The Revenant (Part 4)

He ran through the rubble, tripping over bricks and the charred remains of roof beams. The stench of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils before he even found the bodies. The aftermath of Fiendfyre was always the same.

And he knew that he was too late; he was always too late. But he couldn't stop himself from running – faster, faster – because this time it would be different.

The bodies lay among the blackened remains of the village, and he could hear one of his Aurors, Rami, calling out to him. But he ignored him. He was focused on the carnage, looking for any signs of life. To his astonishment, one of the women was still breathing.

"There's someone alive over here!" he yelled, kneeling down beside the injured woman. "Fetch a medic wizard!"

Another Auror approached and shook his head at the sight of the woman's severely-burned body. But Draco was not willing to accept the truth. Not yet. He turned to glare at the scrawny young wizard.

"That's a direct order, Qasim," he barked menacingly, and the underling ran to find a medic. Rami finally caught up with him, and stood, watching, as Draco used a series of spells to try and heal the woman's wounds. Her short, rasping breaths told him that her lungs were burned, and his spells would be useless to heal them.

"Mr. Draco" his companion began.

"Shut up, Rami!"

Draco worked faster, frantically trying to save the woman's life, but the damage was done. Her dark brown eyes grew wide with the struggle to breathe, and he knew that once again, he was too late. She drew one last shuddering breath and lay still in his arms.

"No!" Draco gasped, and began to cast reviving spells. A strong, dark-skinned hand clamped down on his wrist, stilling his wand movements.

"Mr. Draco, she is gone to Allah," Rami said softly. "Let her go."

Finally, Draco gave in and gently lowered the woman's body back to the ground. Her hair – what was left of it – was thick and black, and her skin was the color of caramel. But when Draco looked at her, all he saw were light brown curls and a familiar, heart-shaped face. He saw it on every man, woman, and child that he was too late to save.

Always, they looked like Hermione.

A horrible screeching sound assaulted Draco's ears, and he lunged upright in bed, his hawthorn wand grasped tightly in his hand. There was a small explosion, followed by complete silence. When he finally opened his eyes and shook himself awake, it was to see the pathetic remains of the alarm clock he had just blasted apart with a Reducto curse.

"Stupid Muggle contraption," he grumbled. He brushed the demolished timepiece off the nightstand, and it fell to the floor with a dull clatter. In his hazy, half-awake state, it took him a few moments to recall why he had even set the alarm to wake him at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. Then he remembered.

Goyle's funeral.

Never had Draco wanted so badly to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and not emerge for the rest of the day. Instead, he forced himself to arise and drag his feet into the bathroom across the hall. Along the way, he noticed that the door to the master bedroom was still shut, and there was no sound of Hermione stirring inside. He had not seen her since their confrontation the night before. When he had emerged from his shower, she had already been in bed, no doubt exhausted from their ordeal at the Morpheum-brewing lab.

It amazed Draco that Hermione had somehow managed to sleep through the racket he had created with the alarm clock. Then again, she had always been a deep sleeper. He used to tease her that if Lord Voldemort himself came parading through their flat, blowing a trumpet and leading a choir full of screaming banshees, she would go right on sleeping.

"Lucky witch," he muttered, as he began his morning ablutions. After washing, he shaved off the scruff that dusted his chin and cheeks. Regular shaving was not something he had troubled himself with during his time spent in desert nations fighting terrorist wizards, and he was more than halfway to having a beard. Once his face was smooth and clean-shaven once more, he paused to study his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

At first glance, he looked almost the same as he had been when he left Britain three years ago. But when he looked closer, he could see the evidence that suggested otherwise: the faint lines around his eyes from repeatedly squinting in the sun; the tiny scar along the left side of his jaw from a Jordanian wizard's knife, which was the first time he had learned not to underestimate a man who had been stripped of his wand. His skin was still golden from the desert sun – a shade that would fade rapidly back to his usual pallor if he remained in Britain.

But would he remain? Draco's instincts told him it was likely he would not. He had belonged here once, but he doubted he could ever belong to this particular corner of the world ever again. It seemed that all of the things that had once tied him to this place were gone.

Yes, it would be best if he left, once the murderer was caught and the divorce papers were signed and notarized. It would be the right thing to do.

Draco let out a resigned sigh as he shuffled out of the bathroom, still clad in nothing but his boxers. It was then that he realized he had nothing suitable to wear to the funeral. The only clothing he had packed in his meager luggage was more suited to a rugged life in the desert. It had been over three years since he had even been in possession of a set of dress robes. He couldn't help snorting in amusement at the irony. Here he was, a member of one of the wealthiest, most renowned families in Wizarding Britain, and he had nothing but tattered, worn-out, sandblasted robes to wear.

Indeed, times had changed.

Suddenly, he recalled that he had once kept a set of black dress robes hanging in the closet of his and Hermione's bedroom. Of course, that had been three years ago, and after learning that Hermione had pawned off her wedding ring and rearranged the kitchen, he doubted that the outfits would still be where he had left them. She had, no doubt, taken them out into the street and made a bonfire out of them after he left. Still, it was worth a shot. He wasn't even sure if Madam Malkin's robe shop was open this early.

Draco tiptoed quietly up to the closed door of the master bedroom and knocked. He was not surprised when Hermione made no response. He was, however, surprised to find the door unlocked. Tentatively, he cracked it open.

"Hermione?" he whispered. "Are you awake?" No response. "Do you still have any of my old dress robes?"

When she still did not respond, he opened the door fully and stepped into the room. The light from the hall stabbed into the dark space, illuminating Hermione's sleeping form. She was sleeping on her side, as she often did, with the pillow bunched between her arms and the blankets tangled around her legs. Her nightshirt had ridden up her thigh, revealing one long, slender leg to Draco's gaze, and he was suddenly assaulted with the memory of running his hand up that smooth, creamy expanse of skin…

Abruptly, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear it. He had not entered their old bedroom to torture himself with these sorts of thoughts.

Recalling his true purpose, he stepped over to the closet and slid open the door to reveal its contents. Impatiently, he shoved aside the various articles of clothing Hermione had hanging in front – dresses, blouses, and business attire in both Muggle and Wizarding styles. Then, to his amazement, he discovered his old dress robes in the back of the closet, hanging just as he had left them. With a bewildered frown, he took the set of black robes off the hanger and clutched them to his chest, wondering if it meant anything that Hermione had not discarded them. He wanted to think it did.

Slowly, Draco turned to look at Hermione once more. This time, emboldened by his discovery, he moved closer to her, noting for the first time that she still slept on the right side of the bed. Was it a coincidence that even after all these years, he still slept on the left? Before he quite knew how it had happened, he was standing right beside her, gazing down on her sleeping form, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest and the faint twitching of her eyelashes as she slumbered. Her wild brown curls were in disarray, and without thinking, he reached down to gently brush one errant curl off of her face. Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a soft grunting sound in the back of her throat, but then she lay still once more.

He knew he should walk out of the room before he made this situation even harder for himself. But he couldn't resist bending down to press his lips briefly to her forehead, closing his eyes, breathing in the fresh apple scent of her hair, and feeling the silky texture of her curls against his face. Then he pulled away quickly, and walked out of the room with his dress robes in hand, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He had turned his back too fast to see Hermione's eyes open slightly, and her brow crinkle into a perplexed frown, as she watched him leave the room.

Draco hated funerals. Not that anyone found them to be enjoyable affairs, but he figured he hated them more than most people did. Perhaps it was because he had been to too many of them in his twenty-six years: Crabbe, Blaise, and now Goyle. Most things are supposed to get easier with repetition. Losing a friend was not one of these things.

Millicent had asked him to be a pallbearer, and he had been unable to refuse her. After all, there were few people willing to attend Goyle's funeral, let alone bear his casket. It was a meager gathering of black-clad men and woman who gathered to lay Greg Goyle to rest in the Wizarding cemetery. Draco could spot Blaise Zabini's grave marker not far from where he now stood, as well as the bench where Hermione had first come to inform him that she would be his new partner.

Draco helped three other wizards lift Goyle's plain, wooden coffin, and carry it to the grave site. And as he watched the coffin be lowered into the ground, he realized the biggest reason he hated funerals: he didn't like endings. And death, of course, was the most final, irrevocable ending of all. He much preferred beginnings; they were fresh and new and exciting…even if they weren't always easy.

"I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Bit late to turn back now, isn't it?"

Draco turned to Goyle with a frown.

"Not if I run away – far away where no one will ever find me. Maybe Fiji…or Bora Bora."

"She'd find you, you know she would," Goyle said with a chuckle. "She'd track you down and then she'd make you regret running off."

"You're right, she would." Draco sighed and adjusted his tie for the tenth time that morning, gazing at his tall, elegantly-dressed reflection in the mirror. "This is a mistake."

"I thought you loved her?"

"Of course I do, but…"

"She's counting on you, Malfoy. You can't let her down."

Draco stared at his best friend in surprise, watching as the large man squirmed uncomfortably in his tight-fitting dress robes.

"Since when did you become such a big defender of Muggleborns?"

Goyle's round face creased into a frown.

"Granger's not just any Muggleborn, Malfoy. She's the one that helped save my life in the Room of Requirement, remember?"

"I remember." Draco's recalled Crabbe casting the Fiendfyre spell, flames engulfing the room in heat and smoke, Potter and his friends coming to the rescue… "I remember that we wouldn't even have been in that room if it weren't for me and my stupid idea of trying to capture Potter."

"And I'd also be dead if it weren't for you," Goyle cut in. "I remember you pulling me to safety, Malfoy. It's the last thing I remember happening before I passed out."

For a few minutes, there was an uncomfortable silence. It was the first time they had ever spoken of that day – the day that Crabbe had died. Draco smoothed the front of his expensive dress robes, his hands trembling as they did so.

"I don't deserve her, Goyle. I'm not a good enough man for her."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and in an instant, Draco's mood went from nervous to panicked. He looked frantically at the clock. It was too early. They couldn't be starting the ceremony already…

"Come in!" he croaked, his throat too dry to say anything else. Slowly, the door creaked open, and to his astonishment, his fiancée stepped into the room.

She was beautiful. No, she was beyond beautiful. Draco did not think there were any words in existence to describe how lovely Hermione Granger looked at that moment. Her floor-length white gown was simple, but elegant, and the neckline was tasteful while revealing just the right amount of creamy skin. Her chestnut curls were worn loose around her shoulders, and despite his mother's complaints that they were such a plebian flower, he saw that she had opted to wear a few small daisies in her hair. He found himself entirely speechless and almost incapable of drawing breath. Hermione's lips curled into a smile.

"Good," she said. "That was just the sort of reaction I was looking for." She glanced over at Goyle, who was equally dumbstruck. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to my fiancé in private for a few minutes."

Goyle nodded mutely and left the room, leaving the couple alone. Draco stood completely still, longing to gather Hermione into his arms and kiss her senseless, but at the same time frightened that she was nothing more than an illusion that would fade away at the slightest touch.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "Isn't it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?"

"You know I don't believe in luck," she replied. Then she studied his pallid face. "You're as white as a ghost."

"Hermione, I'm always as white as a ghost."

Her lips twitched in amusement.

"Well, if there was a shade whiter than white, then that's what you'd be right now." She edged tentatively closer to him, but still made no move to touch him. "Are you really that scared to marry me?"

Draco debated between giving her the reassuring answer or the honest one. Throughout their relationship, he had always told her the truth, and he decided that the first day of their married life together was probably a bad time to start doing otherwise.

"Yes," he murmured. "I'm terrified."

To his surprise, Hermione did not scream, rant, burst into tears, or storm from the room. Instead, she nodded calmly and took yet another step in his direction. She was standing just in front of him now, her forehead level with his chin, and when he drew in a deep breath, he could smell the familiar, reassuring scent of her perfume.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked.

"That I don't deserve you. And that one of these days you're going to figure that out and leave me for some stupid, namby pamby Hufflepuff... or worse yet, a Weasley."

Hermione laughed, and he couldn't resist smiling at the sound. He never could.

"Draco, when are you going to get it into your thick skull? I love you. Unconditionally. And you are more than deserving of me."

Draco shook his head stubbornly.

"I'm a sarcastic git, even towards you."

"I've learned to live with it," she argued.

"I'm horribly rude to your friends."

"They'll learn to live with it."

Draco paused and bent his head so that his forehead was resting against hers.

"You're braver than I am. Always have been."

She sighed and pulled back so that she could look him directly in the eye.

"You're braver than you think you are, Draco. And you're also a good man, even if you don't believe it yourself."

"Someone was eavesdropping on my conversation with Goyle," he accused her, though his tone was playful. She arched one delicate eyebrow at him.

"Of course. I wouldn't be a very good Auror if I didn't take advantage of the opportunity."

Draco smiled and cupped her chin in his hand.

"You know I love it when you speak Slytherin."

He kissed her then, savoring the sweet taste of her mouth, and even though he knew every nook and cranny of it, he couldn't resist exploring it all over again. Finally, she pulled away. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly swollen from their kiss, making her even more beautiful than she had been a few moments before. But when he tried to kiss her a second time, she laughingly put her hands against his chest to hold him at bay.

"Draco, the ceremony is about to start. I think the guests might notice if the bride and groom are absent."

At the mention of their wedding ceremony, Draco's anxiety returned. His heart started to race, and he felt as if a colony of butterflies had suddenly taken up residence in his stomach. Hermione reached over to grasp his hand with her smaller one. Instantly, Draco's heart rate slowed, and the butterflies fled.

"Thank you," he whispered. She smiled up at him.

"We're partners, remember? You know I'll always have your back." She laced her fingers tightly through his. "Ready?"

Draco nodded, and together they made their way out into the corridor. Along the way, he gave her hand a brief squeeze.

"I still don't deserve you, you know."

Hermione's smile spread into a smirk that was worthy of a soon-to-be Malfoy.

"Well," she teased, "lucky for you, you'll have the rest of our lives to make it up to me."

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

The minister presiding over Goyle's funeral droned on, saying the words that had become so familiar to Draco, he could recite them in his sleep. And suddenly, the loss of his best friend felt overwhelming…and with the loss came guilt.

What if Hermione was right? What if Goyle had been killed because he had failed to give Draco up to the elusive "master" that Meachim had spoken of? Draco glanced over at Millicent Bullstrode Goyle, who was sobbing into a large handkerchief. What if it was his fault that she was now a widow? He knew that Goyle had felt indebted to him for saving him from the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, and he began to wonder if maybe the man had more honor than anyone had previously imagined. Had Goyle sacrificed himself to protect Draco? Had his last act been to repay the debt that he had incurred from his friend, all those years ago?

Draco's throat tightened and his palms grew sweaty. He wanted to run away from the gravesite, and the tiny crowd of mourners, but his legs felt too shaky to carry him far. It had been a mistake for him to come. He didn't belong here. Other than Millicent, who was currently being comforted by her parents, he did not see a single familiar face in the crowd. His own parents may have attended, had they been able to, but they were currently confined to the Manor, under the protection of Harry's Aurors. Draco had never felt more alone in his entire life.

Suddenly, just when he thought he was going to lose it, he felt a warm hand slip into his own. He jerked in surprise, and looked down to see Hermione standing by his side, lacing her fingers through his. She stared straight ahead and said nothing, with her body ramrod straight, and her muscles tense. And he realized that she was waiting for him to respond to her gesture. She was waiting for him to reject her.

Without any further hesitation, he squeezed her hand, completely enclosing it in his larger one. Then he gave it a slight tug, pulling her closer so that her right side was pressed against his left. Her posture relaxed, and she seemed to melt into his side as she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. Her reassuring presence made him relax as well, squashing the urge to flee. He swallowed hard, but his throat still felt constricted, and this time it was with a different emotion than before.

They stood together, drawing comfort from each other, as they watched the minister use his wand to levitate a pile of earth on top of Goyle's coffin. And as the coffin disappeared from sight, Draco once more reflected on the fact that beginnings were never easy.

But endings were even harder.

Draco watched Hermione as she talked; he watched the elegant motion of her hands, the attentive tilt of her head, the way her curls bounced around her shoulders when she nodded in response to something someone said. She looked at ease in her surroundings, even though she was surrounded by Slytherins – the majority of whom had once thought little of her…and some of whom still secretly did. Yet, she showed no sign of being intimidated as she spoke to Millicent Goyle and her family.

Draco recalled that in their Second Year, during the failed attempt to start a dueling club at Hogwarts, Millicent and Hermione had been unwillingly paired up and had come to blows with each other. He still remembered (and not without a trace of amusement), how Millicent had managed to get the smaller witch into a headlock. At the moment, however, the two were speaking quite civilly to each other. In fact, they actually seemed to be enjoying each other's company.

After the funeral had ended, Millicent had invited the attendees back to her house for some light refreshments. If Draco had been astonished by Hermione's presence at the funeral itself, he was completely blown away by the fact that she had accompanied him to the Goyle residence, walking straight into the snakes' nest, so to speak. Few of Draco's old school friends had accepted the idea that he was married to a Muggleborn. Greg and Millicent Goyle, of course, had been two of those select few. He knew this was partially because of the respect they still had for Draco, but mostly because of the role Hermione had played in saving Greg's life, all those years ago.

As if she could sense him watching her, Hermione suddenly turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and he noticed that hers carried none of the coldness that they had born over the past couple of days. Instead, there something in her expression that made Draco's heart race with an emotion he had not felt in a very long time: hope. His face warmed beneath her gaze, and he suddenly felt naked and vulnerable, as if they were having a private conversation that everyone in the room was paying witness to.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and left the room, looking for place to be alone for a few minutes. He needed some fresh air. He needed to think. No, on second thought, it would probably be better if he didn't think at all.

He finally emerged onto Millicent's back patio. There he dug a cigarette out of the pocket of his dress robes, lit it with shaking hands, and took a drag, letting the smoke curl up into the crisp morning air. It was that time of spring when it was still cold, but the air carried the promise of summer. It was a season he hadn't experienced in awhile, having lived in equatorial climes where the weather varied little throughout the year. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

When Draco heard the door open and close behind him, and the soft footfalls of someone approaching, he smiled. He knew it would only be a matter of time before she came out to find him. But when he turned, it was not the witch he had expected to see, and his smile faltered.

"Pansy?"

"Draco?" she gasped. His name had barely left her lips before she was launching herself into his arms, squeezing him so tight that he nearly lost the ability to breathe. "Merlin, I'm so glad to see you! I had heard you were back in town, but I almost didn't believe it."

"Yes," he grunted, prying her arms away, so they no longer constricted his ribcage. "Yes, I'm back…for now, in any case. When I heard about what happened to Goyle, I had to come. But I didn't see you at the funeral."

Pansy drew back with a frown.

"Oh," she said distantly, "I had a few…errands to run. But I thought I'd come to pay Millie my respects."

For the first time, Draco was able to take in her appearance, and what he saw shocked him. Pansy was much thinner than she had been when he last saw her, over three years ago. Her collarbones protruded, and her cheeks were hollow. There was a sickly pallor to her skin, dark circles under her eyes, and her hair had lost its healthy sheen.

"Pansy," Draco breathed, "you look like hell."

She flinched and self-consciously patted her bob.

"Well, I see you still know how to make a girl feel special," she said dryly.

"Seriously, Pans, what happened to you?"

He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she brushed him off with a scowl.

"Don't pretend that you actually care, Draco. You have no idea what it's been like for my family since the war ended. My father's business is suffering, and I have to do what I can to help make ends meet."

"Pansy, are you…I mean, you haven't been prostituting yourself, have you?" Draco asked, his eyes widening in horror.

"Of course not! Don't be absurd!"

"Then what's going on?" When Pansy made no response, Draco sighed in frustration. "Do you know what really happened to Goyle?"

"He was killed. It sounded like he was mugged in Knockturn Alley."

"He wasn't mugged, Pansy. He was murdered. We think he was dealing Morpheum and he got into trouble with whoever he was dealing for." Draco watched her expression carefully, noting the slight twitch of her lips when he mentioned the word 'Morpheum'. That tiny action all but confirmed his suspicions. "Pansy, have you been using Morpheum?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, backing away from him. "I've never even heard of – "

"Oh, you've heard of it all right," Draco said confidently, as he Vanished his spent cigarette. "The circles under your eyes, the emaciation…I know what the side-effects are. Just tell me who you're getting it from, Pansy, and I promise I won't turn you in. The Ministry won't have to know who my source was."

"Don't patronize me!" she snapped. "You think you're so much better than the rest of us now; the big bad Auror, here to save the day. I think you've been spending too much time with your Gryffindor friends. I didn't know hero complexes were contagious."

"Pansy…"

"We both know you didn't come back to Britain to save me from myself, and I don't buy the story that you came back for Goyle's funeral, either. Why are you really here, Draco?" When he remained silent, she let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, I see. You came back for her. You actually think she'll give you a second chance, don't you?"

"Pansy," Draco repeated, this time with a note of warning in his voice. But she forged on.

"You're crazy if you think she's going to ditch Anthony Goldstein for you. He's Witch Weekly's Bachelor of the Year, for Merlin's sake. He's rich, handsome, and powerful, and if you think that Mudblood is going to –"

Her words died on her lips as Draco pushed her roughly up against the wall of Millicent's house.

"Do not use that word in front of me," he growled, gripping her frail shoulders so tightly, he would probably leave bruises. "Whatever else Hermione may be, she is still my wife."

Pansy's chin trembled and her eyes filled with tears, causing Draco to sigh and relax his grip. As infuriating as the woman could be, she was a childhood friend, and she was clearly in trouble. She deserved at least some compassion on his part.

"I'm sorry, Pans," he said, "It's been a rough couple of days. And you're right – Hermione isn't going to leave Goldstein for me. We're getting a divorce."

Her eyes softened.

"When?" she whispered.

"Soon. After we find Goyle's killer, we'll sign the paperwork and make it official."

Pansy was silent for a few moments. Then she reached up and laced her fingers through his hair.

"I was thinking, once you and Hermione are divorced, perhaps…perhaps we could renew our acquaintance? We used to be pretty close, you and I."

Draco gave a tired shake of his head.

"That was a long time ago, Pansy. We never did anything more than share a few snogs in a broom closet at Hogwarts. Besides, once this is all over, I'll be leaving Britain again."

"Where will you go?" Her disappointment was evident. Draco shrugged.

"I don't know. Somewhere far from here."

Pansy nodded, and her lips quirked into a sad smile as she continued running her fingers through his hair.

"You still love her." It was not a question.

"Yes," Draco said simply. Pansy thought he was a fool – he could read it in her eyes. But it was nothing new to him. He already knew it was folly to continue loving Hermione. It had been folly from the beginning, to love someone that he knew he didn't deserve. That he would probably continue to love her for the rest of his life was a fact that surpassed folly and bordered on insanity, but it was a true fact, nonetheless.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the back door opening, and someone emerging from the house. There was a feminine gasp, followed by a mumbled "Sorry", before the door slammed shut once more. Draco froze, his hands still on Pansy's shoulders, and her fingers still entangled in his hair. To anyone who had come across the two of them unawares, it would look as if they were…

Shit.

Immediately, he released Pansy and flung open the door, storming into the house just in time to catch a head of bushy brown curls disappearing out the front entrance.

"Hermione!" he called out, running after her. She did not stop, but instead continued down the Goyles' front walk, heading straight for the Disapparation point. "Hermione, wait! It's not what you think."

Finally, she paused and whirled to face him, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"You don't even want to know what I think, Draco."

"Don't be ridiculous. You know that Pansy and I have never been more than just friends."

"You think I actually care what you do with that…that slag?"

Draco scowled and folded his arms across his chest.

"Pansy is not a slag." Hermione merely raised her eyebrows at him and he relented with a sigh. "Okay, fine. Maybe she is a bit of a slag. But she's also an old friend of mine, and she needs my help."

"Needs your help with what? Taking off her knickers?"

"Hermione-"

"You know, Millicent is a widow now," she said sarcastically. "Maybe you could have romp with her, too, before the day is over."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous."

"Th-that's ridiculous," she sputtered. "I just think it's vastly inappropriate to behave that way at a funeral, of all places. I am not jealous of Pansy Parkinson."

"Really? That's not what it looks like to me," Draco growled. Her blatant denial of the truth was infuriating. "What did you expect, Hermione? Did you actually expect me to have remained celibate for the past three years? Surely you know me better than that."

"You're a bastard."

"And you're a hypocrite. You're the one who went and got engaged to someone else before we could even sign the divorce papers."

"That's different and you know it! You left, Draco. When you didn't come back, I moved on."

"Yeah?" he said coldly. "And how long after I left until you 'moved on' to Goldstein's bed?"

Hermione flinched as if she had been slapped, and Draco immediately wished he could retract his words. But it was too late. For a few moments they stood facing each other, with their eyes blazing and their chests heaving with emotion. It was Hermione who broke the silence.

"You said you were sorry you came back," she said softly. "Well, so am I, Draco. So am I."

And before he could issue a reply, she waved her wand and Disapparated with a small crack.

Draco groaned in frustration. He knew she had probably gone back to their flat and he withdrew his own wand to follow her. Then he remembered Pansy. With another groan, he dashed through the Goyles' home and onto the back porch. She was gone.

"Damn it," he muttered. Pansy may have provided a tangible link to the killer, and now he had lost the opportunity to interrogate her further. He would have to find her later, to try and uncover more about her apparent Morpheum addiction. It was possible that she, like Goyle, was working for the "master" that Meachim had mentioned.

But first, he would deal with Hermione. With a deep breath, he turned on the spot and Disapparated back to their flat.

"Hermione?" he called out, the moment he had arrived in their living room. There was no response. He moved down the hallway and found the door to the master bedroom to be shut, locked, and magically warded. However, the wards did little to mask her sobbing inside, and his heart wrenched guiltily at the sound. He paused and rested the palm of his hand on the door as he debated whether or not he should knock and request entrance. If she denied him, he could always force his way in, since the few wards she had erected appeared to be weakly cast.

After a couple of moments, he shook his head and walked away, choosing instead to retreat to the guest room. It was no use. He could apologize until he was blue in the face, but it would never be enough to make up for the past.

Draco viciously pulled off his dress robes, causing the fabric to rip at the seams in some places, but he barely noticed. He tossed them carelessly to the floor and changed into a comfortable pair of slacks before lying down on the bed. For a long time he stared up at the ceiling, replaying his confrontation with Hermione in his head. Despite the fact that they had barely maintained civility towards each other during the past few days, she had come to be at his side during Goyle's funeral. She had comforted him when he needed her most, and he had repaid her with ridicule and scorn. At this thought, he experienced a rush of self-loathing that burned like bile in the back of his throat.

When had things become so difficult for him and Hermione? Of course, it had never been easy for them from the start. Their friends had always opposed their union. His father had threatened to disown him, and may have succeeded in doing so if it weren't for his mother's interference. He and Hermione had had to tackle their tumultuous history at Hogwarts, the remnants of his past prejudices, and the scars they both carried from the war. And yet, somehow, they had managed to surpass all of these obstacles and live the life of a happily married couple for two years. Those years had been hard fought, but looking back, Draco knew they were the best two years of his life.

And then, in a heartbeat, it had all been taken away.

Draco rolled onto his side, bunching the pillow beneath his head. He was tired. He was tired of fighting with Hermione, and tired of fighting with himself. But most of all, he was tired of fighting the past. The past was a ghost that followed him everywhere he went, and no matter what corner of the world he tried to hide in, it would always be there, haunting him.

Finally, he gave in to the memories, and let them in. He closed his eyes and remembered the day that changed everything…

Draco stood nervously outside the door of their flat, with one hand on the doorknob and the other holding a bouquet of daisies for Hermione. They had been fighting again. It was not an uncommon occurrence, although he had to admit that it had been happening slightly more often than usual. Hermione's mood swings had recently gone from unpredictable to downright volatile. The two of them would bicker about something stupid and insignificant, and then they would forgive each other, stumble into the bedroom, and have mind-blowing make-up sex. In reality, their arguments were nothing more than an obscure form of foreplay. Draco recalled with a smirk how Hermione had recently accused him of picking fights with her for the sole purpose of having make-up sex.

The witch had always been too smart for own good.

Draco erased the smirk from his face and pushed open the door to their flat. Hermione was sitting in her favorite place: the window seat overlooking the Thames River. She was staring out the window with a book lying open and forgotten in her lap. She turned to look at him when he entered the room, and her facial expression was unreadable. Draco immediately knew that something major had happened during his absence. In the time it had taken for him to storm out of the flat, come to his senses, and return with his "I'm sorry" daisies, there had been a paradigm shift of some sort.

Anxiously, he approached his wife and sat beside her. She avoided his eyes and plucked at the fabric of the window seat. Draco held out the daisies to her, and she accepted them without a word.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry," he said.

"It's all right, Draco. To be honest, I don't even remember what we were fighting about. I haven't exactly been myself lately. When you were gone, I-I took a test. I've been suspecting it for a few days now. I mean, the symptoms were all there…"

Her voice wobbled as she spoke, and Draco's brow lowered in concern. She had certainly been paler than usual, and now that he looked more carefully, he detected dark circles beneath her eyes. He shifted over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.

"What is it, love? Are you sick? It's not something serious, is it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm going to be just fine, Draco. We're going to be just fine."

Draco's heart raced as Hermione took his hands in hers. When she gazed up at him, there was a light in her eyes that he had never seen in them before. And then, suddenly, he knew. He knew even before the words were out of her mouth, because the mixture of fear and joy on her face could only mean one thing…

"Draco, I'm pregnant."

Pansy landed awkwardly on her feet, dropping the deactivated Portkey – a tube of lipstick – to the ground. Her head swiveled back and forth as she tried to take in her surroundings. She never knew where he would summon her to, and traveling by Portkey to an undisclosed location always made her uneasy. But her master had strict rules, and if she wanted to receive what she came for, she would have to abide by them.

This time, the location he had chosen seemed to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind, and by the rhythmic sound of water not far away, she imagined they had to be near the coast. Water dripped from several pipes in the ceiling to land in grimy puddles on the floor, and rusty Muggle equipment cluttered the walls of the space. She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms to warm them. She was still wearing her short-sleeved black dress from the funeral, and she had not had time to grab a traveling cloak. She wanted nothing more than to Disapparate home and leave these dubious surroundings behind her, but her need was too great. It was this need that had brought her here in the first place, and it would keep her here until she had fulfilled whatever task her master required of her.

At the sound of footsteps emerging from the shadows, Pansy jumped in spite of herself, watching as her master approached. He was dressed in black robes with a hood pulled over his head and wore an odd, silver mask that covered his entire face, except for two eyeholes. The expression of the mask was that of a person in pain, preparing to scream.

Pansy hated that mask. It made her shiver every time she saw it, and it reminded her vaguely of a Death Eater's mask. Her father had never actually been a Death Eater, but he had sympathized with their cause, and therefore, a few of them would occasionally visit her family's home on business during the war. It was these past dealings that had irreversibly damaged her father's career. These days, nobody wanted to associate themselves with a former Death Eater supporter.

"I sense that you disapprove of our meeting place," her master said in a cold voice, interrupting her thoughts.

"N-no, Master."

He chuckled, and the sound made the hairs on the back of Pansy's neck stand on end.

"Well, you don't really have much choice in the matter, do you? Did you bring what I asked for?"

Hesitantly, she withdrew the small vial from her purse and handed it to him, trying to avoid contact with his fingers as she did so. He held the vial up to the light slanting through the grimy windows as he studied the blond hairs contained within it. Then he focused his attention on her once more.

"I'm impressed, Pansy. You've done well."

His hand disappeared into the folds of his dark robes, and she knew that he was retrieving her reward. She was positively giddy with the knowledge that she was moments away from slaking her everlasting thirst. Her need was so great that her hands were trembling, and tiny beads of sweat began to trickle down her back. But something else – a warring thought – sought dominance over her need.

"Master, what did you need Draco's hair for? You're not going to hurt him in some way, are you?"

The man paused with his hand in his pocket, and his head snapped up to stare at her. Pansy could hardly make out his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood, but she sensed that they had just narrowed in anger. Reflexively, she backed a few steps away from him.

"Since when do you question my methods?" he growled. "Perhaps you don't wish to receive your reward?"

"No, I do! It's just…Draco is an old family friend, and I would hate for anything bad to happen to him."

"An 'old family friend'?" her Master repeated mockingly. "Is that the full extent of your feelings for the man, Pansy? Don't lie to me. I know you've been hopelessly infatuated with him since childhood. But why are you suddenly so concerned for his welfare?"

Pansy wrung her hands nervously.

"Goyle," she whispered. "You killed Goyle."

"Goyle was killed because he did not follow my orders. Those who don't follow my orders are punished, and those who do are rewarded." He withdrew a vial of Morpheum from his robes and handed it to Pansy, and she accepted it with trembling hands.

Her body shook with the need to open the vial and pour the contents down her throat, but she paused and squared her thin shoulders, drawing on courage she never knew she possessed.

"Please, Master, promise me you won't hurt Draco."

He cocked his head to one side as he studied her from behind his mask, and she held her breath, wondering if she had pushed him too far. To her surprise, he nodded in response to her request.

"I swear to you Pansy, Draco Malfoy will not be physically harmed."

Pansy's shoulders slumped with relief. Then she eagerly uncorked the vial of Morpheum and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Almost immediately, she felt its effects taking place. Tingling warmth spread through her veins, and she felt as if tiny rays of light were coming out of her toes and fingertips. She smiled dreamily at the sensation of euphoria that washed over her body. She was now only dimly aware of her master's presence lingering in the background.

"It's a shame," he was saying, "that Draco Malfoy does not return your affections, Pansy."

"He probably would," she slurred, "if it weren't for Hermione Granger – I mean Hermione Malfoy."

Her master tensed and moved closer to her, gripping her roughly by the biceps. She was so physically and mentally relaxed from the potion that she no longer felt the urge to recoil from his touch. He shook her a little, just enough to bring her back to awareness, and Pansy's head lolled forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Pansy, what are you talking about? What were you saying about Hermione?"

"Draco thinks he's in love with her," she said with a bitter laugh. Then her laughter faded, and tears gathered in her eyes. "I think he came back to Britain for her. I think…I think he would do anything for her."

Her master stiffened at these words, and his hands slid down her arms to coil sinuously around her waist, tugging her hips against his.

"He still loves her after all this time?" he murmured, and his tone was thoughtful. "How interesting. How very interesting."

Pansy drew her head back from his shoulder and gazed up at him. The mask had disappeared, and in its place was a handsome face with grey eyes and pointed features.

"Draco," she whispered longingly, and he smirked back at her. Her subconscious mind knew that it was her master who was holding her in his arms, but she let go of reality and allowed herself to be absorbed into the daydream that the Morpheum was creating.

"You want him, don't you?" said her master. "I understand what it's like to want someone when they don't want you in return. And I'm going to give him to you, Pansy. I'm going to give you Draco Malfoy – the real Draco Malfoy."

His hands drifted up her stomach to cup her breasts and she gasped at his touch, her hips bucking against his. As blurred as her mind was becoming, she still recognized the one flaw in her master's plan.

"How?" she whispered. "He will never stop loving Hermione."

Her master – still bearing the features of Draco Malfoy – smiled and nuzzled her neck with his lips. His mouth was close to her ear, and the feel of his breath searing across her flesh made her shudder and moan in response.

"Don't worry," he breathed. "Soon he will be yours, my pet. Soon he will be yours, and Hermione Malfoy will be out of the picture forever."