"This is a bad idea," she thought. A terrible idea, indeed.

Ron's hand stilled in midair, a closed fist hovering over the Burrow's front door. He sighed, turning around toward her.

"Pansy—"

"Ronald, please."

He smiled reassuringly. "They're going to love you."

"Love me?" She arched an eyebrow. "Doubtful. I don't think they'll even like me. Right now, I don't even like me…"

She sighed, folding her arms over her chest and avoided his gaze.

He followed suit, folding his own over his broad chest. "My family wants me to be happy," he began quietly, "and what makes me happy is you."

Pansy cringed, her fingers curling tightly around her arms. "It doesn't feel right to be happy, not while Blaise is…"

The words died on her lips. Her betrayal had changed her husband. He wouldn't speak or look at her, nor would he sign the divorce papers. His punishment was to hold her hostage in his ancestral home and to deny her existence within its walls.

"He's not going to let go," she murmured, staring absently at a point beyond Ron's shoulder. "He doesn't even want me anymore. He doesn't even…" Her throat constricted. Her hands fell to cradle her stomach. "He doesn't even want his own son, and still— still, he won't let go."

Pansy raised her eyes to look at the wizard who had stolen her heart from another. He was staring at the grass beneath his feet.

"Why do you want us, Ronald?"

His sky-blue eyes lifted slowly to meet hers, and she was terrified that he was about to tell her he regretted this; that he couldn't bear to raise another man's child.

Pansy had been so sure the baby was his, that it would have his flaming hair, the same spray of freckles and azure eyes. She and Blaise had rarely been intimate in the last few months, and yet it had only taken one night for him to impregnate her a second time.

"I think—" his forehead pinched, and she watched him hesitate. "I think I like the name Fred."

Tears of relief rolled down her cheeks as she repeated the name out loud.

Ron shrugged a little shyly. "It's as good a name as any."

"And if it's a girl?" She sniffed, giving him a watery smile.

His eyes widened with surprise as if he hadn't even considered the alternative.

"I'll tell you what," she said, reaching out and bringing his hand to her lips. "If it's a girl… Winifred. Fred for short."

She watched as his lips broke into a grin. "Winifred. I love it."

"And I love you, Ronald Bilius Weasley."

They stared into each other's eyes, and after a quiet moment between them, he drew her in holding her tightly to his chest.

She breathed in his cologne, and it felt like home.

"It's going to be okay," he told her.

Gulping, she asked, "How can you possibly know that?"

Releasing her just enough to look down at her, he quirked his lips in what she thought seemed to be a private smile. "Because happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times..."

Those words comforted her. They gave her the strength she needed to wipe the tears from her eyes and steel herself for what was to come.

"Right," she clipped, smoothing down her hair. "I'm ready."

And then she, herself, raised her fist and knocked on the door.

Without the assistance of a wand or his hands, if he kept focus, Draco could fold the square pieces of paper perfectly, over and over again, until each one became a crane.

The memory of his trip to Japan had woken him at some point last night. He remembered, as if it were yesterday, meeting Mr. Tsushiro. He recalled his wrinkled hands, his pinched face, and his narrowed beady eyes, as his fingers dexterously folded sheets of paper, creating, one after another, enchantments, something he referred to as Origami or paper magic.

Draco was nine. His parents had been invited to an exclusive ball hosted during the Cherry Blossom season by Japan's Minister of Magic. They had decided that he was still too young to attend, and Draco was left behind. He was furious and petulant. He had refused to eat or speak, opting to cross his arms and sit huddled in the corner on the tatami mat floor.

That is until Draco spotted a tiny bird fluttering in, flitting around his room. Except, he soon realized it wasn't a real bird at all. Furrowing his eyebrows, he tried to reach out and grab it as it dipped down, closer. He only managed to brush the tips of his fingers against it before it flew out of reach again. A soft laugh made Draco flinch. Mr. Tsushiro, the quiet, caretaker of the house, was standing in the doorway, looking very much amused. With a snap of his fingers, the thing flying in the air fell to the floor near Draco's feet. He picked it up in his hand and saw that it was a crane sculpted from paper. It lay lifeless in his palm.

Without a word, Mr. Tsushiro walked in and knelt beside him. Reaching into his Kimono, he took out several colored papers. He folded; first a swan, then a tiger, a tortoise, and finally, another crane. And then one by one, he gave them all life.

Draco was impressed, but he was reluctant to give up his bad mood, so he hid his curiosity.

"Enchantments," he sniffed, raising his pointed chin. "Father says any half-decent wizard can perform simple charms."

The old wizard merely grinned a toothless grin, another laugh playing on his thin lips. Suddenly he grabbed Draco's wrist, yanking it toward him. He tried pulling back, but his grip was tight.

"Unhand me!" he screeched, but the man ignored him, and Draco felt a sharp sting on the tip of his little finger. His eyes widened as he saw droplets of blood fall on the charmed animals.

"My father will hear about this!" he fumed, looking at the cut on his finger. "You'll be sorry, you—!"

Without a word, the animals moved toward one another, and he watched mesmerized as the paper ripped and twisted, sticking back together, folding into one another, breaking the forms of the animals, folding and unfolding, until—

"A dragon!" he exclaimed, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "It's me riding a dragon!"

"Ikigai," he croaked. "Destiny."

"My name is Draco," he said proudly. "It means dragon."

The elderly wizard shook his head gravely. "This," he said, pointing a bony finger at the dragon flying overhead, "Origami magic... reveals destiny."

Draco frowned. He didn't think father would like the idea of him becoming a Dragonologist. It was a dangerous job, and he didn't necessarily want to—

"Beautiful."

"What?"

"Look," he said, drawing Draco's gaze back to the figure on top of the dragon. "The hair."

His face twisted into a grimace. "A girl?" he scowled. He didn't like the idea of that at all.

The old wizard was laughing at him once again, and Draco was losing his patience.

"Teach me," he demanded. "Teach me how to do it."

And that was when he woke up.

Getting out of bed, he padded softly out of his room, passing Hermione's and into the large open living room. The Spanish villa was, as Hermione had remarked, stunning. The exterior was cream stucco walls, hidden by creeping vine and pink bougainvillea. The doors were all the same red mahogany with interior furnishings to match, and—this is what Draco remembered most vividly as a child—high ceilings and grand arches, and blue ceramic tiles adorning the bathrooms.

He had a feeling this was where his mother would send him. It was probably the only property the M.L.E was unaware of. Not even his late father had known of its existence.

Draco had always assumed the villa had been passed down to his mother from her parents, but it was clear that it had been built in the last few decades. It was void of history, of magic, of moving portraits, of ghosts and their stories. It was beautiful and bare.

He understood now with such clarity why his mother had chosen a time when his father was away on business to visit this place. She had hidden the deeds to this land from her own husband, with the foresight that one day Voldemort would turn on their family. She needed a safe house, and so she constructed one.

But when…? When had she decided to do so? Perhaps in the beginning, when she learned that Voldemort had tried to murder a child, a child her own son's age. And Draco would never know unless he asked her.

This was what he was wondering when dawn broke. The estate, which was perched on an isolated cliff, had a breath-taking view of the coastline. Draco could see it from the living room. Facing east, were three large arches, opening up into the back courtyard, and pool. Fans in the living room spun, sweeping away the summer heat, and Draco was seated on the cool cement floor underneath the middle one.

He took a moment to stop folding paper cranes to watch the sunrise. He watched as it first peeked from its hidden horizon and then broke, bathing the living room in bright light.

Looking around him, he saw all the paper cranes he'd folded, each one for Hermione.

This is where he would have brought her if he had taken her during their Sixth year at Hogwarts. To this very villa, in Valencia.

Hermione's eyes had widened when he told her where they were. "Spain?" she had exclaimed.

He pursed his lips, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling inside of him.

"What?" she'd demanded. "What's so funny?"

"I wanted to bring you here."

Her demeanor immediately changed. "Really?" she blushed, misconstruing the meaning behind Draco's words. "How romantic."

He gave her a little shrug. "Not really," he said honestly. "I was contemplating kidnapping you."

Hermione had frowned, knowing him well enough to know that he wasn't joking. All she wanted to know was what had stopped him from carrying out his intentions.

"Ginny Weasley."

An irrepressible smile had tugged at the corner of her lips despite herself. A burst of laughter sprung forth, the sound of it wrapping tightly around his chest.

"I don't think you'll ever recover from that bat-bogey hex," she giggled.

"Definitely a memory I didn't want back," he chuckled, pushing away all other memories he never wanted back out of his mind. And it was easy because Hermione was still smiling, her grin even wider now, taunting, teasing.

"Like the time you were turned into a ferret?"

His smile fell, his mouth slightly open and gaping. "Wha—?"

She threw her head back and laughed and laughed, and laughed.

"That doesn't seem very funny—"

Tears were coming to her eyes, and she was clutching at her stomach, trying to control herself. "I'm sorry," she tried saying while containing her amusement. "I just… I haven't thought about that in such a long time and—really—the Amazing Bouncing Ferret—doesn't ring a bell?"

He shook his head, not in the least bit amused, but he couldn't quite manage to be irritated; because Hermione Granger smiling again like that— it suited her perfectly as if she was only ever meant to be ecstatically happy. Anything else was unacceptable.

Draco was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't hear footsteps approaching behind him.

"How long have you been awake?"

He flinched at the sudden hand on his shoulder but composed himself quickly.

Looking all around her, Hermione saw dozens and dozens of paper cranes scattered along the floor. Draco didn't want to look at her for too long. She was still clad in her pajama shorts and a skimpy, barely-there muggle crop top.

"I don't know."

Hermione sighed and began picking up the paper cranes.

"Leave them. I'm not done."

"Draco," she started. "I… it's been three nights now. You can't keep—we don't have to… please, sleep with me in the master suite. I don't like us being apart like this."

He turned back around and continued to concentrate on folding more paper cranes. "It's safer," he murmured. "Maybe after the spell—"

"What do you mean, maybe?"

He winced at the hurt tone of her voice, accidentally ripping the paper he had been folding.

"Let's just concentrate on cloaking you first."

She came around to face him, her features falling into shadow against the sun.

"The cloaking spell," she started slowly; her eyes fell on the tattoo on his forearm. "Is it… does it hurt?"

The paper hovered in the air mid-fold. Draco took his eyes off it to meet hers. "The magic is in the ink. It has to be physically etched onto the skin in a perfectly-balanced geometrical shape to bind the spell. It's the only way to do it."

"That doesn't answer my question."

It's excruciating, he wanted to say. Please don't do it.

"You've been through worse," he said instead, his gaze drawn to her scar.

Hermione released a heavy sigh and made to sit down next to him. "If you tell me where to get the ink, I can go get it myself. Or maybe—I don't know— but we need to do it soon. We can't risk another," she paused, hesitant, "another incident."

"I know," he clipped. "Look, I'm… I'm busy right now, can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"You're busy?" she gaped in disbelief. "You're folding paper cranes and—and I never thought I'd say this but, there's only so much I can read before going insane. As much fun as it is to live in a palace, I need to get out, I need to…" she took a calming breath, staring out at the ocean for a moment before continuing. "The sooner I cloak myself, the sooner we can help you get your memories back—all your memories back. And then I can help my parents. You're the key, Draco," she said, taking his hand. "It's you."

It was true. He had shown Hermione the estate library as soon as they'd arrived, and she'd passed the last few days in awe, fawning over ancient texts and learning new spells while he had simply sat nearby and practiced the art of silence. In truth, he didn't want her to get her magic back—not yet, because as soon as she was able to use her wand, she was going to— as she had explained—'examine him'. She desperately wanted to figure out how his mind worked, to find his lost memories, and how he was able to remember again.

And he loved Hermione's fascination with everything, the furrow of her eyebrows when something didn't make sense, the brightening of her eyes when she solved a puzzle. He treasured her intellect, her determination, but he didn't want to be under her microscope. Not when he, himself, didn't know his own story.

"You don't need to do it," he began, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, maybe you just don't use magic? You don't need it, you never have."

Her hand fell away, looking at him strangely.

"Maybe I just don't use magic?" she scoffed. "I'm a witch, Draco, magic is a part of who I am, as much as it is a part of who you are."

"I got on fine without it for three years."

"That's rubbish," she deadpanned. "As soon as you discovered you had it, you started using it again."

"But not because I need it—"

"You even spent the better part of last night performing wandless magic. I bet you don't even need a wand anymore, do you?"

"That's not true."

"Even with the gaps in your memory... I can't do nearly as much non-verbal magic as you can. I can only imagine what else you're…" she trailed off, her eyes resting over the paper cranes assessing the level of concentration and command needed to perform such a delicate spell.

He dared to turn his head and meet her prodding gaze. It wasn't admiration on her face but curiosity. She wanted to know how he did it, how he ticked.

"For a long time, I didn't have a wand, so I made due," he explained. "But if you give up magic, I will too."

Hermione's forehead creased in confusion, staring at him as if she'd never seen him before.

"Stop looking at me like that," he chided.

She gulped. "Like what?"

He ran his hand through his hair again. It kept falling in his face, and so a haircut was definitely in order. He liked to keep it at a certain length. He hated it when it was too short, and he looked too much like his father when it was too long. Is that who Hermione saw when she looked at him?

"Like you don't recognize me."

Hermione's lips parted and then shut again, faltering, unsure of what to say.

"Draco—"

He rolled his eyes, barking out a harsh laugh.

"That's not even my name."

"And what is?" she said, folding her arms over her chest, irritated and angry. But she had no right to be, and yet it made Draco hesitate.

"It's—" and maybe it sounded ludicrous but, "people call me Danny."

Hermione drew a deep breath and exhaled. Looking him square in the face, she clipped matter-of-factly, "You are not Danny. You are Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy estate, and a powerful Pureblood wizard. That is who you are—"

"I had friends," he pressed. "I had a job, it wasn't much, but I got by—!"

"I'm glad that you got along as a Muggle—!"

"Greyback was the end, Hermione. My intention was never to—"

"To what?" she challenged. "To come back to me?"

Her eyes pinned him. Big and brown, just as they'd always been, completely an utterly enrapturing.

His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. He tried swallowing but felt a lump in his throat.

"Remembering you meant remembering a lot of things I'd rather forget, and it doesn't feel like it happened years ago. It feels like it was only yesterday that I was taking the Dark Mark, that I watched you bleeding and dying in front of me on the floor. You'd prefer I be these memories that I have? To be the boy who killed his headmaster, who carved that—"

"Those things were not your fault—"

"Everything was my fault. You told me to go to Dumbledore, and I didn't listen."

She turned away, staring out into the distance.

"Say something," he urged angrily. "Explain to me why you want Draco Malfoy back so badly."

"It's not about what I want. You are who you are. That's not something you can change. So you can give yourself a new name, you can live like a Muggle, you can drive a car, go to work, and have Muggle friends, but everything else will remain constant, including your past.

"I'm not looking back, Draco. What's happened— it's done. If playing a persona makes you happy, be my guest, but just know that I didn't pray for Danny to come back to me. I prayed for Draco Malfoy. You," her voice broke, "are my gift from God."

There was a pregnant pause.

Hermione stared at him in earnest, waiting for him to respond, but he was rendered speechless. Mistaking his silence, she stood and began to leave. He heard her mutter, "When you're ready to do the spell, you know where to find me."

"Wait!" he all but yelled.

Sighing, she reluctantly turned back around, folding her arms defensively across her chest.

"You stopped wearing the love bracelet."

Her arms fell slowly to her sides; her shoulders sagged, and regret creased the soft features of her face.

"There's this book. The Disappearing Isles—"

"Of Bryn," he finished. "I remember."

Hermione nodded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "In the Hogwarts library, under—"

"Under the shelf of Lost Things. I know."

She nodded again, her eyes glassy. "You never asked me what the book was about."

"I know... I was too nervous to think about anything other any meeting you. But what does it have to do with the bracelet?"

Hermione looked to her feet, avoiding his gaze. "The Disappearing Isles of Bryn is a myth," she began. "Islands that appear and disappear, never in the same place for more than a handful of hours. People have tried to find them, some have gone as far as to claim to. In the early 1900s, a wizard created a spell, a powerful tracking spell—but because the islands keep moving, it was necessary to create an anchor, of sorts, so that when the island moved…"

She raised her eyes to his, imploring him to interpret the meaning of it all.

"I modified the spell to find a person instead of a place. I needed something of yours—something of mine. An anchor."

Draco's forehead creased in confusion. "Anchor? What do you—?" He pressed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. "You tried to find me by binding yourself to me using the bracelet."

Her eyes fell back down to her feet.

"Nothing can reverse a binding, Hermione!"

"Well it didn't work, did it?" she whispered before turning to leave again. "You saw to that."

Draco opened his mouth to speak. Once again, he found he was speechless.

Hermione had burrowed herself comfortably in her favorite nook in the villa's library. It was nowhere near as grand or as magical as the Hogwarts library, but it had an extensive collection of books and authors she'd never heard of, half of which was in Spanish. It occurred to her that she would have to learn the language since this house was to be their home.

In the last few days, Hermione had explored the grounds and walked down the gravel path to the neighboring area. If she walked far enough, other villas and houses would come into view, which meant she and Draco were living close among Muggles. When she got to a certain point, she felt a tingle of magic; the hairs on her arm stood up, a type of static almost. Hermione recognized the spell from the book Draco had gifted her. It was a type of cloaking enchantment. Mrs. Malfoy must have put one up around the property years ago.

If Hermione had any regrets, it was that she had not been able to take anything of sentiment with her; namely her most treasured book, Rare Protection Charms, by Chadwick Boot and Draco's wand, which was securely locked up in her vault at Gringotts.

Hermione didn't glance up when she heard the door open. She made it a point not to take her eyes off her book until she heard Draco say he was leaving the house.

Her eyes froze on the page she was reading and slowly lifted to his.

"I'm going to get the ink," he explained. "I... I'm ready."

A moment or so passed when she realized she had still not spoken. The significance of Draco's words were heart-arresting.

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, it's fine," he replied. "I'll be back shortly. But after we do the spell, we're going out for dinner. Everything else can wait till tomorrow." Then before she could respond, he left.

Hermione didn't know how long she stared at the closed library door, yet she was aware that she was smiling. Draco wanted to take her out to dinner. Something so profoundly normal and-and, oh dear goodness, what would she wear? With a stifled squeal of excitement, she jumped up to return the book she'd been reading to its proper place. It took her a second to remember where she had taken it from and then made her way to the master suite to pillage the stock of clothes Mrs. Malfoy had left.

After ten minutes or so, Hermione was standing in front of the large gold-gilded mirror in their bedroom, twirling around in a little black dress. It didn't fit her exactly, but as soon as she was cloaked and it was safe to use magic, she could perform a simple alteration using her wand and—

She started. A loud tinkling bell rang through the house.

Hermione blinked, furiously thinking. Was Draco back already? And how had he left? Had he apparated or— the bell rang again, and a cold dread seized her. She stood frozen in the same spot, her heart beating violently. Because following the second ring of the bell was a knock on the front door—and it couldn't be Draco. Why would Draco need to ring the doorbell? Surely he would have taken a key if he had left that way and…

What if it was the MLE or worse, the UNSC—but, there were powerful wards around the estate, it couldn't be. Only someone who knew where the villa was could find them.

Oh, of course!

Hermione smacked her palm to her forehead. Draco's mother knew, and she could cross the wards.

Running out to the front door, the too-long straps of the dress falling off her shoulders, she swung the door wide open however it wasn't the regal Malfoy heiress she had been expecting.

"Pansy!" she exclaimed. "What are you—?" The girl in question barged in, and the question died on Hermione's lips.

For behind Pansy was Theodore Nott, the brown of his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Hola..."

A/N: I apologize for taking so long to update. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to wrap things up by Christmas as I'd intended. We're almost at the finish line. Hope everyone enjoys this long-awaited chapter :)