He was awake when she came to, propped up against the headboard with a teacup in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. Draco must have been up for a little while; the steam from his tea rose, curling around his face with the telltale scent of chamomile. He didn't regard her as she rolled towards him, but he hummed when she bumped her forehead against his hip. Hermione closed her eyes again. They had only slept a few short hours after the interlude which had shifted everything, at least for Hermione, from dire to something a bit choking. She hadn't dreamed about it, as such, but just once, she had awoken to his nose pressed to her neck and felt a pang in her chest.

This bed was the safest place she'd been in a week. The man (who had set down his teacup and was currently working at the tangles in her hair, as well as he could with only one hand available) had made himself vulnerable to her. He shared a few of his worst memories, and tried to keep her from reliving their worst shared memory to date… no, not the worst one.

The turning point. Even from his perspective inside his memory, she had been able to feel his fear, and a burning desire to explode forward, wand at the ready, and throw his aunt from her-because he had had enough. Selfishly, she had wanted to see it all. Hermione wanted to know what happened after they escaped, how Draco had suffered and who was to blame for it, because maybe she could take it all away, but she knew:

There was no retribution to be had for Draco Malfoy.

What justice was left for him? Every figure of torment in his life had been killed, so why didn't death feel good enough for them, and why did it make anger well inside Hermione so fiercely that she saw white behind her eyes?

Why did she feel the need to give him something that wasn't in her power to control?

He wasn't supposed to be her driving force. If he did go to Azkaban, it would be the end of this: laying in bed on a quiet morning, while the man who had shared in her body touched her so gently that she wanted to cry, and wondering how she could ever have thought that Ron was going to give this to her. She still felt pained by his rejection, as evidenced by the way her eyes pricked to think of him, but this was a precious intimacy that could only be afforded to her by one person, a man who made her body stand at attention.

They burned too hotly. Together they might be dangerous, and not just because the prophecy intimated it. It was making her forget why she was doing all this. Maybe he sensed it, too. Perhaps that was why he was reading her notes with an intensity that she could feel in his erratic touches. He would pause a moment. Paper would rustle. Then, he'd return to a little knot in her hair, worrying it until it gave.

She nosed his thigh and the muscle flexed. They had no time. It slipped through her fingers. The more time she tried to take to reason with the feeling, the less they had to act on it.

She wanted to say something about it (after all, she had asked him to talk more about it later), but she didn't know what would be the right sentiment. She wasn't even sure that he particularly liked her; in fact, she knew she drove him barmy most of the time, and vice versa. But once they left for whatever destination came next, there might not be another chance. Hermione reached for the hand in her hair and pulled it to her mouth.

"Morning," he murmured. He rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

"Mmm."

"You sleep alright?"

"Very well."

He laid the stack of papers on his lap, and she ventured a peek at him. His grey eyes flashed. He leaned down as she pushed up-their faces hovered just milimetres apart. But then, he smiled, and closed the space between them. Draco tossed the papers onto the bedside table. He turned her onto her back, but his kiss remained gentle. Oh.

"I believe you wanted to speak with Hannah Finch-Fletchley, today," he whispered, brushing flyaway hairs off her cheek.

Hermione smiled. "I feel guilty that I haven't been to see her yet."

His brow furrowed as he propped himself on his elbow. "Because you've been wasting your time twiddling your thumbs up until now."

"I have been hiding."

"For your safety."

"Maybe my safety needs to come secondary for a little while. There are more lives at stake than mine."

Draco sighed and pinched his nose. "So bloody dramatic." Hermione laughed, which made him frown deeper. She looked away as he glared at her, but she couldn't squash the smile. "What?"

She shook her head. "Just thinking."

"That can be dangerous, knowing you."

"Har-har, hilarious." She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. She laid her cheek on her knee, and gazed at him until his frown turned to curiosity. How to even ask the question she had burning in her mind? Why me? "Who do you think foretold the-our prophecy?" she managed.

He reached out and brushed her forehead. "My mother."

"Really?"

He nodded once. "It's the only explanation that makes sense to me."

"Did you know she was prescient?"

"No, but… I think there's a lot about her I'll never know. Those sorts of things." He leaned back again and his hand trailed over her shoulder, down her back, resting at her hip. He looked up at the ceiling. "As for why it's you… that she saw a prophecy of, I mean, and why she would have cast such a binding spell-which only allows you and I to receive it-which set it all in motion? Maybe she knew more. About me, and… and you. Than she let on. It would have put you in even greater danger, had she told anyone. As such, she delivered it to me-us-in the only package she could. I'm not sure I would have believed it from another source. Even if it came from you."

Hermione frowned. "I don't understand…"

"We have a… bond, do we not?" He drummed his fingers on her hip, which made her melt. "It's not just chemistry, I think we're both cognizant of that."

"You think it's, what… a-a-" She stopped abruptly and her eyes grew wide. A what, exactly?

"Think about it."

What they had was not just chemistry, or even basic biology.

They must be linked, in a way that made it impossible to deny how they had come together at the most formative points in their lives… why with such ease he ingratiated himself with her body and her magic, no-not ease. Heat, which originated from something outside of their control, beyond all understanding, and which would otherwise be unfathomable if she hadn't been inside his memories to see it for herself. It would explain why she needed to reach for him when he was near, and why she had mistaken the intensity of that feeling for hate for so long-and if not hate, then pain.

Plenty of magical folks found partners without any kind of soul bond, but it wasn't unheard of. There were plenty of people who wound up with someone perfectly suited to them without it.

But Hermione hadn't. There was always something lacking. A need that one couldn't quite put into words. Of course she had felt lonely, until now. What poor soul could measure up to this?

Draco was a flame, a light, a home. He was home.

Hermione's breath caught. It was too much, too overwhelming to be thinking that way, but Draco inclined his head, and she knew he had let himself cheat a look inside her mind for purchase. She felt the presence of his flickering blue fire, and he saw what realization she was coming to. His eyes were glassy. Hermione unfolded herself from her protective position and moved to her knees. Any words she might say would cheapen the knowing that passed between them. How does one put words to a shared existence, which was irrevocably linked by deep magic? There were words for such a thing, but until Draco they felt like cheap romantic ideals that one might never achieve. A lot of things felt cheap until him. Tears felt cheap, until he blinked them away. Her hand snapped out to catch one before it trailed down his cheek; his hand mimicked hers, and he blurred. Her own eyes were wet.

It was enough to feel like he wanted her, but it was an inexplicable joy to feel like he had finally, through the ages (and despite mistaking it for loathing for a long time), found her. How was it possible to fathom recognition of his soul like she had known it for ages? It would sound forced out loud. Even in her head it sounded a little crazy.

Instead, Hermione laid her hand over his heart. His pulse jumped. "How long have you suspected it?" She regretted it the moment she spoke. She should've just thought it, asked him inwardly so he didn't have to hear how her voice wavered.

"Since last night," he said softly.

"What changed?" she asked, as if she didn't know. But he merely blinked for a moment, sniffling and wiping his eyes. Then, he sat up straight and pulled her towards him. Hermione acquiesced, straddling his thighs. Draco unbuttoned the top button on her top and kissed her sternum. Then, he pressed his forehead to her shoulder.

"You were a moth. A golden thing. I tried to frighten you off, but you..." he shrugged.

"Moved closer." Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Mmm. I've been looking for you for some time, little moth." He kissed her jaw, and then her temple, and then sat back enough to let her see all of him. "...we probably shouldn't have… done that. Last night."

She winced. "You regret it?"

He shook his head. "I don't mean that it was a mistake," he said quickly. "I feel you so much more acutely this morning, you're like the bloody sun. How can I ever get out of this bed again? How can I have one coherent thought, how can I protect you now that losing you would-" he stopped. She smiled, then, because the look on his face was so desperate and sweet, so full of panic and concern, that it was almost comical. His hair stood out in several directions, too.

"So, you don't shag all of your assignments, then."

"You're the only assignment I've ever had, and… I don't consider what we did a quick shag, as you so elegantly put it." He looked deadly serious until he clocked the teasing smile on her face. He breathed out and carded a hand over his face, as if all of this talk of soul bonds and shagging was too much for an Unspeakable. "I'm not sure this is what Weasley had in mind. A week ago you hated me."

"I didn't-"

"You were scared of me, then."

Why lie? He had seen her reaction to him strangling Covington and storming into her life, which was volatile at best. But she was struck just then how much his behavior had shifted over the last week. "I was, at first. Do you blame me?"

He shook his head. "I don't."

"Draco… why did you kiss me when you wanted last night, and not when I asked you to?"

He groaned then, and his head fell back in shame. "Granger-"

"I want to know," she said.

He sighed and pinched his nose. "The Weasel just broke your heart. I have all but taken advantage of that."

"Do I look broken to you? It is amazing what happens to a woman when people stop treating her like she's breakable." She snorted. "Half the time you're not even nice to me, but you don't pity me. Maybe I'm ready to have someone kiss me because they want to."

Draco fixed her with a hard look. "He's a bloody fool."

"Ron is a very intelligent wizard, who needs to be with someone gentle and steady."

"He needs a little housewife."

"No… someone who won't dig up six months worth of travel reports and infractions out of spite." She smirked, glancing at the discarded draft of her report, which now lay sprawled out in a fan on the table.

"You want to know why I didn't give you what you wanted, when you asked for it?" he asked. Hermione touched his cheek. Draco reached beneath the report and pulled out a phial of black liquid. He shook it for a moment, but nothing happened. He held it up between them with two fingers. She took it from him. "You looked right at my disgusting, festering mark, ran your fingers over it, and decided that you could heal it. Despite the fact that it is a symbol for everything you fought against, and even though it's on me. I won't kid myself that you've long harbored a secret crush, but I took you at your word that you at least felt something for me, too. Then? You did this. No matter what reservations you might have had or what pain it might have caused you to do it, you healed me of one of my most painful mistakes, and you didn't do it because Ron Weasley broke your heart."

Hermione touched the glass phial to her lips and handed it back. "And that's why you kissed me?" she breathed. Draco set it safely to the side and took her hand, lacing their fingers together.

"You were willing to let me into your mind and see a horrid memory you haven't shared with anyone else, something deeply painful to you. You then felt no shame in bringing me to this house, where the person you care about most in the entire world is kept safe, and trusted me to keep that secret for you." He shook his head in disbelief. It was obvious that he didn't believe he deserved such trust. She let her thumb graze his bottom lip.

"That's why you kissed me, then?" she dared, forcing him to look her in the eyes with an insistent bump to the chin. He narrowed his eyes and pinned her backwards to the soft bedding. She laughed silently, which gave way to a sigh as he laid between her knees.

"You stole my jumper. You adopted my library. You asked for my cigarette. Granger, I kissed you because I don't have anything else to give you. And now that I know how it feels, not just to kiss you but to feel you-" His hand hovered over her breast, fingers itching to show her an example- "It's going to be very difficult not to spend every moment doing just that."

Hermione pulled his hand to cup her through her top and he closed his eyes in thanks. "Kiss me now?"

He did so, a soft and almost imperceptible peck. "Whatever you want."

Helen had a packed bag for Hermione, which was sitting outside the door. Draco stripped the sheets from the bed and made certain the room was tidy, while Hermione went to find her mother. The woman was seated outside in a reclined wooden chair with a fire burning in a contained pit, clutching a mug and observing the sunrise, and she smiled when Hermione snuck out the front door.

"That jumper suits you," Helen said fondly, gesturing at the cardigan she had given to her daughter. It was white with intricate celtic cables. Hermione sat in an empty chair.

"Did that little vial work for Draco?"

"Oh… Yes, I believe it works perfectly."

"Good. He's a bit odd, isn't he?" Helen smiled conspiratorially and it made Hermione wonder how much he would enjoy being called 'odd.'

"A bit," she conceded.

"Looks like you'll be off in short order."

"I don't want to leave." Hermione followed her mother's gaze, out over the lush little farm and it's goat pen, the old well which her mother kept in working order, the carefully stacked woodpile of Draco's doing… it was such a beautiful place to be, to shelter. But was it comfortable? She was out in the countryside, far away from the bustle of the city in all its comforts. It was isolated, almost. It felt like a fairytale cottage, not the sort of place that one settled in the long-term. "If we're lucky, we can have you in Wales by Michaelmas."

"Why would I want to leave?" Helen gestured to the smoldering basin which was warming her feet in the crisp morning air. "I dug that myself, you know."

"But, mum…" Hermione turned towards her mother, but Helen sipped her tea in quiet comfort. "I could visit you more often. And you could have an outdoor firepit there, too."

"Hermione, I love this place." Helen reached out a hand. Tears welled quickly and Hermione took the offered hand.

"I thought we were more or less on the same page about this."

"I have wonderful neighbors, you know." Her mother pointed down the road, to the south. "Mrs. Mattes is knitting sweaters for my goats for the winter." She thumbed over her shoulder. "The Szabo boy is helping me with my Hungarian-he goes with me to the butcher on Saturdays to make sure I get the best cuts of beef, and he calls me 'néni.' I do aerobics behind the church after service on Sunday mornings with the womens' group; we've been putting together care packages for the refugees in Budapest. I have a good life, here. And it is mine. Maybe that won't make sense, to you, but… I don't want to leave it."

Hermione nodded faintly, feeling quite ashamed of herself. It did make sense, though. Didn't it? But why was she working so hard to get her mother out of a place if she loved it? Maybe because she had never spent enough time there to ask her how she was getting on. Helen was her own woman. She was independent, and she didn't wait at the window for Hermione to come visit. She was doing exactly what she should be doing, as a woman who had fought to regain her health and start a new life. She was thriving in it. It wouldn't be right to take her from it.

"I know it's a week early, but I have a birthday present for you." Helen squeezed Hermione's hand and reached into her pocket. She produced a velvet box, which was worn at the corners from many years of being handled. This wasn't a show box, this was something that had been loved. She handed it to her daughter and sat back, smiling placidly. Hermione swallowed hard as she opened the lid.

Inside was a silver ring, which she recognized immediately. Helen had always worn it on her right hand. It was just a silver thing with a tiny round garnet, but it had been worn by every matriarch in Helen's line for five generations.

"You'll be the sixth woman to wear it," Helen said softly. "Nothing much exciting happens for a twenty-ninth birthday, so. I thought it might be nice."

"You're giving this to me?" Hermione breathed. The silver band glinted like it had recently been polished. She tentatively pulled it from its cradle and slipped it over her ring finger on her right hand. All the Nowak women had tiny hands, and it fit perfectly. She pocketed the box.

"My mum waited until my wedding day, but I know you have bigger plans. I hope it serves you well." Hermione leaned over and hugged her mother tightly. "I wish we could be together on your birthday."

"We could stay," Hermione said weakly. Helen chuckled.

"You? You've never stood still your whole life. You have important things to do." Helen kissed her temple and pulled away. "I do hope that you'll both be back, eventually."

"Me, too."

"You're not in any trouble, are you?"

Hermione looked down at the heirloom ring and focused on the way the band felt against her skin. She quieted the rising panic. Focus, remember? The ring was cold, the band was silver, the stone was garnet. The blank solace of occlusion filled her mind.

"No, mum. We've just been doing some work with the Hungarian Ambassador. You remember Albert Dolman?" She kept her expression as flat and calm as she could under her mother's knowing gaze.

"Lovely man. He recast my wards a few days ago; I thought for certain you had sent him to check on me. He brought me a loaf of bread-did you know his husband is a baker?"

Hermione's head snapped to the perimeter of the farm, the short wooden fence that she had helped build when her mother moved in. It had allowed them in just fine… and she had even been able to apparate just outside the gate. Hermione pulled out her wand and did the diagnostic spell-sure enough, he had cast a powerful, white ward over the farm. It shimmered and hummed with power. There was no trace of dark magic in it. It was a bubble of safety. Albert was a singular bright spot in a sea of people she wasn't sure she could trust. But even when Hermione wasn't around to do it, someone was caring for Helen Granger. That was exactly what she needed to know, in order to leave again.

Hermione stood. "I love you, mum."

"Love you too, Hermione Jean."

"I'll see you before Christmas. Promise."

By the time they apparated away, off to Draco's secure target point and the home of Hannah Finch-Fletchley, Helen had plied them both with several jars of jam, a hearty breakfast, and a hushed side-bar in which she asked Draco to make sure Hermione got enough sleep. He promised. He meant it. He had showered, emerging from the washroom clean-shaven and looking every bit the dark wizard he masqueraded as.

He left the little coin on the table with a note, which read: If you need us, tap three times.

With his arm around her waist and a pack slung over each of their backs, Draco apparated them side-along to London, to an empty flat above a dress shop. Hermione had been to the Finch-Fletchley household several times since working for the Department of International Magical Cooperation; it wasn't a particularly long trek from the safe point, but the point itself was too close to the Ministry for comfort. Hermione cast a glamour over them both, in case they were spotted on the way. The trip required a cab ride to the unassuming flat, through dense traffic and well away from the magical centre of Wizarding London, across the river. The cab pulled up to the curb, Hermione supplied their fare, and Draco stepped up to the door. He knocked.

It took a few minutes, but footsteps could be heard making their way to the door. The silver knob turned, and it swung open.

"What are you doing here?" Before she could even comprehend what she was seeing, Hermione realized that she had been the one to speak. Because standing in the doorway was her very best friend from childhood, aside from Ron, a man that she hadn't spoken to in so long she had almost forgotten what he really looked like. A famous man, less so for what he had done in his youth, and more for his championship record playing Seeker for the Kenmare Kestrels. Weird jagged scar on his forehead, impossibly unruly black hair, no matter how he styled it. Kind, green eyes. Harry.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

The glamour. Hermione quickly dropped it with a flick, and Harry's face twisted from shock to happiness to confusion as he glanced between one of his oldest friends and a man he could never have expected.

"You had better come in." He stepped to the side, allowing Hermione and Draco to enter. Draco said nothing and kept his distance from Hermione. Hermione, on the other hand, dropped her bag on the ground and twisted her hands. Harry waited for her to do anything, looking sheepish himself. Then, she held out her arms to him. Harry stepped into her grasp. He smelled exactly like she remembered-like warmth and dirt and cedar. In a grounded way. He patted her back. "It's been ages," he murmured into her jumper.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's been hectic on my end. I have a letter for you, I just haven't gotten to the owlery yet."

"You haven't lost Achilles, have you?"

"Oh, no! I just have been away. He's fine." Hermione squeezed his shoulder. "And you? How have you been?"

Draco cleared his throat, then, and the two old friends released one another. "You alright, mate?" Harry asked, nodding to Draco. The other man held out his hand. It took him a moment, but bless him, Harry grasped it firmly. "I'm swamped with the semi-final against Puddlemere coming up; training has been murder."

"But you're here?" Hermione tried to reach out to Draco but she couldn't find his flame in her mind, and he hadn't yet taught her how to use their mental connection un-guided. She could barely occlude. She would have to be satisfied not knowing what he was thinking; she didn't much care for that at all.

"Ron asked me over. We've been catching up a bit." Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "He didn't mention you, though… I had wondered-"

"Oh, right! Yes. No-we work together. Sometimes, so." Hermione shrugged, and she could feel Draco's eyes on the back of her head. Why was this so bloody awkward? It was Harry, for Godric's sake! "But, um. Draco and I are here to visit with Hannah. If she's in."

Harry glanced over his shoulder and then frowned. "Um. She is." He scratched his head. "Did you know about them?" Harry thumbed over his shoulder and spoke quietly.

"About… whom?"

"Hannah, I mean. The others. I mean, you're here, so I'm assuming you're already aware of this whole situation. Ron asked for my help, so..."

Hermione's blood was thrumming in her ears. "What others?"

Harry beckoned for them to follow and they did so, padding through the flat to the back stairwell and then down the stairs, into a small but well-lit basement room. There were comfortable, well-loved couches lining the walls, and each one bore a few adult women, several of which bounced children on their knees. Hannah Finch-Fletchley, blonde and sweet-faced with a pixie-length haircut, sat on the flowered sofa, beside a woman who Hermione recognized immediately. There was no mistaking her face, or her shock of pin-straight platinum hair, which even rivaled the Malfoy in the room for shine. She had seen the modelesque face in numerous reports, and most recently read her name in the obituary of her main aggressor.

Imelda Potempkin.

On the other side of Imelda, Ron soothed a young girl, no more than a few years old, with a mess of red hair. She clung with tiny fingers to the strings of his hooded jumper.

Hermione's whole head swam with thoughts-confusion, most of all. Ron looked up as she and Draco appeared behind Harry, and she realized that for the first time in ages, he didn't look ready to run or hide. He looked happy. He smiled at the little child, and then gave her an apologetic look, which clearly had more explanation behind it. One Hermione was eager to hear.

Draco stood behind her silently observing the room of chattering children and mothers. Hermione desperately wanted to turn to him and say something along the lines of can you believe this? But she restrained herself, settling instead for glancing at him and nodding to an empty overstuffed chair. He pointed to it and nodded. Hermione took that as a sign and sat, with Draco and Harry flanking her. Harry sat on the arm of the chair beside her, arm braced over the back.

Hannah's face lit up as soon as she realized who was visiting. "Hermione, my gods it's nice to have you. Oh! Good, you're awake!" She pointed to the stairwell. "She was hoping we'd see you."

Hermione looked over her shoulder and blanched. Coming down the stairs, looking more alive than ever, wrapped in an oversized Kestrels jumper, was Hermione's assistant.

Natalie.

Author's note: Thank you so much for reading!