Chapter 3
December 1999
Hermione sighed to herself as she placed her hand over her swelling stomach, wondering just when her child would join her in the world.
She never wanted this, to be barely more than twenty, and nine months pregnant. Hell, she was sure if her parents were still in her life, they would be most disappointed in her life and in her decisions. To be pregnant and married young.
She knew they would have been right; she wasn't even sure she was ready to be a mother, but with the child coming any day now, she didn't really have that much of a choice in the matter but to get ready.
Hermione thought back to her wedding day, less than a year ago on that cold February day, where her stomach had churned, but not with butterflies before walking down the aisle. She had been so uncertain of whether she was doing the right thing by getting married to someone she hadn't even been with for a year. It was much too soon for a wedding, yet she found herself in those white robes, staring back at her reflection in the mirror, wishing anyone from her side of the family could have been there with her, but they had made their thoughts very clear with her.
They hated her for what she had done. They hated her for lying and from stealing their free will from them. They hated that she made them forget her and live a life without her, without knowing her.
She knew they probably were more angry with her, than filled with hatred, but it was still hard to think about them not wanting to be at her wedding; they had sent back her invitation unopened, leaving her to cry in Harry's arms, while Ron had scoffed and told her that if they couldn't accept what she had done, that she was better off without them. That his family would be there for her, and be more than enough for her.
She didn't know how to argue and say that it wasn't the same, so she had sighed, not wanting to feel worse than she already did.
Hermione loved Ron, she knew that much. She might not have been sure about her thoughts of marriage to him, but he made her feel safe; he was stable, and she knew exactly what to expect of a life with him, or so she had though.
She knew he wanted children, but she didn't expect to be pregnant so soon after the wedding. She had thought that they would be married for a few years, and settle into their careers, and then when their lives were more stable, that they would begin to consider children and whether they were both ready for it.
The drinking had always been there, she supposed. It had started shortly after the war, where he would have one bottle too many, and say thoughts that she or her friends would never have heard him say if he were sober. He would curse Death Eaters and their children, and say that the lot deserved to be tortured for their stance. He would leer at women in pubs, and he would break glasses and bottles, leaving Harry to shudder and clean it up.
It got to the point that when he and Harry would go out for a drink after their shift, she no longer joined them; claiming to be exhausted from work, but really just not wanting to see Ron while he was in that state. They hadn't lived together before they were married so she never had to deal with his drunkenness before that point, and after they were, he would collapse onto their bed shortly after returning home, and pass out.
She could tell from Harry's face when he dropped of her partner that his antics at the pubs were getting worse and worse, and she was rather glad that she had chosen not to accompany them, despite Ron's insistence that she did.
Slowly, he became coming home later and later, despite her knowing that Harry had been home for hours with his wife while her husband was still out making a fool of himself. She knew he went out even when Harry didn't, and a small part of her wanted to ask why he insisted on drinking so much each night.
And when she finally did, he gave her a look, saying she couldn't possibly understand. That the alcohol helped him cope with what he saw at work each day. That it helped him cope with the pains of the war, of losing his brother, of hearing her getting tortured, of all the death they witnessed on that final day of the war. That the alcohol stopped all those faces from haunting him each night while he lay in bed and attempted to sleep.
She wanted to argue with him; that she was the one who still had nightmares of being tortured, that her parents hated her, and that she had suffered those same loses too. Except she hadn't lost a brother, nor had she had to deal with the grief of his family. Because the Weasleys were hers through marriage, but they were not hers in the ways that it mattered.
She lay her hand on her stomach, and as she felt a sudden rush of wetness, her heart sank slightly. Her water had just broken, while her husband was once again at the pubs, and not with his wife who was expected to go into labour any moment now.
She stood up and took a deep breath, as she flooed to St Mungos, and when the nurse asked who to contact, she immediately said Harry and Ginny, as she knew they would take care of everything else, and be with her while she gave birth.
Rose Weasley was born after several hours of labour, as Ginny stood by her side, holding her hand. Harry had come in with the rest of the Weasleys as they all congratulated her on the birth. Not one had mentioned Ron, yet she could tell several of them were disappointed in the youngest Weasley male for not being there through it.
And when Ron finally did come to the hospital, it wasn't until well past noon the following day. He had stumbled in, still reeking of alcohol, and demanding to see his daughter. She hadn't let him hold her, demanding that he return home, and not return until he was in a proper state. He had tried to argue, but Harry had insisted on accompanying him home, giving her and her newborn daughter a few moments of peace.
Draco wasn't really sure what he expected to find when he walked into the Forbidden Forest that day. All he knew was that the Ministry had received word that the Centaurs were not happy, and that it needed investigation.
With the school so close to the forest, the wizarding population couldn't really afford not to take the claims seriously. The two had gotten along for so many years, and the last thing anyone wanted was for something to change between the two groups.
Sure, the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures were more than capable of handling communication between the wizarding world and magical creature population, but it had been them who summoned the Aurors, stating that a crime had been committed and that they should immediately come investigate the situation.
Harry had been sceptical about the call; it wasn't something they got every day, so he could hardly blame him for it.
As they walked through the forest, Draco couldn't help but think that the two of them had been here together over a decade ago, and at that time, neither wanted anything to do with the other. Neither wanted to be in that detention. Yet there they found themselves, unsure of what they would encounter.
Hell, eleven year old Draco Malfoy never would have expected to have seen Voldemort there, or anywhere for that matter.
He knew it was far from the last time Potter had set foot in the forest; rumours had circled for days after any of his exploits. From seeing the spider attack, or getting chased by a werewolf, while the truth of it might not have always been apparent, the rumours were always there.
As they moved closer to where the Ministry official had claimed the crime had taken place, they were met by a herd of Centaurs, looking anything less than happy at the sight of more humans in their home.
"Firenze," Harry greeted one of the centaurs with white blonde hair.
"Harry Potter," the centaur said acknowledging his presence, "So you have come."
"What happened?" Harry asked, brows furrowing slightly.
The centaurs standing in a line began to move, and Draco took a deep breath as he prepared for what was behind them.
Draco gasped slightly, as the centaurs moved away, to reveal a circle of slain unicorns, drained of blood, as well as their horns, and tails.
"Why would someone do such a thing?" Harry asked, even if it was rhetorical. The properties of unicorn blood were well known to both of them. Hell, together they had seen Voldemort drinking the blood of a unicorn when they were eleven. But for someone to strip away other parts of the unicorn was both confusing, and disgusting.
They knew now why they had been called in by the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical creatures. If someone was using unicorn blood, then it most likely was not someone who wanted to use it lightly. The curse on the blood made it such that to use the blood, the cursed life that followed would have to be worth it.
Even though the years following the fall of Voldemort had been relatively peaceful, it didn't mean that they could just allow their guard to be down while dark magic once again rose. It was how Voldemort rose to power, twice, while the Ministry of Magic stood idly by, rather that acknowledge what it would mean for the wizarding world for him to do so.
Hell, regardless of the fact that they were far stricter on Dark Magic and those who showed any signs of sympathies with Voldemort, the wizarding world hadn't even shown that many signs of someone attempting dark magic of such. Especially not enough to try and use unicorn blood.
"The wizarding population had lived alongside us for many centuries," Firenze nodded at the both of them, "We wish to keep it that way, for it is what will allow both of us to live in harmony. However we have seen the stars, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. This is not the first slaying of innocent lives, nor will it be the last. There is a threat to both of us, who is far greater than you can imagine."
He felt his blood chill at that. There had been no other reports of slaying of magical creatures, nor had there been as much as rumours that there was darkness rising. Hell, they had so many informants, that one of them would have been bound to bring it up if they had heard anything.
The last person they had known of to use unicorn blood was Voldemort, and they had all seen him perish at the hands of Harry. And based on what his partner had told him, regardless of how minimally, it was impossible for Voldemort to rise again, regardless of what he tried to do.
So had someone else attempted to extend their life? And if so, why? Surely it couldn't have been done without a malicious greater purpose. Why else would one attempt to use such darkness?
As he and Harry looked over the crime scene, he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread that something big was coming; something which could once again shake up the wizarding world as they knew it, changing their lives forever.
Draco sighed to himself as he checked his watch for the fifth time since entering the restaurant. There were so many places he would have rather have been than at lunch with Astoria Greengrass. Hell, he'd rather have been working an extra shift, or having lunch with his mother. Not that he disliked his mother; out of both his parents, she was the only one who had actually been there for him growing up. But it didn't stop him from growing exhausted from her constant questioning of his love life, and when he would finally settle down and have some children. He didn't have the heart to point out that he was not even half way through his twenties, for whenever he had protested the fact, she seemed not to listen.
It was why he had even gone out with Astoria in the first place; to placate his mother and get her off his back for at least a few moments.
But it had all gone so horribly, as far as dates go. She had made it clear that she already saw herself as Lady Malfoy, despite it being their first date, stating that it was only really a matter of time before they were married anyways.
He had learned a long time ago how to tell if one only wanted him for his money or his name. Hell, he knew it was why Pansy's father had insisted on her trying to date him constantly. And while he cared for the girl, he knew that she and Theo both had feelings for each other, even if they never mentioned it to one another.
Thankfully, after the war, they had decided that they wanted to stop pretending they didn't, and got together.
Pansy's father, despite being in Azkaban, wasn't all that pleased, however there wasn't much he really could do.
There was a time when he too would have done anything for a relationship, regardless what his parents thought, but it never had happened the way he had hoped.
And so he waited for Astoria, who when she finally did wander through the door with a handful of shopping bags, didn't seem at all remorseful for being a half hour late.
"Sorry Darling," she said, despite sounding contrary to her apology, "I was on my way, and saw a sale that I couldn't possibly pass up."
He waited for her to order, before sighing, "Astoria, I think we need to have a talk."
Her face lit up at his seriousness, and he wondered just what she thought he was going to say.
"I don't think the two of us are going to work out," he said gently, "We want two very different things, and we're not meant to be together. I wish you the best of luck in your love life, and with your future pursuits, but it won't be with me."
"I thought you were going to ask me to marry you," she said in a low voice. "Clearly you were more delusional than what I was lead to believe. It's sweet that you think that you have and say in this, Draco, but we both know our parents want this match to work, and so it will. You and I are meant to be married, and I will become the future Lady Malfoy. Your father will talk some sense into you when I tell him. When you come around, floo me, will you?"
She stood, walking out of the door with her food unattended to, and Draco couldn't help but stare after her confused.
He knew that his father still held his ideals, but he hadn't talked much with the man since the war. Nor had his father made any attempts to tell him how he should live his life. Lucius Malfoy had made it plenty clear that Draco was a disappointment to him, and wanted nothing to do with his son.
Ron sat at the bar, with a line of empty firewhisky bottles in front of him, and another half empty one in his hand. He knew he was probably blowing the majority of his salary on alcohol, but he couldn't bring himself to care. At least this way he was drunk when he came home and was met with Hermione's disappointed glares.
At least this way he wouldn't have to remember any of the things that haunted him each night.
But it lead to so many arguments; she was unhappy with his drinking, and his wasting of money. She was unhappy with how he fought with her, demanding she played the same roles as his mother.
He didn't get why it was so hard for her. His mother had given up everything selflessly for their family, caring for the children and making sure no one was ever hungry. Yet he went home half the time and had to pick up Rose from his mother's and was met with nothing until his wife came home.
He didn't get why she needed some big flashy career. He was the one who was supposed to be providing for their family. Why did she feel the need to work, and get promoted? Why did she think she needed to? He could practically hear the gossip; his wife was bringing home more money and job titles in a year than he probably would in five. Hell, he knew he was so far down the list of people who would get promoted any time soon.
It wasn't fair, he fought in the war too, yet it seemed as if no one ever seemed to remember that he did. No one gave him the same considerations as Harry or Hermione. Why did they get all the special considerations? Why did people treat them like they were mightier than he?
And so he downed yet another bottle. Hours later, when Harry showed up at the request of the bartender, looking disappointed in his friend, he couldn't even bring himself to care. Let him be disappointed; they all were anyways.
