Author's note: You've been so patient-there is smut ahead! There is another incident of memory sharing in this chapter, which is italicised. Happy reading! Thank you so much to you all for your gorgeous, thoughtful reviews. It has brought me so much joy to share this story with you. I know you don't have to leave anything for me at all, and I'm tremendously grateful. 3

Draco jolted awake when two icy cold hands grasped his cheeks. He froze. He knew better than to come awake fighting; his nerves were attuned. Hermione's worried face was poised over his. He closed his eyes and breathed out harshly. The sky outside the window was still black, but the clock on the wall ticked incessantly onward.

"You were calling to me," she said. She traced his cheekbones with her thumbs, and he took her hands in his. He tugged her to his chest without a word. She was still there, she hadn't run off to god knows where. She didn't hate him, and she wasn't alone or vulnerable to attack. She was here, a soft, pink thing with lips pursed in a moue of concern. Hermione rested her chin on his sternum.

Maybe if he kissed her now, it wouldn't count against his control-when she was ready could be reset for circumstances other than this. He folded her into his embrace. Her unruly curls caught in the crook of his elbow, liberated from the plait she had created the night before, which forced her to tilt her head back. She nosed his jaw.

"What's wrong?" Her breath puffed, and her fingers crept to his scruffy chin, reminding him that he desperately needed a shave.

Draco didn't answer. It's you. He couldn't even remember the dream, itself, just panic that she was gone. He held her. He cocooned himself around her. Then, he spoke against her skin.

"Promise me… if you believe there is something you must do, which doesn't involve me… you'll tell me. If you think I've done something wrong, mis-stepped, pissed you off, anything. Tell me. I don't care if you scream at me. Tell me."

"Oh…" she hugged him tight.

"Please, Hermione."

"Promise," she said. She kissed his jaw. "Must've been a terrible dream."

"Mmm." He scooted down the pillow so they were eye-to-eye. Hermione smiled sleepily. Those eyes. Deep, caramel. Sometimes gold, in the right light. Always warm. She was so tiny in his arms, too, a contained package of emotions with impossibly soft skin. He narrowed his eyes.

"What?"

"I wonder… when the next time will be, when we're able to be alone." He made little circles at the small of her back. "How many mornings can I expect you beside me when I wake up?" Her cheeks and chest flushed, and it gave him a little rush of joy to see her so affected.

"Do you want to tell me about your dream?" Her fingers crept to his cheek and rested there.

"No."

"Why not? Might help."

"I'm supposed to be composed."

"Stop parroting my panic back to me," she sighed, though she touched the corner of his mouth in concern. "Whatever you saw wasn't real."

He snorted. "I know."

"You can tell me, whatever it is. This might be the one time we're in a bed together, unhurried." Hermione's hand had migrated to the low vee of his jumper, and she curled her fingers into the neck.

"I hope not." Draco attempted to ignore the prickle of arousal which traversed his spine. She deliberately ignored his gaze, electing instead to settle once more in the crook of his neck. He tilted her head back. "Can I share something with you?" he asked. She blinked. "A memory, not the dream, forget the dream." Hermione nodded almost imperceptibly. "All you have to do is follow my flame, alright?"

She smiled mischievously. "You're going to teach me Legilimency?"

"Basic legilimency is an infantile skill, Granger, now focus." He tapped her temple and she shut her eyes. He pulled her face to his. His lips tested hers, flirting with her upper lip with the softest of touches, and fleeing just as quickly. She gasped. He focused.

Draco ignited his flame where he always did-floating in his mind just behind her eyes and spiraling inward, looking for that unmistakable flicker of wings. They always fluttered, the little golden things, when he found his way into her head. He wondered if she knew how her presence appeared to him. Just there-the golden butterfly dove from the deep and met his blue flame, swirling around him in recognition. Come on, little one. He darted back from her. She followed, obediently, through the inky blackness of her concentration and over the divide between them-what once had been a chasm of awareness was now a glassy pool connecting the shore of his mind to hers. The silvery water fizzled as he hopped along the surface, and her golden glow radiated in the mist.

There was only one place to go, one place to lead her. She needed to see his version of the prophecy, and why it was so dire.

He crept through the grey until the mists overwhelmed it in unending white light, to the tree. He led her to the base of the flowering tree, the one which fed from the body of his father in the South West corner of the Malfoy estate, which flowered unceasingly with blood-red blooms. Wings flapped as she circled the trunk-once, twice-five times-and heat radiated from the sonic clap, like lightning striking the roots of the tree. Pain seared through his skull and dampened his flame, turning him at once from an electric blue to a dull yellow.

Hermione! He called out to her, but the butterfly simply flapped her wings and incited another flash.

What…? There was a figure in the flash, just then, and then it vanished. Holding out hands, arms outstretched, a woman-light and pain flashed in tandem again, and he leapt forward to put himself between the butterfly and the tree. That wasn't how he remembered the prophecy. The white landscape, as dull as anything and yet vast and fathomless, cradled the broken tree. The buds fell like snowflakes. White, not red.

From beneath the twisted roots, a great black snake slithered towards him. The creature's fangs sunk into his arm, and it withered into ash.

Hermione's wings beat. Once. Twice. Flash! And then cold marble surrounded them, in a new corner of his memory.

No! Not here-

He gripped the hand so tightly that he received a pinch back. Discreetly, behind the little fleshy meat of his tricep, but it didn't even register because he was catatonic. She soothed his shoulder with the faintest of strokes from her thumb-not Hermione, but Narcissa-and he melted from flame to young man under the watchful eye of his mother, before the hearth in the great room.

No! He huffed. He must surface, this was not what he brought Hermione to see!

Later. Draco honed in on the sensation of his mother's grip, centered on it, pulling the butterfly in closer-away from her own figure, which lay prone mere metres from them-until she alighted like a floating, glowing dust mote on Narcissa's family ring.

The vision shifted as his memory acquiesced. There. This time, his mother's ring balanced on the end of his small finger, as he watched her body drift out to sea in a small boat made of willow rushes. The ring looked grand and heavy over the white cloth tape bandaging his fingers. His chest was hollow, flame so low now as to be indistinguishable from the moonlight, which was battling with developing storm clouds.

Draco dropped the ring into his pocket and took a drag from a cigarette. Cloves and cinnamon kissed his tongue. He turned away. Behind him, Hermione hovered patiently. She didn't belong there. She waited.

Draco apparated to his mother's balcony where he had discovered her, blank-eyed and cold. The sheets of Narcissa's bed, hers, not theirs, were stained with blood. Mingled blood. His father was still bleeding out on the mattress. Stricken eyes met his gaze as he entered the room from the balcony, but they were losing their focus as the lucidity gave way to hollowness. The gash across his neck wept. Draco fought back bile.

We're getting out, he insisted, but the little insect disobeyed. She pushed.

The images flashed, one right after the other. The butterfly led:

Lucius Malfoy's last ragged breath. Disapparating before he could think.

Running-blitzing down the hall to the Ministry lifts and praying it went somewhere of use, only to be spat out on the same floor as Transportation, same floor as the one wizard from his youth who didn't seem to hate him.

Falling at the man's door, scrambling to open the knob, and being met with the wide eyes of Ron Weasley. The ginger man gripping his arm and side-along disapparating the moment Draco told him what had happened.

Showing him the body. Calling the elves… releasing them to freedom.

Dictating his confession as Ron scribbled madly and asserted 'it was in the interest of your family-for your mother's sake! '

Apparating to the DMLE and reporting his father's death, with body in tow. The Aurors apparating away and warning him not to go anywhere.

Relinquishing the Manor into his barrister's stewardship.

Ron taking responsibility for him until he could be tried, so he wouldn't be held in Azkaban. Ron, gripping his shoulder, and promising 'I will do whatever I can to help you, mate. Name it. I will do it.' Ron making sure he kept his wand, Ron advocating for his bond, Ron taking the Unspeakable Vow with Minister Shacklebolt-'Draco Malfoy is under my care and will be answerable to me, until such a time as he can be tried for the murder of Lucius Malfoy. He will operate within the limits of his role with the Department of Mysteries, until such a time as he is deemed unfit, either by violating his bail or being found guilty, and then he will separate himself from the Ministry.' Ron promising he would vouch for him at sentencing. Ron shaking his hand, and meaning it.

Drinking himself into a stupor in a flat with no furniture but a simple bed.

Wandering the Department of Mysteries on the morning of his first hearing.

Finding himself in the Hall of Prophecy, chasing the persistent call of his name from a woman's voice which made him choke up to hear it.

Zeroing in on the orb. Receiving the prophecy. Concealing the glass ball in his pocket with an undetectable extension.

Hermione-Hermione Granger! Screaming her name behind a silencing charm until he was hoarse.

Seeing her in the hallway and freezing, but her paying him no mind as he traveled to Weasley's office. Confessing the prophecy. Begging Ron to do something.

Ron's hard look, and then a glimmer of some hope. Ron asking him, begging him… 'Do this for me, Malfoy, and everything you've ever done will be forgotten. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll testify. You can have any scotch in my collection. Hermione is everything to me. I can't be the one, it has to be you. She'll trust you because I asked her to, and she'll be safe-'

The memory streaked with a gold cast, freezing his recollection of himself in full peril as Ron described what he needed… his little butterfly companion had grown into a wooly moth. Big, feathered, with dotted eyes on the wings and great big feelers sprouting from her head, all cast in gold. She hovered between Draco and his memory. She stretched out her wings as far as they could go.

He flared up, but she wouldn't budge. He flickered as hot as he could, true blue and silver-she only rose higher, until she found the outer reaches of the memory. Then, his mind fell into inky blackness.

He rolled on top of her, panting. Grinding. Hip bone on hip bone. "Are you mad? Don't interfere with a memory, no matter how dire it feels!" Hermione winced and hid her face in his forearm. The posture pacified him, and he slid down, so he was resting with his forehead to hers. "Sorry. Hermione, I- I'm so sorry. You were trying to protect me, and I let it get out of hand. I shouldn't have yelled. You… being in there, with me. It's been a long time since I willingly let anyone in, and-"

Hermione covered his mouth with her hand. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Gods," she said softly.

All at once, Draco felt like the biggest fool.

"Draco."

His mouth pursed behind her palm, which retreated to his cheek. The man sat back on his heels, slowly, pushing away so he could look at her without needing to feel every single curve of her body and give in to kissing her, or more. He ran a hand through his hair. She peered at him from his pillow; her ankles crossed between his knees, and her top was askew. She reached for him in worry. Draco shook his head.

"You crack me open." He huffed the words out and instantly regretted them because she looked ready to cry. He threw up his hands. Gods, if he never saw her cry again...

Hermione took his arm in hand, the one which bore his festering dark mark. She scooted backwards so she could sit up, and her eyes focused in on the raised lines. She frowned. Then, she gasped.

"Oh my gods. I know what's wrong with your mark." She leaned over to her bedside table and retrieved her wand. She nudged it against his skin, and he retracted his arm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"It just needs to be drained," she said quickly.

"I'm… sorry?"

Hermione sat on her knees, mirroring his position. "The inflammation is originating from the head of the snake, see?" The tip of her wand gestured at the snake's flickering tongue, which was indeed the most swollen. The veins under his skin there appeared to be green. "It's reacting like poison. Draco-oh my gods. I think you've done it." She threw her arms around his neck and cackled in disbelief. He caught her, thoroughly confused.

"What are you talking about?"

"You killed your father, you severed the Malfoy family line. The snake! Remember the prophecy: 'When Slytherin's heir, wielded like shield and sword, pierces his own heart and ends his line…' You were always supposed to be Slytherin's heir back when the Chamber was open. The Manor isn't yours anymore, from the looks of your memory, so your family legacy is gone. Your patriarch is dead. Your mark is rotting because you betrayed the real heir of Slytherin."

He blinked at her. "Even if that's true… and that is a stretch, all of it… Voldemort is dead. How could I betray him posthumously?"

"Draco Malfoy, listen to me!" She pressed both hands to his cheeks and she smiled. "You never killed for him. You took the life of his most loyal follower-"

"My aunt might beg to differ!"

"Yes, well, she's gone too, and I know Molly Weasley sleeps very well at night." Hermione laid her hand over his heart. "Your mark doesn't belong to you anymore. You went against the vow you took to get it, so the ink is turning to poison. It needs to come out. Will you let me?"

He stared at her. Gobsmacked, absolutely and completely-there was no getting around it with her. The idea couldn't be more stupid, but at this point he would probably let her cut off his wrist. He nodded, dumbly. It stung, but she massaged her thumb over his mark, tapping her wand once at the base of the serpent's tongue, other hand poised with her teacup at his wrist. It looked ridiculous, her sitting there with a fine cup ready to catch whatever venom ran from his mark, but she was steady and sure. Her expression set in determination.

With a quick slash and flick, she cut him. "Diffindo!"

Draco lurched forward. He gritted his teeth around Hermione's shoulder. "When... ah! When I saw the original prophecy, all I saw was the tree."

"I wondered that." Her wrist flexed, siphoning the venom into the cup. With another flip, a golden rope wound itself above his elbow like a tourniquet; the pain drained into his finger tips. "I saw your mother."

He huffed. "That's who I saw when the lightning struck the tree."

"Yes." Hermione drew her wand downward sharply, which brought Draco's attention to the cut. Black, putrid liquid drained into the teacup. At the first sign of his own blood vacating his arm, she released the rope at his elbow. "Episkey!" Draco slumped as the pain fled his body. She set the cup on the side table, and her arms wound around his shoulders, cradling his head. She urged him forward, and Draco followed without protest. "Draco, I wonder if the prophecy was meant to share the whole message only if we both experienced it at the same time. I'm sorry that we won't have the chance to see the original."

"That was enough." He hid his arms under her, but leaned on his right side, forcing himself to look her in the eye and not at his skin.

She smiled so sweetly that his heart leapt into his throat. "Look at it," she said. He shook his head and she laughed. She raised the skin to her mouth, and that was the first he saw it: her lips, pink and perfect, giving the gift of gentle touch to unmarred skin. His forearm was blank.

Draco choked back almost a decade of sorrow and pulled his arm from her mouth. Instead, he outlined her bottom lip with his index finger. "It can't be that easy. How… how did I get here?" Here, in general, being held and cared for by this sweet blistering witch. He gaped at her in disbelief. Beneath him, sometime between midnight and dawn, Hermione Granger was the most miraculous being he had ever beheld. More radiant than her golden consciousness, she was every good thing which could ever happen to him, and if he spent one more moment of his miserable life pretending it wasn't true, it was a moment wasted.

He kissed her.

Incessant pulls gave way to languorous drags, which went straight to his cock. Ron Weasley is the king of fools, he thought. Hermione hummed into his mouth sweetly as if she perceived the sentiment, but her hands spoke a different language: one of need and teasing at the hem of his jumper. Propped on his elbow and fastened to her face, Draco ripped his jumper forward with one arm, clearing his head so quickly he barely gave her time to breathe. He never heard the fabric hit the ground. Instead, he listened for her little give-away breaths-the ones which skipped when his fingers found the curve of her breast, or blew out when he tickled her navel, or moaned when he discovered where her hip creased with her pelvis. Touching her was priority one, giving her whatever she wanted, which reminded him-

"Tell me what I can do, I'll do it." He nosed her jaw and suckled at the pulse point on her neck. She arched into him. "Anything."

Hermione nudged his knee with her own, and he followed, rolling to his back as she threw her leg over him. She beckoned him to sit up, heat of her apex nestled with his own arousal. Her lips were swollen but she shook her head, holding up a finger. He waited for her with both hands settled at her lower back. "If we do this, no regrets," she murmured. "You can change your mind about me down the road and I will learn to live with it, but this moment is precious."

His heart panged at the thought of ever regretting what this witch was willing to share. "I won't."

Hermione removed his left hand from behind her back and slid his fingers around her thigh. She moved his tentative touch to her center, shuddering as his digits memorised the shape of her sensitive nub beneath the fabric. Then, she vanished her pyjama bottoms. The slide of flannel gave way to warm, smoothness. Touch her. That's what she wanted. He would do that. However long she needed it. Her eyelids fluttered, but she was already turned on, as evidenced by the slickness. Draco savoured her, explored her-took stock of which pressure made her roll her hips forward-gods, as if I'm not half in love with her already. The thought of it struck him between the ribs, and he growled against her lips.

Draco pushed her backwards, wondering but momentarily why he had ever been gloomy a day in his life if this was who awaited him, when she wandlessly and wordlessly vanished his bottoms, too. He dared her with a pointed, unblinking look to ask for what she wanted. She responded.

Oh. His head flooded with images of what she wanted, and she was relentless. He was a goner. If that was what she really wanted, it would take more than one hurried night in her mother's guest room to fulfill it, and he would make sure of it. Every night. Forever. Her small hand wrapped around him, and she positioned his head at her entrance without formality. There would be time for slow romance some other time. He canted his hips and pushed inside her.

Hermione bit his shoulder-she was still so tight. He rubbed her thighs, trailing his thumbs upwards to smooth between them. She was silk. He retreated slowly, but she rocked forward, chasing their joining. He smiled. Oh, but wasn't this a boon?

She rolled her hips, and Draco reciprocated, kissing her again and again to draw out every soft mew of pleasure. She released with one hand tugging on his hair for dear life, and the other turning the points of her nails into his glute. Draco wasn't long for it either-it had been too long, and she was too perfect, and what did it matter how long he lasted as long as she came, first? Ever the gentleman, she snickered. He nibbled her earlobe until she wiggled away with a laugh.

He bracketed his arms around her, braced on his forearms, and taking his time leaving affectionate pecks down her chest to ease her back to earth. She slid her hand between them and suddenly, he felt a warming sensation between them. Contraception spell.

Draco's heart squeezed in some unbidden way. Her arm revealed itself to him as she stretched, and he saw her little scar carved in, pink as if freshly healed. He frowned and took her arm in hand.

What was the spell he had learned, in South America? He strolled through the deep storage in his mind until he remembered it-the Chilean incantation, which had rid him of scars from an over-excited piranha. He covered her scar with his hand and closed his eyes, but she stopped him.

"Draco, no," she whispered. He gave her a look of confusion. "I made peace with it a long time ago. I don't need you to take it away."

"It hurts me to see it," he admitted, before his nerves got the best of him.

Her mouth folded into a line, but her eyes crinkled. "Sweet man. You don't get to decide," she said. "I'm not ashamed."

Draco stared at her. "You have to let me do some things to make it easier."

She shrugged. "We've got about... three hours to daylight. Why don't you hold me?"

He extricated himself from her slowly, scourgifying them both and insisting she leave her hands resting, above her head on the pillow. Then, he snuggled in on her side of the bed ("I am left-handed…" "Oh my gods, Draco, go to sleep!") and held her until well after she lost consciousness, awash in the feeling that everything would be much worse and much better from here, in equal measure.

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