Epilogue Part 2: The Somnambulist

It was impossible for Hermione to avoid thinking about Padma's warning since the very first nightmare Hermione had had about her friend. She remembered it vividly.

"Your sons will die and then Draco will die and then you'll be alone."

The dream had taken place at Malfoy Manor just after Draco had taken her there to recover following the liberation of the fleet. At the time, Padma's dream warning had been eerie, but irrelevant.

Children? With Draco Malfoy? In the middle of a zombie plague?

Now, some two years later, Hermione couldn't help but feel uneasy given that the dream had been nothing short of prophetic. She was greatly comforted by the fact that she had no Divination talent to speak of. Therefore, the most likely explanation was that Dream-Padma was a creature purely of Hermione's subconscious.

Padma's dreamtime visits to Hermione had since become an almost weekly occurrence. It took a toll. As with most challenging things, Hermione learned to deal with it. There were always medications and potions to induce dreamless sleep, but she could not bring herself to take any of them because on some level, she felt morally obligated to receive Dream-Padma.

Unsurprisingly, the dreams were mainly about the fleet.

They were terrible from start to finish and often ended up with Hermione crawling into the safety of Draco's arms until the shaking stopped. She was embarrassed about her inability to self-soothe. This was despite the fact she read books with titles like 'How To Tame Your Toddler', all containing a plethora of advice about attachment theory, settling, and how to stop your two-year old from making a game out of biting his brother, giggling, and then running away (Draco was still working on this one).

It didn't take a genius to work out that the nightmares were a byproduct of complex past trauma over the course of many years, and Hermione's monumental survivor's guilt. To make matters worse, the guilt had a habit of morphing into shame when Hermione thought about her children.

How dare she feel guilty about surviving when Padma had literally given her life for this? For Hermione to be here today to watch Henry's face light up when he raised frogspawn in the Manor pond. For Hermione to be there to hear Orion's first word ("No."). Padma would have wanted Hermione to live. To really live. Hermione's theory was that the dreams would stop when she finally made peace with the fact that she had been the one to walk out of the Pit alive, instead of Padma.

Exactly how she was to cultivate this sense of peace was unclear.

Draco was several hours late to return home, but he had sent an owl ahead of time to let her know. Some unexpected complications at the mines, he said. So she'd made the boys dinner, gave Orion a bath and put both children to bed by seven o'clock. Miraculously, they went to bed rather easily that night, which was not usually the case when Draco was not home. She counted her blessings and took a long bath, washing her hair and catching up on some personal grooming. After her bath, she observed herself in her full-length bedroom mirror, towel discarded at her feet. Her body bore the scars of battle and of pregnancy. Although her stomach was flat once more, there were raised, silver stretch marks across her belly, just under the navel. To the left of her navel was the puckered pink scar of her bullet wound. The neatness of the scar was entirely owing to Draco's skills as a surgeon. Lower down, on her thigh, was the scar from her injury sustained during the Welwyn Hospital Mission. All this of course paled in comparison to the stories Draco's body could tell.

Further up her torso, Hermione examined her breasts. They'd been small to begin with and were small now, so there was not a huge change apart from the fact that her areolas had darkened from largely skin-coloured to a dusky pink. She had breastfed Orion for sixteen months and would have kept going but for the incessant biting. The only other marked change was that she was generally curvier about the hips and backside. She wished her breasts had followed suit, but oh well. Draco had no complaints, and nor would she have tolerated it if he did. She pulled on cotton underpants and a matching camisole, and followed by blue and white checked flannel pajamas and a pair of Draco's old pair of thick, ribbed Quidditch socks. They tended to slide down and flop about her feet, but they kept her toes nice and warm. She pulled off the towel that was wrapped around her hair, thinking that she might have a bit of a lie down before going through the bother of a drying spell.

Hermione crawled into their big bed, onto Draco's side, and was asleep within minutes. The nightmare started as soon as her first REM cycle kicked in.

The dream was set at one of the more favourable locations - Hogwarts. Or Hogsmeade, to be more precise. Just as it was in the real world, it was winter and mere days away from the Yule, school term break.

A quick downward glance at her attire told Hermione she was in fifth or sixth year. She recognised the old jumper, the scarf, the mittens. Without needing to check, she knew that the hat on her head was a red wool, bobbled affair, courtesy of Molly Weasley. The village was dressed to the nines in lights and tinsel. It was dusk and the weekend school term curfew would soon kick in. She did not have long to make her purchases.

Hermione walked along the main village thoroughfare, through about three inches of fresh snow and dozens of footprints made by Hogwarts students doing their last minute shopping. The air smelled of wood smoke, confections and warm butterbeer. In the distance loomed Hogwarts Castle.

As was the norm in these dreams, faces were a disturbing blur; a vortex of swirling shadows and light. They only ever came into focus if Hermione interacted with the owner of a face, and even then, it seemed to take some concentration to coax the person into clarity. It was almost like all her energies were devoted to the main cast.

The longer Hermione spent in the dream, the less aware she became that she was dreaming. Eventually, she settled into the narrative as if she was just another character, playing out the part her brain had pre-assigned her.

Lucidity slipped away.

By the time Hermione's feet carried her to Honeydukes, the only thing on her mind was to acquire some honey quills before they all sold out. She ran through the alley that cut between the main street and Honeydukes, but stopped short when she heard something unusual.

It was a crying child...and close. As a precaution, she reached into her coat pocket for her wand, but found that it wasn't there. How could she have left Hogwarts without it? That seemed inconceivable. These were dangerous times.

Frowning, she turned around to survey the alley. There was nothing and no one around. The sound was not coming from any particular direction. It seemed to be echoing off the brick walls on either side of her.

"Hello?" Hermione called out, tentatively. "Is someone there?"

There was no answer. Unsettled, she turned to continue making her way to Honeydukes, but unfortunately collided into a wall.

"Oof," she said, falling on her backside in the snow.

Her hat slipped off. She sat up to find it, noting the pair of expensive snow boots standing just beside the red beanie. To Hermione's irritation, she realised she had run right into Draco Malfoy,

His right boot stepped on her hat, grinding it into the snow. "You should watch where you're going."

An angry Herrmione got to her feet, dusting the snow from her behind. She had no time for his nonsense. "Give me back my hat before I hex you."

In no particular hurry, he picked up the hat, staring at it with an expression of disgust. "Let me guess, from the infamous Weasley winter line for the discerning vagrant?"

"Give it here, Malfoy."

He held it high above her head, a not-quite smile on his pale face. Last year, this particular move would not have been so effective. He simply hadn't been tall enough. What a mystery it was that at some point between the ages of 12 and 13, most boys towered over their female peers virtually overnight. Ron was as tall as Malfoy, though Harry seemed to still have some catching up to do.

Hermione gave him a look of feigned understanding. "Thou shall not covet thy neighbour's goods, Malfoy. I'll put in a kind word for you with Mrs Weasley, eh? If you're a good boy, maybe she'll make you one in time for Yule?"

Malfoy responded with a sneer. "I'd rather eat my shoes." He made a show of glancing around them. "Speaking of the unsavoury, why are you here alone, anyway? Where are your boyfriends?"

She was annoyed with her blush, but she was more annoyed with him. "Where are yours?"

Dark blond brows snapped together. She smiled sweetly in return.

He responded by throwing her hat at her face. It was wet, and as was sometimes the way with wool, smelled mildly of dog.

"Stupid Mudblood. I have better things to do than sully myself talking to Muggleborn filth." He searched her expression for any skerrick of distress at his use of the slur. Annoyed to find nary a hint, he turned on his heel to storm off.

"Liar!" Hermione called out, surprising the both of them. Why on earth did she attract his attention again? Draco Malfgoy gone was the best kind of Draco Malfoy.

He paused. "What did you say?"

"I called you a liar," she repeated. "I am not stupid, as you well know. Moreover, you don't think Muggles are filth at all. In fact, you're rather intrigued by them." She raised a defiant chin at him.

"Did you hit your head when you fell? I would have thought all that hair would have cushioned the blow."

Funny how she never previously realised just how lame his insults were. Almost as if he churned them out of a Childhood Bully Insults Generator. A thought belatedly occurred to her. She wondered if his awful persona was entirely authentic? It was bordering on cliché. Maybe he was just putting on a show? But why? And for whose benefit?

She answered his question with one of her own. "Did you enjoy the microscope your science tutor gave you this year?"

Seekers were so fast. He was on her in a flash, dragging her by the arm further down into the dark recesses of the alley. He pushed her against the wall, pinning her just above her collarbone using his forearm. He smelled like pine needles. Hermione remembered that the Slytherins had been decorating their common room that afternoon.

The expression on his face was gratifying. He was still angry, but he was also scared.

"How the hell do you know that! Who told you! Who else knows?"

She didn't know. Why had she said that? How did she know? The information was just...there. Just as she knew that this close up, and even in the failing light, that she could see the blue flecks in his eyes, that his left eyebrow was slightly longer than his right. He hated being tickled about the ears. She knew how he felt in her arms, how she felt in his, how he tasted. She knew the feeling of her hand in his, and the delicious sensation of his hands on other parts of her. She knew his strength and resilience, in all its myriad forms. She knew that if she drew up the sleeve of his left arm, there would be no Dark Mark. Not yet. There were already scars, but these ones weren't the visible kind.

This Draco, all of sixteen years old, was from another life. And now, with the benefit of hindsight and intimate knowledge, she could combine all the disparate pieces of an intriguing puzzle to see what had been in front of her eyes the whole time - a boy doing his best to be in a world that would eat him up if he made one wrong move.

An enormous wave of affection washed over her. She placed one mittened hand against his now flushed cheek.

He flinched away as if she'd scalded him. "Don't touch me, Mudblood." He'd been about to say something else as well, when a noise distracted them both.

It was the child again - the same crying sound. This time, there was also a definite whimper.

"Do you hear that?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy was now scowling at the empty expanse of alley. He took out his wand. "Who's there?" he called out, simultaneously answering her question.

They were both startled when a lithe figure appeared for a moment at the top of the alley.

Hermione gasped. It was Blaise Zabini. Not a teenaged Blaise to match the dream's time period, but Balise as she had last seen him. She could not see his face, but she recognised his gait and profile. His appearance seemed to serve no other purpose than to allow Hermione to see him.

"Wait!" she called out.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Malfoy demanded. His wand was now pointed at her, his expression a blend of fear and suspicion. "Is this a trick? Some kind of spell? My father will have you expelled!"

Ignoring him, Hermione rushed after Blaise. She was vaguely aware that Malfoy was calling out to her. She ran to the end of the alley, reaching the lane that was perpendicular to the back exits of the Hogsmeade shops. The light was all but gone now. She caught another glimpse of her quarry; saw the swish of dark robes as he walked between the trees, further and further into the forest.

She was not able to run or see far ahead of her as she pushed aside low branches and frozen bracken. The cold intensified as the light faded. She was determined to reach Blaise before nightfall, given that she was wandless and would not have Lumos to guide her back to the village.

A few minutes later, Hermione found herself stumbling into a clearing. By now, there was no discernable light source, and yet everything around her was bathed in a sickly, yellow-green glow, reminiscent of the lighting on the Morning Star. This recollection was enough to make her stomach clench with dread.

Dense, impenetrable darkness now marked the boundaries of the clearing, as if there was nothing beyond the tree line. In the middle of the clearing, was Blaise. He stood alone, very still and was wearing a patient expression. He looked like he'd been waiting for her.

Hermione walked towards him, cautious now. But with every step she took, Blaise appeared to grow smaller and smaller, shrinking and sinking into himself. By the time she reached him, it was no longer Blaise who stood before her.

"Henry," she whispered.

Henry Zabini, with his corkscrew-curls, enormous brown eyes with eyelashes that, as Ginny had once commented, were long enough to make a camel jealous.

He was crying. Hermione watched in horror as the front of his shirt began to darken with a wet stain. The scent of blood was unmistakable. She caught him just before he hit the frozen ground.

"Nonononono…"she said, trying desperately to find the source of his injuries so she could stem the blood loss. He was now bleeding profusely from his nose, mouth and ears. A small gurgle escaped him.

"Mummy?"

She was not a surprise to learn that Malfgoy had followed her. After all, the nightmares were never complete until she lost all of her boys, as Padma had promised. Malfoy stared in shock first at Hermione, and then at Henry. He exited the treeline, appearing to have cleaved his way out of the darkness itself.

"This is the bit when you're meant to help me," she told him.

There was only the smallest hesitation on his face, before he ran forward and joined her on the ground. He stripped off his gloves, his quick hands following the same, searching path that hers had taken under the child's blood-drenched shirt.

"How was he injured?" he asked, urgently.

Hermione had no answer for him.

"I can't find the source of this bleeding!" Malfoy said.

Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, leaving a broad, dark smear of blood. "It's OK. This...this isn't real."

He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What are you talking about? Who is this child?"

She could only give him a tear-stained look of anguish. "He's ours."

Malfoy had been so focused on Henry that he failed to notice the way the darkness around them had encroached beyond the treeline, coming closer and tighter. The circle of light they inhabited grew smaller. The world beyond it looked infinite.

A multitude of arms sprung forth from the void, all in various stages of dead. They ranged from rotting and pulpy, to bleached bone. Hermione watched, listless, as the hands took hold of Draco, covering his face, smothering his cries. Yet more hands reached for the unconscious Henry. They retracted as one, taking both Draco and Henry with them. All that was left was a bloody smear to mark the spot from where Henry's body had been dragged away. It was over in less than a minute.

The urge to launch herself into the darkness, to go after them, was powerful. But unlike every other dream before this, Hermione checked it. Instead, she sat in the middle of the still-shrinking spotlight and waited for the final scene to play out. One last thing had to happen before the dream could end; one final loss.

She did not have to wait long. A young Padma, of around the same age as Draco, stepped out of the darkness. There was a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

Hermione got to her feet, resignation heavy even in her smallest movements. "Why do you keep doing this to me?"

Padma tossed a pigtail over her shoulder. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I'm not doing anything. This is all you. This is progress, by the way. You're learning. I think you're ready to open locked doors."

A snort from Hermione. "Call it pattern recognition. You always take them from me, and no matter how much I fight. I can never get them back." She realised they were now standing in darkness, almost as if they were suspended within the void.

"What do you mean by locked doors?"

Padma did not answer her. There was a tiny bit of light, but it was just a weak glow. It was coming from the bundle in Padma's arms.

Padma began to unwrap it.

"Wait!" Hermione said. She grabbed Padma's wrist, stopping her. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can," Padma said. "If we don't finish this now, I'll only come back. You won't let me go away."

"I don't want you to go away." Hermione admitted, tears running down her face. "I'm so, so sorry for failing you."

Padma smiled. "You never failed me, Herrmione. You have nothing to be sorry for, but I daresay it's time for you to forgive yourself."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and took in a long breath. When she opened them again, Padma was gone, but the bundle was now in Hermione's arms. Bracing herself, she gently unwrapped the blanket. Over the course of the many, many terrible dreams, she had seen different versions of Orion killed in a dozen different ways.

On this occasion, he looked utterly perfect in death. In some ways, this was even worse. The was a perfect copy of life. The sound Hermione made came from some primordial place that had existed before her, but was also inside of her.

With a sob, she held out her baby's body to the void and it claimed him.

The world was peaceful and silent.


Henry's scream was piercing.

The sound had a basic quality that was recognisable to most parents or those engaged in the business of raising children. It could make one's heart seemingly stop in their chest.

Hermione sat upright in bed, the peace of her dream shattered. The sleep fog took a moment to clear. She did not dally, but nor did she rush. Tossing the covers aside, she pulled on a robe, and made her way to the children's shared bedroom, directly beside the one she shared with Draco.

The door to the children's room was ajar, as was Henry's preference. A star-shaped night-light provided a comforting, golden glow. Henry was not comforted, however. He was sitting cross legged on his bed, curly head in his hands, shoulders heaving.

Standing in the crib on the other side of the room and not at all shy with his opinions, was two-year old, Orion. "Hemmy crying!" He pointed a chubby digit at his brother, his small face scrunched up with concern.

"I know, Ory," Hermione said. "Lay back down and Mummy will come and tuck you in again."

"No-no," Orion replied, predictably. He had recently discovered the power of the word and used it with a haughty relish that was very reminiscent of his father.

Henry was not doing well. The seven-year old was a tightly coiled ball of anxiety. Hermione gently unfolded his limbs and pulled him into her arms. His pajama top was soaked through with perspiration and he was shivering. She went to his armoire to fetch a fresh set.

"I had a bad dream," he said.

She helped him into the clothes. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No," he said.

"No-no," echoed Orion.

Hermione turned to look at her younger son. "Lie down, Orion."

The baby laughed. Hermione sighed. It was worth a shot. To her older son, she said, "Do you remember what I told you? I get horrible nightmares all the time. It helps when we talk about it."

Henry rubbed the hem of his sleeve under his nose. "I don't want to scare Ory."

The fact was that nothing scared Orion. The child regularly stared down shadows.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Henry added.

"Never be sorry for that."

"Has Draco come home yet?"

Though it was a small pain to hear him use his father's given name, Hermione was reassured by this because it meant that Henry had regained some of his usual composure. Henry only ever referred to them as 'Mum' or 'Dad' when he was severely distressed.

"He's due home later tonight."

She could just make out the disappointed look on his face. Henry looked more and more like Blaise with every passing day. While Orion was growing into what promised to be a large and sturdy child, Henry was coltish and as slender as a reed.

Hermione had not known Daphne Greengrass very well and regretted this fact because she could not say what aspects of Henry were attributable to his mother. Draco would have to fill in those blanks.

"I tell you what, why don't you come and sleep with me in my bed tonight?" she said to Henry.

A pout from Henry. "I'm not a baby. Orion is the baby."

"No-no!"

"Orion will come too."

"Can we play Cosy Cuddle Town?"

"Of course. And you can help me read a bedtime story to Orion."

Henry scrunched up his face. "But he always wants the same book."

Hermione sympathised. There were only so many times one could read 'Where's My Cow?' and still put gusto into all the animal sounds.

"Why don't you do the chicken noises this time? You're awfully good at it."

Henry nodded. The adorable snooty look was back. "I am, rather."


Hermione had no idea how late it was when she woke up for the second time that night. She found her husband standing beside the bed, carrying a sleeping Orion. She was so happy to see him. Draco was freshly showered and was wearing a black t-shirt over a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms. His feet were bare, despite the icy floor.

"He was lying across your face," he told her, in a whisper. "And Henry was about to fall out of the bed altogether. I don't know how you people can sleep like this." His expression was equal parts incredulity and envy.

Hermione smothered a laugh into her hand. There were 'pillow walls' erected all over the bed. "It's Cosy Cuddle Town, remember? Population: Four. And what do you mean 'you people'. We're your people."

"Just what the world needs. More Malfoys."

Still smiling, she leaned up on her elbow. Her hair slipped over her shoulder. It was a halo of chaos because she had gone to bed while it was still wet. "I didn't hear you come in. Have you eaten?"

"I ate something before I left."

Draco shifted Orion's weight in his arms. Now, the baby's ample cheek was resting against his father's shoulder. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress and reached out a hand to tuck one of Hermione's curls behind her ear. He never failed to do this when his hair was unbound. Hermione sometimes wondered if this was an unconscious reflex on his part.

She glanced down at the foot of the bed, the last known whereabouts of one Henry Zabini, Mayor of Cosy Cuddle Town. "Did you put Henry back or did he go by himself?"

"I carried him," Draco said. "He didn't even stir. Night terrors again?"

She nodded. "He still won't tell me what they're about. And it's not for my lack of asking."

"Give him time. He'll tell us when he's ready."

She leaned forward to give the sleeping Orion a kiss on the head. The baby had left a dark patch of drool on his father's t-shirt, just under the neck. For a moment, Hermione was reminded of the expanding blood stain on the front of Henry's shirt, in her nightmare. She blinked to clear the macabre image from her mind.

"How were the mines today? she asked, her voice slightly tight.

"Interesting," was all he said.

Hermione felt a niggle of annoyance. Sometimes, getting even the most banal information out of Draco was like drawing blood from a stone. She wondered if it was yet another vestigial instinct from his Death Eater days - when information was a hoarded commodity.

He got to his feet. "On that note, I think I'll return the young master to his cot. Back in a moment."

Hermione flopped back against her many pillows, her eyes already closed. Draco was halfway across the room before she stopped him.

"Hang on. Nappy check."

Two breaths later, he responded with, "Ah. I might be a bit longer."

Still with her eyes closed, she smiled. But she gave him a thumbs up of solidarity.

Draco joined her in bed some ten minutes later, just as Hermione was on the cusp of sleep. She felt his warm arm snake around her waist and dragged her across the sheets until she was tucked firmly into the warm curve of his body. His face nuzzled into her hair.

Their current way of living was a work in progress.

She reminded herself that theirs was a challenging relationship for all the usual sociocultural reasons without factoring a zombie plague, the breakdown of civil society, numerous close calls, abduction by a genocidal madman, the death of loved ones, friends and colleagues, the adoption of an orphaned four-year old, eight months of missing memories, and an unplanned pregnancy.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, they had also managed to pull a zombie-cure out of their proverbial magic hat.

It was, as Harry pointed out to Hermione, a lot.

Despite two years of relative peace, the world was far from back to normal. Hermione considered herself one of the lucky ones, having not only survived the plague, but somehow also acquiring a husband and two children in the process.

She spoke to her parents often, but all they could realistically offer was love, reassurance and complete faith in her 'excellent judgement'. Hermione was not as confident. All the milestones of her relationship with Draco had occurred out of sequence. She had no manual or experience on how to navigate these new, uncharted waters.

Draco approached family life like it was a research project. This generally meant he was reclusive, studious, paid keen attention to details, and put a great deal of thought into his decisions and conclusions. Sometimes, Hermione felt like she and the children were subjects of an anthropological study, because of the way he maintained a strange sort of separation from them, while also being part of their little tribe. She couldn't think of a more diplomatic way to describe it. He was a very involved and hands-on father, but there was an emotional formality to his parenting that spoke volumes about the way he was raised. It took a lot to move him.

It had also taken a while for them to develop compatible co-sleeping arrangements. Ironically, for all his privileged upbringing, life on the lam for so many years had accustomed Draco to sleeping rough. He could sleep on little more than bare floorboards with a rolled up coat as a pillow.

In contrast, Hermione was a bedding bowerbird. The last time she had her own bedroom, she'd been ten years old. And in the years since, she had shared many rooms. Though the locations changed, her bed had been the safe constant that she fell into at the end of each day. She preferred a soft mattress, with lots of pillows in different sizes and densities, a flat and a fitted sheet, a thick woolen blanket under a duvet, and at least two throw blankets for good measure. There was enough bedding for Henry to make several extensions to Cosy Cuddle Town.

Despite the size of their residence, the family occupied only three rooms in Malfoy Manor. Hermione had initially balked at Draco's suggestion that they make the Manor their permanent base, given all that had transpired there.

It wasn't that Hermione disliked the place. Rather, she was quite sure the feelings he harboured about his home would be a problem. But Draco had insisted, offering an explanation she could not fault.

"It's the safest place in the world for Malfoys to be."

The old warding magic that safeguarded the home had stumped even the Ministry experts who tried to dismantle it after Lucius's fall from grace. They were all considered Malfoys now, even though Henry was technically a Zabini and Hermione had not changed her last name. The house knew. It didn't feel different going into it this time, but Draco assured her that she, Henry and even little Orion could command the wards if they needed to.

Commanding the Manor wards was a kind of Malfoy family inheritance. At some point, the master of the house was taken aside at a young age and told how to do it. Hermione was in raptures of fascination. The magic was very old, with a great deal of symbol and rune activated spells that you had to draw on the ground, walls and some even on the caster's own body. As a precaution, it was forbidden to write down any of the spells, and so the passing down of the commands became a verbal tradition.

You may need to know these one day," Draco told her. "Just in case I'm not around to do it."

Though he'd been fine with them moving into the Manor, Draco had not wanted them to live in the main bedchambers previously held by his parents. Nor was he comfortable installing the children in his old nursery, which frankly looked like something from a Victorian ghost story. Hermione was only too happy to support this, as well as Draco's decision to cordon off the previous residential sections of the house. He insisted these areas were simply too dangerous to leave open to the children.

And so, modern wards were erected within the framework of the ancient ones, with the addition of good, old-fashioned boards put up and nailed into place to prevent curious little Malfoys from giving in to temptation. It took them three months to make the place habitable, stripping away even the wall paper. It felt wonderful to work with Draco on a project that didn't involve a nuclear bomb deadline.

In terms of their family quarters, they lived in relatively modest accommodations on the first floor, next to necessary amenities by way of a bathroom, kitchen, and of course, the library. The latter had become the unofficial family room. They even ate there. It was a room of many firsts, Hermione mused. Orion had been conceived in the library. Fittingly, the baby had also taken his first steps there, too.

Their bedroom had previously been one of Narcissa's smaller sitting rooms. A bed had been brought down from a guest bedroom. It was an enormous, four-poster, canopied monstrosity with an ancient mattress that was too hard for Hermione's liking. She remedied this with piles of bedding. The children liked it well enough for Cosy Cuddle Town, but Draco complained that he felt he was being swallowed up by the Blanket Monster (the assigned villain of Cosy Cuddle Town). A happy medium had been reached by way of Draco stripping his side of the bed every night, and shoving most of the bedding to Hermione's side.

On the day before they moved in, just before Orion' first birthday, they took one last tour of the soon-to-be-restricted wing. It was difficult to tell how Draco felt about the family portraits, photographs and occasional statuary. There was one painting that fascinated Henry, however. It was of Draco at no more than three or four years of age, dressed in a tiny set of wizarding robes with a large frilly collar. Young Draco kept tugging at his neckline, his cherubic face scowling. Hir hair was parted in the middle and pressed down flat.

"He looks so much like Orion," Henry had marveled. And Hermione saw the little frown of concern, and the back and forth glances that Henry cast at Draco and Orion. She had been expecting this; the concerns of a traumatised, adopted child that a biological sibling would commandeer their parents' love. All they could do was reassure him and hope time would rebuild trust and heal old wounds.

"Is that Draco's father?" Henry asked next, staring up in awe at an intricate marble bust of Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione put her hand on Henry's shoulder. "Yes, that's Lucius."

As much as Hermione loathed the man, she had to admit he cut quite the dashing figure in some of the most beautiful formal robes Hermone had ever seen. Draco, dressed in basic grey robes that were bordering on threadbare, was already several meters ahead of them along the corridor, keeping a close eye on Orion as he crawled along the floor.

"He looks a lot like Draco, too."

"Yes, I suppose he does."

Henry's large, almond-shaped eyes peered up at her. "Did you know him?"

Hermione considered the question for a moment. "I did, but I can't say I knew him very well."

From the corner of her eye, she caught Draco watching them. She gave him a small smile. He seemed unperturbed by their literal stroll down memory lane, but then again, you never knew with Draco. He didn't just keep his cards close to his chest, he kept them in a vault at Gringotts.

He looked so at home, Hermione thought, a little wistfully. Like he was born to walk these halls, which of course, he was. Most of the time, magical folk seemed like normal everyday people (despite the odd wizard who might take to wearing a tea cozy for a hat). But if you watched closely enough and for long enough, you could pick up the small tells, the little signals that made your reptilian brain alert you to the fact that the person before you was something...else. Alexander Amarov had been particularly sensitive to this feeling, but his interest had turned toxic with fear, paranoia and envy.

There was nowhere else that Draco could demonstrate his otherness as powerfully as when he walked the halls of Malfoy Manor. The dwelling had been there for many generations, even before Cynric of Wessex had taken Wiltshire from the ancient Britons. And so too had Malfoy wizards and witches lived there. Like many other insular Purebloods, the Malfoy history was lengthy, bloody and interwoven with other Pureblood families of note. There was significant historical baggage to contend with.

This wasn't what scared her. Quite frankly, it was Draco that scared her.

She wasn't afraid of him, but there was something about him, something in his fundamental nature that made it impossible to feel completely at ease, completely secure, around him. It wasn't that she felt unsafe. No, it was just that Hermione never felt that he was all of himself with her.

He was...a way with her. One way.

There were aspects to his personality that felt incongruent with his current circumstances. These aspects were not mild or sweet. To be blunt, they were dark. Sometimes, Hermione felt these darker aspects dominated his personality and that he was only ever exercising a small portion of his behavioural repertoire when he was with her and the children.

Parts of him felt shuttered and sanitised. It was more than just a matter of nature and upbringing, She only had a basic understanding of epigenetics, but she wondered if the Malfoy history had imprinted upon Lucius, Draco and perhaps even Orion, a family legacy that steered its descendants to the more morally ambiguous side of the behavioural spectrum.

The fact was that even after two years, Hermione still hadn't properly figured him out yet.

It was like she had access to the entire library except the restricted section. Their relationship felt like a daily adventure, but it also felt unbalanced because Hermione's openness made her feel very vulnerable.

While they tended to agree on most things, there was one highly contentious issue they simply did not speak of anymore - Hermione's eight missing months worth of memories. Draco insisted she be informed, in fine detail, of what had transpired during the time they were detained by Admiral Grey. Hermione insisted, just as vehemently, that she didn't want to know; that it would not serve them any good and would not change anything about their current circumstances.

To his credit, Draco respected her decision, even though he felt it was a mistake.

Hermione's restless mind turned over these thoughts, again and again, until she arrived at something which had been bothering her for the past few weeks. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the bed's red velvet canopy, dripping with more gold tassels than an Austrian Archduke.

She sighed.

A few minutes later, she sighed again.

"What's wrong?" Draco's voice was muffled because he was speaking into a pillow.

This was probably not a good time to have the conversation about what had been bothering her, but she'd been holding her tongue for long enough. Draco was excellent at issue avoidance. She would have to grab his attention.

"Are you dying?"

That worked. He lifted his head to stare at her with the most endearing, befuddled expression. It took willpower not to learn forward and kiss him.

"Did you just ask me if I'm dying?"

"Yes. Or maybe you're sick and you're not telling me?"

He blinked sleepily. "I am not sick or dying. Why ever would you ask that?"

"Then what is it you're not telling me? Something's been on your mind for the past month. Even Henry's picked up on it. It's taken us a long time to rebuild his trust in us. Keeping secrets from each other doesn't help."

"Nothing's the matter."

"Liar," she said to him, in much the same way she had said it to young Draco in her dream.

This caused him to raise his head again. "Granger, I'm not telling you anything because there's nothing to tell."

"You know I know when you're lying to me, right?"

"I know nothing of the sort," he said, with irritation.

She noticed he didn't insist he wasn't lying. "I wish you would trust me."

He frowned at her. "I do trust you. I trust you with our children. There is no greater trust. I trust you enough to fall asleep in the same room as you, with numerous pointy objects, after we've had an argument."

"I want you to trust me with your burdens as well. Whatever it is that's weighing on you, please tell me."

"You've been burdened enough as it is."

"A-hah! So there is something!"

It was too dark to tell if he rolled his eyes, but she suspected he did. "Granger, I have just finished a sixteen-hour shift in conditions that would make your hair curl…" he paused to correct himself, "curl even more." As if to emphasise this, he fondled a particularly springy lock of her hair. "Can this wait until morning?"

"I suppose," Hermione allowed, but then immediately contradicted herself by saying, "I just don't like that you keep secrets from me."

He groaned into his pillow. "There are, at any given time, a great many concerns on my mind. I surely do not need to bother you with each and every one? I have enough to worry about without worrying about you worrying about what I worry about."

This time, she was the one to roll her eyes. "Steady on, old chap. I'm not asking for your deepest darkest fears... although I'm here for that, too, should you need me. I just want you to share with me any burdens relevant to the family. I'm responsible for us too. We're meant to be a team."

"There are burdens that need not be yours. That is all I am saying on the matter."

She sat up. "This is just like the fleet all over again, when you wouldn't trust me to know what you were planning!"

They were now shout-whispering at each other, in an effort to keep their voices down.

He groaned. "That's because you were literally being kept by Amarov as his pet! Telling you what I was planning would have put said plan in jeopardy."

"Because I can't be trusted to keep quiet?"

"No, because you are vulnerable! He could have done any number of things to you if he suspected you had any information worth extracting!"

"I'm made of sterner stuff."

"Oh?" he hissed, now glaring at her. He was wide awake now. "Amarov all but broke you. You couldn't even write your name when I found you after what happened to you and Patil. I will not have you endure anything remotely close to that ever again. And I'll be damned if my children have to watch their mother go through it. In the event I do keep secrets I feel are worth keeping from you, rest assured I would have fucking good reasons for doing so!"

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. He was using a different voice with her now, less tolerant, sharper, very cold. Plus, he was swearing.

"Check your tone when you speak to me, Malfoy. Also, that's not fair. Don't use what happened to me as an excuse to keep me in the dark now. We're not at war any more."

Draco opened his mouth with what she assumed would have been a retort, but wisely did not follow through.. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "You're right. That was inappropriate. I apologise."

"I don't appreciate your paternalistic attitude towards my well being. That is not how this partnership works. I made a choice to enter into this. I-"

"No, you didn't," he interrupted "You had no choice."

They had inevitably arrived at the stickiest, trickiest subject of them all - the eight missing months.

"I keep telling you I don't care about what happened when we were with the Americans! It's over and Orion is fine! That's all I need to know! I wish you would just let the damn thing go!"

"No," he snapped, forcefully enough that Hermione was startled. "You need to know what happened. You may not want to, but you need to. You cannot make sound decisions moving forward, without all the facts."

"Facts about what? About what you did to me?"

He was silent, but she heard his exhalation.

"Your actions are the reason Orion didn't end up a science experiment. You actually think I'd change my mind about us if you told me what happened? No good will come of us dredging up bad memories."

"You would make different choices now, if you knew. You can't keep that door locked indefinitely."

Hermione was momentarily discombobulated. Again with the locked door reference? First Padma, and now Draco. It was the unofficial theme of the night. She shoved the covers aside and got out of the bed. "I am quite sure you didn't just tell me I don't know my own mind!"

"But you didn't at the time, did you?" he pointed out, emphatic. "You know how it goes, Granger. You're a researcher. You can't make the best decisions or plan with insufficient information. You need to know what-where the hell are you going?" he demanded.

She didn't care for his tone again. "I'm going to close the door so our children don't hear us fighting, or do I need a signed permission slip to do that, too?"

He scoffed in such an amusing, dramatic fashion that a little of Hermione's bluster dissipated.

With the shut door now at her back, she jabbed an accusatory finger in the air at him. "I may have married you in a haze of Obliviation-induced dementia [she waggled her fingers in the air as she said this], as you like to keep reminding me, but I will have you note that I stayed married to you!"

"By then, Zabini had already made us jointly responsible for Henry, and then Orion arrived not long after. You were already committed. As I told you from the beginning, there were, are, and will always be far better matches for you, than I.``

"I love you, you massive idiot!"

He was impressively unmoved. "You do so without knowing all the facts."

Hermione looked at him. Suddenly, everything became clearer. She felt like she'd been slapped in the face, but the feeling was fleeting. And then, she started laughing.

Now flaring at her, he got out of bed. "This is funny to you?"

"You are simultaneously the smartest and stupidest person I know."

He grabbed a pillow, a blanket and his holstered wand, which was draped across a bedside. table. "I think I shall sleep in the library tonight," he informed, with amusing primness.

Hermione glanced around the floor, looking for a suitable object. She found it in the form of a foam ball that Henry had been throwing to Orion earlier in the day. Hermione threw it at Draco.

The ball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He spun around, stared at it and then stared at her. "Did you just-"

A stuffed monkey sailed across the room, it's tail grazing his temple. Orion's dogeared, waterlogged copy of 'Where's My Cow' came next. Draco wisely swatted away this particular missile.

"Stop throwing things at me!"

"Stop treating me like a child!" Hermione immediately regretted saying this because there was only one possible response.

"Then stop behaving like one!"

He continued marching towards the door. Hermione was not having it. She grabbed her own wand from the dresser drawer.

"Locomotor Mortis!"

The Leglocker Curse found its mark, but due to his forward momentum, Draco did not freeze in place. Instead, he fell forward. Hermione winced, hoping he would not be hurt from the fall, but her concern was premature. As the floor rushed up to meet him, Draco braced himself with his palms, elbows bent, effectively falling into a pushup position.

She was hurt and she was angry, yes, but Hermione was now acutely aware that the sting and burn was turning into something else.

The hem of his t-shirt had ridden up, exposing his trim waist and the corded muscles along his lower back that helped to keep him in what was now a plank position. The elegant, inward curve of his back only served to accentuate the taut lines of his backside and thighs. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his t-shirt. Hermione felt her face grow quite hot.

Her attraction to Draco and the arousal he induced in her should have been familiar by now, but it never felt any less intense. What was familiar was the fluttering sensation in her belly and the heat that pooled lower still. It felt even more acute now that his body was not a mystery to her. She knew every inch of him, had mapped out every detail at her leisure. She had taken the full tour and knew all the best stops.

She watched as he flipped over, so that he was now lying back on his elbows, staring at her like she'd lost her mind.

A strangled sob of laughter escaped her. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." She should have stopped there, but couldn't help adding, "You look like an angry seal."

His wand lay next to him on the floor. He had the spell undone and was on his feet in one fluid motion. Hermione could not believe how fast he moved.

He growled.

With a small squeak, she ran around the bed, hoping to keep it between them as a barrier, but he simply vaulted over it and grabbed her. He plucked her wand from her hand and tossed it clear across the room. She found both her wrists trapped in one of his hands, and pinned above her head on the bed. His other hand slipped under her backside to lift her torso and pull her down into him, such that he was now lying in between her legs.

"You. Incorrigible. Little. Baggage," he said, his face hovering above hers. He smelled of toothpaste. Each syllable was so precisely enunciated that she felt the punctuation in her nerve endings.

There was just enough daylight peeking through the drapes to show that his eyes were all but black. Only a small rim of silver remained around his blown-out pupils. He dipped his head and rubbed his face against the sensitive skin under her upturned chin, grazing her with a day's worth of beard stubble.

Oh shit.

She hadn't just tickled the sleeping dragon. She'd zapped him with a cattle prod.

Hermione was not dressed in a manner that could be considered seductive, and had not expected a night of amorous activities with her exhausted husband after he'd spent a harrowing day trudging through dead bodies. Nevertheless, the way he was staring at her effectively conveyed his intimate knowledge of what lay beneath the many layers of cotton flannel and chenille. She may as well have been wearing nothing but silken veils, banging a tambourine. In contrast, the only thing separating him from the evening air was a single layer of linen.

Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his hips into her. The seams of both their pyjama bottoms pushed at just the right spot between her legs and Hermione had to bite her lower lip to keep from making an encouraging sound. He watched her do this with a predatory intensity she typically only saw when he was in combat.

Her stomach was turning in somersaults. There was a small, annoying twinge at the back of her mind; connected to a door she had kept tightly shut for almost three years. Something about Draco's attentions were now was making the door knob jiggle.

Even through the layers of her clothing, she could feel the thick, hard, blunt length of him. Her mouth was dry. She moistened her lips and was rewarded with a distinguishable twitch from his cock and a small, almost inaudible groan reverberating through his chest. He may have still been very angry, but he was just as aroused.

Her heart raced. She tried to slow her breathing, but this was difficult because Draco was now y laving at her neck, leaving a cool trail where her moist skin met the air. And then he re-traced his earlier path, breathing hotly over her goosefleshed skin.

"Oh.." The sound escaped her before she could stop herself.

"If you wanted this, Kiska," he said, rolling his hip again, "you have only to ask."

"Don't..don't flatter yourself," she said. She tried for contempt, but her voice came out in a near mewl.

He placed a soft, chaste kiss across her lips, and on instinct, Hermione tilted her head upwards to take his mouth, but he pulled away. She made a protesting noise.

"Then allow me flatter you," he said. "You are soft and sweet and hot and tight, and you taste so good I get hard thinking about you while standing knee deep in dead zombies."

He still had her arms pinned above her head, but the hand that held them there was massaging delicious circles into the sensitive skin of her inner wrists. Experimentally, she tried to free her hands, but the vise immediately tightened. The slow, steady grind was making her head spin, while his words made her want to bury her face in a pillow.

"I get to come inside you, my good Gryffindor girl. As I please, where I please, as often as I please. I get to feel you quite literally suck the life out of me when you come around me. I get to watch you make your cup of tea in the morning, knowing that those same hands were wrapped tightly around my cock only hours before. You keep shaking your head, Kiska. Would you like me to stop?"

She hadn't realised she'd been trashing her head from side to side. He was watching her with gentle concern. She was embarrassed at her blushing and his very close scrutiny of her responses. He encouraged her by teasing her lips with butterfly soft, fleeting kisses until they were once again noise to nose. And then he gave her what she sought - a wet, open mouthed, carnal kiss that made her moan and buck her hips upwards to meet his.

He broke the kiss and exhaled raggedly into the crook of her neck. "Merlin…"

Her hands were free. Hermione took the advantage of the pause in the proceedings to pull his t-shirt over his head. She ran her hands over his back, threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his head back so she could kiss him.

He slid his right hand under her neck, so that his thumb could stroke her jawline. His left hand fastened on her hip and squeezed a warning.

"Do not move. Do not even breathe." The grinding had stopped. "Give me a moment, Kiska…."

It took a bit longer than a moment for his breathing to slow and his body to relax somewhat, and the locked door in her head started to shrink from view.

"Are you OK?" she asked against his lips.

His laugh was short and sharp. "It depends. Are you going to hit me with anything else tonight?"

"Nothing that will do lasting damage," she whispered.

She took his hand and slipped it under her pajama top and camisole to cupped over her breast. His groaned and obligingly resumed the movement of his hips, his hand closing around hers. This time, he increased both the speed and pressure of his movements. Hermione could feel and hear the bed joints creaking under them.

There was a familiar build up in her core, the growing tension and heat of an orgasm within reach. If he kept this up, she was going to come and they still had their pants on.

"I should have fucked you at school," he said, in a breathless rush, "in your common room, in mine, in your dormitory bed, in the Prefects' Bath. I should have had you on your knees, under the Quidditch stands, with my cock in your clever little mouth. On the floor in the Astronomy Tower. On the potting bench in the greenhouse. I would have had my face deep between your legs, under a desk in the library, while you attempted to conduct a conversation with Potter or Weasley, trying not to scream as you come around my tongue. I would have had you standing meters away from me in potions class, knowing my cum was running down your beautiful legs under your robes because I'd only just finished fucking you in the broom closer minutes before. A thousand points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger…"

Hermione was floating on a sea of aroused delirium, where her only priority in the entire world at that moment in time was the climax that now lay only several movements and words away. She was so close. She thought she should provide some definitive verbal feedback, in case her whimpering, thrashing and bucking was not clear enough.

"Don't stop," she begged. She risked a peek at his face and immediately regretted it. She felt like Red Riding Hood about to be consumed by the Wolf.

The locked door flicked behind her closed eyes.

Nononono, go away.

She heard herself make small, huffy little noises as he nipped and kissed her neck and her jaw and sucked at the points of her clavicles. Her short nails raked across his back. He picked up the pace of his hips. and she responded by lifting her own hips upwards to catch an even more delicious angle

And then, quite unexpectedly, his words took on a softer, more tender tone. Though this in no way lessened the intensity of her arousal.

"Do you know what it took for me to behave myself at Grimmauld Place? To have you so close and not be able to touch you? To work beside you every day? To have to leave you? I thought I could live without you after that. I thought it was a timely escape. That I could excise the tumour that was spreading inside me, making me weak. But then you ended up right back in my arms, on my operating table, shot and bleeding."

He touched the bullet scar on her abdomen. "I knew then I had to take the fleet from Amarov."

Mention of Amarov was a dark shadow on the edge of her climax, but it did nothing to dull it. Her hips snapped up one last time to meet his next downward thrust and then Hermione shuddered.

"Oh my God. Draco…"

Shattering. Stars. Convulsions. He stroked her back, kissed her temples, the tip of her nose, her shoulder. He told her how beautiful she was.

Hermione was a rag doll. Boneless. Incapable of even basic speech. When her breathing calmed and her eyelids began to flutter close, the warmth of his body suddenly disappeared. She moaned in protest. She opened her eyes to see Draco standing beside the bed, untying the drawstring of his bottoms with shaking hands. She watched him, unabashed, reveling in the fact she was able to bring him to such a state. He was as hard as she had ever seen him, the tip of his cock swollen to a sheen and leaking. Her mouth parted in a small 'o' of carnal appreciation.

He was less gentle now, his movements hurried and jerky. He pulled off her clothing. She heard a rip and lost at least one button to the process. She heard it clatter to the floor. The mattress dipped as he crawled over her and parted her legs . She was wet and more than ready for him. Her pale skin was marred with red friction burns from their earlier grinding. He kissed a red patch of skin along her inner thigh and she nearly flew off the bed.

"Now. Please," she said, not trusting herself with anything more challenging than single syllables.

He grabbed her ankles and dragged her to him. Hermione felt the entire heated length of him slid along her wet inner thigh. His right hand was under her neck, supporting her. His thumb hovered around her jaw. Hermione turned her head and took his thumb into her mouth to suck.

"Oh fuck, Hermione."

There was a mad scramble of hands and messy kissing. At one point, Draco tried to move them closer to the middle of the bed. In doing so, his hand slid down over her jaw and briefly grabbed her about the neck to shift her into position.

Hermione was as unprepared as he was at the effect this had on her.

The fleeting pressure of his hand on her throat was all it tool for the locked door to creak open. It was a veritable Pandora's Box.

Sights, smells, sounds and sensations flickered past, like an old fashioned slide deck, only the slides were out of sequence. The smell of the open ocean. Her sneaker-clad feet as she dangled them over a safety railing, watching the roiling ocean far, far below. The searing agony of a bullet in her side. The cool leather of the furniture in her stateroom. Amarov's cologne. His dark blue eyes. The stink of the Morning Star. Padma's profile silhouetted against the bloody walls of the Pit. Amarov's hands on her naked body. Her hand closing around a broken blade. Offices and labs she did not recognise, unknown soldiers with guns, sterile hospital equipment. Latex gloved hands on her, inside her, probing. Her flat belly, growing in fast forward until she was sure she would burst open. The sharp sting of needles. Lots of needles. Cold IV fluids going into her hand. The weight of metal handcuffs. The sound of doors locking and curtains being drawn shut. Crying. So much fear. Draco's voice, his hands, his arms holding her. Draco in front of a firing squad. Flash, flash flash. A repeating strobe light inside her mind, wiping the slate clean. Rinse and repeat.

The slide-show ended. Hermione threw herself to the corner of the bed to throw up on the floor.

Draco reached for her, but she clawed and kicked at him, crawling to the top of the bed where she grabbed the sheets to cover herself. She turned her head away and held out a hand, palm facing outwards, as if that could ward off further attack.

There was something wrong with her lungs, her heart. It felt like someone was sitting on her chest. She felt as if she was in anaphylactic shock. No. She couldn't die. She had children. No matter how hard she tried, her throat remained constricted. Her wand, where where where was her wand? Why was her wand never there when she needed it? How could she let another man take it away from her? Her vision began to spin as.

Gentle hands take hold of her. Large, warm, male hands. Don't touch me. No. Not again. Never again. Her eyes rolled back in her head. That was the last thing she remembered.


Authors Notes:

Please, I beg you. Get yourself a copy of 'Where's My Cow?'. You won't regret it.