Notes:The calm before the storm or something like that.

Thank you to those who continue to follow. This is not everyone's cup of tea. This may not be your cup of tea. That's fine. I wrote this for me, because there was a story I wanted to tell. It is entirely complete. I do not post unfinished works. Thus, yes I know exactly where I'm going and I've gone back and revised many portions of this story to better fit its overall arc. It is a long and twisted tale and it is not classic paring fan fiction. Of course the relationships matter; I feel the best stories are told using the mirror of human interaction. I am not writing a tomione, dramione, Tom/Draco, Draco/Harry or whatever other paring you can think of story. Please either accept that or simply let this not be your cup of tea. I already wrote it, I'm not offended in the least if you don't choose to read it.

It's been a long week. I'm tired and I'd like this to simply be a bit of fun.

WARNINGS: mild references to sexual assault/torture and other violence.

26. Of Different Flowers in Odor and in Hue

Draco studies the interior of the Malfoy summer cottage. Every surface is coated in a decade's worth of dust. Clearing away the filth will merely take the wave of a wand, but nothing can erase the memories.

This place makes him feel disjointed, fractured in ways he's forgotten.

He can smell his mother's sweet rose perfume. He can feel the sting of his father's cane. It all happened here.

The Manor hosts its own ghosts, but the best and worst live here. This is where his family showed their true colors. Where Draco learned that some truths are more painful than wounds.

Hermione Granger sneezes and Draco collapses back into himself, the ghosts slipping back into the dusty walls and floorboards.

"This is," she pauses, "charming."

It comes out more like a question. He doesn't blame her.

She's more vibrant today. It's not just the flush that rises on her cheeks when she thinks he isn't looking. The way she holds herself has changed. She stands taller, her posture akin to what it once was when she ruled the classrooms of Hogwarts. Her deep cinnamon eyes glow with possibility and purpose.

He doesn't have to imagine why.

The truth was written across Tom's face when he slipped into Draco's room last night, the shadows clinging to him like covetous lovers. One look into those infinite azure eyes and Draco knew.

He waited for the jealousy to rise, for the bitter tang of loss to coat his tongue. But it never did. Instead, Tom crawled across his cot, the sweet smell of cloves oozing from every pore, and kissed him like there had never been another.

Draco's too far gone to know if the kiss—the heated sex—were real or if they were simply Tom's way of apologizing, of soothing Draco over another day.

He knows they should be over. That there's no place for him in Tom's life. Not if Hermione Granger is willing to have him.

But they're all about to bloody die and Draco doesn't think whose lips are on whom really matters. By this point they're all one excessively tangled love triangle—or it is a quadrangle?—anyway. Draco's pretty sure all he needs to do is kiss Potter to make things really interesting. Or maybe Tom needs to kiss the other boy. Then they'd have a real dime store romance scandal.

He shakes his head, platinum bangs falling across his eyes. This is absolutely not what he needs to be focusing on right now.

"It was my family's vacation home for the years before I attended Hogwarts." He wipes a line in the filth with a finger. The dust feels like a stinging hex against his skin. "We stopped coming shortly after I began school."

Hermione's caramel brows raise. "This is some vacation home."

He shrugs. "We're Malfoys, exorbitant wealth is part of the deal."

But she's right. This house is perhaps ten times larger than their beachfront cottage in Germany. By most standards, it's probably a Manor in its own right.

Draco sighs, smudging dirt across his forehead as he swipes at his bangs. He does not look forward to cleaning even a portion of this ghastly place. It deserves to sink slowly into the ground, decay eating away its grand furniture and opulent décor.

Hermione seems to sense his reluctance as she begins to charm away the evidence of neglect in the parlor around them. She fluffs a divan cushion with golden thread and looks at him with discerning eyes, the girl who always sees too much.

"You hate it here."

He tries to shrug again, but his shoulders are too stiff to complete the movement. He starts to clean the wallpaper and the oversized window sills. "I wish we'd come up with a better place."

Hermione gives him a look that says she doesn't buy it for a second. "Something happened here."

Too much happened here. Draco has no interest whining about his childhood trauma to Hermione. She wins by a landslide when it comes to misfortune, even if it did come long after childhood.

He cleans the lavish Oriental rug with a swish of his wand. "Let's just set the stage."

Hermione gaze lingers, but she knows not to push. He feels a rush of gratitude that she understands some things are best left undisturbed.

They work in silence, a murmured spell or the rustle of fabric the only interruption. Draco forgot how extravagant the house was. He wishes he didn't have to be reminded.

But this is the best place to play out their ruse. It's Malfoy property, so the wards are keyed to blood. Until the opportune moment arrives—when the Dark Lord has followed their trail of breadcrumbs—they will be safe from all intruders.

Technically, either of Draco's parents could enter at any time, but he knows neither will come here without proper motivation. The layers of dust cling to every surface for a reason.

He sees his mother, her lips rose-petal pink smiling down at him. He sees a line of blood oozing from pale flesh. He forces his wand to keep moving.

These ghosts have already consumed too many pieces of him.

He prays to Merlin and Salazar that they don't stay here long. His nerves are frayed after only hours within these halls. He catches his fingers trembling against his wand and tightens his grip until his knuckles gleam white in the late afternoon light.

Draco understands why this is the proper place for their trap. If he did have a clandestine lover to rescue, it is the perfect escape.

The place has a gothic charm, although life has long since drained from its walls. Given the proper lighting more than one of these rooms could be considered enchanting, perhaps even darkly romantic.

He imagines Tom pulling him through the gauzy midnight curtains of the four-poster bed in the largest guest room. A flush rises, staining his cheeks.

Hermione chooses that moment to look at him. He doesn't look away.

She clears her throat and casts a cleaning charm on the same section of carpet she just finished.

So, they aren't going to talk about Tom. Draco can't say he's surprised. Hermione has a knack for stubbornness that is rivaled only by Tom himself.

"So how is this going to go?"

He has no idea if she's asking about the cleaning process, their stay at the house or something else entirely. "How will what go?"

Hermione motions vaguely to the space between them. "Our forbidden romance. We ought to have a story, right? The moment we realized our feelings? Or maybe whatever feelings we repressed during our time at Hogwarts."

"I hardly think the Dark Lord is going to be concerning himself with the trite details of how we fell in love. The story is only to lure him here and keep him preoccupied long enough."

"I know," she admits, "but it would lend power to our deception if we were both on the same page. It does no good if you think we fell in love while I was at the Manor and I think you've been pining after me since the Yule ball."

She makes a fair point. "You were adorable in that dress, although it was far too flouncy for my taste." He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks a brow at her, "so what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you've been into Harry since pretty much forever, right?"

When Hermione says it so casually Draco can almost forget how much anguish that particular crush evoked. "Yes…"

"So, we just alter the narrative the slightest bit. You've been into me, not Harry. It still explains why you overcompensated at school, just from a different point of view."

Draco considers her idea. The notion of pining after a girl is a complete anathema, but that particular detail isn't up for discussion. "I suppose that's possible, but why would I take so long to rescue you at the Manor?"

The question is a bit too close to truth, but Hermione doesn't give any indication she's still holding onto any resentment. Draco knows the lack of visual confirmation means little. He helped break her and he will always be accountable for that.

"It took you that long to formulate a foolproof plan. To get this location secure and to establish enough credibility with You Know Who and the Death Eaters that your demise, followed by mine, would arouse no suspicion."

It's a paper-thin excuse, but it will have to do. Like the absence of a mark on his arm, there are certain details they have to pray remain unexamined. And there's the liability of his parents. Both of them are all too aware their son isn't pining after Hermione Granger or any other girl. Draco's counting on his father's pride to hold his tongue in front of the Dark Lord.

Lucius Malfoy will always save face before he admits to any weakness in his bloodline. No matter how strong his allegiance to Voldemort, Draco is absolutely sure he's kept Draco's secret close to his chest. Aside from Astoria's family, the truth of Draco's identity might as well still be trapped behind his own lips.

And his mother, well, where his father leads, she follows.

But they don't need his parents to believe in his wayward romance, they just need the Dark Lord to be curious enough to come. To let his arrogance spring the trap.

After all, they are the bait. Their story doesn't have to be spell proof, simply decent enough to hold off the first volley.

"So, have we said I love you, yet?" he asks, veering away from the million complexities that can go horribly wrong.

"We've run away into the sunset together. You damn well better have told me you love me," is her wry reply.

"So we're disgustingly in love," he concludes. "Fine, we'll probably need to be all over each other."

She runs a hand through her haphazard curls, making her hair seem to levitate further toward the rafters. Draco wonders how she can possibly stand to have such an untamed creature attached to her head.

"The most important thing is my memory—or more accurately my lack of memory." She's right. Although their forged relationship will certainly help, their primary deception revolves around Hermione being equally useless to the Dark Lord now as before. He has to think she's merely Draco's plaything, a brainless imitation of what she once was.

Although they've practiced occlumency—she's decent, but not good enough—it's preferable to simply evoke no suspicion. Draco's stomach churns with cold dread. It will be unpleasant for both of them.

"Agreed."

They don't bother to hash out any more details. They've gone over the backbone of the plan more times than he can count, the four of them huddled around the small kitchen table, voices ebbing and flowing as they navigated the best possible path.

Hermione takes one of the bedrooms accented in sharp blues and creamy ivory. Draco doesn't bother with a bedroom at all. He lies on the sofa in the hall outside the parlor—the only surface he can't recall from his childhood—and stares at the intricate crown molding, letting the shapes bend and distort until he sees nothing at all. He fights the pull of sleep as long as he can, sure the ghosts wait just beyond the edge of consciousness. At some point, he fails, and oblivion drags him under.

He scrambles awake not to his own demons, but to the piteous wails of Hermione's. He pushes up from the divan, muscles cramped, limbs awkward. He trips over his feet, stumbling across the plush rug. He uses an outstretched hand to brace himself.

Once he's firmly back on his feet, Draco creeps slowly through the house toward the sounds of torment echoing from the hall above. Memories slide like manacles across his chilled flesh. He does his best to ignore them. He doesn't have the luxury of weakness right now.

A lamp burns low in her room. The flickering light sends grisly shadows dancing across the pale walls.

Draco drops to his knees when he reaches the bed. Hermione thrashes beneath the covers, her skin flushed scarlet and damp with sweat. Horrified nausea sweeps through him as he watches her flail.

He's never seen her like this. He's heard her plenty of times. But somehow the sight makes it real, undeniable. And he is responsible—at least in part—for what has happened to her.

No amount of apologies will ever be enough, he realizes. It's a truth he knew, but now feels, a dagger sliding into the marrow of his bones. He can never make this up to her.

But he can make sure it never happens again.

His hand trembles—fear or perhaps something deeper—as he reaches out and firmly shakes her shoulder. Her dark eyes snap open in an instant. Her face is mess of fear and confusion before it settles into something less.

She blinks in rapid succession, her gaze clearing each time.

"Draco."

He knows she would prefer another boy. He lets the ache of that truth settle into the raw pit of his stomach before he speaks. "You were crying out."

Hermione pushes up to her elbows, her loose tee shirt damp and clinging to her frame. "I'm sorry. It happens more often than I'd like."

Draco has no idea why she would feel the need to apologize to him. "It's fine. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

It's a stupid thing to say. Of course she's not okay. He rubs a hand over his temples and grimaces. "That is to say, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to make it better?"

Hermione surveys him, the dark cinnamon cores of her eyes clotted with emotion. He can identify the vestiges of terror, but the rest are lost to him. He waits, careful to keep his hands clasped on the edge of the bed and his gaze steady.

Eventually, she lifts the corner of the sheet. His brows shoot up and she lets it drop, cheeks flushing with an entirely different emotion.

He catches her wrist, grasp gentle. "It's fine, I'm just surprised."

"I sleep better with someone else." She pauses, teeth worrying her bottom lip. "Well, I don't know if it's someone else or simply Tom, but…"

Draco knows they haven't slept together in ages—not since Hermione put distance between them when her memories were still absent, but he recalls how easily Tom warded away her night terrors. He doesn't imagine he'll be half as effective.

But he still crawls into the space she offers, their bodies fitting together like matched puzzle pieces. It's an illusion, but if it protects her, he won't shatter it. He presses a kiss to her frizzy head. Hermione relaxes against him.

He hasn't held anyone this way since Astoria. It's not like his nights with Tom when passion and desire fissure the peace between them. With Hermione, it's only warmth and the promise of shepherding each other through the inky darkness and the chaos of their own minds. He tightens his arms around her and lets his head sink further into the pillows.

She sighs and they weather the storm together.

Hermione adapts to another life, its rhythm settling into her easily enough. They care for the decrepit estate the best they can. The gardens transform from brown tangles of dead leaves to vibrant rows of roses and late summer blooms.

Draco works almost exclusively outside, his nails rimed with dark soil when he enters the house at night. She knows he's hiding from something. This place is more than the sum of its memories to him. But she refuses to push. Whatever clings just beneath the surface of his pale skin is hardly any business of hers.

Each day the sun glows bright on the horizon, Hermione wonders if it will be their last. The Death Eaters are coming. Voldemort is coming.

If all goes to plan, they'll have advance warning. Hermione knows things rarely go to plan.

At night, as they gather for a meal in the ornate dining room, they talk of everything and nothing. Except Tom. Neither of them mentions the boy who has ensnared them both. Hermione can't bring herself to ask, to examine how strong the ties that bind the boys together truly are. She remembers asking Tom to spare Draco; she thinks he's done nothing of the sort.

Other times, she wonders what Tom will do if both of them die, if this adventure becomes a nightmare in the space of a heartbeat. Will he be stripped of any vestiges of his humanity? Will he still fight for their cause or will he lose touch with all that has kept him grounded, with the fine strings of empathy that make him so different from his dark counterpart? Is the mere act of loving him salvation enough?

She twists in the sheets and finds Draco staring down at her with luminous eyes. They've shared a bed every night. It no longer feels awkward or strange.

Given sufficient time, she can adapt to anything. Even the dull numbness that eats away at her, the knowledge that her body has failed her in a way she cannot simply outthink.

"I think we need to talk about it," she murmurs, "before it's too late."

She sometimes counts her breaths, wondering which one will be her last. It's a habit from her time underground. Although this is no longer a cell, the roiling nausea in the pit of her stomach never fully abates.

Draco swallows, the elegant column of his neck bobbing. But he nods. "I know."

Hermione breaths heavily through her nose, feeling the cool stream of air against her parched throat. "I don't think it needs to be a choice between us."

His expression remains carefully neutral. "You mean to say, you wouldn't want him to end things with me to start something with you."

She nods, pulse thundering in her temples. She never considered this type of relationship before, one that didn't begin and end with two people. It's certainly not her style. Not something she ever would have imagined, even in her more deviant fantasies. A couple is a couple until it's so much more complicated than that.

She knows there will never be anything sexual between herself and Draco. She's not even sure there will be anything truly sexual with Tom. Her limits are still narrow and perilous.

Mostly, she needs Draco to understand she has no intention of taking Tom away from him. Whatever has happened between them, it's resulted in positive changes for both boys. Draco would never have agreed to this plot, to this risk, if it weren't for Tom. And Tom, despite his connection with Hermione, has expanded his emotional vocabulary during his time with Draco. The change in him is more subtle than that in the blond, but no less important.

Through Draco he has found a path to humanity. She cannot ignore that.

Quicksilver eyes narrow. "Is this what you truly want?"

She wants Tom to be good, to be more than the darkness beneath his skin and the traumas of his past. "It's what he needs."

Draco props his head on his hand as his gaze slides over every millimeter of her face. "I'm not asking about him. I'm asking about you." He takes a breath and stares. The intensity of it strips her bare and she looks abruptly away. "Can you live with him in my bed? His body quaking because of my touch?"

She doesn't know the answer and knows better than to attempt a lie. "I can barely think about that sort of thing."

Draco shifts closer to her, his lips brushing the skin of her flushed cheek. "Then don't make promises you can't keep."

Hermione sags into the mattress, wishing its plush feathers would swallow her whole. "I just wish…"

"This isn't about wishing," he admonishes gently, his satin bangs sliding across her cheek. "It certainly would be more straightforward if it were. But fantasy has no place here, Hermione. I still have no idea what goes on in his head. About the only thing I do trust is that you mean more to him than anything else. Perhaps even more than his own life. Which is truly powerful considering one of his primary fears is death."

"I should hate him," she admits quietly, her breath stirring his hair.

"But you love him"

"And so do you."

Draco tenses against her for a long moment before he lets out a shuddering breath. "I do."

Hermione considers the rigid line of his jaw where it rests on the pillow beside her. "You haven't told him."

He rolls to stare at the ceiling. "What difference would it make?"

"I think anyone who loves him makes a difference." She pauses, trying to force the clutter of her thoughts into a coherent narrative. "He came from dark magic and it still binds him, pulling him back toward the monster he once was. But love, it has the power to free him from those bonds. He may only have half his soul, but if we trust him with that, then he will be far more than half a man."

"How did you do it?"

She blinks at him. "Do what?"

"Accept your feelings for him. You're the bloody girlfriend of the Boy Who Lived and he's, well, he's the Dark Lord himself."

"No," she corrects, "he's the boy who chose not to kill me. He's the boy who knelt by my side as my body was violated and refused to allow my surrender. He's the only reason I'm laying here with my mind intact. What he once was is as irrelevant as my Muggle origins. It's part of him, but it will never define him. Not for me."

Draco only stares at her, the seconds dripping slowly between them. At last, he sighs. "I pray you're right."

She doesn't bother to point out he's equally attached to Tom. She knows what he means. While her heart resounds with pure belief, the far corners of her mind cling to doubt.

She drops her head to the pillow.

The wards crack, the boom echoing like thunder.

Their eyes meet, united in unfettered terror. This was never the plan.

The bedroom door crashes open.