He wasn't entirely sure how Blaise had managed to drag him to Abelard Worthing's party. The house and grounds were full of people he didn't know, people he had no interest in knowing, and people he despised on sight. Everyone was dressed in their finest, holding glasses of wine or champagne while they exchanged anecdotes about the war, talked about the politics of the day, or shared news about impeding marriages and new family alliances. As it turned out, there were very few steps, conversation-wise, between genocide and gossip.

Blaise was enjoying the evening, happy to mock the ignorant, ridicule the foolish and generally look down on everything and everyone.

Draco was about ready to set himself on fire.

"This wine is possibly the vilest thing I have ever had the displeasure of drinking," Blaise said, setting down his glass with a grimace.

"It's Elvish Margaux," Theo retorted. "It's horribly expensive."

"And that's exactly the problem with half-blood upstarts. They think expensive means good."

Draco, who didn't share Blaise's prejudices against French wine or the half-bloods who bought it, picked up another glass from a floating tray. Alcohol was alcohol, and it was going to take far more than he had drunk already to get him through the evening. He wasn't picky.

"Well, look who's here," Theo said, surprised. "Hermione Granger, back from the dead. So it is true."

It was as if someone had punched him. Draco openly stared at the witch, who was standing across the room, engaged in conversation with a group of witches and wizards Draco had seen around the Ministry. Her form-hugging black dress covered her arms and shoulders, hiding most of her scars, and her hair was gracefully tied up in a knot. She looked like a beautiful, elegant stranger.

"What is she doing here, Zabini?" he asked, interrupting Theo's ramblings about how generous curves and the right dress did much to atone for someone's unfortunate blood status.

Blaise smirked. "I'm sure I'm not privy to the comings and goings of the likes of Hermione Granger, and it's beyond me why you think I would be."

Because he knew him. Pansy liked to meddle because she thought she knew best. Blaise liked to set things on fire just to watch them burn.

Theo glanced from Blaise to Draco, looking curious. "I sense there's a story here."

"How remarkably insightful of you, Nott," Draco said.

Blaise patted Theo on the shoulder.

"Trust me, you don't want to poke that particular hornet's nest." Not that Blaise had any problems poking it himself.

He needed to leave, and he was never so sure of that as when she looked over and they locked eyes. The moment she did, he no longer saw the elegant, polished woman making polite conversation with high-ranking Ministry officials and committee members. He saw the mischievous, sarcastic, half-wild creature that had haunted the halls of Malfoy Manor and flown on raven wings above him.

And what a dangerous thing it was to confuse the two.

Hermione excused herself and made her way towards one of the balconies, throwing him a sideways glance. It was as much of an invitation as he was going to get. A smarter man would leave, but he had never been smart where she was concerned.

Ignoring Blaise's snide remark about pure-bloods and the sad lowering of standards in the post-war world, he made his way across the packed ballroom. The crowd parted before him, driven by magic he didn't even realise he was using. His mind ran through the basic wards that would keep them from being interrupted or overheard, casting them on the doorway as he walked across it.

The night was cold but clear, not a cloud in the sky. The snow reflected the moonlight, giving the landscape an otherworldly glow. Hermione did not give him time to utter a single word. The moment he stepped outside, the witch slapped him, the sound too loud in the relative quiet. And then she kissed him, an angry, desperate kiss that made his heart ache. He pulled her to him, turning them around and pinning her against the wall by the door, where they couldn't be seen from the room.

For a moment he let himself forget everything that had happened, everything that stood between them. For that one single, perfect moment there was only her in the world — her familiar body pressed against his, her lips, warm and demanding, her fingers buried in his hair. It was a beautiful fiction and he savoured the moment, committing it — committing her — to memory.

He closed his hand around her wrist, squeezing. Hermione gasped against his mouth, trying to get her hand free, but she was trapped between him and the wall, and he was stronger than she was. He increased the pressure, finally forcing her to open the hand. Something metallic hit the stone floor.

He glanced down at the spot where the Portkey had landed — harmless and still — a few inches away from its pouch. Never had he so hated being right.

Hermione smiled bitterly, her eyes shining in the half-light.

"What gave me away?" she asked.

"Fool me once, shame on you," he said, brushing his lips against hers. "Fool me twice, shame on me."

Hermione made to reach her wand, but he didn't give her the chance. He pushed her firmly against the wall, a hand on her throat, and summoned the offending wand. Not that it mattered. Wand or no wand, she was no match for him. None of them were.

"And where exactly was that supposed to take us?" he asked.

He could practically feel the fear radiating off her, but Hermione held his gaze.

"Why don't you pick it up and see?"

He had half a mind to. Draco had fought battles and lead armies. He had killed the Dark Lord. If they wanted a war, he'd happily give them one. See how well their little tricks served them on a fair fight. But Draco did not forget that arrogance had been Voldemort's downfall, and Grindelwald's before him. He wouldn't knowingly walk into a trap, however sure he was of being able to walk out again.

There were safer ways to find out what they were plotting. Hermione realised what he meant to do a second before he did it and tried to turn away, but he forced her to look at him.

"Legilimens."

Images flooded his mind.

A well-lit hallway at the Ministry. Witches and wizards cast curious glances her way when they walk by, but Hermione ignores them. The gossip is bound to die out sooner or later. She tries to focus on the words of the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures — her new boss. Tiresome, pompous man. Her smile feels forced but he doesn't notice, too busy gushing over the wonderful work she'll be doing for the department, and what a very great pleasure it is to have the renowned Hermione Granger join their team.

She finally spots Kingsley walking along the corridor. He's late. With him is Blaise Zabini, summoned by the Auror office to explain the discovery of a dark artifact on his family's estate. She waits until they're within earshot to interrupt Abelard Worthing.

"Before I forget, Mr Worthing, thank you so much for the invitation to your house party," she says, being sure to infuse her words with just the right amount of adulation. "It truly is very kind."

"Not at all, Miss Granger, not at all," says the man with a self-satisfied smile.

The scene changes. A cramped cottage room, too full of people. What is left of the Order of the Phoenix sits around a too-small table.

"The wards won't hold," Bill Weasley says.

"Boy, I was hunting dark wizards before you were high enough to reach that kitchen counter," Moody says, none too impressed by the amount of objections the younger Weasleys have been raising. "The wards will hold. As long as Granger gets him inside the perimeter, he won't be able to get out again. And from there, Azkaban."

"I don't like it." Kingsley shakes his head. "He has broken no laws. This is not right, Alastor."

Moody bangs his mug against the table, mead spilling on the parchment rolled out in front of him.

"He has broken no laws that we can prove," he says. "And are we to wait until he does? I have seen two wars in my lifetime, Kingsley. I won't wait for the world to go up in flames a third time before I do something about it. And it's a fool who will. Malfoy is dangerous. Too dangerous. We act, and we act now."

"There will be an uproar," Kingsley says, unconvinced.

"The cover-up is solid," Mad-Eye insists. "And if someone talks, it's still better than the alternative."

No one else objects. In a room full of Weasleys and their friends, Draco has no allies.

"I don't like the idea of Hermione going alone," Harry says.

Hermione, who had been quiet up till then, speaks up.

"I'll be fine."

The image changes again. A cosy, well-lit bedroom. Hermione is curled up on the bed, facing the wall. She can hear them talking behind her, but they sound far away, as if the bed exists in a place removed from the bedroom.

"Hermione, you need to eat something," Ron entreats. There's a hand on her shoulder, but Hermione doesn't move. Maybe if she's really quiet, they'll just let her be.

"Teddy is asking about you," Harry says. "He really misses you."

He had called her "pretty bird" with a bright, big smile, and held his chubby arms to be picked up. She had thought there was no part of her heart left to break, but that had done it.

One more memory replaces the previous one. The master bedroom at Malfoy Manor. Draco turns in his sleep and his hand searches for her. She moves closer to him, letting him wrap his arms around her. It should make her feel trapped, unable to get away — once it would have — but now it just makes her feel safe.

"Why are you awake?" he mumbles without opening his eyes.

"Shhh, sleep."

And he does, his breath warm against her skin. He could probably sleep through an earthquake. Even his nightmares don't wake him up, the way hers do. Hermione sleeps better as a bird — birds don't dream — but she wouldn't trade this for anything. In a world of uncertainty, she is certain only that right now he's there, with her. She doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, so she treasures her todays while they are within reach.

The memory changes. The study at Malfoy Manor now. She freezes at the sight of the Dark Mark on his arm. That image is burned into her brain. She sees it when she closes her eyes, when she tries to sleep. She sees it during the day, in the quiet moments when there's nothing to distract her from the daemons inside her head. It's the visual reminder of days spent locked in a box too small to stand or lie in, of her own screams echoing inside her head, of masked men taking what they want when they want it, of the sharp, metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

Draco kisses her - a soft, slow, gentle kiss that brings her back to the now, to a place where she's safe and happy and whole. His hands are warm and steady against her skin, and she wants that moment to last a lifetime. There are so many horrible things inside her head, so many memories that she cannot shake no matter how hard she tries. Maybe the trick is to make new ones, better ones, enough happy memories to bury all the bad ones.

He almost lost his balance the moment Hermione cast him off her mind.

"How dare you?" she said, shaking, tears of rage falling down her face. "You have no right."

No. No, he didn't. Draco dropped his hand from her neck, but couldn't bring himself to move away. Instead he moved closer, leaning his forehead against her shoulder. After a moment, Hermione wrapped her arms around him.

"Why did you have to restore my memory?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "I didn't know I missed them."

Draco had no good answer for that. Giving her back her memories had been the one decent thing he had done in a very long time, and he'd regret it till the day he died. She had stolen what was left of his heart and he'd mourn her loss for as long as he lived.

He kissed her before letting go, a last, desperate kiss that would always end too soon. Hermione clung to him, her fingers digging into his arms.

"Take the Portkey and go," he said, pushing her away, his voice steadier than he felt.

For a second Hermione did not move, rooted in place, and then she rushed to the golden lighter fallen on the floor, stopping short of actually touching it.

"You know this doesn't end here?" she asked, her back to him.

"I know," he said, putting his hands in his pockets. Contrary to popular belief, he had learnt something from the Tale of the Three Brothers.

Hermione looked back at him over her shoulder, heartbreak and loss written all over her face. The moment her hand touched the Portkey, she disappeared.

Draco forced himself to keep breathing, trying hard to ignore the heavy weight in his chest. He thought back to the stories Hermione used to tell Teddy. Maybe people like him did not deserve a happy ending. His story, if it came to be written, would be that of someone who had made all the wrong choices and turned to ashes everything he had ever touched. It would make someone a fine cautionary tale someday, for all the good it did to him now.

But he didn't know how to be less than who he was, and he refused to just roll over and die for the likes of Alastor Moody. He had already lost everything he stood to lose. If they wanted a war, he'd give them one.

Draco took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before heading back inside.

The End


AN: Thank you all for reading!

In Chapter 4, Blaise is paraphrasing a line from a poem by William Congreve: "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."

In Chapter 6, the exchange between Hermione and Draco when she follows him outside to face the Order of the Phoenix paraphrases dialogue from Maleficent.

In Chapter 7, Blaise is quoting from Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven: "Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven"

In Chapter 8, "She had stolen what was left of his heart " paraphrases Maleficent's words to Aurora: "You stole what was left of my heart, and now I've lost you forever."