A/N

Many thanks to you all for reading and supporting this story.

70 chapters... I was aiming for 30 at one stage... eeekkk.
You guys keep me going, and I am so grateful.

This chapter contains more dark and disturbing material, so please heed the trigger warnings listed at the start.
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đź’š VJ


** Trigger warnings: angst, past sexual abuse, pedophilia, memory loss, and child pornography**

Chapter 70

Sunday 23 March 2003: PM

Hermione shifts the book in her hands from her right hand to her left, chuffing a contented sigh as she cosies into Draco's warm torso. His back is propped against the arm of the pale blue couch, legs spread to accommodate her body between them. He smiles down as she smooches a little kiss to his white-and-grey striped Oxford button-down, aiming for his heart beneath the fine fabric.

"What was that for, Granger?" Draco marks his place in his own book with his pale forefinger, bending his head to kiss the tip of her nose. "Not that I'm protesting, mind." He reverently combs her obscuring brown fringe away from her forehead, leaving his hand curled around her neck.

"You're so beautiful, Hermione. Our– I mean– you're simply stunning," Draco clears his throat in a decidedly shifty manner.

"Wait – you were going to say something else, then." Hermione is on his evasiveness like a hawk on a field mouse. "I thank you for the compliment – though we both know I'm ordinary-looking: don't quibble, Malfoy. I want to know what you initially intended to say just then, please," she lowers her hand to loom just below his vulnerable armpit.

"Bullshit!" Draco hotly denies. "You're utterly, incontrovertibly beautiful and I won't ever tolerate you denying the fact – no, come on, that's non-consensual tickling….!" He gasps as her fingers burrow into his sensitive flesh.

"Stop– stop– " he catches her assailing hand, snorting laughter as she pretends to snap at his throat. "What a nasty little lioness you've become!".

"You're deflecting, Draco." Sitting up a little, Hermione narrows her whiskey-brown eyes as Draco tries for 'po-faced'.

"Ah – I meant to comment that our recent photographs together attest to your comeliness," he glibly replies. The minutest shadow of a smirk plays around the corners of his mouth.

Pfft. Sneaky Snake. Hermione glares suspiciously for a few more beats, before deciding to let the matter rest. Draco will tell me, when he's ready. Which reminds me…

"Malfoy, may we talk? I'd planned to raise a few issues with you at breakfast this morning – but then you had to be all charming and sexy and cute, and I plumb forgot," Hermione mock-grouses.

"Of course, ma petite. What's up?" Draco wriggles a little to straighten his back, his anthracite eyes never leaving hers.

Hermione runs the bullet points through her head once more, nodding as she reaches the end of her list.

"Well, to begin: I start my new job at Hogwarts Monday week, and we've yet to decide on our adapted living arrangements… and you haven't spoken with Minerva, yet." Biting her bottom lip, Hermione quietly awaits Draco's reaction.

Glancing at the page number marked in his book, he slides free his finger before placing the tome onto the flat arm of the sofa, turning back to grin artlessly at her.

"No, I haven't had a chance… things have been a tad hectic the past week, you know," he blithely underplays the dramas that have regularly beset their lives of late. "I'll ask Headmistress McGonagall for an appointment first thing tomorrow. Next?"

Hermione plays with the top button of his shirt, quickly losing focus on her organized list as her insatiable yen for the man blazes. "Huh… next? Right – how shall we do this, Draco? Which do you think would be better: living at Hogwarts in joint quarters through the week, coming back to the townhouse for Saturday and Sunday; or the reverse? I suppose it depends on how things go when you speak with Minerva – but she assured me she would do everything in her power to enable us to live together as a couple…"

"Hey – don't fret, mon amour… we'll figure it out," Draco gently tugs away her thumbnail from her gnawing teeth. "If I'm unsuccessful in securing a position as an Arts Professor, or a back-up Potions teacher – or the artist-in-residence grant you claimed was a true possibility – I'll throw myself on Filch's mercy and become his caretaking apprentice," he grandly declares.

"Oh, you're a darling – and a smartarse – but we both know you wouldn't last a hot minute working as a lackey," Hermione sniggers. "Fancy the look on Lucy's face if he heard of your new job mopping floors and griping about Peeves, though!"

"Well, I'd have the distinct advantage of using magic to complete my chores," a mildly aggrieved Draco contends. "I'm not the snobbish brat I once was, you know – in rehab, I even learned how to boil the perfect egg," he boasts.

"Wow," Hermione breathes, derisively batting her eyelashes. "I've always wanted to date an experienced Cooker of Eggs."

"You jest – but it's not as easy as one would think," Draco defends. "Pro tip: don't try to cook them in a microwave – I learned that the hard way. Talk about an egg-splosion!" He chuckles merrily at his own dubious humour.

Dreadful… that pun is beyond appalling, Hermione thinks. Aloud, she asks, "Have you been taking comedy tips from my father? Please don't – that was a 'Dad joke' if ever I heard one, Malfoy."

She waves her hand edgily as she reminds, "Seriously, though – what will we do, if you're not offered work at Hogwarts? I don't want to live without you, Draco… actually, I really can't live without you," she drops her eyes after rasping her heartfelt confession.

The mere prospect of not seeing Draco every day… of living apart from him – oh, I can't stand it. A strained breath whistles from Hermione's lips as she struggles to regain her emotional equilibrium.

Draco tilts up her chin with a caressing index finger. "I can't live without you, Hermione – so that's definitely off the table, come what may. If all else fails, I'll just buy a nice place in Hogsmeade; I can paint anywhere, darling. I'll have a hot meal waiting for you at the end of the day, and I'll pamper you to my heart's content, and when the babies come– " he chokes off the rest of his eager words as Hermione's eyes near bug out of her head.

"The babies?! You– you want to have children– with me?" Hermione jabbers, her heart near thumping out of her chest.

Draco's mien of panicked fluster switches to annoyance as he scolds, "Hermione! Of course, with you! Haven't I told you that I belong to you, body and soul? Am I unknowingly speaking in Aramaic, or something? Do I need a translation spell? Should I hire a stonemason, to carve the truth of my affections in marble, and affix the tablets to the walls?" He scrabbles at his argent hair in a wild parody of exasperation.

"Sarcasm is oft considered the lowest form of wit, Draco," Hermione stiffly rebuts. "Forgive me if I sometimes feel a little insecure – not so long ago, you did attempt to push me away by claiming you wanted your 'accursed bloodline' to die out, or something equally ridiculous."

"I apologize – I was idiotically martyring myself to spare you the disapprobation of being with an ex-Death Eater, but you saw through my sham straightaway, in any case," Draco quietly states.

Taking a huge, soughing breath, he avows, "I – I would love to have children with you, Hermione – I mean, no pressure, and if it doesn't happen for us, that's fine – there are always other options, and plenty of children needing foster care – or we could get lots of cats, and dogs, and maybe some guinea pigs," he waffles, looking increasingly panicked.

"Guinea pigs?" Hermione echoes stupidly. Her heartrate is loping like a runaway thoroughbred.

"Ah, fuck it– before, when you called me out for prevaricating– well, what I was going to say was, 'our babies will be the most beautiful children ever born, if they take after you," Draco comes clean, his embarrassed pewter eyes never leaving her stunned carob ones. "I hope inherit all your genes– gorgeous, clever, little brown-eyed babes with copper curls and a complexion that doesn't catch fire in the sunlight," he weakly jests.

Hermione blinks slowly, joy crashing into her like a rough wave in the surf. Opening her mouth to express her ecstasy, she embarrasses herself when she is only able to emit a series of inane vocables.

"Unhhh – whaaa – hunhhhh – beyyyyy!" Gulping, she tries again.

"I want– I want that– all of that– not a menagerie, perhaps, but babies or foster kids and pets and coming home to you and– and our family– but I want beautiful, smart, white-blond babies like you– ohmigod Draco, I love you so!" Hermione clumsily pitches forward, peppering kisses to Draco's beaming face as he tries to do the same. Bumping noses and foreheads, she stills as he slides his hands around her jawline, resting them behind her ears to kiss her deeply.

Their kiss is a perfect balance of soft and strong, as Hermione concentrates on imbuing the embrace with every last drop of love, hunger, and commitment she feels for her magnificent blond beau. The ambient noises of a lazy Sunday afternoon fall away as her senses centre wholly on the taste, touch, sight, smell, and sound of one Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Her hands tunnel through his hair, trace his ears, pat his nose, squeeze his arms, as her mouth lips, nips, and soothes. Short kisses, long kisses, kisses on his chin and cheeks and eyebrows. Murmured repetitions of 'I love you' and 'I need you' and 'you're mine… I'm yours'. Breaths exchanged and stolen, limbs tangling and hair tumbling as they strive to be ever closer.

Time floats like a drowsy honeybee, replete with nectar. Dizzy, Hermione yet protests a tiny whine when Draco gently uncouples from their embrace to speak in an frank, urgent whisper.

"Hermione… ma petite, I have to tell you – I adore you. No matter whether our family grows to ten children and a dozen cats and dogs – or thirty guinea pigs – or if it doesn't expand – I will always, always love and worship you. Do you understand?" Draco asks, staring at her with a fierce, solemn tenderness.

"I do – and I feel exactly the same, Draco. I love you, mon coeur… mon âme," Hermione avidly replies. She sits upright as the first part of his statement properly sinks in.

"'Ten children'?!" she snorts incredulously. "Very funny." Ha – he's such a sly jokester. My funny darling.

"Alright – seven," Draco concedes, looking anything but jocular as he nods decisively beneath her.

"Oh, hell to the no… unless you intend to give birth to them?" Hermione scoffs, whipping her loose pekoe-brown ringlets from side-to-side. "That's a Quidditch team, Malfoy."

"Five."

"Two."

"Four."

"Two."

"OK, three it is," Draco smugly guffaws, as Hermione picks up one of the cushions that fell off the couch during their impassioned clinch and pretends to smother him with it. "Mercy!" his muffled cry issues through the padded pillow.

"Bossy git," Hermione grouses, as she tosses the cornflower blue cushion back to the floor. She sits back on her haunches, gazing soberly down.

"Draco – I might not be able to bear children… previous Healers suggested that the – Crucios that Bellatrix inflicted may have caused irreversible damage to my reproductive organs. I was too afraid to have my potential infertility confirmed, so I let it slide," she tonelessly informs. "I should have mentioned it sooner, I guess." Her neck droops and her eyes smart as they flick to the side.

"Come here," Draco carefully guides her rigid form to pivot and nestle in his lap, his arms bracing around her. He glides his hands down the crown of her head to the ends of her curls in soft, cadenced strokes as he speaks.

"Hermione, I may have fertility issues of my own – I was regularly punished and used as target practice when the Noseless Demon forcibly turned Malfoy Manor into a Death Eater B&B," he quips humourlessly. "When we do decide to try to become pregnant – when we're both ready, of course, no pressure! – we'll consult the best specialists from both worlds, and go from there… but if it never happens for us, we'll be OK," Draco promises.

"No: we'll be better than OK; we'll have each other, no matter what," he croons. A pause, before Draco diffidently queries, "You're not… I mean, you don't think… you might be pregnant, already, do you?".

"What?! No – if you're referring to my belly pooch, that's a dessert baby from yesterday," Hermione yanks down the hem of the sorrel brown merino pullover Draco had given her at their first café breakfast, feeling somewhat put out by his inquiry.

"Sweetheart, I meant no offence; please don't be cross with me for asking. I cherish your little tummy," he bends to buzz a quick raspberry to her lower stomach, as she squeals and clutches at his back.

"Cut that out!"

"Sorry, sorry," Draco smiles, jiggling her back into position on his splayed thighs. "No, I was merely checking… I wondered, after hearing Luna's theories on Spring Equinox pregnancy statistics. Hey – we need to remember that our soul-bonded magic might come into play, too," he nods to his left forearm. The Dark Mark is barely visible through the semi-transparent material of his white striped shirt.

Wow. I never even considered that… so much for being 'the Brightest Witch', Hermione muses. Mood considerably uplifted, she lets her happiness suffuse her face in a wide smile.

"You're occasionally quite brilliant, Lord Malfoy," she teases. "Try not to gloat, its unbecoming."

She hurries to raise the next topic before she succumbs to kissing him silly once more.

"Draco, what are we going to do about Mac? Will you send him back to work at the Manor, to live with Ruibby? I guess he's no longer needed to act as my bodyguard… and he is the Manor's steward, first and foremost… but I love him dearly. I'll– I'll miss him terribly," she wistfully remarks.

Sighing, Draco concurs. "Never repeat this – but I can't envision living without the flamboyant little rascal, either. And I would prefer Mac to continue to act as your personal protection, until you begin your new job, Hermione. Please: though McLaggen and Flint are locked away, Potter and his team are yet to unravel all the sticky threads of that sick network. I refuse to take any chances with your safety, ma petite." His beautiful mouth firms in an adamant line, waiting for her accepting nod.

"Excellent. As to the rest of Mac's future… I wondered if we couldn't strike an arrangement with McGonagall, for them to work at Hogwarts? It's his greatest unrealized dream, now that he's finally won the heart of the fair Ruibby," Draco suggests. "Not immediately – he'll need time to train his successor; I would suggest that either Mizrabel or Kevvy step up. Mother tells me they've both proven themselves eminently capable during his absence," Draco concludes.

He cocks his silver head as Hermione chuckles.

"You've a house elf named 'Kevvy'? That's too precious," her laughter bubbles higher at his non-plussed expression.

"Yes… Kevin, in truth – but he prefers Kevvy," Draco slowly explains. "Why is this so funny? You're an odd little egg, sometimes." His benevolent kiss to her cheek assures her he is only teasing.

"Sorry – I'm sorry, it just strikes me as such a Muggle name," Hermione replies, as her sniggers ease to hiccoughs. "Mac (and Ruibby too eventually, I imagine) working at Hogwarts is totally perfect, Malfoy! I'll include it in the list of topics I must review with Minerva… I have to set up that appointment for Gus – about Tavi's admission letter – too."

It's going to be a busy week… just as I like it, Hermione reflects with considerable satisfaction.

"Yes – and if Gus needs any help covering the cost of Tavi's schooling needs – clothes, wand, stationery, any special equipment relating to her cerebral palsy – charge it straight to me, or take it out of our Gringotts account, Hermione," Draco orders autocratically.

"I've arranged for you to be granted full access to the Malfoy vault – skip all the demurring rubbish about not accepting it, we'll go straight to the part where you dutifully say, 'Yes, Draco', and move on, darling. I would only ask that you not touch the heirloom jewellery until I've had a proper chance to – erm – cleanse it," he qualifies, looking abashed.

Determined to not be boringly predictable, Hermione puts a pin in her astonishment at apparently being arrogantly gifted half a bloody fortune; she merely snips, "You're too late: Blaise cornered me yesterday and made me promise to send all the bills for Tavi's Hogwarts fit-out to him, Draco. He rather foolishly underestimates Gus's driving independence and antipathy to rely on charity ever again, though."

"Did he, now? Oh, that's delicious – 'The Rise and Fall of the Zabini Empire' begins… it's a wonderful time to be alive, Granger," Draco unleashes a wicked 'muahahaha!', before he lustily attacks Hermione's sensitive lateral throat with his lips and teeth.

She writhes joyfully at his libidinous attack, shrieking playfully as he licks at her ear, eyes squinching in pleasure.

"Draco, Hermione – please come at once. We're at Pansy's apartment… I found the photographs she turned over to the Ministry, in McLaggen's hidden safe. She needs you, both of you. Draco – Pansy asked you to tell Hermione everything, before you arrive. Please, hurry."

The unearthly projection of Harry's tormented voice issuing from his regal stag Patronus (standing proudly before them) shocks them both.

Hermione stumbles to her feet as Draco jack-knifes upright. He is positively ashen after hearing the magical communication.

"Oh, fuck – oh, no," Draco's words are faint and agonized. He covers his pallid face with trembling hands.

Dread pools in her belly; their carefree domesticity scatters like autumn leaves in a brisk wind.

Whatever this is – it's bad… really bad. Hermione steels herself to remain composed, as Draco turns to face her. His expression is as grave as she's ever seen it.

"Hermione, mon amour… we'd best sit back down."


"Has Pansy divulged any of her past history to you, Hermione?" Draco stares at his still-quivering hands, his voice low and pained.

"No… she's hinted at a long estrangement, and past trauma… but she hasn't gone into specifics," Hermione admits. "I figured that she would tell me of it, when she was ready."

"Fucking McLaggen – and Flint – if I weren't already dreaming of their painful deaths, this would seal their worthless fate," Draco growls. His savage expression conveys his violent sincerity. "I'll personally petition for a return of the Dementor's Kiss, mark my words."

Slipping her cold little hand into his, Hermione entreats, "Just tell me, Draco. A problem shared is a problem halved, isn't that how the saying goes?" she nudges his shoulder.

"It's awful– absolutely horrific. I wish– I wish I'd done more – I wish I'd not been such a selfish, self-involved dickhead," Draco castigates himself. He emits a deep, rattling sigh.

"I'll keep this brief – Pansy needs us. She– she was sexually abused by her paternal grandfather, from the ages of about six, until she was twelve; he lost interest after she started puberty," he raspingly informs.

Oh, dear lord. No. No. No. Hermione grips Draco's hand as hard as she dares, her heart breaking for her friend. She swallows convulsively, dreading hearing the rest – but knowing she must.

"I didn't know – truly know – the particulars, until we reconnected when I returned from my stint at the Parisian art school," he rumbles on. "I suppose I shouldn't have criticized the Weas– Weasley's 'Grand Apology Tour' so harshly yesterday; I undertook a rather pathetic one of my own."

Questions hover at the tip of her tongue: Hermione chokes them back. Better to let Draco narrate this horror in his own way.

"When we were kids at Hogwarts, Pansy was always… clingy, needy, I suppose. I found it irritating, but I selfishly used her infatuation to prop up my flagging ego, and to further my self-delusion that I did not actually insanely crave a certain mouthy little Gryffindor." Draco restlessly shuffles his feet beneath the coffee table. "I didn't perceive that her abnormal behaviours were symptomatic of a much deeper, darker problem until we began to… experiment."

He casts a worried, remorseful look in her direction. "I'm sorry – this is distressing –"

Negating his concerns with a firm headshake, Hermione instructs, "It's fine – please, keep going. Really," she insists.

"Well, whenever we… became intimate, Pansy would freeze… one moment she was an enthusiastic participant, the next – she'd become almost catatonic." Draco frets at his flopped blond fringe with his unoccupied hand. "I'd stop – ask her what was wrong – and she'd just blink… like she wasn't there at all. I guess she wasn't present, not really. I wasn't much of a Legilimens then, but even my raw ability sensed a massive, black wall slamming down in her mind.'

"I never went any further after she froze – and afterward, when she'd come back to herself – she'd deny there was a problem. After a while, I stopped altogether… with a few exceptions, usually to put on a show when I knew you were watching, or had Prefect rounds–" he stops abruptly.

"Draco, it's OK – I need to know." Inwardly, Hermione rolls her eyes at her boyfriend's historic cunning.

"I need to wrap this up. I'm sorry, Hermione. I sought out Pansy when I came back to London, and she told me she'd stumbled upon her grandfather's disgusting cache of photographs – documenting his pedophilia – of her, when she went to stay with him after the War. He'd drugged her most of the time, and her traumatized child's mind had repressed the horrible memories, until she saw those pictures." Draco reaches for Hermione's other hand, holding both tightly.

"He'd become quite frail, and her parents had pressured her to act as his companion, though he'd always made her skin crawl… without fully comprehending why. When she found the photos, she spent a long, tormented night thinking of what to do… in the end, she placed her trust in the legal system. Pansy told her evil grandfather that she was taking the pictures to the DMLE, and she would move heaven and earth to see him prosecuted for his crimes.'

"She was true to her word, and turned over the entire revolting collection to the Ministry the next day. Some harried fool questioned her over and over, while she suffered through relating what few memories had resurfaced," Draco whispers as he continues his monologue.

"Pansy went home to inform her parents; they greeted her with the news that her grandfather had been found dead at the bottom of his stairs with a broken neck. Her father looked at her coldly and told her they were aware of the scurrilous lies she'd been indiscreetly touting about a 'decent, respectable wizard' – and that she was – as of that moment – disinherited and cast out from their home. They'd known, Hermione – they'd known of the unspeakable atrocities her grandfather had committed, and they had traded their silence for his gold."

Hermione doesn't check the hot tears cascading down her cheeks. Draco roughly wipes his own streaming eyes on his sleeve.

"Pansy called them on it immediately, and though they never explicitly admitted their complicity, she could see the truth of it in their eyes. She had just enough money of her own to cover her living expenses while she fought a bitter legal battle to access her trust fund; once she had those monies, she set about creating her own business empire, with an emphasis on helping other women. She forced herself to undergo counselling, though she told me more than once that she detested 'baring her soul in sixty minute increments'," Draco smiles wryly.

"When she returned to ask the DMLE about the investigation, they flatly acknowledged that they'd shelved the entire affair upon learning of the death of her grandfather, and claimed there was insufficient evidence to try her parents as accessories to the crimes. She asked for the photographs to be destroyed, and was told they would be incinerated once the inquiry was deemed completed."

"But they weren't; and Barry Bones most likely dug them out to sell to Marcus and Cormac," Hermione surmises, speaking huskily through her tears. "Oh, Draco – they've circulated those pictures, haven't they?! Oh, poor Pansy…!" she cannot finish her sentence, her throat closing in empathetic distress.

"I fear exactly that, Hermione," Draco buries his face in her quavering curls. For a few silent minutes, they share a close, comforting hug.

"Hermione – we'd better go. Are you– are you up for this? I understand if you'd rather I went alone," Draco hesitantly offers.

"I'm sick to my stomach thinking of all that Pansy has suffered – but there's no way I'm staying behind." Hermione snatches at the box of tissues on the coffee table, blotting dry her red-rimmed eyes and blowing her nose with a decisive honk.

"Pansy needs us, and I am going to do everything I can to help her get through this, Draco. Whatever it takes," she vehemently asserts.

Draco presses a grateful kiss to her tremulous lips.

"As will I, ma petite. Let's go."


The sound of the Floo has Pansy's head rearing against Harry's supportive shoulder. Her melancholy bottle-green eyes flare in alarm until she spies Draco's distinctive platinum hair, with Hermione's riotous mahogany mop right beside him.

"Hush, love; it's just Draco and Hermione." Harry cuddles her to his chest again; she relaxes infinitesimally, taking great succour from his tender embrace.

Hermione rushes forward, stopping a foot or so away before dropping down to perch beside them. Her arms rise, then drop; her uncertainty about whether or not to fold Pansy into a hug is obvious.

"Come on then, Pollyanna – I'm going to need a shitload of hugs tonight, so have at it," Pansy croaks, impatiently waving Hermione closer as she leans out a little. Harry shifts his arms to enable Hermione to enwrap Pansy in a careful embrace.

"You call that a squeeze? You've gone soft, Golden Girl," Pansy razzes, clinging fiercely to her friend. She senses rather than sees Draco come to her other side to add his own arms to the awkward four-way cuddle.

"Bet you never dreamed you'd be voluntarily hugging Harry Potter, huh, Draco?" Pansy knows she is using humour to mask her vulnerability… but fuck it – whatever works. She cackles scratchily at Draco's caustic reply.

"This doesn't leave this room, right? You can take it as proof positive that I love you dearly, Pansy," Draco pronounces, with unmistakable feeling. "We're here for you, Pans."

"Never took you for a snuggler, Malfoy – but you're not half-bad at it, I suppose," Harry goes along with the joke, keeping his tone light and dry. "I guess I can understand why Hermione keeps you around."

Pansy feels her nutty heart swell afresh at Harry's overt willingness to prop up her failing spirits. By Morgana… this man really is extraordinary. He's so sweet… and patient… I've no idea why he thinks me worth the effort, but I'm not about to point out the error of his ways.

Raising her head and opening her sore, tear-burned eyes, Pansy smiles wanly at Hermione. "Hey, Pollyanna… do you feel up to sitting with me a while and listening to me sobbing out my sad story? I'll even let you plait my hair, if you insist," she wisecracks.

"Lead the way, my Slytherin sister," Hermione bobs to her feet, holding out her hand. Pansy slowly unfurls from Harry's lap, bestowing him with a fragile smile and hoping she doesn't look as haggard as she feels. Both men treat her as though she's made of spun glass, helping her to stand upright.

Wending her arm through Hermione's proffered one, Pansy begins to sluggishly walk in the direction of her bedroom, pausing after a few steps. Turning her head, she catches Harry's intent glance, as the men follow behind.

"Harry? Can you… can you please stay? If you're not too busy, I mean," she quietly modifies. "I'd… I'd like to talk with you, after Hermione." She holds her breath for a mere fraction of a moment before Harry vigorously nods his assent.

"I'll be right here, love. I won't leave you," he promises, candour apparent in his every word and gesture. "May I make you a pot of tea? And perhaps bring you some biscuits?" he asks, his hands creeping to scrunch at his untameable raven-black mane.

"Yes, please," Pansy surprises herself with her affirmative response. "My favourites are the Cartwright & Butler Strawberry and White Chocolate – they're in a pink packet in the pantry."

"Take Draco with you – he was recently bragging of his domestic talents," Hermione drolly advises. "Apparently he's an 'Egg-xpert' in the kitchen."

She snickers as everyone else groans. "Listen – Lord of the Manor started with the 'egg' puns, I'm just trying to balance the books."

"Hermione, I sometimes wonder if your humour gene has been irreversibly adulterated by too much study," Harry good-naturedly gibes. "It's the kind of 'witticism' I'd expect from Barney, honestly."

"'Adulterated' and 'witticism'… steady on, Potter, anyone would think you actually went to school, instead of spending the majority of your magical education saving the world from a megalomaniacal monster," Draco chimes in affably. "How are we to maintain our traditional enmity if you continue to 'improve your mind by extensive reading'?" he winks at Hermione as he paraphrases the classic Austen line.

"Oof – that's enough of your wordy flirting, you pair," Pansy fakes pettish grievance. "And by that, I mean you and Harry, Draco," she deadpans.

"Nice one, Pansy," Hermione lifts her hand for a congratulatory slap. ""Our wizards don't stand a chance, thinking they can mix it up with us on the witty repartee front," she sniffs dramatically. Both males mutter unintelligibly by way of retort.

They have arrived at Pansy's open bedroom door. Pansy stills, her upbeat façade withering as she contemplates recounting her pitiful, sordid tale.

Hermione exchanges a significant look with Harry, who moves forward to loosely encircle his arms around Pansy. The Gryffindor witch walks into the room, while Draco retraces his steps back toward the kitchen; the couple clearly want to allow Pansy and Harry a measure of privacy.

"Please… look at me, Pansy." Harry waits until Pansy lifts her sad eyes to meet his compassionate regard. "You needn't feel obligated in any way to tell any of us anything you're not comfortable discussing, yes? I'll sit with you in silence for as long as you need me to, love. And never mind the demands of my job – I'm not the only Auror in the damned place. You come first, do you hear me?" he earnestly avers.

Harry's mouth hovers near her own; Pansy cannot resist the temptation. She stretches to bequeath a delicate kiss – as ephemeral as a soap bubble in the sunlight – before shyly retreating.

Gazing at her worshipfully, Harry fleetingly brushes his thumb across her lower lip.

"I'll be right outside if you need me, Pansy."

Unable to speak, Pansy minutely tips her chin in acknowledgement; her jade eyes are woebegone as they follow his exit from the room.

Harry makes a final pledge before he closes the door.

"I meant what I said before, love. We'll get through this, together… I promise."