Chapter 11
Sunlight streamed through the window and warmed Hermione's side of the bed.
She'd have thought it was uncomfortably warm under normal circumstances—the way the light refracted through the glass seemed to cut harsher than direct sunlight—but the warm body holding her possessively to its side only served to exacerbate the sticky heat.
In repose, Draco's face was far calmer than it had been the night before. Even in his openness with her, his expression had held a pinch of foreboding, a careful trepidation that betrayed just how tightly wound he had been. He'd still expected her to rebuke him.
She couldn't find it in her to be offended.
Not after the shared history they had, nor after finding out the motivation for his deceit for so long.
The wounds were still raw, the sting of betrayal still sharp if she lingered on it, but she could feel the fresh start between them just as clearly as if she'd found a hidden masterpiece beneath a layer of paint.
Draco was that masterpiece. Hidden beneath the veneer of James was a wealth of a wizard.
Hermione looked forward to puzzling out what that meant for them, even if it made her heart race in both fear and anticipation.
"You're staring." His voice rumbled through her, lip quirking when he cracked an eye open.
A flush raced through her, but she didn't deny it. The morning light through his hair lit him in a halo.
Even if she'd wanted to protest, she couldn't, not when he looked like that.
Slowly, giving her ample time to pull away, Draco leaned into her, bracketing her body with his as he lowered his lips to hers.
The kiss was sweet, much calmer than the multitude they'd shared the night before, but Hermione could still feel the heat and longing lying dormant beneath it.
A dam had broken between them, and she couldn't wait to ride out the flood.
When he pulled away, she offered him a shy smile. "Good morning," she whispered, voice raw from the sounds he'd wrought from her the night before and the tears she'd shed into his chest in the quiet moments afterwards.
No matter how she tried to forget, the guilt in her core wouldn't let her.
But today... today they'd get Elara and Archer. And whoever had taken them would have Hermione to answer to.
Hermione would be a force to be reckoned with.
Draco pulled back, gaze flicking between her eyes. He was close enough that his breath fanned over her cheeks, his nose brushing hers. She could see the joy in his eyes when he answered her greeting with a simple, "Morning."
For a small shared moment, everything was normal. Her children were sleeping down the hall, and her husband was wrapped around her.
The shades of light behind him shifted, the deep orange hues of the impending sunrise shifting and brightening to bright, pearlescent blue, and the moment shattered.
At the window, Kingsley's lynx prowled carefully, awaiting its entrance to be granted.
Draco sighed, dropping his forehead to her shoulder with a quiet swear, but in the next moment he pushed off her and strolled to the window.
It took every bit of mental—and physical—fortitude that Hermione could muster not to drag his bare arse back into bed as he strode to the window and waved the warding away.
James had been fit in an unassuming sort of way. He'd trained, she recalled, for long years by playing rugby—another question she'd need to ask him: was it really rugby?—but the results of it showed when the glamour was gone.
Broad shoulders slimmed to a trim waist, and little dimples winked just above the swell of his arse.
Hermione was well aware that she was staring, but some things couldn't be helped.
After all, he was her husband—if he was going to strut around naked as the day he was born, then she deserved to get a look. Especially if it momentarily distracted her racing heart with another reason to palpitate.
In the next breath, the lynx Patronus soared through the open window, its tail flicking expectantly.
Draco seemed to read the creature's expression as it settled on the end of the bed eyeing him, and he muttered a swear beneath his breath before he dipped into the closet and returned clad in a pair of soft pyjama pants.
Satisfied, the Patronus opened its mouth. "We have traced unusual magic to the Lestrange home."
Hermione's blood ran cold, her fear mirrored in Draco's.
The Patronus continued. "It appears to be defensive—though I'm not entirely sure that's even a correct assessment." Kingsley paused, his voice contemplative when the lynx spoke again. "We'd like you both to arrive at the Ministry at your earliest convenience. To plan extraction."
Hermione pushed herself out of bed, torn between terror and righteous anger. She knew Kingsley was helping them, and theoretically it should be easier to examine the situation by putting emotion aside and viewing this as any other case, but...
This wasn't any other case; they were her children, and she'd ignored her feelings far longer than she should have.
Quickly, she and Draco dressed, the easy idleness of the morning forgotten in their haste.
The Auror Headquarters were just as cold and clinical as Draco remembered.
Even the conference room they'd taken felt sterile—shiny, black tiles lined the floor and stiff-backed chairs ringed a half-moon table. Kingsley sat on the opposite side, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared between them.
"No objections?" Disbelief laced his tone.
Oh, Draco had many objections.
A quick glance at Hermione revealed her agreeance. Her body was coiled tight in her chair, but it was her eyes that sent pride lancing through him.
Kignsley really didn't want to deal with everything going through Draco's head.
In a fit of compassion lest Hermione throw everything she had at the Minister, Draco leaned towards the other man, laying his palms flat on the table. "Minister, I'm not sure we heard you correctly." It was an olive branch if only in appearance—they'd heard him. Neither of them could believe it, though. "You expect us to stay here, at the Ministry, removed from the extraction detail to—what? Protect the 'integrity' of the investigation?"
Kingsley had the grace to look uncomfortable. "That is correct, yes."
"Not happening," Hermione said through gritted teeth..
Draco wondered how terrible it made him to relish that he got to witness her let it loose.
Her chair squealed as she leaned forward, fire in her posture. "You knew, for months, that something was occuring in the wizarding world—something nefarious. You knew it involved my family."
The words lanced through the air, hitting Kingsley square in the chest if the way he rubbed at it uncomfortably was any indication. With another grimace, the Minister nodded. "We did."
"Yet you chose not to inform us." She didn't ask this time. "And you knew it was very likely that James Ainsley was actually Draco Malfoy. You thought him to be involved with the activity that the Aurors had documented—the disappearances, the spellwork, all of it."
Again, Kingsley tightened his lips. "Miss Granger, you have to understand that I—"
"I don't have to understand a thing, Kings." Hermione barked out a half-hearted laugh, her eyes brimming with tears. "If you had just done something, we might not even be in this mess. You have connections, you have the resources, to stop everything in its tracks. You saw what happened when Fudge ignored Voldemort's second rise."
Her voice lowered to a whisper, accusation in every syllable. "I thought the wizarding world was done using us as pawns after Harry was very nearly killed."
Draco felt uncomfortable heat rising in his throat. How long had they been another ace in someone else's game? How long would he allow his children to play a part in this, no matter how small or large?
He loosened his clenched hand, reaching across the table for Hermione's. It was a lifeline, and she accepted it without breaking her glare at Kingsley. "Here are the terms: Draco and I will approach the Lestrange property with Merrythought. That's it." She raised her hand to stop Kingsley's protest, silencing him before she continued. "A small detail of Aurors will follow behind us as backup. They should arrive no earlier than fifteen minutes after we depart. Plenty of time for us to enter the property and dismantle the warding."
Kingsley drew his lips into a taut line. "And how do we know that you're capable of dismantling a blood warding, Miss Granger?"
Bristling, Draco interceded. "The blood warding is very likely to be keyed to the Black family line; everything else in the case has, so it stands to reason that this will be no different. We'll use my blood to dismantle the warding. As it stands, myself, and my mother, are the only available wizards for the job."
"And if you send a detail of Aurors in first without properly dismantling the warding, my children stand even further at risk," Hermione ground out, her eyes determined. "And I'd prefer not to leave them at the mercy of the Ministry and this witch any longer."
Kingsley worked his jaw, the grind of his teeth nearly audible, but after several more tense seconds, he dipped his head, silent in his concession. "Done."
From the exterior, Lestrange Manor looked very much like the Ministry had recorded: failing and decrepit, the windows shattered out and vines twisting around spires as it settled into the passage of time.
Draco knew otherwise.
Where the Black family was skilled in familial magic, the Lestranges were no stranger to magic of glamours. Paired with the Black family lineage, it was little wonder that the manor had stood undisturbed for so long.
The perfect place to disappear—hidden right under their noses all along.
For as much as he wanted to charge in, wand waving, something told him to still himself.
"There's concealing magic on the brickwork," Hermione whispered, her wand arcing in subtle strikes before her. "It's reminiscent of that on Hogwarts; instead of sending Muggles away, it looks like the charm has been altered to key to the oaths that Aurors take upon swearing in." She leaned forward, trying to see through the underbrush. "It's likely why the Ministry was unaware that it was intact."
Draco swore to himself. "Shouldn't they have been able to detect it?"
"Not necessarily," Merrythought answered, his jaw set in a grim line; he seemed to be fighting the urge to turn around if the taut line of his shoulders bowed towards the manor was any indication. "There's been so little evidence of uprisings in the last few years that the less senior Aurors have become complacent. It's a problem that the department is working to correct."
"Obviously not quickly enough." The retort slipped through Draco's lips unchecked, and though he saw Merrythought's desire to correct him, the wizard wisely kept his mouth shut.
Hermione rocked backwards, determination evident in the taut methodical wave of her wand and the way her eyes continued to dart over the building's facade. "What's the plan?"
"There's not one," Merrythought answered, "other than the usual. We dismantle the wards as agreed upon with Kingsley, and the team of Aurors that arrives immediately afterwards will be sent in to extract the children; they'll conduct a thorough search of the premises to determine that it's safe to enter. You both will stay out of harm's way until it's been determined that there is no danger to your person."
"No."
Merrythought turned to Draco, brows lifted. "You have a better idea, Malfoy?"
Draco didn't miss the challenge in the words, but he rolled his shoulders, twirling his wand between his fingers. "You read the same note that we all did; we weren't to involve Aurors. Whoever has the children knows by now that we did. It's very likely why they rushed the timeline. We have no idea what's happening inside that house, and I'll be damned if I allow someone else to go in there and put Elara and Archer at further risk."
"We're going in there, whether you like it or not, Merrythought. You can either accompany us or get out of the way." Hermione widened her stance, preparing for pushback. "I've petrified friends for less." Hermione's resolve matched his own, and Draco felt his shoulders loosen at the knowledge that they were a unified front.
Merrythought frowned, studying the building. "The longer we argue about this, the more time we lose." With a muttered curse, he turned to them. "Neither of you are to leave my line of sight. Is that clear?" At their simultaneous nod, he added, "And no charging into battle without pausing to consider the consequences."
"I can't promise that," Hermione retorted. "Not when every minute counts."
A grim shake of his head was Merrythought's only response—the wizard was smart enough not to push Hermione, already at her wit's end, and Draco felt pride flare in his chest. Merrythought turned towards the manor, discomfort in the ramrod straight line of his back. "Let's go, then. Careful, checking for warding just like at Malfoy Manor."
Draco drew forward, carefully examining the dome of warding that stretched over Lestrange Manor. Beside him, Hermione cast several diagnostic charms.
"It appears to be similar to the same warding that was used on the cave in which Voldemort concealed one of his Horcruxes," Hermione muttered, her wand leaving ephemeral arcs of blue light over the dome.
Draco sucked in a breath, steadying the sudden fear that raced through him. A distant, childish part of him feared the connection—perhaps Voldeort hadn't been killed after all. Maybe, all these years later, he was lying in wait to punish Draco for his defection.
If Hermione noticed his rising panic, she didn't give any indication. She took careful, measured steps along the perimeter of the dome, tracing runes and sigils into the magic of it until she stopped several metres away, her spellwork illuminating the outlines of a faint, vaguely human-sized arch.
"Here," she said, tapping her wand against it. "You were right—it's keyed to a blood link. If I were to venture a guess, it requires Black blood."
Draco was already moving, his wand slashing down his open palm as he went. Hermione made a quiet noise of distress, but he'd already squeezed the wound, and blood sluiced over his fingertips.
Without preamble, he splayed his hand against the dome.
Seconds passed, stretching into minutes, but nothing happened. No great tremors followed his actions, and as time passed, Draco's hopes guttered out.
Maybe it'd been a distraction the whole time, luring them away from the kids in the hopes of the clock running out before they could track them down.
Just as Draco pulled away, his chest heaving with the effort to keep back the roar of anger that was building in his gut, the outline shimmered. In the blink of an eye, the wards disappeared, revealing the expanse of Lestrange property beyond.
Cutting his gaze to Granger's, Draco took an experimental step over the boundary. He didn't incinerate, nothing fell from the sky to crush him, and with a final shaky breath in which he thanked his lucky stars, he motioned Hermione and Merrythought onward.
The manor's grounds were manicured beyond the bubble of the spell. It was evident that someone had been caring for the property in the years since the war, and Hermione's lip curled at the Ministry's negligence.
They should have been more thorough in their examination of Death Eater properties.
Much like she'd done at the Malfoy estate, she swept her wand over the ground before her, searching for residual magic that might hinder their approach.
Even as she walked closer to the imposing structure, she could feel the weight of expectation on her shoulders—the knowledge that she was being watched secondary only to the riot of nerves and maternal rage coiling unchecked in her gut.
Draco spoke out of the side of his mouth to her. "Do you feel it?"
A singular nod of her head confirmed her answer. "The west wing of the manor."
She tracked Draco's gaze, watching it sweep over the windows. Sconces were lit in recessed hallways, just visible through heavy velvet drapes obscuring the rooms beyond panes of glass.
"There," he whispered, his wand jerking in its sweep over the ground.
In the uppermost spire, a curtain shifted as though disturbed by an errant gust of wind.
A face appeared, both familiar and foreign in appearance, and Hermione froze, fear racing up her spine. She knew that face, the gaunt hollows beneath wild eyes and even wilder hair.
Bellatrix.
She was rooted to the spot, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the witch's manic laughter rang through her ears some fifteen years later.
"Hermione, we've got to move." Draco cupped her elbow, attempting to drag her forwards, but Hermione couldn't move, her feet rooted to the spot.
"Did you see her? Bellatrix, she's—" Hermione's words lodged in her throat, but Draco was there, dragging her into him.
"It's not her, Hermione. Bella died in the war—you saw Molly attack her." His words made sense on a rational level, but she couldn't quite quell the sense of fear that had wrapped around her throat.
Bellatrix had her children.
Before Hermione could stop herself, she ran, scanning for magical boobytraps be damned. Her feet pounded over the ground, grass ripping in her wake as she went. Behind her, Merrythought bellowed for her to stop, but she couldn't.
The manor doors opened before her without prompting. There was no great squeal of hinges or fanfare upon their unlatching, no servants to greet her in the empty corridor, no portraits donning the walls that would serve to warn her of danger. The only thing that accompanied her was her own ragged breathing and the righteous anger and fear that thundered in her veins.
It was that fear that wrenched her words free of the vice grip that was her throat. "Elara! Archer!"
Behind her, Malfoy and Merrythought charged into the room, their hair askew and breathing ragged.
"Granger, what in the ever-loving fuck do you—" Merrythought began, his eyes going wide. "Get down!"
Hermione hit the floor, scrambling to roll as wandfire lanced over her shoulder and shattered one of the large oak doors. She swore to herself, fumbling for her wand even as she shouted a wandless shield charm overtop them.
Spellfire barraged them. From all sides, Hermione could just make out shadowed figures standing in doorways and in the double staircases arching up before them.
She couldn't see Draco.
A whole new fear gripped her heart, that she would lose both her husband—this new-found love that she needed to explore all over again—and her children in one fell swoop, and she pushed herself to her feet.
"Enough." The wandfire died immediately at the voice that commanded them. Muffled footsteps followed it, traipsing out of the shadows on the second floor landing.
This close, Hermione could see how she'd mistaken the witch in the window for Bellatrix. But without the shadows of the manor casting her in greyscale, the wild curls that cascaded around her face were silvery, the tips dyed blue. It softened her appearance, accentuating the soft curves of cheeks that betrayed the woman's youth, though her sharp cheekbones complemented deep-set green eyes.
The deep, unabiding sorrow reflected in this witch's gaze rocked Hermione.
"I wondered when you would arrive," the witch uttered, her voice, smoke and honey, lilting through the room. "Welcome to my home, Lestrange Manor."
Hermione fought the sympathy that suddenly assaulted her. "Where are Elara and Archer?"
The woman cocked her head, studying Hermione intently. When her gaze shifted to the left, Hermione dropped back a step, leaning into Draco's steady presence. "It's good to see you again, Draco."
Hermione bristled, but Draco shot back, "Delphini—do you go by Riddle or Black?" Draco cocked his head, studying her. "I should have seen the resemblance then."
The witch offered a smile and a slight shrug of her shoulder, as though she were brushing off an annoying bug. "A trick of the light, a tweak of the appearance. I wouldn't have you recognise me for who I was before the groundwork was laid."
"Why?" Hermione whispered, her throat tight around the inquiry. Something in her bled to know the truth, to distract the witch long enough that the remaining Aurors might arrive.
The woman's face flickered, the sorrow returning. "I'm afraid the explanation is longer than you might allow me." Gesturing to the hall around her, she descended the stairs, her shoes clopping over the worn wood.
"I promise to give you the time if—" Hermione's voice broke, her fear making a resurgence. "If you promise that the children will be returned safely."
Delphini cocked her head, genuine surprise lighting her features. "The children were never in danger."
All the air in the room seemed to have escaped, leaving Hermione without the ability to form anything intelligent beyond a whispered, "What?"
"Would you like proof?" Delphini stopped before them, her hands held before her in supplication. "The children are upstairs, but they are free to do as they please. You need only call them again; the silencing charms have been cancelled."
Draco stepped alongside Hermione, his throat working as she stared up at him. Merrythought joined them, his wand held firmly in his grasp. At his stiff nod, Draco cleared his throat. "Elara? Archer?"
The silence that descended on them was deafening, and Hermione tried to quell the part of her soul that told her that her children were gone—that this was a ploy that the strange woman before her had concocted to inflict as much pain as she could. Her fingers itched to wrap around the woman's throat and end it for herself—
Footsteps sounded.
Followed by giggling.
She knew that laughter.
And Elara appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes alight and hair cascading down her back in a riot of curls. Archer stood just behind her, his hand wrapping protectively over his sister's shoulder lest she get too close to the stairs. His eyes flickered to Draco's figure, suspicious at the way he fit into Hermione's space, but Hermione would explain it all to him later. Once they were away from here and safe and she could hold them in her arms and promise them this would never happen again.
The children.
They were alive.
Despite the overwhelming evidence that they had been over the past few days, a small part of her had braced itself for the worst, and Hermione's heart finally began to beat in her chest again. Knees buckling, she reached for Draco as a sob of relief tore from her throat.
"They can't come down the stairs—not yet, at least," Delphini said, her gaze ticking between Draco and Hermione. "There is warding in place until we reach an agreement."
"An agreement?" Draco scoffed, derision in his tone. "You've sent us chasing down false leads for the last five days, and you want to reach an agreement?"
Delphini's countenance hardened. "They were not false leads. All of this has been carefully planned to avoid other futures—futures with terrible consequences for all of us."
Hermione jolted, searching the other woman's gaze. Perhaps it was the earnest, open expression with which Delphini stared down at them, but something in Hermione believed her; despite her loathing of divination, there was truth in the way the woman spoke . "What do you know?"
Delphini reached beneath her blouse and withdrew a battered Time Turner. With a flick of her wrist, it soared through the air, landing at Merrythought's feet. Without lowering his wand, he swept it into a pouch he kept slung around his waist. Delphini waited until his gaze was on her to answer. "With that Time Turner, I visited twenty different versions of the future, each one more dismal than the last."
Hermione felt her jaw drop open. "That's impossible. Skipping through time like that—it'd drive even the strongest witch or wizard mad."
"I wish I could argue that point; my grasp on reality is tenuous at best, but—" Delphini paused, gaze unfocusing as she searched for an explanation. "The realities I saw were horrific; witches and wizards dying out, their magic revealed to Muggles. Persecution like nothing our kind has seen before."
Draco swore under his breath, his grip tightening on Hermione's hand.
"How long?" Hermione asked.
Delphini's expression was uncertain, bordering on a fear that threatened to drag her under if the set of shoulders was any indication. "I'm thirty years old. Or I would be—if I hadn't abandoned my timeline. Now, I'm not entirely sure."
Hermione wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she didn't push the witch any further. "Why the children?"
At that, Delphini faltered, her gaze flickering towards Elara and Archer. They showed no fear of the witch—the image must have been taken shortly after she'd snatched them from Grimmauld Place, Archer's protective instincts presenting themselves when confronted by a strange witch. "Your reputation precedes you, Hermione Granger." The comment did little to ease Hermione's ire, and she could feel her shoulders draw up around her ears, hand tightening on her wand as the number of reasons not to attack the witch dwindled yet again. "If your protective nature with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley in your school years were any less documented, I may have given up entirely."
Draco's patience was wearing thin, his face pinking with restraint. "Cryptic answers aren't to your benefit if you'd like to avoid the receiving end of offensive magic."
With a dip of her head, Delphini settled on the step, indicating that the children should do the same. With a small giggle, Elara and Archer sat behind her.
Hermione watched the exchange carefully, her breath shallow.
Delphini continued. "I went back near ten times, to that day at Hogwarts. May 2nd, 1998. If nothing else, I just wanted to see him. My father."
Voldemort. Tom Riddle. It was the first acknowledgement of who her father was, and it lanced through them all like a blade. Hermione could hear the sharp breath that Draco sucked in, his complexion paling further. "And I saw you then. Both of you. You, in the Great Hall"—she gestured at Hermione—"peering into each face of the dead as though you could will them back."
Hermione remembered that moment more starkly than any other part of the final battle. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Even Lavender. All of them laid out on the floor of the Great Hall, unblinking. Unseeing. Their bodies rapidly cooling as rigor mortis set in. It was easier then to dissect their passing with a scientific detachment, just as she had compartmentalised the children's disappearance all week.
It hurt less than remembering that her fallen friends were once vibrant, whole people with dreams and hopes and a vision for a future that they would never see.
That they had died for.
Delphini's voice drew Hermione's attention back to her, quiet and contemplative in its smoky drawl. "And you, Draco, fleeing from a situation you had no say in, that you were thrust into without ceremony. Every line of you wound taut, regretful."
She tucked her hands behind her back as she stared down at them, and it was only then that Hermione realised how slight the witch was. For as voluminous as her hair was and elaborately as she'd painted herself, she carried the air of a woman much younger than she appeared. Her body was wiry from malnourishment, dark hollows lining her cheeks and rimming her eyes. She looked tired, more world weary than Hermione could even contemplate—not even after her own mad dash against the clock with Harry and Ron in their seventh year.
Part of her panged with sympathy, though her maternal rage shoved it down.
Delphini heaved in a shaking breath, looking between them before she continued. "The first time, I went back far enough to see her, too. Not long to change anything—just... enough to know."
Fingers playing at the tips of her hair, it wasn't hard to determine who Delphini meant. Bellatrix, the mother she never knew. Again, Hermione felt her heart cracking for the woman.
She never had an opportunity to be anything but a product of her ancestry.
"I thought... I thought maybe history had it wrong. Always written by the victors, as they say—I hoped it was a gross misrepresentation, an excuse to vindicate her loss by a side that was intimidated by power and prestige." Delphini sighed, sweeping upright with her hands before her. "But when I saw the way she raved at you in the Manor, Hermione, I knew… there was no saving her, nothing I could do to change it. And still I tried to. And the consequences…" She shuddered, the ghost of horrors neither Hermione nor Draco would ever be privy to crossing her face. "They were enough to make me pause."
The witch stood before them without her wand, susceptible to any attack that might befall her.
For a split second, Draco wondered whether it was all a sick joke. Whether someone had been in on the plan to bring them all down or if it was really as simple as this woman—Delphini, his cousin—made it out to be.
"One slight alteration—stopping your escape from the Manor—resulted in Harry Potter's death," Delphini said, regret heavy in her tone. "And in the future that I knew from that one alteration, the Wizarding World was in ruins. Voldemort threw Muggle-borns into camps or killed them. Muggles were murdered openly in the streets. And the father that I hoped he might be… I knew then that there was not a chance to change him. And yet I tried, again and again, the changes no less devastating to any of you."
None of them made a sound in the room, but pops of Apparition in the distance alerted them to the Aurors' arrival.
Still, Delphini continued, lost in her memories and regret. "Hermione was married to Ronald Weasley and was miserable. Draco was a widow, his son—Scorpius in that life—growing up without a family beyond the walls of Malfoy Manor. It was miserable." She cut her gaze away, the skin at the corners of her eyes pinching together to betray her uncertainty.
Hermione was the one to break the silence. "And what was your goal in coming back? Why did you hide it all?"
Delphini shrugged. "There was no plan beyond nudging people in the right direction—it only takes one decision to change the course of history." She began a slow descent of the steps, and Draco nudged Hermione behind him, a buffer should Delphini strike. "I've seen what it was like for the Dark Lord's followers to rise." She gestured to the room at large, to the figures lurking in the shadows around them. "And it took a while, but they're all here—every last one of his living supporters, Death Eaters marked, Imperiused to follow my command with no restrictions. I'm prepared to offer them to you in exchange for your leniency."
"Why?" The word fell from his lips in a disbelieving huff. "Why put everything you know at risk for the slim chance that it would go your way?"
Delphini's expression was full of heartbreak that Draco knew personally. "I have long hoped that someone would be able to prove that we're not all so bad as our legacy before us." Her fingers steepled before her. "Hatred, division... it's all a symptom of a rotten system. I've seen the way that it infects the future, much like it affected you and your friends. I've felt the way it curdles the blood, withers away even the strongest moral obligations. For the sake of my living relatives, I wanted to help them avoid that anguish."
When she finally peered down at them again, Delphini's expression was shuttered.
For just a moment, Draco could see himself in her.
Delphini lifted her arms again."For an opportunity, I would do whatever it takes."
Hermione was less forgiving. "And our children should be the collateral for your scheme?"
At this, Delphini had the wherewithal to cringe, her expression falling. "I do sincerely apologise for that." Her gesture dissolved the barrier at the top of the stairs, and both Elara and Archer rushed past her without fanfare, their arms wide as they swept towards their mother. "I have been without a mother for as long as I can remember, but I'm no stranger to the power of a mother's love. I knew you would come for them, and I could prepare an exchange with the Dark Lord's surviving followers. I knew you would pay whatever price I named to get them back; I simply needed you to listen."
Her gaze ticked over Draco's shoulder, and he turned, curiosity overwhelming him as the children latched onto Hermione, tears running down her face. The weight of the Auror department stood at his back, but in the shadows, Narcissa watched on, tears streaming down her face as she lifted shaking fingers to her mouth.
His mother was a jaded woman, but he knew she'd loved Bellatrix, even in her flaws. She'd been her sister, and the madness Bella had descended into hadn't broken the love, only soured it.
Without his mother, he'd have nothing.
It was as simple as that. No matter what Kingsley claimed, he very well could have been withering away in an Azkaban cell if Narcissa hadn't fought tooth and nail to ensure his survival.
Perhaps he wasn't the right person to do so, but Draco had never been the one to extend a hand of forgiveness thus far in his life.
And perhaps it was time he did so.
His footsteps hitched as he stalked forward, a grim set to his brow. It must have been apparent in his features, because Delphini recoiled just visibly, a grim set to her lips. Waiting for the worst.
Instead, he bent at the waist, slipping his wand into the holster hidden beneath the leg of his tailored trousers.
And when he stood, he offered her a half-hearted smile. Guarded, still slightly suspicious. But it was a smile, an olive branch that she recognised, and her shoulders deflated, tears springing to her cheeks as he spoke. "We'll figure it out."
As Aurors streamed past him, he cut his gaze to Hermione over his shoulder who, though her expression still bordered the edge of maternal rage that she was very much entitled to, nodded. When he turned back to Delphini, already allowing the Aurors to cuff the magical handcuffs around her wrist, his words were genuine. "We always do."
The road would be long, and Draco would not forgive easily, but deep in his heart, he felt the beginnings of peace begin to swell as Elara launched herself into his arms.
*Yeets this into the interwebs and runs away*
*Pops back in to thank Farmulousa, LadyKenz347, & In Dreams for their Brit-picking alphabet work before re-yeeting myself lol*