A/N:Beta thanks to CourtingInsanity. Errors are mine.

I own no part of the Harry Potter universe.


Chapter Four

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night...

Draco's mind was everywhere and nowhere as his carriage plodded along the streets of London, eyes observing, yet not truly seeing youths weaving through the flow of traffic, dodging horses and carriages to clear away a fresh pile of dung…

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores...

Hermione had been at Theo's house—he would know those wound and piled curls anywhere! The carriage jostled him in his seat and he chuckled as he remembered the stunned look in Theo's eyes when Draco had seized him by the back of his jacket, dragged him back to the study, slammed the door and demanded an explanation.

It took every fibre of self-restraint to not pummel his friend to the floor as he laughed and laughed in the midst of explaining. Draco hardly found any of it amusing when finally aware of the facts as they were.

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

He had reached down to the marrow for his final reserves of restraint, decorum, and prudency to order his carriage to his home address, and not to the address Theo had given him for the publishing site of The Niffler, Hermione's address.

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

No, that address would have to wait until tomorrow. There was business at home he had to attend to first…

The carriage came to a jerking halt and Draco still seemed in a fog as he exited and paid the fair, blinking at the steps leading up to the front door. He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs completely, exhaling in slow, even beats.

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Resolved and filled with purpose, he strode up the front steps and through the front door, gliding by Dobson without taking time to remove his hat or coat. It was this very purpose that flowed through his veins, guiding him as he made his way back to the bench amongst tombstones and trees summer after summer.

He was as resplendent as the rising morning sun as his heels clicked up the foyer. He threw open the library doors. "Hello, Mother," he crowed, beaming and bursting. "You look heavenly this fine day...And Father—" he clapped his hands behind his back, unable to contain his himself as he moved into the center of the room "—I am going to ask that you refrain from all correspondence pertaining to the union of myself and the Lady Daphne, or any other lady for the time being."

"Oh?" Lord Malfoy closed his book, laying it on the sofa beside him. "I believe I made myself clear on—"

"Actually, you did not, sir." Draco straightened his shoulders, rooting his feet to the carpeted floor, unwavering and decided. "You barked a command and went to dress for dinner, and erred when I left in a huff and avoided you all of today up until this point. I apologise, but that is all neither here nor there at the moment. We will return to the subject of whom I would have as my wife, if she would grant me the honour, momentarily, but I have a business venture I would like to discuss with you first."

He stood his ground, one breathless second bleeding into the next as his father's alabaster face cracked and crinkled with lines. Wrinkles formed in the corners of his eyes and mouth and on the cusp of excitement or pride reflected in his pale grey eyes as he eyed his son. "Go on."


The world was overcast and grey as Hermione set out for a late morning walk. She should have found some other means of occupying herself about the publishing room before lunch, but it became impossible to focus under the weight of so many thoughts.

She had slipped out the back door without going upstairs to retrieve a shawl or a hata grave error on her part, for the wind was merciless and she feared her pins would not be able to withstand such strain forever.

She chewed her lip as the familiar outlines of the church roof and steeple came into view. Yesterday's letter would be gone as well, she knew that. She had not necessarily come here to look…

She just came.

She would always return to this place; she was tethered to it long before Draco had entered her life. It was more than a building with pews waiting to be filled one day each week. It was more than the Guardian of Souls buried in the acre of lush, green grasses behind. It was more than the keeper of The Bench.

It was where Providence or Fate extended Its hand of grace, bringing her parents to her. Or she to them. She found salvation from a destiny of unimaginable sorrows and anguish that would have otherwise awaited her in a Workhouse…

Love and loyalty flooded her veins, flowing warm and free, curling a gentle smile upon her lips.

A gust of wind tore at her pins so that several curls tumbled around her face and her skirts whipped around her legs, uncertain which way they ought to be carried. She smiled still, breathing deep. As deep as her corset allowed, savouring the sweet scent of summer roses from the garden and stepped lightly around side of the greystone building,

She permitted herself a slow, pensive exhale as the hill waited for her. Waited to test her. Or perhaps to taunt or to tempt. Perhaps the motives mattered not; the battle was before her, the choices were here to be made.

The defining moment of where her loyalties truly lay.

She grit her teeth and marched up, fighting against the wind, swiping at tangled curls blowing across her eyes and nose. More pins fell, helpless against this force of nature, but she carried on, forcing her legs faster and faster so that her heart raced inside her ribcage and breaths fought their way in and out of her lungs. Her legs protested against the pace she set, but she did not falter, did not halt for a moment.

Until she came to The Bench.

She heaved great lungfuls of air, grey and cold and sorrow suffusing every last inch of her as she stood alone on the hill.

The stone which she had placed over her letters lay on the ground at the front of the bench as though it had been dropped. Perhaps in shock; perhaps in grief; perhaps in anger. Or a combination of all three.

And it was empty.

He would not come back; she had told him to live his life, asked that he not think ill of her. He probably would. But that was of no matter in light of what must be done. For The Niffler. For her parents.

Her arms wound themselves tight around her waist as she stood, not moving towards the bench. But not moving away. She had come here to think through her options. And remind herself once and for all that Draco would play no part of the future...

Of what was necessary.

She had laboured long and hard last night, sleep evading her with every toss and turn. She stood here now considering her final conclusion: Marriage to Mr. Nott's son would be of no benefit to her family if her parents would not remain in control of The Niffler, even if the loans were paid off immediately. Which meant she needed to find some other limitless source to plead her case to.

Her shoulders sagged under her concluding decision. She knew newspapers, she was quick, smart and a hard worker. She would go to The Daily Telegraph and beg for any job. To Mr. Fudge himself and plead her case for any deal that would send all her pay towards the loan, so long as her parents could keep The Niffler.

She would turn to the Potters, the Weasleys and the Lovegoods and beg for any amount of savings they had.

As a very last resort, she would marry the Nott son as long as there was a signed and witnessed contract that her parents would retain ownership of The Niffler without question or dispute.

And Draco…

A knot twisted in her heart, choking her very breath from her lungs…

She swallowed hard, finding it a useless effort to relieve any of the swelling pressure within, and turned around, making her way back down the hill, back around the church, back to her home to talk with her parents.

She left the cemetery, banishing all hopes of Draco to remaina restless spirit among the tombstones that would haunt her every time she returned.

Because she would always return.


Poem credit to John Keats