November

Draco preferred doing most things with Hermione. This included unpleasant, unfortunate, uninteresting visits to Gringotts in his nearly year-long quest towards official disinheritance. The whole process, inherently isolating by way of divorcing oneself from one's family, was eased by the pressure of her hand in his, sitting next to him in a Goblin's office.

Hermione's presence meant they offered him champagne again, too. A perk, he supposed, of being a war hero. Evidently such perks were similar to those of being obscenely wealthy. He crammed his instinctual, petty, jealous reaction to such a fact into the farthest corner of his mind, banished. He'd already decided, picked her over money and influence. He wouldn't allow himself a moment of regret.

"The Malfoys have noted a missing, priceless artifact from their collections that they require be returned," the Goblin said. Draco hadn't bothered remembering his name, but internally winced when he realized Hermione probably had. He found it difficult to engage in niceties when voluntarily stripping himself of what accounted to most of his power and authority in the world.

Her hand in his: it really, really helped.

"What is it?" Draco asked. He couldn't fathom what else they wanted, or thought he still had. "I didn't take any other jewelry than those pieces I've already returned. I have in writing—your writing—that they've rescinded their claim on the remaining property from inside my flat."

The Goblin cleared his throat. His small, clawed hand traced the parchment on his desk. The scratching sound it generated pressed directly against Draco's eardrums, agitating. "It has come to their attention that the object in question was not in your flat. It is something of great value to the Malfoy Estate."

That only confused Draco more, temples aching from the force of pushing his brows together. The Goblin tapped a finger to the parchment, reading from it. "A first edition copy of Hogwarts, A History with editor annotations."

Hermione's hand tightened in his, then dropped away as she covered her mouth to mask the tiny, surprised noise she'd made.

"That—that was a gift," Draco forced out, stomach plummeting to the floor. "Given years ago."

"It is an artifact and heirloom of registered historical importance to the Malfoy Estate and the wizarding world at large. Unless formally released from ownership by the Estate, it cannot be given as a gift."

Of all the things. Of all the fucking thing his parents might have chosen to plant their pettiness on. Of all the crops they might slash and burn in their war of attrition, in their pummeling of his pride, they'd picked something that meant very little to them, but so, so much to Hermione.

Fury unfurled in his chest, latching onto lingering hurt, damaged pride, and the loss of his sense of self. It swelled beneath his skin, slipping into all the spaces between flesh and muscle and bone, filling up every last crevice available for diversion towards rage. Towards hatred.

His parents didn't care about that book. Not in the slightest. He'd neither exaggerated nor engaged in willful ignorance all those years ago when he'd said that he and Hermione were likely the only people who even knew the thing existed. They couldn't take it. He wouldn't let them.

His nostrils flared, pulling in a huge breath as his lips pressed so tightly together they'd started tingling from lack of blood flow. He'd done so well, for so long. He'd been so mature. He'd tried so hard, after he exploded—quite literally—at Christmas dinner, to handle this disinheritance with the grace Hermione deserved of him. But this? This was too much.

Hermione's hand found his again, tugged at it, pulling his attention to her. He turned his head to find a perplexing emotion swimming in her eyes.

"It's alright, Draco. We can return it."

"It's not alright. We shouldn't have to return it. I gave it to you."

The Goblin tried to say something, a quick interruption that sounded suspiciously like it was never eligible for giving. Draco snapped.

"I heard you the first fucking time." His free hand slammed down on the desk as punctuation, sending a sharp sting through his palm. The pain braced him, a reminder that this nightmare was real. Reality, not imagined.

"Draco, it's alright," Hermione said again, words rearranged, hitting him at a slightly different angle. He looked to her, and despite the anger strangling him, he saw truth in her intent. She meant it. She meant when she said they could give it back.

And that made it worse. Much worse. His parents had taken enough, too much, and still, they wanted more. How dare they.

Hermione angled herself, knees swinging towards his chair. She brought her other arm over to him, both hands holding his.

"Calm down, Draco. I'm not—I'm not upset, it's alright."

"You should be upset."

He yanked his hands from hers. He didn't want her help. Not right now.

"Do you—do you need to occlude?"

"Do I—what?" His head snapped back around to watch her. He half expected to see his own anger reflected back at him. But she looked calm, concerned.

It sounded like a trap. But didn't look like one.

"To help you—it's alright, if you do, need to, that is." She reached for his hands again. "This isn't worth being angry about. It's a bit—emotionally charged, I know. So if you need to use Occlumency to help control that, you should." She inhaled a shaky breath, his first sighting of her own cracks. "Or don't. You're allowed to be angry, if you want to be. I just don't think this is worth it."

The Goblin interrupted again, undeterred by Draco's reaction or the revelatory sort of moment he'd been experiencing, watching as Hermione gave him permission, gave him understanding, to use Occlumency as a tool if he needed it.

"The Malfoys have informed the bank of your scheduled meeting with the Ministry's Inheritance and Estate Magic team at the end of this month. They have most graciously allowed you to return the book at that meeting."

Draco's parents had wormed their way beneath his skin and irritated him in a way that twitched his fingers, desperate to rip at his flesh just to get them out. He might have liked to be the kind of person who didn't need a little bit of Occlumency just then. But as it stood, he wasn't that kind of person. He had limits on what he could control without magic, without the tools he'd so carefully cobbled together.

His lips already felt a little numb, smashed together in emphasis of his clenched jaw and the smothered vitriol he wanted to sling. He latched onto that numbness, carefully, letting the tiniest bit of ice freeze his veins, cool his anger. He chilled, froze the fury, flaked it away. He exhaled, finding logic in place of his anger. It felt a bit like Hermione, her sensibilities brushing up against his.

He isolated the betrayal next, the feeling that his parents had done this intentionally, with purpose to cause distress, to hurt. How had they even realized it was missing, anyway? Had they conducted a full fucking—more anger, isolate, flake—inventory of every last object in the estate? They probably did, not trusting him. He supposed they were justified, since they'd found the book missing. But the mistrust struck differently than the disinheritance did. He'd thought they might force a sort of civility in this. Perhaps not. Perhaps even that was too much to expect.

Draco remained calm, though a bit numb, through the remainder of the meeting. They scheduled a ten year payment plan to return every last drop of the inheritance he'd already spent. He refused to live in their debt—any of their debt—ever again. As the issue of the first edition copy of Hogwarts, A History reared its head again, it hurt less this time. Hermione squeezed his hand, repeated herself for the umpteenth time.

"It's alright. I'll give it back." She smiled, and he started letting the warmth back in. Different warmth, not anger this time. The Goblin left the meeting room, leaving them alone. And it was done. There was nothing left to be angry about, nothing he could control, at least. Hermione turned to him. "I never really wanted it anyway, if you'll recall."

Draco smiled, Occlumency melting. "Oh, you wanted it. Very, very badly. You're just far too noble to take something so precious and rare for yourself. Honestly, it's probably for the best that I'm disinheriting. You'd have made a terrible manor lady. No inclinations towards hoarding precious and rare things."

Hermione stood from her chair, pulling his hand with her, forcing him to stand as well. "Isn't hoarding precious and rare things something dragons do?" She lifted her brows, lips pursed in a terrible attempt at concealing a smile. "You'd have done enough for the both of us, I think."

Draco laughed, feeling closer to equalized than he had since their meeting began.

She let go of his hand, pressing her palm to the center of his chest instead. Suddenly much more serious.

"But it is," she said. "A good thing you're disinheriting."

And that was it, her statement, full stop.

"It is."

They didn't need to qualify with the why's. They both knew. And they'd decided.

"I want my surprise now."

Even from his place beside her as they walked, witness only to her profile, Draco saw the exasperated—in a fond sort of way, he assumed—eye roll Hermione gave him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they walked, shoving his other hand in his pocket. He leaned into her hair.

"You think I'm kidding; I'm not. I think I've earned it, haven't I? That horrid meeting at Gringotts and now this?"

Hermione broke, laughing, not even bothering to stifle her giggles as she led them to a bench in Diagon Alley. They sat, and Draco waited patiently, ever-so-patiently, for her to surmount her laughter.

"You think you've earned your surprise?" she finally asked, lifting a brow at him in an effective attempt at enacting his brand of snark. "You've done nothing but complain and grumble since we left Gringotts."

"Because you sprung a surprise appointment on me—on the weekend—after I already had to deal with Goblins and my disinheritance." He hadn't yet decided if he felt real annoyance or affected, faux annoyance. They bled together sometimes, those feelings. "Honestly how dare you, you presumptuous witch. You made me get my eyes examined."

He crossed his arms, knowing instantly how petulant and ridiculous he must look. He let himself smile at that. She smiled, too.

"And for good reason," she said.

If she wanted to rub it in, he'd decide on real annoyance. Playful annoyance was reserved for witches who didn't revel in their victories.

"I only agreed to attend the unexpected eye exam you set for me because you promised you had a surprise for me afterwards that you promised I would definitely like."

Draco leaned against the bench, spread his arm across the back. He'd been hoping for something involving lingerie. Perhaps Pansy had forced her to buy more. He didn't have especially strong feelings about Pansy's war on Hermione's wardrobe; he could take or leave her input there. But he did—very much—enjoy the sudden abundance of laces and satins and tiny little things that made Hermione look very imminently fuckable every time she put them on.

So he'd entertained Hermione's insistence that they stop by a healer's office in Diagon Alley, where she'd reserved an appointment over concern for his eyesight. He didn't expect anything to come of it, except for a peek at whatever pretty lingerie he hoped she'd worn that day.

Then the healer waved his wand once, adjusted several floating spells around Draco's head and hummed a little mmhmm sort of noise before saying, "Ah, yes. Looks like you're far-sighted. I'll show you to our selection of reading glasses. They should help quite a bit."

Hermione, of course, found the whole less-than-five-minute ordeal endlessly amusing, suppressing giggles as Draco perused a selection of glasses he had no interest in perusing.

She pulled something from her coat pocket, visible breath puffing in the cold air between them.

"You may need your reading glasses for this," she said with a wicked, evil, absolutely gleaming smirk spreading across her face. "Why don't you pop them on?"

"I didn't take you for a sadist, Hermione Granger. I will not put them on. I didn't even want to purchase them."

She frowned, part pout, part genuine disappointment.

"But you look so dashing in them."

He hadn't expected that. His head quirked, a brow lifting.

"I what?"

"They looked good on you." Her cheeks were already stained pink from the cold, but he didn't think he imagined the way her flush deepened, rosy and lovely. "Very academic. Studious." Her voice dropped, quieter at the end, as if she'd said more than she intended to say and suddenly found herself wildly self-conscious of that fact. But she did say it, and now Draco had a whole slew of thoughts barreling through his brain in response to that reaction.

"Is that so? Well I—we might need to save that particular revelation for later, I think. Perhaps when we aren't in public."

It felt good to have a little control again, after losing so much of it in their meeting at Gringotts, in being forced to face his (alleged) far-sightedness, in still not knowing what tiny surprise waited in the box she held between them.

Hermione's embarrassment faded, replaced by that fond sort of exasperation she so often had with him. He loved loved loved riling this woman up.

"Fine. Here. You are so exhausting."

Draco took the box from her, almost made a joke about jewelry but decided against it, and opened it up.

He frowned, more out of confusion than anything else, as he pulled some kind of muggle technology from within. He turned the device over in his hand, opened it at the hinge. It lit up; Hermione's name popped up on the screen. He stared. Marveled. Confused. A bit concerned.

Hermione leaned closer, pointed to one of the buttons. "Push that one," she said. "When I send you a message, you push that button to read it."

The screen changed, showing up what he assumed was her message. His head tilted even further, ear nearly touching his shoulder. "What—does that mean?"

"It's a heart, see? It's how you send love with what's available on the keyboard."

"Huh. Looks like a distorted rune for patience and a three, to me."

"It's"—she huffed, breaking off—"you're so exasperating." She said it like it was a bad thing, but she smiled at him all the same. "Maybe you'll see it better if you squint. Or rather, don't wear your glasses and just hold it close to your face. Maybe you'll see the heart, then." She crossed her arms. "Not that you've earned it."

She was joking, mostly, but he could tell she wanted him to have it. Use it. So, Draco tried. He cleared his throat and, on a bench in the middle of Diagon Alley, he asked the great Hermione Granger how to work a muggle cell phone.

"What do I do with it?"

"Well, I'll send you things on it, probably. You just need to push the button I showed you to open my messages. And I'll show you how to keep it charged back at the flat." Her face lit up. "I bought another magic to electricity converter so we don't have to steal from the toaster."

"A pointless invention."

"Hush. It's convenient and you love it. I know you do."

She leaned into him again, peering over the phone. Her hair tumbled over his arms and for as ridiculous as he felt, fiddling with a bit of technology he had no real use or inclination for, he liked how she smiled when she showed him what to do with it.

"If you push this button," she said, "then this one, you can select someone to make a voice call. I've added myself and my parents already. I can add Harry, too. He has one. But I wasn't sure if your silly, prattish, sensibilities would allow for such a thing."

"If I'm going to have three people and only three people in this little torture box, let's not have Harry fucking Potter be one of them."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but slid closer to him anyway, likely in hopes of leaching body heat in the chilly November air. He'd done nothing but needle at her for the last hour or so and yet, even when she rolled her eyes and called him exasperating, it was done with such fondness.

Was this what it was like? To be in love with someone and not have to fight so hard for it anymore? To not be at odds with other people over it? Was this what it felt like to be allowed something good, something happy? He slid his arm from the back of the bench, wrapping it around her shoulder and tugging her close.

"Try a voice call," she said. "Try calling me. Reception might be a little spotty in the middle of a magical area, but I think it should connect."

With an arched brow, he pushed the button for her name. The screen changed, now displaying calling Hermione Granger. She motioned for him to hold the device to his ear, which he did, feeling absurd.

He probably looked like an idiot, holding a little muggle device to the side of his face.

Hermione's phone lit up, and so did her face. A huge smile broke across her features. She flipped her phone open, putting it to her ear.

"Hello," she said.

He heard her more because she sat right next to him than through the device itself, which mostly sounded crackly and broken and generally unpleasant in his ear. But he played along.

"Hello," he said, trying to match her in tone and volume. He didn't want to look like any more of an idiot than he had to.

Although, if he really thought about it, that spell had long since been cast. They were sitting on a bench, staring at each other, both holding silly muggle magic boxes to their ears.

"I love you," she said and if it wasn't the most perfect fucking moment, Draco didn't know what was. He supposed he was allowed to look a bit like an idiot. For her, at least.

"I love you, too."

"Are you ready to go home?"

He nodded, still smiling, so warm despite the weather.

She flipped her phone shut.

So did he.

They arrived at the Ministry twenty minutes early. Anxiety wouldn't allow for anything later, battering Draco's bones and crunching them to dust. He felt drawn and quartered and bled utterly dry in anticipation of it, of this.

Neither he nor Hermione had seen his parents in nearly a year, not since the terrible, explosive, Christmas dinner that nearly ruined everything. A year. In some ways, it felt like no time had passed at all. Those first several months had a most unreal, lurching sort of quality to them. Time seemed to surge forward and fall back and twist and turn in such a way that it sometimes felt like Draco blinked in one month and by the next blink, another month had passed him by. He supposed grief did that, mourning the loss of a relationship and a life that had been so precious, so dear to him.

But he had her now, again, hand held in his with a near-deadly force. As they walked into the Ministry, he supposed he didn't need circulation in his fingertips anyway, not if it meant providing an outlet for Hermione's stress.

"It will be fine," he said. "The spellwork should be quick. They—this isn't entirely unheard of. More and more old families are having disagreements like this."

"But we still have to see them. Face them," Hermione said between what he suspected were intended to be deep, calming breaths. He worried she might accidentally pass out if she kept it up.

"I know. I don't like it, either. But blood magic, wards, lines of inheritance and responsibility in estate affairs—it's all tied up in the family magic quite literally in my blood."

They stopped at the end of a long hallway, pushed open a heavy door and spoke to the receptionist waiting inside. With no delay, she ushered them into an entirely utilitarian conference room. Barren and sterile and devoid of distractions. Draco pulled out a chair for Hermione as they settled, waiting.

"It feels so empty in here," Hermione said, tapping her fingers at the arm of her chair. "I—I think I always assumed that old family magic had a sort of archaic, esoteric quality to it. Maybe I expected giant carved stone circles and sacred springs and blessed earth or something of the sort."

Draco snorted. "Once upon a time, maybe. By now, most of it's in our blood. And that can be anywhere."

She made a thoughtful sound, new information catalogued in that brain of hers. She reached into her bag and placed Hogwarts, A History on the table between them.

Draco's heart seized, hating this. Hating that they had to give it back when the one person in the world who would love it more than anyone sat right there, ready to relinquish ownership.

"You had the chance to read it, right?" He felt ridiculous the moment he'd spoken the question aloud. Hermione laughed. "The exaggerated eye roll doesn't feel necessary," he said. "Dare I suggest, it's a touch offensive."

She only rolled her eyes again, lobbing him with a smile.

"I read it several times. I love it, of course. The annotations were—lovely." Lovely came out on a wistful breath, exhaled with wishes, he assumed, of not having to give it up. "It was a perfect gift, a wonderful gift. Even if I only got to keep it for a short time."

The sincerity in her tone hurt more than if she hadn't meant it, Draco decided.

"What's this?" he asked, flipping a ribbon poking out from between the pages. He didn't recall it having a bookmark.

"Oh, thank you—I nearly forgot." She cracked the book open and pulled out a length of green satin.

It took Draco a moment, watching her wind the ribbon absently around her palm. And then it clicked.

"Is that—is that the ribbon I conjured for you? The day you gave me my wand back?"

She looked down at the ribbon wrapped around her hand, then back up to him, nodding slowly. She smiled, eyes a touch downturned as she watched him with what looked like a sudden bout of unexpected emotion.

"It is," she confirmed. The nod had been enough, but she forged ahead regardless. "I've been using it as a bookmark in here for years."

His chest, still so tight from seeing the book, from knowing they had to give it back, unclenched, warmth spiraling outward. To be overcome by such a sensation, such love; what a gift. He lifted his wand and sent the ribbon twisting into her hair again, tying it at the nape.

Her eyes fluttered shut, just briefly, long enough that he felt it, too. It almost felt like occupying two moments in his life at once: years before, conjuring a ribbon meant as commentary on the state of her hair, and in the present, doing it again as he prepared to give up the last of what he had left, but knowing he would still have her.

Lucius and Narcissa walked into the conference room with a Ministry Representative at exactly the time they were expected to arrive: not a minute earlier, not a minute later.

Draco didn't look at them as they entered, couldn't tear his eyes from the wood grain table which he suspected was actually nothing of the sort. It was probably plastic, or particle board, or something else equally as cost-saving and mundane, topped to make it look like a solid slab of wood.

His parents sat opposite them. The Ministry representative took her place at the head of the table. Hermione hadn't moved. Draco couldn't recall breathing.

Finally, he looked up.

First, a glance at his father. Grey meeting grey, a clashing of steel. Draco refused to balk, refused to give even just the tiniest bit. Much as he didn't want to think any such thought, the first observation Draco's brain provided him was: Lucius looked better, healthier. A smaller, even more furious part of him lamented that such an observation comforted him, in a way, a way he hated. He couldn't escape it, concern for his father, not in proximity, at least.

Draco straightened his spine, pressing it flush against the back of his chair, muscles pulling each vertebrae as tall as he could sit. He broke eye contact first, in control, not in deference. Perhaps the pleasure he got out of feeling in control could be labeled petty, but as it so happened, he felt a bit petty.

He shifted to look at his mother. Her posture, her gaze, everything about her projected much less rigidity than Lucius. She looked sad. And that hurt; it hurt worse. Her eyes were always softer, anyway. That pretty blue he sometimes wished he had for himself. Draco swallowed against a painful tightness squeezing at the back of his throat.

He turned his head further, finding Hermione at his side. She might have been looking at his parents, or perhaps past them, through them. But she turned to meet his gaze and released a small breath. She tapped her pinky, ring, middle, and index finger on the tabletop in a slow succession, just once per finger. Finally, on another deep breath, she pushed Hogwarts, A History towards the center of the table.

He gave her the first word, and would let her have the last one, too, if she wanted it. She could say whatever she wanted to these people he'd once called family. Thinking of them in that context twisted guilt with regret in his stomach, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"Your book," Hermione said, lifeless.

Neither Lucius nor Narcissa moved. They did not acknowledge that she'd spoken in any way. The book sat awkwardly between them, a dead weight at the center of the table. Finally, the Ministry Representative stood, leaned over the table, and pulled the book towards her, letting it rest on her right: Lucius and Narcissa's side of the table.

The Ministry Representative cleared her throat. "My name is Vivian Melling, and I will be conducting the final dissolution of magical ties in today's requested disinheritance. To confirm before we begin: I have present one Draco Lucius Malfoy, born the fifth of June, 1980, correct?"

"Yes." If things hadn't felt official, cold, and sterile before, they certainly did now.

"And his affianced, Hermione Jean Granger, born the nineteenth of September, 1979, correct?"

"Yes." Hermione's hand found his beneath the table as his parents' names and birthdates were confirmed.

He hadn't meant to look at her, but Draco found his mother's eyes, watched as her lips pulled tight. He saw it happen, when she glanced down at Hermione's left hand, resting atop the table, and the ring on her fourth finger. Perhaps Draco was an idiot; he certainly did idiotic things sometimes. It hadn't even occurred to him, not as he waded through his murky bog of emotions in preparing for this meeting, that his parents wouldn't yet know that he'd officially proposed to Hermione.

They should have assumed, to be sure. But to know with certainty. To see the ring. To know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Draco had wholly chosen her instead of them. He hadn't prepared himself for the wave of sympathy that crested overtop of his mental barriers, stuck on the look in his mother's eyes. On the wedding she would never plan. Wouldn't attend. The grandchildren she wouldn't know. The life, his life, that she no longer had any part of.

He flinched, physically flinched, from the ache behind his ribs. Hermione offered his hand a squeeze beneath the table. She must have noticed; his reaction felt so obvious, so apparent.

Wand weighing came next: only Lucius and Draco's being required.

"A different wand is on file for you, Mr. Draco Lucius." The way he'd been addressed struck Draco as peculiar, a mental stutter before his brain caught up. With multiple Malfoys in the room, given names would be the only option for clear communication. A rustle of parchments, then: "Ah, this wand does appear to be linked with your Gringotts accounts, however."

"That wand, with the unicorn hair, it's my primary. The one with a dragon heartstring core was a temporary wand"—the words scraped his throat—"post-war."

"I see. I'll update your information."

Draco's jaw ached. Every moment felt too formal, too forced. His parents sat three fucking feet away from him and he couldn't shake how utterly bizarre it felt to be at a table with them and not have a feast's worth of food to sort through.

More rustling parchments. This time, held up for them to see.

"I have here the Malfoy Estate lineages, deeds, and familial claims and responsibilities. I am confirming, with both parties present, that Mr. Draco Lucius is to be removed from these documents and shall henceforth have no further rights or responsibilities to the Malfoy Estate. Is that correct?"

For the longest, most terrible moment, no one spoke. Draco expected his father to spit his assent. But a heavy silence ate away at the spaces between them, instead.

Finally, from Draco, teeth ground together: "It is correct."

Then Lucius, equally as forced: "Correct."

Draco couldn't feel his fingers again, and he didn't know if it was him or Hermione who squeezed too hard.

"Excellent, then we shall proceed."

It didn't feel excellent. But it probably should have. He'd demanded this, after all. Still, it felt awful. Shoulder collapsing, the very definition of heart aching. Draco risked a glance at Narcissa again, unwilling—or perhaps incapable—of looking at his father as Ms. Melling stood and prepared for whatever came next.

Draco regretted looking the moment his eyes found her. She didn't look at him, but instead looked straight ahead, fury cracking through every tight line in her features: around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes, between her brows. Despite that, her eyes shined, watery, welling. And when she blinked, a single renegade tear broke free. She made no move to wipe the offender away.

Draco couldn't watch, didn't have the stomach for his mother's disappointment. Not when he had so much of his own.

The center of the table opened up, pulling Draco's focus to the large, flat, quartz bowl that rose from somewhere beneath.

"Now for the less pleasant bit," Ms. Melling said. Draco knew vaguely what to expect. Blood magic and blood wards were named as such for a reason, after all.

The bowl resembled a pensieve, but Draco knew it wouldn't be filled with memories.

Slowly, it levitated towards Draco, coming to rest directly in front of him.

"If you would hold your wand arm over the bowl, please."

Draco disentangled his fingers from Hermione's and did as instructed. With a quick spell, his palm split open, blood dripping into the bowl. He hadn't even felt it, so numb from the force with which he'd clung to Hermione's hand.

"Please keep your hand in place for a moment—ah, yes, that will do."

Another quick spell and Draco's skin stitched itself back together perfectly. Despite what he could only assume was an unfathomable amount of practice doing that very spell, Hermione apparently still had her doubts, immediately pulling his hand to her, inspecting the status of his skin.

"I'm fine," he assured her in a low voice as Lucius paid his price in blood as well.

The bowl levitated back to its place at the center of the table, looking utterly innocuous apart from the deep ruby blood rippling inside.

Hermione brought his hand beneath the table again, holding it with a touch less force than before. It quirked a small smile at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at her, knowing she was likely trying to be gentle on his recently exsanguinated limb.

From the head of the table, Ms. Melling began an incantation, wand drawn and pointed at the quartz bowl.

The blood began to flow, swirling in a stream that crept up the edges of the shallow bowl, nearly spilling over. Magic flashed, shimmered in a storm, settled. Then, the blood separated: two distinct masses spiraling around each other, a red whirlpool, fractured, in orbit. Two distinct bloodlines. Blood no longer recognizing blood as familiar, of the same.

With another incantation, the bowl ignited, flames shooting up in two slightly differing shades. One, a more golden hue. The other, almost silvery. Draco couldn't say with certainty which color belonged to which bloodline, but he could guess.

When the fire extinguished, no blood remained.

Empty, like the new sensation cracking open behind his ribs.

"And that's it. Thank you for coming in today. You will find no further contractual obligations or privileges relating to blood or law between your two parties. The Ministry appreciates your choice to conduct this manner in an official, legal capacity." Her head wobbled, a bit of a shake, a bit of a sigh. "Homegrown rituals do have a tendency to end in violence."

Draco had difficulty deciding if the queasiness in the pit of his stomach came from that image or from the finality of what had just occurred. Lucius stood abruptly, but didn't leave the table. He leaned over it, palms flat, mouth twisted to a sneer.

For a brief, horrifying moment, Draco expected him to say something awful, to spew an atrocity to the effect of enjoy your mudblood cunt or something equally as vile. He braced, prepared to defend himself, defend Hermione, defend their choices.

But instead, Narcissa stood, too. She put her hand on Lucius's upper arm, and whispered something so quiet that the sound couldn't travel the width of the table between them. Lucius lifted his palms. Stood straight. Turned and left without a word, cane clicking on linoleum as he walked.

Ms. Melling, who'd been standing at the head of the table, looked relatively unfazed.

"All things considered," she said, turning to Draco as she picked up the copy of Hogwarts, a History his parents had left behind. "This went well. Take whatever time you need." And she exited too, leaving Draco and Hermione still sitting at that horribly utilitarian table.

Take whatever time you need. To what? Process the fact that not a single word had been exchanged between him and his parents? That, of all people, Hermione had been the only person to try and say anything? They'd been given privacy. What did they expect of him? That he'd break down? Cry? Need an indeterminable amount of time to search himself for his new identity?

Draco swallowed, noticing that Hermione watched him, body and chair angled in his direction. Perhaps she was waiting for the moment he cracked, crumbled, disintegrated, now that he no longer had a familial identity to glue his cobbled parts together.

He felt sadness, yes. Deep in his bones. An ache like something inside him, in his magical core, had vanished. It was an empty feeling, hollow.

But he felt lighter, too. Lighter felt better, felt like hope.

He turned to Hermione.

"It's really real," he said.

"I know. I've known for a long time."

Draco inhaled deeply. He couldn't shake the sight of his mother crying. He wanted to believe her, believe in her, and he wondered if he would ever truly stop. "Do you think they were real?" he asked, voice quiet in their impersonal Ministry conference room. "Her tears—my mother's."

Hermione's hand shifted to his knee. Try as Draco might, he found himself incapable of meeting her eyes, gaze fixed on her hand instead, on the small circle her forefinger traced against his trousers.

"She—" Hermione paused, swallowed, started again. "She bears as much guilt in this as your father, but I think her motivations were different. I think of everyone who was just in this room, she wanted this the least. Less than you, even. She just—she didn't know how to stop it. She made it worse in a lot of ways."

"I'm going to miss her. Is that terrible to admit? After everything, I think I'll still miss her. It wasn't always like this."

Hermione's hand moved again, to his hair this time: raking it behind his ears, smoothing it at the base of his neck, offering him comfort through touch.

Her voice washed over him in a quiet, reassuring spell. "I know. And maybe it won't be forever. But for now, you've done the right thing for you."

"For you, too."

He exhaled, allowing himself another moment to mourn before he reached up, catching her hand at the side of his neck. "Marry me."

She laughed. "You've already asked me that question." She held up her left hand, wiggled her fingers, ruby ring glinting under the horrendous white Ministry lights.

"I don't mean in eight months to a year when Pansy has finally coerced you into picking her favorite flowers for your wedding. Not when she's forced you into a dress you don't even like because she's had it tailored too small. Not with a big to-do. Just—marry me. Now. Soon—this weekend?"

He'd never felt more certain, more urgent, about anything in his life.

"I'm no one right now, Hermione. I want to be your husband."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

She looked down at her ring.

"That's—very short notice."

"That's typically how eloping works, love. You don't want a big wedding, anyway. I've seen the panic in your eyes when Pansy corners you."

"I want my parents to—"

"They'll come. It'll be small, but they'll come. Of course they'll come."

"Draco I"—her breath gusted, as if preemptively shocked with herself—"I actually love this idea. I do. But I don't know that we can find someone to perform bonding magic with less than a week's notice. Not unless we wanted to do it in a conference room like this with another Ministry Official."

Draco smirked.

Everything made sense.

So much sense.

A stupendous, idiotic, absolutely outstanding amount of sense.

"Theo can do it."

Her mouth opened and closed again as if on a hinge she couldn't quite control. Open once for shock, closed for awe, open again for outrage, and closed for confusion. "He what?"

Draco had no control over his wild grin. "He's going to marry us. And your parents will be there, of course. And Blaise will mix us delicious drinks to celebrate. And Pansy can come but she won't be in charge." Hermione laughed at that, and it felt like he'd convinced her, almost giddy with giggles. "Those Potters can come if they must. Weasley because I know you'll ask, and Lavender because they're a package deal these days. But that's it. That's all. You and me and those people and no one else."

She brushed his hair from his forehead again, fingers pushing it behind his ear.

"You should consider a haircut."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes."