constantly at the forefront of his thoughts. Even after paying hefty war reparations, his family was still in possession of a considerable fortune. As a reclusive, heart-broken single father is high on no one's 'Most Eligible Widower' list, he had to consider the existence of an ulterior motive.
Hermione had never been interested in his money. It was the one thing she disdained about him, actually. Luxury hotels, four-course meals at five-star restaurants, bouquets of red roses… He had used them all when he courted her and, each time, without fail, she was unimpressed. But a photo of them that he had gotten framed? She had never smiled so widely. A handful of wild flowers he had picked himself (okay, not himself – the elves had helped, but did she really need to know)? Utter delight.
He should have known. And it seemed to fit: Draco was rich enough to give even the greediest woman more than she could ever ask for, yet he had fallen for the one who had asked for more, one who had wanted what money could never buy.
He laid his hand on his thigh. Through the fabric, he felt the crinkle of parchment that, no matter how many Stasis charms he cast upon it, was disintegrating more and more each day. It was the note in Demetrius's basket, the one that proved her existence and her love. Atop that was her wedding ring. It was the only damned piece of jewelry she had ever accepted from him and the only gift she had ever returned.
Bugger it all. He was comparing them – exactly what he didn't want to do.
Annabelle laughed, drawing Draco out of his thoughts. He smiled at her but there must have been something off about his expression. She quieted too quickly and soon they were enveloped in silence, caught in each other's eyes. Suddenly, it was all very clear to him.
Annabelle needed to know. She needed to know everything. And not just Annabelle; any woman his mother tried to set him up with. Every potential mate needed to know that Draco was damaged. They needed to know it would take time, possibly more time than he had, to heal, to move past his missing wife and into the next stage of his life. They needed to know that their love, if given, would not be returned as completely as they – or Draco – would like.
The honesty had to start now. "Would you care to join me for a walk, Annabelle?" He rose and offered her his hand.
She smiled and took it. "Of course."
"Mitri? Would you like to come?"
"No, I want to play with my Min'taur. Rawr, rawr, rawr!" The napkin Minotaur was currently facing a stuffed dragon wielding a stick and looked none too pleased to be facing an armed foe.
Draco chuckled and smoothed his son's hair. "Be good, okay? Stay where I can see you."
Demetrius said an absent, "Okay," as Annabelle took his arm. Once they were out of hearing range, Draco turned to her.
"I'm afraid my mother may not have been completely honest with you."
Hermione simultaneously wondered at Draco's constancy and was immensely bothered by it. Three years later and his wards hadn't changed, allowing her through without so much as a warning to the master of the house. It was lazy and dangerous, putting their son at risk like that, though she was very grateful to get through without him knowing. Regardless, she would have to find a way to mention it later if they were on speaking terms. Perhaps in a note if otherwise.
She took refuge in a familiar copse of trees and turned her wand upon herself, lightening and shortening her hair, elongating her nose and thinning her lips. She told herself that the subtle changes were for Demetrius's benefit. If he looked too much like her and recognized it, he might ask questions. Questions she wasn't sure Draco would be comfortable answering. And if she saw father and son together, maybe her disguise would hold Draco off long enough for her to get him alone and explain everything.
There was a third hypothesis, one Hermione allowed herself to entertain but would never, ever admit to being true: the disguise was for herself. Maybe part of her hoped Draco wouldn't recognize her. Maybe if she saw them together as a happy, functioning family… Maybe if she saw him with a beautiful and kindly woman, the mother her son unquestionably deserved… Though it would kill her to see and not claim her own blood, she was confident that she could walk away.
Hell, for their happiness, she could leap mountains.
She strode confidently up to the front door, knocked, waited five minutes, knocked again, waited five more minutes, and decided that the elves had either not heard or been ordered not to answer the door. Hermione tried the handle, but it was locked. Determined to see this through, she headed to the backyard.
As she walked, she heard a child's voice. It grew louder and louder with every step, a Siren's song preying on her vulnerable heart. She was practically running by the time she rounded the final corner, but the child she saw brought her to a complete standstill.
Her son.
At last.
He was the most beautiful being on the face of the planet, sitting on the ground, playing with a green stuffed animal and a linen napkin. His ruffled platinum hair caught the sun in just the right way, creating a corona around his head. His skin was pale and smooth and his smile… Oh, his smile! It made sunlight seem like a dim reflection off muddy water. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, afraid her smile would give way to manic laughter. Only then did she notice she was crying.
She did not deserve this opportunity. She did not deserve to see him, to breathe the same air. She had left him once before. Now should be no different, no more difficult. It would be better, in fact. She would leave his life intact and prevent him from facing hard truths he was too young and innocent to fully comprehend.
She would have gone, too. She would have left immediately had he not looked up.
Seeing him straight-on was like seeing the face of God. He was an angel, seraphic, sublime. It was like everything around her no longer mattered, not when a little miracle lived and breathed right in front of her.
Hermione froze, mouth open, eyes streaming tears. When the full force of his smile hit, she nearly fainted. Her body was entirely beyond her control. Her feet moved her forward without conscious thought and soon she was standing closer to him than she had ever imagined.
"Hi," he said, not one bit shy.
His voice. Merlin, she had never thought she would hear anything more beautiful than Draco's laugh, but here it was. She memorized it. She memorized everything. She was not going to forget one single sound of this encounter. Because this? This was the best day of her life.
The confusion in the boy's almond-brown eyes – the same shade as her own, Circe help her! – told her that she had been silent for too long.
"Hello," she replied softly, not trusting herself to speak louder for fear of scaring this fey child away.
"Your eyes are pretty."
Hermione gasped. Of all the things not to change, she had to neglect her eye color?
"Your eyes are pretty, too," she managed with a smile. "I've always liked the color brown."
"My daddy's eyes are silver and sometimes I want silver eyes but he says mine are perfect. Sometimes his are red, too. Why are your eyes red? Did Nana tell you a funny joke?"
None of this could be real. This flawless day, this flawless child… It had to be a dream.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Hermione paused. How much had Draco told him? How much information was too much? "Jean," she hedged, then took a deep breath and asked the pivotal question. "What's yours?"
The boy drew himself up. Hermione nearly burst with pride. "Demetrius Logan Malfoy."
She wanted to laugh and cry and sing and dance. It was perfect: Demetrius, a Malfoy family name, and Logan, a Granger family name. Hermione felt the burden of her sacrifice triple, but she had never loved Draco more.
"That's a very nice name," was her pitiful reply.
"Thanks. Want to see my li-berry?"
"Your library?" The correction was out before she could stop herself, but Demetrius didn't seem to mind. Did Draco correct him often? What else had he taught the boy?
"Yeah! Li-brurry! It's my daddy and mine's favorite place! He reads to me every night on a big comfy chair and then carries me on his back to my room. But he says I'm getting too big for that and that I might have to carry him! But then I said that he's too big and how am I supposed to carry him?"
Demetrius giggled. It was like the sound of bells.
"Come on! Let's go!"
She should have asked where Draco was. She should have waited to see him before taking off with their son. But her reason, her sense, her entire being was obliterated as soon as Demetrius took her hand. His skin was so soft and so warm. Hermione would bet her life it was fragrant, too. Probably orchids and love and life and sunshine. She curled her hand around his, willing herself to stay conscious, to remember, forever, and try to not wrap him in her arms like she so wanted to and bury her face in his sweet, perfect hair.
The path to the library was one she knew well, so she did not have to focus much on where to place her feet, opting instead to listen to Demetrius's continuous narrative of his life. He told her about his elf friends, about his Nana, about how sad she was about Grandfather Lucius being gone, about his broom, about playing Chaser and Keeper, and how he suspected Draco was letting him win. As soon as they headed to the library, Demetrius headed to a low shelf on the far wall stocked with colorful books.
He selected a book and skipped to the nearest couch, plunking down on it, obviously expecting her to join.
"Do you read yet?" she asked.
"Yeah, but I can't say some of the big words."
She smiled and barely refrained from putting an arm around him. "I'm sure you're great. Why don't you read for me?"
"Okay!" He began and Hermione allowed herself to sit back and bask in her good fortune, to feel joy as it was meant to be felt.
Draco had finished speaking long ago. To his surprise, Annabelle had not run away screaming. She had, however, been silent for the last five minutes. That was never a good sign with women, but he knew better than to weasel conversation out of her. She would talk when she had something to say, though that didn't make waiting any easier.
As they made their way toward the Manor, Draco tried to spy Demetrius. But the Minotaur napkin and his favorite dragon had been abandoned.
The realization struck like lightning. His son was gone.
Fear like Draco had never felt surged into every vein and cell. Primal, instinctual… No. This went deeper than all of that. This was gut-wrenching, bile-surging, raw, undiluted panic; horror so extreme that Draco lost his mind in its vortex.
He threw away Annabelle's arm and sprinted toward the manor, bellowing his son's name. He had to be here. He couldn't have gone. The wards. Why hadn't he changed the bloody wards? But they couldn't have let a stranger through without Draco knowing about it. They were ancient but they were strong, and Demetrius could not be taken without wanting to go. He had to be here. He had to be! But the panic did not abate. There is no certainty in the mind of a childless parent.
He threw open the double doors and headed to the library, nearly slipping on the slick marble. He kicked open those doors next, revealing a very terrified woman and – thank Merlin – Demetrius.
With nothing but a strangled cry, Draco crossed the room and fell to his knees before his son, dislodging the stranger. He hugged his son to his chest and tried not to yell. "Don't ever do that to me again," he choked out between ragged breaths. "You must tell me where you're going or let the elves know so they can tell me. I thought something had happened to you."
"I'm sorry, Father," Demetrius said, sounding equal parts chided and scared. "I just wanted to show her my li-brurry."
Draco followed his son's pointed finger to the woman standing beside him and felt rage. It burned hot and bright, and all of its fire licked at the child-snatching bitch who had sat so cavalierly at his son's side.
He tamped down the overwhelming desire to murder her where she stood. His son was at an impressionable age, after all, and murder would require a lengthy explanation. "Demetrius, please excuse us for a minute. We have adult matters to discuss."
"But-"
"This is not a request," he snapped. His anger was rising more swiftly than he meant it to. He got to his feet and ushered Demetrius outside.
"But Daddy-"
"A few minutes, Demetrius, and then we'll fly, yes? Good." He shut the door without waiting for an answer and whirled around.
"You." He spat the word, seething in anger, and drew his wand. "Who the hell are you?" he ground out slowly, accentuating each word. "How in Merlin's bloody name did you get onto my property? And what the fuck were you doing with my son?"
He had backed her into a corner, his wand pressed tightly to the delicate skin of her throat, eliciting a whimper Draco relished. He wanted more than that, though. He wanted to hear her scream. Her breaths came in frantic little puffs and her chest heaved. Her body shook, her eyes were wide with fear, but she did not reach for her wand. A stupid woman in more than one way, then. The world would be better without her.
"I'm… I'm so sorry. He… Demetrius…" She said his name like it was sacred, looking past Draco to the library doors with a soft, yearning expression. "He wanted to show me his books. He's… He's a very good reader. Such a clever little boy. So clever, so bright, so… So beautiful."
As soon as she had begun to speak, Draco's fury sputtered out of existence.
That voice.
Her voice.
The room shifted and teetered.
But it was impossible. She was gone. Lost. Dead! He must have relapsed, seeing her in anyone who looked remotely similar. It had happened before, this insanity, but not recently. Its recurrence was worrying. But still, this woman did look remarkably like her. Shorter nose and stature, darker hair, fuller lips. The shape of her face, though, and her body…
And then he looked into her eyes.
And then he knew.
It was like being punched in the gut. He lurched backward a step, his eyes wide in disbelief. It couldn't be. It couldn't!
Quietly, he asked her. "The Odyssey."
Her answer was very soft, almost a whisper. "Homer, seventh or eighth century, B.C. Accounts war hero Odysseus's journey home to his wife and son. It takes him ten years to get back and costs him more than anyone could ever know, but it was all he ever wanted… To be home again."
Draco staggered backward until he collided with the sofa. He braced himself, not allowing himself to believe it quite yet.
"Draco?"
He started and glanced to the corner, where Annabelle had been standing silently. She walked toward him and reached out her hand. The stranger's face contorted with momentary agony. He read the intention in her eyes and barked an order. "Stop!" He pointed his wand at her and glared. "Don't you dare leave me. I am not through with you." The stranger hesitated, then lowered her gaze to the floor. He turned back to Annabelle.
He didn't need to say a word. Everything he wanted to say was written across his face. To his surprise, she smiled.
"I understand. Good luck." She stepped up to him and kissed him on the forehead. The contact was over before he could even register it happening. Then the library door opened and she was gone. Draco finally let the gravity of what had happened crash over him.
And crash it did.
He staggered over to her like a drunkard and put his hands on her shoulders.
"Show me." It was somewhere between a croak and a plea. He shook her, gripping her far too firmly, acutely aware of her sharp bones and fragile skin. "Show me!"
Slowly, she reached for her wand. His breath caught: vine, ten and three-quarter inches, dragon heartstring. He would know it anywhere. Then, even more slowly, she passed it over her face, down her body, and revealed herself.
It was like coming out of sensory deprivation. He saw her – her freckles, her hair, her eyebrows, her lips. She was older, weathered, and supremely exhausted. Deep bags sagged beneath her beautiful eyes and her face was thinner than it had been. But it was her, unmistakably, and she had never looked more divine. Her scent was everywhere – enduring, unchanging – and his stomach knotted and twisted and flipped. And there were colors in the world again, and life and beauty and magic. And it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
He whispered her name and crushed her to him, claiming her lips and body and soul for his own. He buried his face in her hair and sobbed. Sobbed, and loved each aching breath because each lungful was filled with her. She clung to him, weeping just as violently, and dug her fingers into his skin, into his neck, assuring herself of his existence. It hurt and he bled, but the pain was bliss because it was real and it would take days, weeks, years of this kind of touch before they regained the sensation they had lost, before they forgot the agony and ecstasy of time gone and this moment gained, both excruciating in their extremes.
A tug on his shirttail pulled Draco out of the whirlpool of endorphin and emotion, bringing him back to reality. What he saw amplified his pain tenfold: Demetrius, red-eyed, runny-nosed, and absolutely terrified.
He cried out and released Hermione. Then he fell to his knees and hugged his son close, cradling him like he hadn't in years. There was so much to explain, so much Demetrius wouldn't understand yet. But there was no more waiting, no more excuses he could make. Today, he would know her, and he would love her, and they could finally be a family. They could finally be whole.
Draco wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and looked at his son, so young, so fragile… So much like her. He smiled a watery smile and held Demetrius by the shoulders.
"I'm so sorry, son. I should have told you sooner. And one day soon, I'll explain everything, I promise. But the woman behind me? The nice lady you were reading to earlier?" He took a deep breath as Demetrius regarded him seriously. "That woman's name is Hermione, Demetrius. She's your… She's your mother."
Demetrius's almond eyes widened and lifted to regard the woman who had borne him. His expression was steady for a moment, then fresh tears glistened in his eyes. His voice was tremulous, uncertain, but still he spoke.
"Mummy?"
Hermione knelt and smiled tightly, trying to hold back her tears. Then she nodded. With a cry, Demetrius threw himself around her and Hermione broke, clutching her son, burying her face in his neck, and experiencing bliss in the way only a mother could.
In that moment, with his wife at his side and their son in her arms, Draco's reality finally slipped back into place. He fished her wedding ring from his pocket and felt the parchment finally crumble to dust. All he could do was smile: the past was dust. He had no use for it anymore.
All Draco needed – all he had ever needed – was his family. And as he slipped the ring onto the third finger of Hermione's left hand and wrapped his arms around her and their son, he had them.
Finally, he had them.
The End