Hello! Welcome to my first Harry Potter fanfiction :) This is an 'ensemble' fic; there will be certain chapters that feature little Dramoine, however, the main plot revolves around them. The main warnings are: Marriage Law, Post-War, Population Law, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con (not between mains), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Eventual Pregnancy (Please note... this fic is happier than these tags make it sound... it is eventual romance and fluff)

This title was inspired entirely by Nikita Gill's incredible poem "I Named Us Grief" which I have included below. Please check out her work.

Please drop a line if you enjoyed it. I will be updating every week on Sundays.

I Named Us Grief

I call us part dread, part song

part story, part wrong.

We built our castles in each other

out of splintered spine and blood.

We met in grief and

were held together by its mud.

Took crowns made of bones

placed it on each others heads.

We loved each other with

fragments of ourselves that were dead.

This is why we couldn't rely

on the promises that we spoke.

Perhaps in a different time

I would have named us hope.

Perhaps in a different universe

we would not meet so battleworn

And I would call us forgiveness,

and not remember us as war.

- Nikita Gill -

August 2nd, 1999 - Monday

The tawny owl tapping on her window is both huge and insistent. Hermione stares at him briefly through the glass above her kitchen sink, unsure if she should allow the strange bird entrance. Still, it's hardly in her to be rude, so she slides the glass open and the owl drops the rolled parchment unceremoniously. He stares her down with one doleful orange eye, and Hermione gives him a small treat she keeps on her windowsill. He coos gently at her before taking off again.

Hermione frowns; owls only leave before picking up the return mail if the owner specified they required no response. Hermione waves her wand gently over the parchment roll, testing for any harmful or dark curses. She's quick to draw her wand these days; years of war and battle making her suspicious. Constant vigilance.

The letter in front of her, however, is harmless. Simple parchment, strung with an emerald green ribbon, and a crest that makes goosebumps break out over Hermione's skin.

Two snakes twined together around an M — she's never received a letter with this crest before, but she still knows it, can feel it in her bones. It brings to mind cruel laughter and long white-blonde hair.

Malfoy.

Her hands shake as she breaks the seal and opens the roll. If her name wasn't at the top of the letter she'd believe the owl had somehow mistakenly delivered this to her. Nevermind that her small cottage is completely unplottable, fidelius charm intact with only Harry as secret keeper. She doesn't even have the Floo connected — it's a wonder Malfoy's owl could even find her. It must have been searching for hours.

She unrolls the parchment slowly, trepidation filling her.

"To Miss Hermione Jean Granger:

I must first thank you for standing at my trial, and at my mother's, a year ago. I know that it was only Potter's and your testimony that kept us from Azkaban. Her freedom for the past year and four months has meant a great deal to me.

I would also like to apologize for the way I treated you in Hogwarts and for my choices in the war. I have no excuse. You are a brilliant witch, and I regret that I ever made you feel inferior.

Sincerely,

Draco Lucius Malfoy "

Hermione sets the letter on her counter with trembling fingers. She can feel herself shaking like a leaf; unsure if it's shock or fear that rushes through her veins.

Hermione had realized long ago that Draco Malfoy was raised to believe that blood purity directly related to the value of a witch or wizard. She doesn't need a vivid imagination to understand the father Lucius Malfoy must have been. Hermione had long forgiven his schoolyard taunts and bullying. He was a child. They had all been children, fighting a war that they didn't deserve to fight.

There was very little room for hatred in her heart any longer.

Still, she had never imagined a day when she would hold an actual apology letter from Draco Malfoy. Never imagined he would ever thank her for standing at his trial; a decision that had caused both her and Harry a great deal of grief. Never imagined him ever penning a letter so proper, so unlike every cruel thing he'd ever snarled at her.

She couldn't stop staring at the last sentence. You are a brilliant witch.

Though she has never doubted her intelligence, and always surrounded herself with those who valued her, the words hit her as hard as a punch. The 11-year-old girl in her memory, still shaking after first hearing the word mudblood, still somehow wondering if her blood affected her magic and value, is silent.

Tremulously, Hermione lifts the letter to her heart. A great weight seems to fall from her, and she carefully takes the letter to a small chest in her office. She locks it away, a secret that only she holds. Hermione imagines that Draco Malfoy would prefer it this way; proof of his heart held under lock and key in the last place anyone would look.

September 13th, 1999 - Monday

She had no intention to send a response to Malfoy's letter. Instead, for almost a month, Hermione keeps the letter hidden away in her small cottage, out of sight but never quite out of mind.

She throws herself into work with the same passion she always shows, forms and applications for House-Elf Relocation never spending over two days on her desk. She's determined to make a change from inside the system, and although S.P.E.W hadn't gone exactly to plan, she still carries a torch for all the House Elves in the wizarding world who deserve more.

The world needs it now; rumblings of discontent seem to follow her everywhere she turns. Abandoned businesses have been slow to return, Hogwarts is facing lower enrollment than even during the war, and people are still afraid. Hermione is determined to make a change, and it compels her to begin where her passions lie, with non-human magic users.

Still, when the clock hits 11:55 Hermione jumps up. She often works through lunch, but today she rushes down to the cafeteria.

Eagerly she seeks the lunch table she shares with Harry whenever he's not off on Auror business. Draped across the table is a copy of the Daily Prophet, and she moves to toss it away like the trash she feels the Prophet is.

Splashed across the front page are large black words and a moving image of a casket dropping into the ground. 'Malfoy Matriarch Dead at 45'.

Her heart drops abruptly when she recognizes Draco Malfoy's shadowed face in the moving image. She snatches at the paper, reading furiously as she plops into her usual seat.

Narcissa Malfoy dead at the incredibly young age of 45. No written cause of death. Draco Malfoy listed as the only surviving member of the Malfoy line.

Hermione has no love for Lucius Malfoy, but she recalls when he was found dead in his cell in Azkaban only six months to the day that the war had ended. Though they hadn't released a cause of death, it hadn't been hard to deduce that he had slowly withered away in his jail cell until his body finally gave in.

She had not celebrated, nor grieved, or even spared a thought for the remaining Malfoys.

Now, though? Now a pang of sadness fills her that she cannot seem to shake for Draco Malfoy, orphaned at only twenty. Hermione hadn't known how Draco felt about his parents, but it's no secret in the wizarding world that Narcissa Malfoy loved her only son. It's arguably the crucial point that had kept her from Azkaban. Her love for Draco had inspired her to deceive Voldemort and subsequently save Harry Potter's life.

She stares a moment longer at the shadowed face in the photo; it's familiar in that she recalls the angular lines, pointy chin, and sneer lingering at his lips. The white-blonde hair is a dead giveaway, but Hermione can't help but linger over his eyes — grainy in the photo. She wonders if he's sad.

"What's that?" Harry's voice tears her away from her whimsical thoughts as he approaches their table.

She clears her throat, "The Prophet is reporting that Narcissa Malfoy is dead."

Harry seems shocked for a moment before he recovers and sits down in front of her. "That's… actually a shame." He seems sincere, "Can't believe she only got a year and four months of freedom."

His words ring in her ears, echoes of Draco Malfoy's letter: "Her freedom for the past year and four months has meant a great deal to me."

Had he known she was dying?

For a split second, Hermione debates telling Harry about the letter Draco Malfoy sent her only the month prior. It's all on the tip of her tongue, about to spill out, but Harry pushes the newspaper away and sets a steaming coffee in front of her.

"Coffee, two creams and one sugar," Harry's green eyes sparkle, "for my favourite witch."

Hermione laughs, "What about Ginny?"

"Don't tell her I said it," Harry faux-whispers, "but you're both tied for the favourite."

Hermione chuckles and sips the coffee, studying her best friend over the rim. There is nothing, no mountain or ocean or monster, that she would not conquer for him. His messy black hair and green eyes are as dear to her as her own.

It's not common that they take lunch together, their respective jobs eating away at all their free time. The memo he had sent to her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that morning had been most welcome, and she had leapt at the chance to see him.

Ron hadn't been available, which had come as no surprise, though Hermione finds she misses him. It's only been three months since he had left his Auror training unfinished at George's behest. She and Harry hadn't blamed him. Restoring Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to its pre-war glory and getting George back on his feet had been a priority. The world needed a few more practical jokes and laughter.

It came as no surprise that working alongside George in a joke shop suited Ron. He had always loved the inventions the twins had cooked up, and the mischief they had managed.

Ron had enjoyed Auror training, too, and Hermione had known he would have excelled at being an Auror. He had a logical mind, a sharp eye for strategy, and was no stranger to the battlefield.

Still, Hermione was glad he had decided on a different path. The war had taken its toll on him, the same as all of them, and Hermione couldn't stand to watch the constant trial of hunting down dark wizards chip away at Ron's spirit. It had been his inherent joyfulness that had dragged her and Harry through some terrible times.

"I miss Ron," Harry says, toying with the lid of his teacup, "We haven't seen him in ages."

Hermione smiles, "I was just thinking the same thing. I'll owl Molly, I know it's her birthday at the end of October, so perhaps we can get Ron involved in some sort of birthday party planning."

"That's over a month away!" Harry objects, "It's only September!"

Hermione smirks, "One can never be too prepared, Harry Potter."

Harry rolls his eyes, but fondness radiates out of him, and Hermione can't help but smile helplessly back at him.

They talk of meaningless things; her cottage, and whether she had finally gotten her parents' old house sorted. She asks after Ginny's quidditch career, and if Harry is enjoying his newly minted full-fledged Auror status.

"Shacklebolt is stressed," Harry says in a low voice, "I think the public and the Wizengamot are putting the pressure on him."

Hermione scoffs, "What is he supposed to do? Single-handedly recover the economy and the magic population after a devastating war?"

Harry shrugs, "I suppose that is what they expect."

"There's nothing but time that can solve this, Harry." Hermione cautions, "The best the Wizengamot could offer is perhaps incentives for small business owners? They could offer more business loans to non-human magic users!" Suddenly Hermione us rejuvenated, filled with purpose.

Harry smiles good-naturedly, but it's easy to see he doesn't share her fire, "I don't think they'll go for it, Hermione."

"But — but imagine!" Hermione despairs, "Do you know how many werewolves probably have incredible business ideas, or could increase the labour market?"

Harry nods somberly, "I've always agreed that the general treatment of werewolves is abhorrent, and unfortunately it's only gotten worse since the war."

"Greyback," Hermione all but growls the name, furious in the injustice. The wizarding world is quick to drag Fenrir Greyback into every conversation regarding werewolf rights — his infamy falls before all werewolves now, a shadow of cruelty and sadism. How quickly it seems people have forgotten Remus Lupin; his kindness and gentility, and the ultimate sacrifice he made to have peace. He had spent his entire life fighting against Voldemort, and it had made no difference in how the world saw werewolves. Hermione's fury over this has sustained her through hundreds of meetings regarding Werewolf Social Supports and the Werewolf Inclusion Act.

Harry agrees but swiftly changes the topic so Hermione doesn't become bogged down with her fury. They chat about Molly Weasley's upcoming early birthday party, and decide they'll plan to invite Bill and Fleur home, and Charlie, though they doubt he'll take the time to return from Romania. Perhaps they can request an international Floo call.

Their lunch flies by, and Hermione drags herself almost unwillingly back to work. She can't stop thinking about the Prophet article she had read. The thought of Draco Malfoy, alone in the behemoth of a manor, haunted by all the horrors that had happened there.

Hermione picks up a quill, summoning a piece of parchment. She shoves her forms and memos away from her and starts drafting a response to the letter she had sworn never to reply to.

She takes over an hour scribbling away until she's satisfied, then copies her completed draft over to a clean parchment. She rolls it neatly, tying it with a spare red ribbon in her desk. Unlike the Malfoys, she has no family crest, so she simply uses a spell to create a small wax seal to hold it together.

She heads to the ministry owlery — it's much smaller than Hogwarts, containing only a few owls free for any ministry employee. She chooses a small, nearly black owl with large yellow eyes, and affixes her letter to his foot.

"Please take this to Draco Malfoy." Hermione requests, "He doesn't have to reply, so you can return once you're done."

The owl shoots into the air, and Hermione watches his form fade until she can no longer see him, and even then she lingers, her own words mocking her in her memory.

" To Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy,

I'm sorry for taking so long to respond to your letter. For your actions in school, I must tell you I forgive you. We were children, and I cannot bear to hold a grudge for that. For your actions in the war; well, I imagine that you didn't have much of a choice, though I suppose that may be of no comfort. If it grants you any peace, know that I don't blame you.

I read the news of your mother's passing this morning. I am very sorry for your loss. I wanted to tell you it was no hardship for me to stand at her trial, as her actions in the war allowed my best friend to live. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with her after the war ended — I'm truly sorry you didn't have longer.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger"