AN: Hi! I have this story cross-posted to AO3 (you can find me there under the same username, hellvwng). I am able to respond and engage much more easily and freely there and I LOVE chatting with readers and discussing with them, so please read and comment over there if you'd like! Thank you to everyone that has commented already: I read each and every review and I'm eternally humbled that people are enjoying my story. mwahhh
Hermione fell into an exhausted sleep eventually, her head cradled on Draco's shoulder.
She dreamed about all her regrets.
Shell Cottage stood unassuming and quaint, another ordinary home by the sea. Its windows shone with the refracted light of ocean waves. Sand dunes and seagrass surrounded it protectively, like a precious treasure guarded by stoic knights. Gentle waves lapped against the shore.
If you stepped foot into the home, you would find yourself in a charming, airy interior. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling, countertop to cabinet. Fleur's delightful decor and curios were scattered around on every surface, drawing the eye. Seafoam coloured glass, turquoise vases, gold-edged porcelain teacups elicited wonder and delight.
If you peeled back the rustic floorboards, you would find still warm bodies, their cervical spine severed and slowly bleeding out from the groin. If you dug under the foundation, you would find corpses piled high. An underground labyrinth of human misery. There was no Ariadne's thread to lead you out.
Shell Cottage harboured the darkest secrets of the Insurgency, tucked away behind a cheerful facade. The sea behind it whipped violently and roared in incandescent rage. Hermione stood motionless before it: seeking shelter in the cottage meant drawing herself deeper into it all, yet remaining where she stood would have her battered and at the mercy of the elements.
The scene changed.
Hermione dreamed of a field of asphodels.
Meadow grass stretched out before her, as far as the eye could see. There was no breeze that she could discern, but the sweet tendrils of lush grass bobbed and weaved gently. The sky above was stormy grey, pearlescent and backlit in the way that only an overcast day could be. Rain threatened its presence but the air smelled sweet and inviting, of petrichor and soaked earth, ozone and crushed stems.
She saw two figures strolling leisurely in the grass. Tonks and Lupin, fleshed and fuller faced. Both more radiant and youthful than she had ever seen them in life. Tonks held a small cloth bundle in her arms and beamed at Hermione, gesturing eagerly for her to join them and their baby.
Hermione drew closer, hardly daring to breathe. She closed the distance, stood before them and reached her hand out, hesitantly, wanting to clasp them in an embrace. To touch them and confirm that they were real.
The image stuttered and shifted. Shattered into a nightmare.
Lupin's eyes had been plucked out. His mouth was pulled back in a scream without a tongue, and his jaw hung eerily loose; it had been dislocated.
Tonks throat had been cut out. Hermione could see the vocal cords exposed, pale folds of stretchy tissue nestled in the pink meat of her neck. She looked down and found that the cloth bundle had never been Teddy.
Tonks had been clutching at a tangled, disorganized heap of her own intestines, holding them in desperately and lovingly.
The scene changed again.
The broken family of Tonks, Lupin and Teddy had been replaced by her and her parents. Hermione stared into the flat faces of Monica and Wendell Wilkins.
They were cardboard cutouts placed in front of her, life size but lacking substance. Pale imitations of the lively, bright, and fiercely intelligent people they were meant to resemble.
Hermione stared into the face of the Monica Wilkins cardboard figure. There was no crinkling smile, no toothy grin. No warmth or motherly care. This imitation had never held her young daughter close and brushed away her tears as she sobbed that nobody in her classes could tolerate her; that she could never be herself for fear of being thought too bookish.
She turned to look at the Wendell Wilkins figure. It stared back blankly at her, in the way that inanimate objects did (which was to say, in no way at all). She turned and walked around it, observing it. This was a paper figurine, a placeholder for the father that kissed her skinned knees, taught her how to catch insects without hurting them. Urged her to shine as bright as she pleased, because he and his wife would never be ashamed of their bookish, brilliant child.
The scene changed a final time.
Hermione found herself in the embrace of the devil wrapped in silk, dancing in a dimly lit ballroom. There could have been a crowd tittering around them, or they could have been alone. She didn't know or care; his presence was overwhelming and dulled everything around them in comparison. Every one of her senses was swept away and overwhelmed by him.
They were pressed boldly, tightly against one another. He towered a foot over her, cloaked in the darkness of night. His form was solid, but the fluidity of his steps as he guided her body reminded Hermione of ink. Staining, sweeping, unfurling into the environment from just a single drop. She was pulled close by his hands on her waist.
She could smell him.
He smelled sharp, fresh and clean. Of eucalyptus and evergreen, so familiar to her that it startled her.
They danced faster and faster, bodies held closely together, melding into one. The evening fell apart and fell away; nothing else mattered but the two of them.
Hermione roused slowly from her sleep, pulled back into the world of the living. Her dreams fled and took their leave as reality drew close. Grasping, holding onto the images was like holding cupped water in her hands.
They dripped out slowly until nothing remained.
All that she could remember was the smell of eucalyptus and evergreen, something sharp and clean that contrasted so strongly with the smells she was used to. Antiseptic, death, and blood were the norm for her.
The eucalyptus and evergreen lingered from her dreams, and Hermione stilled.
She could still smell it.
Her eyes fluttered open and she found herself staring into something dark. Tilting her head back slightly to look down, Hermione found herself covered in a black travelling cloak.
She craned her stiff neck up and froze as her eyes met Draco's.
His were half lidded and glittered. An eyebrow quirked as Hermione stared into his face.
"Did you plan to ogle me all night, Granger?" he asked cooly. There was a hint of disdainful amusement on his face.
Hermione flushed slightly and turned her head, but did not move. She was still pressed against Draco's side, her head on his shoulder.
His arm wrapped around her shoulders.
They sat like that for a while longer, each thinking.
Hermione knew she should get up. She should talk to Draco and start planning how to obtain Secrets of the Darkest Art. Discuss what she had learned about the Eastern Front of Voldemort's war. What retribution Voldemort had planned for the Insurgency to punish them for Sussex.
But the peace and quiet and drowsiness were so inviting and comfortable, so utterly luxurious that she found she could not speak.
Just a few more minutes, she promised herself. And then I'll get to work.
The minutes stretched on and Hermione thought harder. She wanted to avoid her responsibilities. She wanted to luxuriate in where she was, just for a bit longer.
"Tell me about your family. And- … and your mother," Hermione blurted out suddenly. Something in her was desperately curious about the ancient and secretive pureblooded families, whose heir she was currently sprawled atop of.
She craned her neck up again to stare at Draco as he regarded her with doubt.
"Decided to ask for permission instead of begging for forgiveness this time?" he asked testily. Draco looked mildly irritated and Hermione had the good grace to blush in response to his barb.
"Well it worked," she retorted, somewhat meekly.
His eyes narrowed in irritation but Hermione steadfastly met his gaze. She was right and they both knew it; there was no getting around that.
Draco let out a snort and looked away. He seemed to be in thought.
Eventually, he deigned to respond.
"What do you want to know?" he asked tiredly.
Hermione perked up, suddenly excited. She had Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy tucked away under her bed at Grimmauld Place, but it didn't really compare: it was mostly boring droning on about blood supremacy from some long-dead inbred old fart, who had no comprehension of recessive gene disorders. Sooner or later a pureblood family would birth a spawn with 3 heads, like Fluffy. But they wouldn't learn until then.
Tamping down her excitement, Hermione took a breath.
"Anything you want to tell me," she replied evenly. She stared up hopefully at Draco, expecting … something.
He looked at her with mild derision.
"We'll be here for weeks, Granger. Be more specific."
Prat.
"Tell me about … the Malfoy bloodline and history. And … the Black bloodline? How does a pureblood marriage work, anyway? Is it all arranged or is there a rich people version of- … of the Sorting Hat?"
Hermione stared up at Draco eagerly. He seemed to be regarding her with an expression that she had seen Snape levy at Trevor the toad: disgust and annoyance.
With a long-suffering sigh, he paused to take in a breath.
"The Malfoix arrived in England in the 11th century with William the Conqueror. After the successful Norman conquest, my ancestors were awarded vast plots of land and started building our ancestral home in Wiltshire. They Anglicized their name and infiltrated English society. Throughout wizarding history into the 20th century, we've been liars, cheats and people of ill-repute. I think my family has funded both sides of every major war of the past thousand years."
He droned on in a manner that would've made Professor Binns quite proud.
"That's all very interesting, but what about the magical history of your family? What are they known for?" Hermione interrupted. She had been expecting something rather more exciting than this terribly dry account.
Draco paused and stared at her.
"Granger, this is wizarding history, not some sort of fantastical adventure like Scarhead Numpty and the Chamber of Secrets," he snorted out. "Nothing that exciting goes on, as you can tell from History of Magic lessons."
Hermione stared at him rather grumpily. "Well there must be something interesting, Draco. You bragged about your family all the time, never shut up about it once! Now, all of a sudden, you're telling me that they are, in fact, boring?"
She fixed him with an unimpressed stare. Her eyebrow arched up to match his imperious eyebrow.
He rolled his eyes and pressed a hand blearily into his tired face, thinking.
"There's … some myths that we descended from dragons," he said slowly. He eyed her suspiciously, as if expecting Hermione to laugh and mock him.
This was what she had been digging for. Hermione nodded at Draco to continue and rested her head back on his shoulder, staring up at him as he spoke.
He acquiesced and begrudgingly regaled her with the fanciful tales he himself had been told as a child: of the Malfoix family, born as dragons but cursed and reduced to human form. They had retained their elemental magic and through cunning wit and deception, had surmounted the odds to become wizards.
They wore a human skin but underneath, held onto the dragon instincts. They were possessive and ruthless and driven. They guarded their belongings most jealously, encircled their dragon's hoard and lashed out at anyone that dared to disturb them.
"Oh that's just rich, your family came up with an entire mythos to whitewash their greed and shady business dealings," Hermione tisked. In truth, she was enthralled by Draco's re-telling of his family history: it reminded her of the fairytales her parents had read to her when she was little.
He gave a snort in response. "You asked for it, Granger. I'm not sure how much of it is true - I doubt any of it is, really - but it was told to me often as a child. My family is quite proud of their name and had a lot of expectations of me, to rise up and carry it on."
Draco's expression had gone flat as he spoke and by the time he finished, his jaw was tensed.
"What would you do if you weren't the heir?" Hermione asked quietly. She had threaded her fingers through his as she spoke and stared down at their clasped hands.
It felt like a dream to her. She could still smell the scent of eucalyptus and evergreen. He was regaling her with fanciful stories; they were tucked away, warm and safe from the swirling storm of war, if only for one evening.
His cloak covered them both as they sat together, curled in on one another.
It was a pleasant dream. She tightened her grasp slightly, into a squeeze.
Draco paused to think.
"I … don't know. My entire life's trajectory had been planned by my father. I never dreamed of anything different."
He gave a hollow laugh.
"What did you enjoy then, in school?" Hermione asked. Her thumb rubbed across the back of his hand, and she brought her other hand up. Both of her hands clasped his and she looked up at him, eyes eagerly searching his expression.
Draco stared down at her for a second, eyes molten. He looked away as he considered her question.
"I enjoyed … Potions. I was Severus's favourite, of course, but I had a natural talent for the subject regardless of his favouritism. My father would've never allowed me to pursue a Mastery but I enjoyed it quite a bit, nonetheless," he said. There was a wistfulness to his expression that made Hermione's heart stutter in realization.
Malfoy had been a nasty, horrible bully to her all his life. But sitting with him, leaning against him and seeing such openness in his face … Hermione realized there was a softer, younger Draco deep down, that had never been allowed to speak until now.
"Not a Quidditch star then?" she teased. "I knew you had to buy your way onto the team."
He tensed and looked at her sharply, but saw her teasing smile and relaxed fractionally. He made a noise of irritation in his throat.
"I never did get you back for that, you know. That was downright infuriating of you; I made it onto the team, and then my father decided to buy the brooms for all to celebrate. But because of you, everyone assumed I'd had to buy my way in," he muttered.
This sounded so much like the spiteful bully that she had always known that Hermione let out an unexpected, startled laugh. Draco truly sounded like a petulant, spoiled child again.
He looked down at her in annoyance, but his lip twitched in amusement too.
They drifted off into companionable silence after that. Hermione had nearly dozed off again, nestled comfortably and warmly under Draco's travelling cloak. Draco had shifted himself and leaned back against the sofa until he was nearly laying down, and Hermione had slumped over with him and rested on him.
She didn't want to tear herself from the comfort just yet. She felt she deserved this much, at least. After Shell Cottage.
She was nearly asleep when she heard him begin to speak again, quietly.
"The House of Black … their story isn't a very happy one," he mused. "My aunt, Andromeda, was betrothed to Lucius. A fanciful arrangement made by Druella to ensure the purity of the lineage, my mother told me. Her sister was in love with a Muggle-born so she ran away and my mother was obliged to take her place. For her family's reputation and honour. I've never met Andromeda, and I didn't meet Bellatrix until after she escaped from Azkaban. My mother was caged by obligation, as a pureblood witch and Black heir."
Draco trailed off and spoke so quietly that Hermione had to strain to hear him. She wasn't sure if he realized she was still awake; she lay so silently and still.
"She wanted better for me. She couldn't overrule my father but she encouraged my interests and tried to raise me as best she could. Spoiled me with treats, showered me with love. Told me she was proud of me. Treated me the way she was never treated by her family. She tried to make me feel like … I wasn't just the Malfoy heir, I was her son."
He let out a shuddering breath.
Hermione stirred slightly, and pushed herself off Draco's chest and onto her arms. She stared at him with a tired and bleary, but fierce gaze. He stared back at her with hard eyes.
With a shaking hand, she pressed her palm to his cheek.
"We're going to save her, Draco," Hermione promised quietly. "We're going to save Narcissa, and we're going to save you."
Draco's expression was doubtful but he closed his eyes into Hermione's touch and nodded slowly.