a/n: DO NOT READ unless you have first read and completed Marked. Coming later this weekend: A Ronsy / PottGrass drabble and Bachelorette: the finale, in that order.

Epilogue

Pairing: Dramione (Draco x Hermione)

Universe: This World or Any Other storyverse (Clean and Marked)

Rating: M for language, though mostly just because Marked is M

Summary: This is the drabble that will serve as an epilogue for Marked. I am not generally a believer in epilogues (Joanne Rowling taught me that a terrible epilogue can ruin a story) and as far as I am concerned, that story is complete as it was written. That being said, for those of you who wondered what happened to the other characters, or who want a glimpse of what Draco and Hermione's life is like together, this drabble is my gift to you.

It wasn't long before they began to piece things back together, fixing each other like they were playing with a puzzle of pieces they couldn't see. He started with her.

"Granger," he said, watching her stare at nothing. "For fuck's sake."

"Mm?" she replied, startled, fixing him with a hasty look of innocence. "What?"

"You haven't moved in several minutes," he informed her, setting down his quill and crossing their office to take a seat at her desk. "What is it?"

"Oh," she said, running the tip of her quill across her lips. "Nothing, really."

It had only been a few months but he knew better than to accept that as an answer. He knew her gaps and rhythms like he knew his own pulse.

"What kind of nothing?" he asked, kicking his feet out in front of him and nudging her under the desk.

She sighed. "It's my parents' anniversary," she said quietly.

He already knew where they were: Australia. Knew what happened to them: she couldn't undo the memory charm. He knew there was almost nothing he could do to fix it for her, but he also knew something about himself: he'd watch the world burn before he gave up trying.

"Get up," he instructed, walking around the desk to take her by the hand and pull her along behind him. "We've been in the office too long anyway."

"Where are we going?" she squawked helplessly, dragging her feet behind him.

"Australia," he replied curtly, tossing her things in her bag and rummaging through his desk for his own necessities.

"But - "

He looked up, catching the startled glimmer in her golden brown eyes.

"I'd like to meet them, Granger," he explained stiffly. "They don't need to know why."

Her lip trembled, but he had not yet progressed to the point of knowing whether that was a good or bad sign.

"But," she said, choking out her reservations. "But they're, they're - " she bit her lip. "They're m- "

Muggles. He was still having to teach her that such things no longer mattered to him; only she did, in the end.

"Don't dawdle, Granger," he instructed, tucking an arm around her waist and leading her out of the office. "We have places to be."

Wendell and Monica Wilkins had been going on long jogs on Saturday mornings for as long as memory served; though, in all fairness, memory did not serve them particularly well. It was a common joke among their friends, that neither of them seemed to be able to recall things from their distant past; though everything was clear enough from the last three-odd years.

Better diet, Monica supposed. After all, everyone was saying such things about gluten.

"Hurry up," she called over her shoulder to Wendell, who appeared a little dazed. "Is everything quite alright?"

"Um," he said, reaching back to feel the back of his head. "I - "

"What is it?" she asked, circling back to jog alongside him. "Something wrong?"

"I just thought I felt something," he said, frowning, bringing his hand forward as though examining it for damage. "I think I'm fine, though - "

"Excuse me," a young man called, waving to them from a short ways behind. He was accompanied by a rather petite girl with wild brown hair, and Monica, normally quite serious with her exercise, came to a sudden stop at the sight of a nervous glimmer in the girl's warm brown eyes, a sparkle that was somehow both slightly familiar and hauntingly distant.

"Hi," the young man said, a little breathless as he caught up to them. He had an exceedingly posh British accent and startlingly pale hair; quite handsome overall, though perhaps in his mid-twenties. "So sorry to bother you, but my, er - " he looked down at the girl, whose eyes were wide with indecision - "my wife and I are here on holiday, and we're a bit lost - "

"Draco," Monica said suddenly, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, startled by the violent hurtling of a memory she couldn't explain.

She knew him, this boy - he had been younger, she was quite sure, and in her kitchen - but not her kitchen at all, was it? A conversation about pasta - which she didn't even eat -

"What?" he asked, rattled, his face paling in shock. Beside him, his partner's mouth had fallen open, and Monica turned to find Wendell was looking at her much the same way.

"I - I'm so sorry," Monica said, her voice shaking as she tried to clear her head. "I don't know what's come over me, but - " she squinted at the young man. "We have met before, haven't we?"

"I - " he hesitated, looking down at his lovely young wife, who seemed familiar to Monica as well, though there was some kind of obstruction in the way; a blockage of sorts, and the more she strained for recognition, the less she could identify the feeling. "I am Draco, yes, but - "

"I'm quite sure we've never met," the girl cut in slowly, her fingers tightening around his arm. "After all," she asserted, straightening. "This is our first time in Australia."

The blow of the girl's particular shade of brown eyes nearly sent Monica reeling. "Not Australia," she said faintly, though she couldn't imagine why. She had never remembered living anywhere else, despite the mockery she received for her distinct London accent -

"Nevermind," Monica declared, shaking her head as Wendell moved to pat her shoulder comfortingly.

"Everything alright?" he murmured to her, though she could see there was something odd in his expression as well.

"So sorry," the young man - Draco - said kindly, extending his hand with the kind of formality normally afforded to Victorian society, or so Monica imagined. "I'm Draco, and this" - he looked at her, offering a reassuring smile - "this is Hermione."

"Hermione," Wendell said, and there was a throaty humming sound to his voice, a vibration that poured into the name like honey. "Daughter of Helen." He smiled. "Beautiful."

The girl looked as though she might cry. "Thank you," she whispered, offering him a shaky hand.

"Wendell," he said quickly, taking her proffered grip and appearing to realize with a start that he'd entirely abandoned proper manners. "And my wife, Monica," he added, placing a hand on her shoulder as the four of them exchanged greetings.

"Lovely to meet you both," Draco said, his tone taking on a caress of warmth that Monica guessed did not come easily to him. He had a certain coolness to him, a glacial impassivity of sorts that she couldn't quite identify, but she attributed something to him; a comfort, perhaps. Something like that.

"You said you're lost?" Monica recalled, looking around. They must have gone pretty far out of their way to end up here.

"We tried to, you know, get off the map a bit," Draco suggested airily, shrugging his arm across his wife's shoulders. "But if you could help us - "

"How about a coffee?" Wendell suggested, gesturing to a place he and Monica usually passed, just up the road. He nudged his wife with a grin. "If this one is willing to forego the rest of the run, of course."

"I suppose," Monica permitted, leaning into his touch. "Yes," she decided, nodding slowly at first, and then resolutely. "Yes. Let's stop and have a chat," she determined firmly. "We're quite good hosts, after all, aren't we?"

Wendell nodded, ever the pleasant extrovert.

"Excellent," Draco said firmly, a smile secured on his face. He looked down at his wife, who looked joyfully relieved even as she tentatively nipped at her lip.

"Thank you," the girl said softly, and they all began to walk.

"You're a lovely couple," Wendell added, turning over his shoulder to address them before nudging Monica, stepping ahead to lead them up the road.

Monica walked quietly beside Wendell, finding it difficult not to repeatedly sneak looks behind her at the girl, Hermione. There was something about her; her eyes, mostly. The familiarity in them was startling. And her hair was quite like Wendell's had been, once - when he was much younger, of course. Monica remembered the way it felt under her fingers, how it had been scratchy against her face the moment she woke in their first apartment; how it had been so helplessly askew and the rest of him not much better, still wearing the clothes they'd fallen asleep in the night before, the whole place badly lit and horribly decorated -

Monica stopped mid-stride. She had never remembered that far back before.

"Everything okay?" Hermione asked gently, and Monica felt herself smile even as her heart continued to pound.

"Fine," she said quickly, taking in the hopeful expression on the young girl's face. "I think everything's going to be fine."

"I'm surprised you wanted to come to this," Draco said quietly in her ear, brushing a kiss against her cheek as he gestured for her to sit. "I'm happy you did, of course - "

"It's only fair," Hermione assured him, though she felt considerably less confident than she sounded. "You've met my parents, after all, and it is her birthday - "

"She'll love you," Draco cut in smoothly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

Hermione sighed. If only she and Narcissa could have had the great fortune of being able to meet as strangers the way her parents and Draco had; if only Hermione didn't still feel so small, so insignificant in this world that she knew without question would never have welcomed her. It was a strange, paradoxical reversal of how she normally felt at work. In the stately gardens of the very vigorously - vigorously - renovated Malfoy Manor, seated among the very people she was so often called on to defend, she only felt trapped in their bubble of propriety, dwarfed by the eminence of their venerable old ways.

Hermione let her gaze flick nervously to the stunning older witch where she stood only a few feet away, wondering what the two of them might ever have in common. Narcissa Malfoy was the picture of elegance, the pinnacle of poise, and by comparison, Hermione felt like a strange, nonsensical afterthought; she was grateful Draco had not left her side.

Had not left her side yet, in any case, though she should have known it was coming.

"Darling," Narcissa said, calling to Draco as she approached. "I wonder if you might say hello to your Aunt Andromeda," she suggested, gesturing to a woman across the gardens that nearly gave Hermione a disturbing start; Andromeda Tonks, while decidedly not Bellatrix Lestrange, certainly carried a strong resemblance, alike in nearly every way aside from the general aura of being entirely unhinged.

Initial shock aside, Hermione was surprised to hear that such a reconciliation between severed sisters had been attempted, though by the look on Draco's face - a nod of placid understanding, in stark contrast to her own startled gaping - it was not entirely out of character for Narcissa. Hermione felt a sudden leap in her chest, a wild hope that clanged around inside her at the thought; perhaps things were not as bad as she had expected.

Perhaps Narcissa was not at all what she had expected.

"I've tried to convince her to join the fray, but she's a bit hesitant," Narcissa added, her tone taking on a steady, somewhat facetious musing, like the idea had just occurred to her and was not, as was much more likely, a broader manipulation. "I thought you might make her feel welcome."

Narcissa was smiling fondly at her son, but Hermione could see with alarming certainty that this was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a request with the option of denial.

"Yes, Mother," Draco said, dutifully rising to his feet and gesturing for Hermione to join him, offering her his arm. She reached up to take it, but Narcissa made a gentle cough of disagreement.

"Perhaps Miss Granger might prefer to remain in the shade with me," Narcissa ventured, though this, too, was no request. "Andromeda and I have only recently reconciled, you know, and it's perhaps best not to overwhelm her."

Likely not entirely true, though not necessarily disingenuous, either, Hermione noted. Narcissa's expression was delicately guarded, artfully dispassionate; there was no territorialism there, no skepticism. In short, nothing Hermione might have expected from the courtly Lady Malfoy, and as much as her first instinct was to question the other witch's intentions, she felt a strange sense of calm.

Some sense of unspoken assurance, some unsubstantial figment in her mind, whispered to her that this would be okay.

"I'm intrigued, Mother," Draco noted, not unkindly, though he was hesitant to leave Hermione's side. "Surely you don't mean to tell me that you initiated the relationship."

"She's my sister," Narcissa insisted firmly, glancing quickly at where Andromeda stood apart from the other guests. Hermione thought she could sense something in Narcissa's tone, a subtle veneration that served to indicate that perhaps the older witch had longed for the reunion for a considerably long time. "And," Narcissa added, lifting her chin as she made her point, "times have changed."

It was a challenge, Hermione realized, watching Narcissa's stance as she straightened. Times have changed, Narcissa had said, but what she meant was I have changed - and let no one question my choices.

Hermione found herself rather impressed.

"They certainly have," Draco replied, his voice colored with amusement.

He bent to kiss Hermione, stroking his thumb against her jaw with a slow, easy reverence; it was a surprisingly intimate gesture, particularly given the audience, and Hermione couldn't help a glance at Narcissa, giving in to a nervous impulse to see if she was bothered by Draco's show of affection. Hermione stiffened in preparation for a look of haughty disapproval, but found she needn't have bothered. Instead, she was surprised to find a faint smile on the lovely witch's face.

Don't be ashamed of the savagery with which you love, or the fierceness of your heart.

She heard the whisper in her mind, familiar and out of reach, and she felt herself relax, the breaths coming a little bit easier.

"I've learned that forgiveness comes easily enough if you only make the effort to ask for it," Narcissa said once Draco took a step towards her, reaching up to touch the pale blond strands of his hair. "I had an excellent role model for that," she added, her eyes straying to Hermione's.

Even that statement, as confessionary as it was, as vulnerable as it might have been, sounded like a fact that was not to be questioned when delivered with Narcissa's inarguable poise, and Hermione met her gaze easily. There was a sincerity to the statement, an essence of truth, and it struck Hermione as trustworthy. A truce, of sorts.

Slowly, Hermione's doubts seemed to ebb, left only with a trace of curiosity as to who she really was, the enigma wrapped in elegance that was Narcissa Malfoy.

Draco nodded once, his glance following his mother's to Hermione - are you okay? he seemed to ask; I'm fine, she assured him - before he turned away, beginning to cross through the gardens.

"He's softer than he seems, you know," Narcissa murmured once he'd gone, taking a seat beside Hermione and letting her eyes follow her son's long strides. "More loving than he reveals to others." She straightened, clearing her throat as though ridding herself of her pesky sentimentality. "He looks and behaves quite like his father, of course, but his inner nature is far more like mine, I'm afraid."

Hermione couldn't help a tentative smile, watching as Draco smoothed his hair back absentmindedly, preparing to tap his unsuspecting aunt on the shoulder. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Ah, well, he's secretly a romantic," Narcissa assured her. "And it must be my doing." Her lovely face became somehow even lovelier, the affection for her son catching the light and blossoming in her features. "I used to tell him this foolish story - Lucius would always get so angry with me." She shook her head, laughing a little at the memory. "Said it would make him soft."

"What was the story?" Hermione asked, leaning forward with a smile.

Narcissa opened her mouth, but then, to Hermione's disappointment, clamped it shut again, resolute in her stoic aristocracy. "It's foolish," she repeated unconvincingly, and she moved to turn away.

"Please," Hermione said, and before she realized what she was doing, she'd reached out to rest her palm against the older witch's arm, stopping her in her tracks. "I'd love to hear it."

The motion, as unexpected as it was, had a vague sense of familiarity to it that they both seemed to recognize at the same time. For a moment, Narcissa looked as though she might protest, but at Hermione's touch, she softened.

Promise me.

Hermione drew her hand away, but the lingering comfort remained.

I promise.

"It's not really a story," Narcissa amended. "Just something my mother used to say."

Hermione waited. If Draco was as similar to Narcissa as she claimed, it was best to allow space for her thoughts; she was rewarded for her patience when Narcissa spoke again.

"My mother wasn't particularly warm," Narcissa ventured, and there was something girlish in her voice that Hermione recognized; a yearning of some kind, a lonely kind of craving that Hermione herself had once known quite well.

"Andromeda was mother to us all, mostly, though Mother did have one thing," Narcissa said carefully. "One thing she always said."

Hermione nodded, feeling the caress of a cool breeze, content with waiting. Narcissa, after a moment of pause, let her hand rest beside Hermione's, cutting the space between them.

"My mother used to tell us about an invisible red thread of fate," she explained softly, and Hermione could see it was a story she'd never shared outside of her son; a hidden lining of sorts, concealed by her polished exterior. "I don't know how the thread was both red and invisible, of course - "

"Of course," Hermione agreed, smiling.

" - but she told me that the thread bound two people from birth. Soulmates, you know," Narcissa added wistfully.

"It was a beautiful thought," Narcissa went on, looking at Hermione as though to beg forgiveness for her whimsy. "That the thread could twist and wind and pull but never break, so that regardless of time or place or circumstance, those who were connected by the thread would find each other."

This life or any other.

"I think I've heard that story before," Hermione whispered, and Narcissa squeezed her hand tightly.

Across the garden, Andromeda pulled Draco into an embrace, and all the worlds collided.

Their friends had been different, of course, and both easier and more difficult.

Harry had been first, as it was hard to avoid him; he seemed to prowl Grimmauld Place at all hours of the day and night, and the very first morning that Draco and Hermione had stumbled into the kitchen, sleep-deprived and satiated, he had been there, coffee in hand.

"Oh," Draco said, and Harry lifted an eyebrow.

"You two are not very covert," Harry noted, glancing between them and then letting his eyes travel first from the empty wine glasses on the table to the coats that lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Lack of auror training, I expect," Hermione attempted faintly, and Harry snorted softly in response, removing a mug from the cupboard and handing it to her.

"Give us a minute, would you?" Harry suggested, not taking his eyes off Draco.

Hermione emitted a muted squeak of protest, but Draco's expression never wavered.

"We're fine, Granger," he said tersely, crossing his arms.

She sighed. "No curses," she warned them, but she quietly backed away.

As it was Harry's house, Draco was gallant enough to give him the first blow, jutting his chin in challenge.

"Go ahead," he said simply.

Harry poured a cup of coffee, handing it to him; Draco accepted it, though he couldn't help sniffing it preemptively.

"I'm not poisoning you, Malfoy," Harry said, smirking. "Have some coffee."

"Shall I make myself comfortable, then?" Draco asked drily, taking a conciliatory sip.

"First," Harry said, taking a sip of his own, "tell me why you love her."

Draco sensed that had this been another time, or perhaps some other life, he might have done nothing more than scoff at the question; at the ridiculous notion that such a question could be answered, firstly, and then a secondary scoff at the idea that Potter merited an answer. As it was, however, Draco was a little exhausted at the thought of pretense; he'd hidden enough things in his lifetime to know that Hermione Granger needn't be one, and so the answer came easily.

"How could I not?" he offered weakly, shrugging in defeat.

To his surprise, Harry seemed to accept this explanation, nodding slowly in response.

"I suspect that if the circumstances were any different, I might put up more of a fight," Harry proposed, and Draco fought a smile at the harmonious parallelism of their respective reactions. "But she's different now, you know," Harry noted. "Happier."

Draco sensed something in the sentiment - something that rattled around in the timbre of the bespectacled wizard's voice, unable to stay hidden despite his best efforts. If Draco had been any less skeptical, he might have guessed it was gratitude.

"I'm not going to get in the way of that," Harry concluded after a moment, and then there was no mistaking the white flag.

Still, Draco never liked a quick surrender. He let a fair amount of silence pass between them, taking several sips before he responded.

"Good," he replied simply, and Harry cracked a smile.

"Now you can make yourself comfortable," the dark-haired wizard pronounced, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Friends now, are we?" he drawled, taking another audible sip.

"Unfortunately," Harry replied, his voice resigned and grim.

From just outside the door, Hermione ducked her head to cover a smile.

"Hermione and Draco are dating," Harry said casually, and Ron looked up from his dinner.

"Oh," said Ron, managing a swallow with difficulty. "Hm."

He squinted into nothing for a moment.

"Feels sort of normal," he grunted, his brow furrowed. "Sort of like I already knew that."

Harry nodded, and they both returned to their meal.

"So," Draco said, settling himself down beside Theo. "What do you think?"

"I like her more than you already," Theo replied.

In truth, there had always been something strange about Granger; not necessarily about her, per se, but something that surrounded her. When Draco had first brought it up - casually, and slipping it into conversation as though he were asking Theo to pass the salt - he had felt some kind of settling in his brain, some unidentifiable sense of ah yes, that's right, a sigh of recognition that had soothed him as much as it startled him. Like a piece of him could finally rest.

He wasn't sure he could explain it, and there were even more strange occurrences over time. Like, for example, the time Theo just happened to know that Hermione preferred Earl Grey in the afternoons, and that she liked it taken with lemon; he swore up and down that she must have told him that at one point, but she insisted it had never come up. There was the time, too, that Hermione seemed to know that a room in Nott Manor had once been a library before his father's death, though Theo knew for certain she had never been there. And of course there was no overlooking the very strange time that Draco asked for Theo's help in choosing Hermione's birthday gift; inexplicably, his first thought was to suggest transfiguring Draco's signet ring to a pendant, and the moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized the idea had just been lounging in his brain, waiting to be invited out for conversation. Once she started wearing it, Theo realized he couldn't imagine her without it.

And she called him Lancelot, once. It seemed innocent enough, though he had still looked accusingly to Draco; not even Daphne knew about that. The other man only shrugged, insisting he'd never said anything, and for whatever reason, Theo was inclined to believe him. There were certainly a number of very strange things about Granger.

Though, mostly, it was how quickly she felt like family.

"Ah," Draco said, entering the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and nodding. "You're up."

"Always," Harry replied, grinning. "Going to be weird when I'm the only one."

"You should consider sleep potion," Draco suggested loftily, taking a seat across from him. "You need your beauty sleep, Potter."

"I do pretty well without it," Harry countered and Draco chuckled. "Besides, it's really only like this when Ginny's with the team." He looked up, giving Draco a knowing glance. "You, on the other hand, are nocturnal all the time."

Not exactly true. In reality, Draco had grown quite comfortable with the late night chats in the kitchen, and it had felt like a habit long before it had actually been habit; he suspected that without the option of Harry's company, he would sleep just fine in their new flat, though he would likely never admit it.

He shrugged.

"What's this?" Draco asked, eyeing the parchment in front of Harry.

"Guest list," Harry said tersely, frowning. "Ginny needs me to decide who I want to invite." He rolled his eyes. "And apparently it needs to be done tonight."

"Hardly fair to blame her," Draco pointed out, thinking of the witch's positively violent opposition to wedding planning. "That's got Molly written all over it."

"True," Harry conceded, making a face. "I hate this."

"Oh, don't act like it's so difficult, Potter," Draco said, feigning irritation. "Besides me, Theo, and the Weasel clan, who do you even know?"

"You should really stop calling them that," Harry admonished him, though Draco could see he was fighting a smile. "You're just still upset Molly forced you into a jumper last Christmas."

"As if I can be expected to participate in matching jumpers," Draco grumbled, still not fully recovered from the horrifying ordeal. "And in Gryffindor colors, honestly?"

"I thought you looked lovely," Harry said, his face reddening with contained laughter.

"I did," Draco sniffed. "But that's hardly the point."

Harry's festering laughter continued. "Honestly, I'm not sure anything beats your mum's reaction to it - "

"She has truly never looked so revolted in her entire life, I'm sure," Draco agreed, picturing the blanched look on Narcissa's face. "I think she might have had Granger obliviate her after seeing me in it."

"You should get her to join in this year instead of splitting the holiday," Harry pointed out. "I'm sure Molly can make one more - "

"Don't you dare threaten my saint of a mother with one of those monstrosities," Draco warned stiffly, and Harry's laughter erupted in peals. "I think she might've burned mine - "

"I just hope Ron gets Pansy in one this year," Harry choked out. "Can you imagine?"

"Fuck, that would be ideal," Draco agreed, picturing the look on her face and mimicking her. "Weasley, you twat, I'll kill myself and you before I let you put that on me - "

Harry was practically convulsing with laughter, and Draco smothered a chuckle, pleased with him himself.

"Anyway," Draco said, once Harry regained his ability to breathe. "What's the issue with the guest list?"

"Well," Harry said, removing his glasses to wipe the mirthful tears from his eyes. "I'm not sure whether I should invite my cousin."

"The muggle one?" Draco asked, feeling a faint tug in his mind at the thought. "What was his name?"

"Dudley," said Harry, and a hazy image formed in Draco's mind.

"I think you should," Draco pronounced slowly. "Just a feeling."

"My, my, Draco Malfoy," Harry drawled mockingly. "How very progressive of you."

"Just a feeling," Draco grunted back, but Harry seemed pleased with his answer.

"Dudley it is," he murmured, scribbling the name on the parchment.

"Merlin's bollocks, that's illegible," Draco exclaimed, snatching the list and the quill from him. "You dictate, Potter," he instructed. "I'll write."

"Godmother?" Hermione echoed. "Really?"

Daphne opened her mouth to answer, but Theo cut her off.

"Fucking obviously, Granger," Theo said, shaking his head.

"I'd have gone for something more like 'of course,' or, 'who else would be better,' but that works just as well, I suppose," Daphne murmured, shaking her head in amusement.

"Draco is obviously godfather," Theo pointed out, jutting out his chin to reference him.

"Obviously," Draco drawled, eyeing his fingernails, and Theo turned back to Hermione.

"And you're, you know - " Theo faltered helplessly.

Draco was his best friend, of course, had always been; but Hermione was something to him too, and of her own accord. Theo had quite enjoyed being independently wealthy for a time, but found that ultimately there were too many demons to wrangle and far too much free time. It had been Hermione who'd convinced him to start writing, to comment one day that his thoughts merited recording, and in a bizarre twist of successfully taking someone else's advice, Theo had complied.

It was Hermione who had patiently read his drafts, listened to his thoughts, encouraged his madness. Draco had saved his life but it had been Hermione who helped him learn how to live it, who'd recognized something in him and trusted it, believed in it with a confidence that Theo would never understand. She seemed to know things about him that nobody else had ever comprehended; she was the one to convince him that even his dark thoughts, twisted and abhorrent as they were, were still somehow beautiful.

The way it feels to hurt someone, he told her, nervous at first. It's -

Like your soul is ripping, she finished for him, a strange glimmer appearing in her eye.

She was the one to teach him that everyone had light and dark, and he had only to choose the brush with which he painted.

Hermione coughed quietly, looking expectantly at him. "I'm what?" she prodded.

"You're my lawyer," Theo declared, finally settling on a term as his wife rolled her eyes.

"You're important to us," Daphne supplied kindly, reaching out to pat her husband's knee.

Hermione smiled, leaning in as Draco kissed her temple. "I can't wait to meet to meet our godchild," she said, radiant at the thought.

Theo and Daphne exchanged glances.

"Actually," Theo corrected. "Make that godchildren."

Dudley Dursley saw the owl approaching and felt a stirring in his chest; it had been such a long time, he thought, wondering what had happened to his cousin Harry's owl. He thought about the stack of Daily Prophets that he kept in a box in the back of the linen closet and considered digging them out, wondering whether it was worth going back for another read.

Well, not read, exactly, he thought, recalling his fascination with the pictures.

"Stepping outside for a minute," he called to Gabrielle, attempting to intercept the owl before she saw it. He wondered if it might startle her; he hadn't told her about the circumstances of his cousin - hadn't told anyone, of course, for who would even believe him? - and he certainly wasn't about to start now.

"Here," he muttered to the owl, waving it down awkwardly as he stepped onto the balcony of his flat. The owl, a brown one he'd never seen before, landed gracefully on the railing, a letter tied to its leg.

"Thanks," Dudley muttered, giving it an awkward pat. "Can you, er - wait?"

Either the owl nodded at him, or Dudley was going mad; he chose to believe the former.

"Thanks," he said again, tearing open the envelope and scanning it quickly.

You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Mr. Harry James Potter and Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley -

"Dudley!"

He spun around quickly, hiding the letter behind his back. "Yes?" he asked sheepishly, reticent to meet the dark blue eyes of his stunningly beautiful girlfriend.

"Dudley," she said again, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Is zat - "

"Nothing, nothing," he mumbled incoherently, shuffling his feet. "Just an, um - " he swallowed, looking to the owl, who was no help at all.

"But you are not - " Gabrielle herself seemed to be at a loss for words. "You are not a wizard, are you?"

Dudley gaped at her. "Not me," he managed weakly, and she stepped forward, holding her hand out in her very commanding way.

"Show me," she instructed. "Show me zis."

He sighed; he was never really able to resist her. He handed her the invitation, watching as her eyes went wide.

"'Arry!" she exclaimed, nearly squealing with excitement. "'Arry Potter? You know 'im?"

"Do you?" Dudley asked incredulously, squinting at her.

"Yes, yes!" she seemed ecstatic, her accent thickening. "Oui, I know 'im!" She faltered. "But, you - you are not - "

"No," Dudley cut in sadly. Just a muggle, he reminded himself, sighing. "Harry's my cousin but I'm . . . not." He stepped forward, taking Gabrielle's small hands in his. "But - you?"

"I am a witch," Gabrielle confirmed slowly, giving him a tentative smile.

Before he could stop himself, Dudley burst into a line of manic questioning. "You can do magic?" he said excitedly, and she blessed him with her tinkling laugh. "Can you make things fly? Do you have an owl? Did you go to Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and non," she said, her pretty lips curled in an utterly bewitching smile. "Not 'ogwarts, I attended Beauxbatons - "

"There's another school?" he interrupted happily, grasping her face in his hands and kissing her soundly. "Tell me everything," he insisted, and she let out another deliciously enticing laugh.

"They've offered me a seat on the Wizengamot," Hermione said breathlessly, her eyes the size of saucers as she scanned the letter. "I'd be the youngest member in at least a century - "

"Take it," Draco said simply, eyeing her from across the room. "Accept. Right now."

She frowned. "But - "

"Take it," he repeated, giving her one of his silencing glares.

"But why me?" she insisted, standing up to pace their office. "You should be on it - "

"Take it," he said again, his tone bored as he bent to flip the pages of the case law before him.

"But - "

"Take it."

" - I've no experience, and really, I - "

"Take it."

" - can't imagine this is a good idea - "

"Take it."

" - you know how I hate politics - "

"Well you'd better get used to them," Draco interrupted, abandoning his work with an audible sigh and crossing the room to put his hands on her shoulders. "I fully expect to live a comfortable life as the husband of the Minister for Magic someday, you know - "

"You'd better find someone qualified to marry, then," Hermione teased, putting her arms around his neck and nuzzling into his chest.

"Funny you should say that," Draco commented wryly, and she pulled back to look at him. "I mean, considering that I've been carrying a very heavy engagement ring around in my pocket for several weeks now."

Hermione seemed like her first instinct was to laugh, but she cut herself off abruptly as she caught the seriousness of his expression.

"What?" she said blankly, blinking at him. "Really?"

"Yes," he replied, tightening his grip around her waist with one arm as he reached into his pocket with the other. "Haven't found the right time to ask," he explained, holding the small box in front of her.

The look on her face was torturously entertaining, but he managed to fight back a laugh.

"And" - Hermione swallowed, her throat seemingly quite dry - "you decided this was the right time?"

"Well, I'd hoped to use it as an opportunity to steal someone else's thunder out from under them," he replied airily. "The birth of Theo's twins was my first thought - "

"Oh Draco - "

"Harry and Ginny's wedding was my next idea - I was thinking mid-ceremony - "

"Draco!"

"Well, I didn't, did I?" he insisted pointedly, grinning devilishly at her. "So, now that I've found a natural segue - "

"And to think your mother considers you a romantic," Hermione grumbled, shaking her head as she mimicked his dispassionate expression. "Natural segue - "

"I'm not not romantic," Draco murmured, kissing her cheek. "You know what today is?"

"Thursday?" she guessed, and he flashed her a disapproving glare.

"Today marks two years from the moment I knew I loved you," he informed her, and at her softened expression, he broke out in a triumphant smirk. "Bet you feel like a real dickhead now," he added snottily. "Don't you, Granger?"

"Two years ago was our first day here," she remembered, ignoring his snarky comment as a smile flitted its way across her lips. "Did you really know even then?"

"Didn't you?" he prompted.

Her eyes gave him the answer. He heard her voice in his soul.

Yes.

"So," he managed hoarsely, after a minute or two of silently taking in the way her golden brown eyes caught the light. "What do you think, Granger?"

This life or any other.

"Not to be indelicate," Hermione replied, fighting a smile. "But I think I'm going to marry the fuck out of you."

a/n: Not to be excessively Joanne, but this is for you - for taking this whole journey with me.

(Also, at the time I am writing this, DrSallySparrow is about to post a Theomione that I can't stop squealing about, so be sure to follow her and keep an eye out for Nyctophilia.)