The Silk Thread

by LoverGurrl411

Dumbledore's dead, the ministry's desperate and crumbling around them, and war is on the horizon-but the only war that truly matters has yet to begin: the war of hearts. In between silence and hatred lies a twisted desire that will either consume them, or help them survive Voldemort's rise to power together. Marriage Law Fic. AU Seventh Year. HBP Compliant.

9. The Battle Lines of the Weary

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A/N – So, it's the middle of the night and my life is super crazy right now, and I thought you guys might prefer an update right now instead of waiting an extra few days for the update but with all the shout outs.

Instead, I'll just say that I love you all and thanks a million for all of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed. Honestly, I reread all of those reviews about a thousand times while I write a chapter, sometimes for motivation and other times just to make me smile so THANK YOU.

A special thanks to ellesjourney for beta'ing this chapter and making a beautiful banner for this story which you can find on my tumblr if you'd care to see it.

Anywho, hope everyone enjoys!

/Be false to say I'll walk away then when I'm constantly this close to breakin'

Maybe I've been going too deep for too long

Maybe when it's feeling so right it's too wrong/

-Too Deep, Ritual

Chapter 9 – The Battle Lines of the Weary

Draco liked to picture what a child with Hermione would look like sometimes. Would it be a boy with his perfect hair and her cinnamon eyes? Or would it be a little girl with her wild hair and his argent eyes? Sometimes he felt brave, and mixed the image: a little boy with wild hair as wild as his mother's spirit, and a little girl with gracefully long blonde hair and cocoa eyes. It was a strange, yet comforting thought that Draco clung to as waves of crucio broke down his carefully constructed walls to defend pain.

"You're still too weak," the Dark Lord gazed upon him in disgust.

Too weak.

It was always a test with Voldemort. A constant test—was he fast enough, strong enough, smart enough? Draco wasn't sure if he ever really passed, but he definitely knew when he'd failed.

"I'll try harder, m'lord," Draco rasped as he tried to control the spasms gripping him. He knew he must look disheveled in a way that rankled his Malfoy pride.

"Try harder," Voldemort sneered. "I don't want you to try, you fool! I want you to do."

His words were harsh, but, through the brutality and pain, he built Draco up slowly. So slowly, Draco felt the difference. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way.

"Why is this so hard for you?" Voldemort asked him, assessing him quietly, power radiating off him as though he'd been born wielding it.

That was the trick with the Dark Lord—he pierced those around him effortlessly.

"I can't separate the pain," Draco admitted shamefully, because he might hate Voldemort, but that was still his Lord, and he wanted to make him proud. It was sick, and twisted, but he wanted to live up to the idea of him that Voldemort had in his head.

The honest potential that the Dark Lord saw in him.

"The pain isn't real," Voldemort explained with a severe scowl. His robes billowed around him, pushed by the Dark Lord's magic in the air. "No one is touching you—those knives you feel are a product of your own mind."

"But your magic is real, and that's touching me," Draco rebutted automatically, tired from being tortured and frustrated at his own failure.

It was a mistake. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake—

His body thrashed as it lifted at an uncomfortable angle, pain sinking into the very core of him. He could do this. He could.

Too weak.

But he wasn't too weak. He wasn't.

Hermione's face lifted the haze of torment for a few moments. They were moments of infiniteness, quite like when he reached euphoria with her, connected by their bodies and very souls. Her eyes that always reminded him of spice looked at him softly, sadly.

It shook him, but he tried to hold on. Damn it, he tried to hold on because she was Granger and his. But the pain was pushing through—it was overwhelming the peace she could bring him in moments like these.

Too weak.

I love you.

He tried to remember the exact tone of her voice as she said it without being prompted. But the crucio was latching on, swirling and clamping down onto his arms. He was at war inside of himself—it's not real, it's not real. But fuck it felt so real. It felt too real—and suddenly he was drowning, and Hermione's eyes were gone.

All that was left was an echo of I love you. Just enough to hold onto his sanity.

"Better." Voldemort nodded curtly.

Better, but not good.

"We'll meet again in three days, after the vote," Voldemort dismissed him simply by showing Draco his back. That was something Draco had learned early on—Voldemort absolutely hated giving simple commands; he felt ("bloody irrationally" Antonin Dolohov constantly muttered) that his loyal subjects should understand his will. Voldemort turned back slightly, looked over his shoulder, and stared icily at him, his red soulless eyes searching his own. "I can assume you know which way to vote," he said condescendingly.

"Of course, m'lord," Draco humored him, his eyes downcast.

Voldemort moved gracefully to his make-shift throne in the Malfoy Manor ballroom, and Draco knew it was time to leave.

I love you, I love you, I love you—it was a staccato that beat in his head in tandem with the beats of his heart as he left in a swirl of smoke and darkness, towards Hogwarts and his wife.

---

Hermione sat quietly next to Ron by the hearth in the Gryffindor common room. The first couple of weeks of October chilled the castled slightly, and they were grateful for the added heat. It was the first time they'd spent any real time alone, just the two of them.

Both Hermione and Ron had been so sure that the second they had any lengthy time alone, Ron would say something, anything. Really, out of the two, Ron had been practically begging Merlin for the right moment to ask her all the questions that'd been plaguing him at night. He'd wanted to know why she hadn't believed in them. He'd wanted to ask her what Malfoy had that he couldn't give her besides money. He'd wanted to know whether or not she was truly happy, if she laughed much without him.

And when all was said and done, he'd wanted to tell her that there would never be a girl he believed in more than her. He'd wanted to divulge to her that she'd crushed some innocent part of him that had always believed that the good guys always won. He'd wanted to expose all of himself to her, down to the very core of who he'd always been, and tell her that he would never see another girl, not like he'd seen her, not like how he had been so damn sure that she'd seen him.

But when the moment came, and the silence settled in between the crackling of the fireplace, Ron couldn't find any of the words. He could only bask in the heat that her body emanated, and the peace that he found by her side.

Hermione smiled sadly at him, understanding and yet not understanding at all.

"I miss you, too," Hermione whispered honestly as though Ron had spoken.

Maybe he had. Maybe his silence were all the words he'd needed with his lifelong friend. She meant it, too. She missed the simplicity of always knowing what he wanted, and what he was thinking.

Ron parted his lips to speak words they'd both been waiting to hear out loud.

"Hey guys," Harry walked through the portrait door, interrupting a moment that had been both running away from them like a rushing river, and running towards them like a horse stampede.

His emerald eyes were bright with excitement and purpose. Hermione and Ron sat up straighter—as though Harry's presence zapped something yearning for an adventure inside of them. He quickly sat down, and cast a muffliato around them.

"What's happened?" Hermione asked as soon as the spell was cast.

She wanted to frown at the use of a spell from that book—the one that had been filled with dark curses, the one that had almost been the cause for Draco's death. But now wasn't the moment for that. Frankly, considering how she'd been toeing the line between right and wrong lately, she didn't think there'd ever be a time for that anymore.

"Snape pulled me aside," Harry jumped right in. It felt like old times, before marriage laws, before Hermione had married Draco. The could all feel it, and it was nice in the way few things seemed to be anymore. "At first I thought he was just being a bloody menace like usual, eh, but when we were alone he told me that there's an order meeting in four days-Sunday. We can't all go—that'd be way too suspicious for all of us to be absent from breakfast and lunch, especially with the Carrows running around, but at least one of us can go."

No one spoke, the reality of the statement sinking in. Only one could safely go.

"It should be you, Harry," Hermione said with an encouraging half smile. "You need to know what's going on—you can just tell us about it."

"She's right," Ron nodded in agreement, though his gaze lingered on Hermione a second too long. It hurt sometimes to look at her, but it hurt more to look away. "If I show up my mum's bound to start fussing. The bloody woman's barmy now with the war creeping closer."

"The war's been here," Harry pursed his lips in slight ire, though he knew it wasn't Ron's fault that the adults around them didn't want to face the fact that the wizarding world had been in a cold war for a long time, and the Order was losing. "But are you guys sure? You've got just as much right to be there as me…"

"We're sure," Hermione assured him in that comforting way that she'd learned in second year. It was the benefit of knowing someone for so long, and caring about them so deeply—she'd learned a long time ago how to comfort Harry, and when he needed comforting. "There are a few things I'll want you to pass on to the Order, but I can just tell you before you head out."

"Oh?"

It was a simple sound. It didn't have to mean much. But it did. She could hear the judgement in it. She could understand the wariness in the tone of Harry's voice.

"Anything worth knowing now?" Harry pushed, his eyes as steady as an artist's hands.

Ron was quiet, but there was something in his eyes that told her she could slaughter an entire ward of newborn babies, and he'd still say that she must have had a good reason. Harry, sadly, didn't have that sort of blind faith in her—not when he remembered how ruthless Hermione could be when she was protecting someone she loved. When she'd been protecting Harry.

Harry hoped she didn't love Malfoy, yet. He hoped she'd never love Malfoy more than him…but he couldn't be sure.

Anything worth knowing now?

She'd spent so much of her life telling Harry and Ron every detail, explaining the pains and the progress, the ups and the downs, being in this war together, that now it felt so strange to have to pause before she spoke.

She'd spent so much of her life putting Harry first, even before herself, that she wasn't used to not doing so. Even so, she let the smooth October air sink into her bones, and strengthen her resolve. She'd talk to Draco first, and then talk to the Order. Not a second before. Not until she was absolutely sure that she wasn't putting his life in danger.

Anything worth knowing now?

"No," Hermione shook her head, and lied while a piece of her heart was breaking for the girl who'd loved Harry Potter, best friend extraordinaire, for so long, so deeply, that she'd made her entire life about him. "Nothing worth knowing just yet."

---

That night Draco and Hermione lay in bed, quiet; Hermione was on her back, while Draco was on his side, next to her, always next to her. Their breaths were little puffs as they calmed their heartbeats, and remembered to exist by themselves, disengaged and divided—without Draco's rhythm inside of her, and Hermione's nails digging into him.

It was one of those nights that felt as though it would last an eternity.

Sometimes Hermione hated that feeling. She felt as though it lulled her into a false sense of security in their relationship—convinced her that they really were the only two in the world.

But sometimes Hermione yearned for that feeling like a man in the desert for water. She felt as though they were more connected than ever—convinced that it meant something when Draco held her just that much tighter, and wouldn't look away from her.

Tonight was a mixture of both. A paradise inside of a hell wrapped around midnight blue sheets made of wishes, hopes, and struggling optimism.

"When I was a little boy," Draco whispered; he could pretend that she was sleeping when they were this silent, exhausted from their passion that never seemed to end. "I used to cry a lot. I was a spoilt little shit who didn't understand why my horse couldn't come eat dinner with us, or why I couldn't keep the dog I'd found in the street, despite the fact it had fleas, and I'd already started to itch—" he let out a deep chuckle.

"You sound like every other kid," Hermione responded just as quietly. They were in a bubble, and they were too afraid that it would pop, leaving them to free fall helplessly.

"I was never like every other kid," he ran his fingers over her arms like little sprinkles of fairy dust.

Merlin, everything he did always felt like the sweetest torture. More, more. But she was already spent, and knew he was too. Right now was about so much more. She knew by the sadness coating his words.

"Every time I'd cry," he continued, "my parents would say 'you're a dragon, Draco. Dragons are stronger than that,' or 'Malfoy's don't cry, Draco. It's horribly common'…I was always trying to play catch up—trying to live up to this image of Dragons and Malfoys."

"What are you trying to live up to now?"

The silence returned like the tick tock of a clock forbidden lovers wished would stop forever.

"Fuck, Granger," Draco leaned his forehead against hers, his voice gruff. He was the epitome of a man torn and conflicted by truths he'd never shared with her. "You can't look at me like that—with so much hope, because I'm going to disappoint you."

"You didn't answer the question," Hermione whispered, sidestepping his comment just like he'd side-stepped her question. They both knew he was going to disappoint her eventually, and he wasn't going to answer her question. She sighed, "I feel like a broken record—always asking you to let me in."

"I thought that's why you married me," he smirked. "Because you like a challenge."

"Be careful there, husband," Hermione raised an eyebrow, trying to hide how her breath hitched; that happened sometimes, suddenly, unexpectedly, when she was caught off guard by his beauty and the intensity of wanting him so. "Your ego might get so big that it'll stop being able to fit in the bed with us."

"I better buy a new bed, huh?" Draco's smirk grew as his lips made a trail south—over her breasts where he sucked, over her smooth and flat stomach where he nipped, and over the tiny bud of electricity that gave so much pleasure where he licked. Once. Twice.

Fuck, yes.

Hermione moaned throatily, her hands sliding through his hair and pulling him closer—drowning him between her legs.

Don't stop.

Yes, yes, yes.

Merlin, just like that.

Draco's tongue lapped at her like a dog in heaven. He went slow, so fucking slow that Hermione arched her back and moaned her frustration, frantically moving her hips against his lips to make up the pace. He went fast, yes, yes, yes, so fast that Hermione laid completely still, body enjoying the tremors that paralyzed her.

Please, please.

Her pleading and begging for a release that was so close was more than Draco could take and his tongue slipped lower, and inside of her. He wanted to taste her, to consume her and be consumed by her—the taste of her. His finger followed after him, rubbing circles just there at the same pace as his tongue dipped in and out.

Hermione's hand in his hair never let up, pulling him into her so roughly that he could barely breathe at times, and it made him smile, even as his tongue never stopped its steady tempo of in, out, in, out, in, deeper, out.

Her juices started to flow freely, and Draco was a man in the greatest level of heaven, surrounded by the nectar of her passion, fucking drowning in it.

Come for me, Granger.

He watched her as her as she peaked.

There was nothing better, sweeter, than his wife coming undone, and suffocating him with the strength of her thighs—nothing short of dying bathed in her glory.

The afterglow of being thoroughly pleasured by Draco left Hermione with a small smile on her face. Draco, saw this smile, and couldn't help his own smirk which grew smugly, his lips and chin coated with her orgasm.

Hermione saw the self-satisfied and arrogant grin on his face, and scowled. "Don't be too pleased with yourself."

"I didn't say a word, Granger" Draco went on his knees taking Hermione's leg with him, and playfully nipped at her toes.

"You didn't have to," she looked at him pointedly.

Draco smiled wolfishly, then threw her leg over, and successfully turned Hermione onto her stomach in one swift movement; his hand swooshed the air and landed on her backside with a quick and loud SMACK. Hermione moaned throatily and lifted her backside, silently begging for more. He palmed the cheek he'd just smacked as he straightened out over her, his manhood probing her entrance.

"Think you've got it in you for one more round?" he said huskily in her ear.

She wanted to say yes. Gods, she wanted to say yes. But they'd barely spoken today—not about anything that'd been plaguing her, like the fact that there was an Order meeting in three days.

"Yes, but—" she started, but as soon as she'd said yes, Draco had slithered inside of her. He froze at the "but."

"But?" he leaned his body weight on his forearms.

This wasn't fevered and explosive like they tended to be. No, he was patient. He could spend all night in this position, without moving, bathing in the feeling of being surrounded by Hermione's heat.

They were connected, and it was beautifully filling in so many ways.

"But—" Hermione swallowed a moan as her body inadvertently shuddered in response to being so full of him. "But, we have to talk first."

"So talk," Draco said mischievously. It was endearing, and Hermione sort of hated him for it. She wanted to be serious!

"Like this?!" Hermione said wide-eyed, appalled, her face laying on its left cheek on the silky pillow. It was comfortable, which was even more annoying, because she didn't want to be comfortable. She didn't want to feel aroused, and fulfilled, and so damn good.

"Would you prefer like this?" Draco purred and bit the junction between her neck and shoulder roughly, as he moved slowly inside of her. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Focus.

But it was so hard when Draco could make her feel like chocolate dipped strawberries.

"I think," Hermione gasped, her fingers clenching the sheets by either side of her head tightly, "We're better the other way."

"What way?" Draco feigned ignorance. "This way?" he removed himself to the tip and plunged all the way in, Hermione's lust filled keening bouncing off the walls, and froze again—completely sheathed inside of her.

This was going to be the longest conversation in history, Hermione was sure.

"I hate you so much right now," Hermione whined, as she unconsciously moved against his hips to settle him deep inside of her.

"Tell me something I don't know," Draco kissed her shoulder gently, so gently. "What do we absolutely need to talk about now?"

His forearms were solid on either side of her, next to her fingers by her face. She should feel trapped, but she didn't. She wished that they could be in this same position more often, if only to feel so secure.

"Maybe we should have this conversation later," Hermione rolled her eyes at the preposterousness of the situation. Though she couldn't help the small smile that graced her lips, and lit up her eyes.

"Oh no," Draco kissed her neck, and right under her ear, his own eyes alive for her. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

Hermione sighed, "There's an Order meeting in a few days."

Draco's lips stopped their torturous journey. His eyes bore into the side of her face.

"Tell me we didn't just bring the war into bed with us," he grumbled.

His complaint was valid, but it was tearing at Hermione, and in bed seemed to be the only time they could really talk without things flying off the handle.

"Malfoy," Hermione urged, her body clenching around him to gain his complete focus—and boy did it. Draco groaned automatically, and rotated his hips.

"Fuck, Granger," he hissed. "Get on with it then, so I can ravish you to an inch within your life."

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, but quickly refocused. "What do you think? About the Order meeting?"

"Will you skip it if I tell you to?"

"No," Hermione responded truthfully. It didn't matter that she technically wasn't going; she knew how fast things could change—Harry need only get detention and she'd take his spot. "But tell me what you think, anyway. Isn't that what married people do? Talk to each other about these types of things."

"Are we those people now?"

"Yes," she arched her back so she could turn her head more and look at him somewhat properly. She didn't want him to doubt it. She didn't want to doubt it, either. This, if nothing else, would stand clear with them right here and now. "We're those married people—whether you like it or not, Malfoy."

Draco's arms trembled a bit, at the pressure and exertion of holding the position, and not moving within her like he so craved. Because, damn it, he craved her so bad, so right, fucking every way possible.

"I think it's a bad idea," he sighed, and licked his lips. "I think they're just using you to confirm what they've probably learned from other sources—you're just more reliable. They can't actually expect you to give them any new information. You're not imbedded enough with the Death Eaters for that."

"Maybe," she bit her lower lip in thought. "But we both knew that I'd tell them things—help the Order any way I could. You knew that when we first agreed to get married."

"So what are you asking me?"

"I'm asking you if I know anything that could lead back to you."

There. She'd said what she truly meant. No masks. No hidden agendas. In this moment, even if another one like it didn't come around for another six months or six years, she'd said exactly what she meant, and he knew it, too.

Her honesty was rewarded with a lingering kiss to the side of her mouth, and his own truth.

"You already know about the Ganish, Wentworth, and Pembrook families, which is pretty safe for me…" He paused and assessed her for a moment before he whispered, "I've been training with the Dark Lord. He's been pushing me more lately, but he's been sending out more people to the outskirts of Romania. He's gotten enough of a foothold in Bulgaria that his Death Eaters there make the trip instead of any of us based in Great Britain."

"How close is he to taking over Bulgaria?"

"Close."

The silence didn't matter because they were husband and wife. Truly, now. They were united by their secrets and their loyalty to each other, despite the hate and resentment that can bubble and fester between them so easily. In spite of the fire that always condemned them, they felt married.

It was the scariest feeling in the world.

"How many people know this?" Hermione asked, worry coating the lust in her eyes.

"Not enough," he growled as he began to move, effectively ending the conversation. But he'd said all that he'd needed to say.

Not enough people knew so that he'd be above suspicion if she told the Order.

Now the decision was in her hands—to condemn him, but prove truly useful to the Light's cause, or to save him, and let the chips fall where they may.

She knew that he wouldn't have told her unless he had at least multiple contingency plans in place to secure his safety and standing in the ranks. But it was still a risk. A significant risk.

He was seeing what she was made of.

Hermione felt his pace change, his length urging against her walls, and knew that he was jittery. Draco's moment of playfulness had evaporated, and what was left were the countless demons that were never too far away.

But he knew she'd already orgasmed a few times tonight, and he didn't want to take her too hard; he didn't want to give her more than she could bear.

He was surprisingly a considerate lover, which was in complete contrast to how demanding he always seemed to be. Hermione knew it was for her benefit, but she was so moved that he'd trust her enough to share, that she found herself gasping, "Harder."

Harder.

He didn't ask if she was sure. He knew she was strong. He knew she wouldn't have said so if she couldn't handle it. She was a Malfoy now.

Hermione pushed back against him, frantically rotating and grinding her hips against him. Draco lifted his hands. SMACK, SMACK, he spanked her as he drove into her mercilessly.

Harder.

Deeper.

Yes, yes, yes.

This is yours, Malfoy. All yours.

She knew he needed to hear it. She could feel it in the way his thrusts were uncontrolled, as though he were trying to make sure she never forgot the feel of him. She knew she wouldn't, but he needed to know it, too.

Her body convulsed, satisfied in that way that left her wailing in rhapsody and trying to muffle it by biting into the pillow. Shit, they forgot to reapply the silencing charm.

But neither were willing to stop now.

His hands were soft as they dug and wrapped themselves into her wild mane of curls. He tugged lightly, and Hermione almost sobbed in bliss. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK, he spanked her again, and heaven couldn't have anything that felt better than being possessed by Draco Malfoy. It wasn't possible. Couldn't be, Hermione was so damn sure.

"Tell me," Draco rasped savagely, completely submerged in the enchantment of her, of them.

Hermione knew what he wanted, and for the first time she wasn't ashamed to want to say it either. Her hands blindly searched for his own, one hand reaching backwards and latching onto the back of his neck, pulling him closer to which he didn't resist—couldn't resist, because he was hers, and the other grasping onto his right hand, and latching it onto her breast. "I love you. I love you, fuck, Draco, just like that—just like that—I love you."

His hand kneaded her breast, holding onto it as though he'd crumble without it in his palm. Hermione held onto that hand, pushing it into her breast without thought.

Everything was too much, and not enough. Everything was forever and fleeting.

Finally, with desperate prayers to Merlin, a feral you're mine, Granger, an even wilder all yours, Malfoy, always—because something primal inside of them needed to say it and hear it too, Hermione clenched down around him, and didn't stop. She fell off the edge of the universe with Draco right behind her, right there with her, a constant yes, yes, yes on her lips, and fuck, fuck, so tight, so fucking tight on his.

The beauty of ecstasy was theirs as Draco's body went limp on top of her. He went to move off her, but she didn't let go of his neck, still twitching beneath him, on him, as the waves of rapture continued to assault her; she liked the weight of him on her, like a constant reminder that they were linked by choice.

"You've bewitched me," he whispered, letting all of his weight fall on her, too tired to hold himself.

"I am a witch," she responded quietly, body slowly settling, though still jerking every few seconds.

Finally, when his weight was too much, she bucked underneath him a bit in a silent demand. He moved, sliding out of her, and lay on his back. She didn't move until her body stopped jerking completely, and Draco only watched her in quiet intoxication, his head perched on his pillow.

When she moved, he dragged her body to his, and engulfed her in his embrace.

I am a witch.

It echoed around his head, as she closed her eyes, head on his smooth chest, and slumbered.

I am a witch.

You've bewitched me.

He thought about her fire, and hope. He thought about her life and passion. He thought about how she was the only thing holding him back from insanity when he was under the Dark Lord's crucio.

I love you.

I'm yours.

I am a witch.

"Yeah, Granger" he whispered to her, though she was too engrossed in her dreams to hear him. "You are a witch…of the most dangerous kind."

With that he closed his eyes, and let sleep claim him—his last thought being, 'did she say Draco?'

---

The next day came complete with birds chirping and Autumn leaves falling. After waking, Draco and Hermione went their separate ways. Every now and again they'd catch a glimpse of each other in class or across the Great Hall. Their gazes would lock, and Draco would ruthlessly ravish her with his eyes, watching as Hermione's face would go bright red—she'd glance around to ensure that no one was watching, and then surreptitiously gaze back at him with lust.

It was practically scandalous the way Draco could make her feel in public; she loved it, how high she'd feel while walking solidly on the ground; she hated how quickly he could make her lose her sense of self-control.

Following lunch, Luna and Hermione wandered off the library, Luna muttering the whole time about wrackspurts, whatever the hell those were. The girls disappeared around the corner, leaving Draco and Theo in a surprisingly empty corridor.

They were never alone anymore. Not since they'd taken their seats on the Wizengamot.

Now, every other step was "oh, Draco, how funny bumping into you—let's walk to lunch together. By the way, did I mention that my cousin's been trying to get the inspection passed on that new boner potion?" or "Theo, I didn't know you walk this way everyday—I'll walk you to your class! Did I tell you that my aunt's been trying to get the ding-dong situation moved over from the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee to the Obliviator Headquarters? Been having a devil of a time, you know."

Everyone wanted something, and everyone was convinced that Draco and Theo were in a prime position to give it to them—if they cared to, which (unless it benefited them somehow) they didn't.

"It's so quiet," Draco joked. It felt nice, like they could pretend they were in third year again before everything had changed.

"Don't jinx us!" Theo looked around them as though people would jump out from the shadows asking for favors.

Draco laughed, and Theo laughed with him. They were the picture of youth unburdened…if only for a moment.

But their laughter cut short as they saw someone walk past. Even when they were alone, they weren't really alone.

It was absurd, and yet, in a war torn era like the one they lived in, it wasn't without malice.

"So, Saturday," Theo queried gently. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask—not in case anyone could overhear them.

"Yeah," Draco nodded slightly, understanding Theo's unasked question. "I told Granger about it a couple weeks ago."

"I'm going to hazard a guess, and say she didn't take it well."

"Psh," Draco scoffed. "Not taking it well would be the understatement of the century. But she hasn't brought it up since. The bleedin' girl likes to throw about words like 'justice,' 'fairness,' and 'equality' like they're going out of style—but on this? Not a peep."

"Well, then she's better than Luna," Theo grimaced. "She's been bringing it up ever since I told her! Oh, don't give me that look—you know damn well, I wouldn't bloody give a damn if she were singing in a tutu about Spinning Crowdiplunks—don't ask—but she's got this way of talking and bringing it up. She never really actually outright says anything, but she implies. She's talking about nargles one second and the next I get the distinct impression she's making an analogy to this."

"I think I might prefer that," Draco responded amusedly. "Granger's silence on the subject speaks more than anything she could've actually said. I can practically feel when her thoughts turn to the subject, and she just gives me that look, y'know?"

"Oh, I know the look."

"Yeah, so sad—"

"So disappointed—"

"Clearly wishing you'd do something—"

"Which just makes it all worse because you know you won't!"

They shared a look that was simultaneously entertained, and saddened.

"Are we really going to do nothing though?" Theo couldn't help but ask.

"Since when did you become self-sacrificing?" Draco raised an elegant eyebrow in disbelief.

"I'm not!" Theo said appalled. "Just…she's going to be my wife one of these days—it's bad form to start a marriage with the girl hating me."

"Have you fucked her?"

"Oi! None of your bloody business!"

They shoved at each other roughly, and good-naturedly. This was shoptalk, typical questions and answers that boys trying so hard to be men had to say; but disguised in it all was a truth that was hard to swallow: they didn't want Hermione or Luna to be sad.

They weren't what many in the wizarding world would consider "good" people. They'd never be good people, not in that godawful self-sacrificing Gryffindor sort of way. They weren't raised to be good people. But they aspired to be good husbands. Kind. Even gentle on occasion. And though they couldn't care less about the countless Muggle-born strangers out in the world that would be effected by this law, they did care about their wives. They, selfishly, didn't want them to be sad.

Lucius had walked into the sitting room with a noticeably missing swagger that he'd always carried, and plopped himself most disgracefully on the couch in front of the fireplace.

Theo, who spent far too much time in Malfoy Manor, had noticed a stale air that wasn't usually present, and had wisely stopped talking.

Blaise, too, had perceived something off about his godfather and had stopped trying to stain the unstainable rug in the corner. Blaise, Theo, and Draco had been pretending they were pirates sailing the stormy seas, battling against each other—each, naturally, a captain of their own vessel.

Draco, however, could only ever see his father, king of the whole universe, and hadn't been able to tell that something was amiss. Instead of taking the cue from Theo and Blaise, Draco on the contrary, had gone sailing at his father with a battle cry.

Lucius, with a broody look, had simply waived his wand, effectively immobilizing all three boys (though Theo and Blaise hadn't been moving) and floated them to him in a straight line, settling them at his feet.

Draco had finally realized that something was wrong, and quickly tried to jut out his lips in a cute pout meant to make the man forget about whatever he and his friends had done wrong.

His Slytherin nature from such a young age could almost make a father proud—but not that day. He sat stiffly, barely containing his rage. The floo had opened suddenly, and out stepped Severus Snape, signature flowing and austere-looking cloak about him.

Snape had taken in the boys seated at Lucius' feet, and raised a mocking eyebrow. "Have you started a harem?"

"Do you boys know where Narcissa is right now?" Lucius had asked deceptively innocent.

The boys had wanted to answer, but they couldn't shake their head. Snape's only answer had been a strange downshift of his lips, which in Snape-speak was code for a resounding "no."

Nonetheless, Lucius had already known the answer. That was the trick with Lucius Malfoy: one had to always be afraid when the man asked a question, because he rarely asked one without already knowing the answer, and an agenda in mind. But they were too young to know that then. Snape, however, wasn't.

"She, the lovely, elegant, gentle creature that she is, is at Madame Petit in France buying everything in sight!" Lucius had snarled.

Though the children weren't to blame for this, they'd quivered inside of themselves; they were no strangers to their own respective fathers' anger. Theo's father was known to be cruel, and could lose himself in Muggle discipline—the belt was his favorite. Blaise's current father at the time had considered it character building to be punished at least once a week—though the man had a horrible habit of forgetting to lift the silencio. Even Draco, whose father was by far the sanest of the three, didn't escape Lucius' cane when the man was on the warpath. Though none were to blame for Lucius' bad moon, they had no doubt that this could somehow turn around on them.

"Gringotts floo-called me," Lucius had continued to rant, "in my office not ten minutes ago to inquire as to whether or not I'd lost my key—the bloody goblins were concerned that someone had stolen my identity! Can you believe that? Apparently it happens a pixie-a-dozen in the Muggle world—but a Malfoy? That I'd somehow gave leave of all my senses and lost my Most Ancient and Noble house's Gringotts key was the most absurd thing I've heard all year!"

"I fail to see why you sent an owl most-haste to me over a slight by goblins," Snape had said dryly as he'd gone over to the wet bar and poured himself and his friend a glass of brandy.

"Yes," Lucius sneered viciously. "Neither would I, if I were you, except, are you aware of how much money must be spent in order for Goblins to worry that I've lost my mind?"

Once again, Snape didn't verbally acknowledge the question, and simply handed Lucius a drink, and waved his hand impatiently as if to say "yes, yes, get it on with it or go brood alone—I've no time for the whims of entitled aristocrats."

"A fortune!" Lucius exploded like a potion gone wrong by the hands of Neville Longbottom. "The damned woman could have bought all of the damned Caribbean with the amount she's spent today!"

"What did you do?"

"What do you mean what'd I do? Why do you assume I've done something?"

"This is Narcissa Black we're talking about," Snape had sipped his drink coolly. "The last free inheritor of the House of Black. She's got her own fortune, but she's spending yours, so, what did you do?"

His cool deduction had snapped Lucius out of his rage, and had deflated him before their very eyes. The boys could only stare in awe at the ways of Severus Snape.

"Does it matter what I did?

"Perhaps."

"Bloody—"

"Careful, brother," Snape had joked sardonically, his face showing just the slightest of amusement. "There are innocent ears you wouldn't want to hear you sounding positively common, now would you?"

Lucius had glared slightly at the man, but curbed his tongue, and removed the immobilizing charm. His eyes had pierced them the way his gaze tended to do, and none of the small boys bothered to move though they could. Fear and curiosity ate away at them.

"Learn from my mistakes, boys," Lucius said wisely and somberly. "An unpleasant wife is a ghastly thing. The worst thing you could have is an unhappy wife—because an unhappy wife, equals a miserable you."

It had been one of the rare occasions that they'd heard Severus Snape burst out laughing. His laughter sounded like young love, if young love had a laugh—beautiful, and so tragic because it couldn't last.

It had also taken Lucius another five years to make up the deficit that Narcissa had caused in her fit, and it had been a lesson that Theo, Blaise, and Draco had learned well, hiding out for nearly a full week in Draco's room from the warring adults.

It was a lesson that stuck with the stench of fear—fear of so many things.

This lesson caused Theo and Draco to take pause at doing nothing in regards to the Muggle-born Registration Act, remembering Lucius' wise words.

They stopped in front of Transfiguration, and looked at the door, side by side, as though it had the answers to the universe. Perhaps it did. Just, maybe, the key to solve all of their problems was to stop being so afraid of Transfiguration—changing shape.

Maybe they just needed to learn what shape best fit them, and this new world that they lived in.

Yes. Draco is a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a protector. You're the guard that protects the Dragon and the Prince.

Draco remembered his father's words to them. Theo remembered too, and it shamed him that he didn't fit the role of protector anymore.

Remember that you are each important—special—to each other.

Maybe this change, this Transfiguration in life could help them get back to that which they've lost somewhere along the way.

"You jump, I jump, Jack?" Draco quirked an eyebrow, remembering that ridiculous movie on the television in the hotel Hermione had made him sit through during one of their long breaks between Occlumency lessons.

She'd wanted to go to the movie theater and see something else, but Draco had adamantly refused on both counts, and instead leisurely called the concierge and demanded a copy of the film that wouldn't premiere until November. The concierge had tried to explain that he couldn't do that, but Draco had learned from watching his father that there were few problems in the world money couldn't solve. This hadn't been one of them, and three hours later Draco and Hermione had been watching the film from the comfort of their couch, instead of surrounded by muggles.

"Who the hell is Jack?!"

"Don't ask," Draco groaned, remembering how upset he'd been that Jack had died.

He'd felt ludicrous, but also strangely justified as he'd pointed out to Hermione "see, the good guy never wins! Even Muggles seem to know that law of the universe."

Theo barked out a laugh. "We'd better be careful. Between Spinning Crowdiplunks—seriously, don't fucking ask, Draco—and Jack, whoever the hell that is, people might start to have trouble telling us apart from the crazies in St. Mungos."

"Don't even joke," Draco shuddered in disgust, a silly chuckle making its way out of him.

Silence greeted them, and people started to gather around the classroom—some wondering why Draco and Theo were blocking the entryway and weren't going in. Since Slytherins had the best self-preservation instincts of the lot, everyone decided that if they weren't going in then it was in everyone's best interest to stay outside too. Better safe than sorry was the general consensus—especially with the dangers that lurked in the Castle now in the form of the Carrow siblings.

Draco and Theo simultaneously glowered at the crowd, and everyone instantly gave them more space—enough so that they couldn't eavesdrop on their conversation. It would do.

"The Stempenlucks might go for an amendment," Draco mused quietly.

"Nope," Theo shot back. "Their son, Adam, married Caroline Munoz last summer—the girl's a fanatic. There's no way he'd go against her, and old Stempenluck isn't going to go against him since he's the only possible blood heir."

"What about the Bagshots?"

"Maybe…they're swayable, for the right price."

"We don't want money coming into this—you wouldn't fucking believe the price I'm paying for our hotel suite."

"Muggles bleeding you dry," Theo joked dryly.

"You wouldn't joke if you'd seen the bill," Draco glared. There was no way he was letting that go anytime soon—he didn't care if he could afford it. He didn't like extortion if he could help it or being made to look a fool (paying an unreasonable price for an "extended stay" at a hotel most definitely fell into the latter). "What about the Castleroys? Don't tell me they're not a sure thing—their grandkids are all knee deep in blood traitors."

"They'd want to go for an abolishment, but we can't afford to hit that hard," Theo reminded Draco reasonably.

"I might not want Granger pissed at me, but I don't give that much of a fuck," Draco joked, but there was truth in his words. He was telling Theo without words that he didn't need such a reminder. He wouldn't risk his life, Theo's, or Hermione's own for her disappointed eyes. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"If we could convince Griselda Marchbanks of our honorable intentions," Draco resumed his considerations with a derisive twist of his lips and a hard glint in his eyes, "We'd get just past half the seats. Now that Dumbledore's dead, no one's got more sway on the Wizengamot than her."

"She's an elder," Theo frowned, thinking critically about all the ways talking to anyone could go wrong. "There's nothing we can offer that she'd want. The blasted woman already has two feet in the goddamned grave."

"She thought the sun shined out of Dumbledore's ass," Draco snorted, but there was no humor in his eyes. "There's no way she's not itching for a reason to shut this law down."

"Alright, yeah," Theo shrugged, hands roving through his locks in frustration and anxiety. "Madame Marchbanks would back a change, but she's not blind. She knows who we are. She knows the connections we have. There's no way she'd believe we're doing this out of the goodness of our hearts—which we're fucking not, anyway."

Silence enveloped them again, this time pressing down around them. It felt like the pressure from a tidal wave when one was already underwater—that force that couldn't bury, but couldn't let up either.

It all felt like a ball of squished ideas.

Transfiguration. Change shape, not change completely.

Marchbanks. Dumbledore. Honor. Deceit.

Because they'd never be bold like Gryffindors. They might want to be; the thought might cross their minds; the will might shift uncomfortably beneath their skins; the need might push against their lungs and belly, every now and then; but even so, they'd never be Gryffindors.

"So we don't approach her," Draco realized. Change shape, not change completely. Theo gave him a look that clearly said that Draco was an idiot. "No—listen, we already know that she's dying to do something about this law—that enough people will vote for the change if she does, but she's not going to make the first move. Technically, all she needs is for someone, whatever their reasons, to make objections—nothing major, just enough to get Granger and Lovegood off our backs. So we don't need to tell her or anyone beforehand."

There was logic to Draco's statement. Too much logic. Tactically, it was perfect—gave the advantage, without making them vulnerable before Saturday or risk being seen as sympathizers or worse, blood traitors, since they hadn't been lobbying for a change.

But it also had the potential to blow up in their faces when the Dark Lord found out. Scratch that—it would most definitely blow up in their faces when the Dark Lord found out.

"Fuckin' hell," Theo growled, suddenly very serious. His insides jumped and shook around as though he'd just spent a month at sea suffering from mal de mer. "I know I'm going to regret this—just bloody know it. Fine—fine. You jump, I jump."

You jump, I jump.

Draco nodded once with a small smirk upon his lips, and opened the door.

---

"Why are we in a broom closet, Harry?" Hermione asked casually, as though this were a common occurrence. Then again, with Harry Potter as a best friend, this really wasn't the strangest thing that they've done.

"We're hiding from Cho," Harry groaned. His jet black hair seemed as ruffled as his demeanor.

"You mean you are hiding from Cho," she corrected pointedly. If he hadn't been giving her longing looks last year, this wouldn't be a problem now, so Hermione wasn't keen on comforting him at the moment.

"We," Harry repeated, a sheepish smile tempting his lips. "We ride together, we die together, right?"

"Oh please!" Hermione laughed as she rolled her eyes. "Bad Boys? Really?"

"I thought it was fitting," Harry shrugged. Happy that he'd avoided Hermione's ire for the moment.

"Yes, well," Hermione tilted her head, "it would be more fitting if you'd simply tell me why we're here."

"Do I have to?" Harry asked honestly. The only way he knew.

"No," Hermione sobered, the smile gone from her lips and eyes. She meant this. She meant this with all of her heart. "You don't ever have to tell me anything you don't want to…it's your life."

"I've missed this, y'know," Harry's green eyes clashed with hers, pinning her to the spot the way it always had. "The freedom you give, the comfort you give. It wasn't the same—the Burrow—without you."

"Life is…strange, now, isn't it?" she pondered, following the strands of black hair that stood too far out.

"Guess that's one way to put it," he shrugged again. But his eyes didn't stray from her.

"Are you angry at me?" Hermione whispered.

She had to put it out there. This was the first time they were alone, and it'd been clawing at her chest for a while now, the idea that though Harry supported her decision, he secretly hated her. She didn't want him to hate her. She didn't want him to ever hate her.

"No," Harry shook his head, his eyes steady like his constitution. "I'm not angry at you. I just—I don't understand. Maybe I never will."

"I don't quite understand it either," the corner of Hermione's lips lifted self-deprecatingly. "Being married to him is hard, harder than I'd ever imagined."

There was a shared honesty that lingered in the air. It felt like an old sweater that smelled of home. It was arguably the best feeling in the world, combatted only by the feel of Draco moving inside of her, clinging to her, making her believe with every hiss and moan that she mattered to him.

"Why?"

It was a simply question. Too simple. Why was being married to Draco so hard?

"I don't know," Hermione let her legs give out, and sunk to the floor. Harry, the strong shoulder to lean on he'd always been, walked over to her, and sank to the floor next to her. Shoulder to shoulder. They. And it'd been too long. "How are things between you and Ginny?"

"Eh," he looked forward, into the darkness and space. "It's Ginny. We both know things can't be hard—she loves me too much."

"Sounds like you want things to be difficult," Hermione chided softly. But this was their bubble. And in it, there would be no lies or half-truths. Not here.

"It'd be better if things were harder, sure," Harry admitted quietly.

"You say that, but you don't know what it's like," Hermione pursed her lips. "If you did, you wouldn't be so quick to wish for it."

"But at least you know it's real," he rebutted. "No matter how difficult things might get with Malfoy, at least you know that it's real, that it'll always be real. I don't have that with Ginny. Our marriage, for whatever it's worth, won't ever be as real as yours."

Hermione's hands automatically reached for Harry's, and she remembered how much she cared. She remembered that her purpose for so long had been rooted in his existence. It was strange, to feel his smooth hand beneath hers, and know that he wasn't the center of her universe anymore. But he could be again. So easily. They were best friends of the deepest kind. If only the heat from Draco's lips weren't imprinted on her own.

"You don't want to marry her," Hermione finally said the words that had been haunting the air silently. Her heart beat furiously. She wanted him to admit it. She didn't want him to admit. Yes. No. She didn't know what she wanted or expected.

All she knew was that if he married Ginny, out of all the women in the world for him to marry, she'd feel some type of way about it. Whether good or bad, only time would tell.

"I don't."

There it was. His candor in all of its glory. Her fingers tightened around his hand.

"Everything's changing so fast," she murmured, letting her head lean on his shoulder. "Even Luna isn't quite the same anymore."

"She's growing on you?" Harry chuckled, eyes shining with mischief. "I knew you'd be crazy about her once you grew close."

"Close, right," she scoffed. "More like growing on me like agaricus bitorquis."

"What's that?"

"Oh, never mind," Hermione lifted her head and shook it at him in exasperation. "The point is that she's not the same. Not really. She was innocent before. Naïve, maybe. She's still batty, but I don't think she's that naïve anymore. She sees more."

"She's always seen more," Harry released Hermione's hand, and put his arm around her shoulders. "You just couldn't see what she saw, but she hasn't changed. Not at all, I'd say."

"Maybe," Hermione said reluctantly. "Are you surprised that she's marrying Theo Nott?"

Harry let out a bark of laughter. "I'm surprised that she hasn't gone running to the altar."

"Why?"

"It's Luna," he laughed and his eyes were bright with merriment. These kinds of moments felt so rare after Dumbledore's death that Hermione wanted to hold onto it forever. "I don't think she really does things half-way, and she never cares about what other people think."

"Don't hold her up too high," Hermione warned gently. She didn't want to ruin his view of her, but living among the other side had taught her that nothing was ever as it seemed. "She hasn't run to the altar yet because Nott hasn't paid the price for her hand yet."

"What do you mean?"

The innocent question struck something deep inside of Hermione's heart. She could answer him the way he deserved, with full disclosure. But he was the light. He'd always been the light. He'd always be the light.

She could never be the reason why that light dimmed; suddenly she understood why Dumbledore never wanted to tell Harry much of anything. It was a burden all on its own to decide which veil to lift from Harry's eyes.

What do you mean?

"Nothing," Hermione lied, a tender smile on her lips. "Nothing at all."

---

Breakfast, Sunday morning, was accompanied by a flurry of activity. People were talking fervently to one another, whispering harshly, and casting glances at Hermione as she walked through the large Hall doors.

"What's all this?" Hermione asked, pointedly looking around as she sat down next to Harry and Ron as usual.

Ron simply shrugged, too engrossed in his meal to care. It was very typical—so normal that Hermione didn't even reprimand him for eating like a pig. He could eat without any manners at all for as long as he liked, as long as they stayed this way, normal.

But Harry, wiping the bleariness from his eyes, finally realized what Hermione meant. He poked Ron, to get his attention.

"Oi! Can't a bloke eat?"

"Ronald," Hermione said his name in that exasperated voice she'd often used in the past. He heard the tone, and felt warm inside. It'd been so long since she'd said his name like that. Too long. "Can't you see that something important must be going on?"

"Where's Ginny?" Harry inquired. At Hermione and Ron's confused looks at the connection he shrugged. "She always knows the latest scandal."

"This has to be bigger than a school scandal" Hermione reasoned, judging by the whispers and stares.

"—unless Snape was found having an affair with McGonagall," Ron muttered. It was such an outrageous thought, so completely absurd, that all three froze, and then couldn't help the burst in laughter.

"I think I'm scarred for life," Harry grinned, and it was magnificent.

"You?" Hermione joked wide-eyed. "Snape is Malfoy's godfather. I'll have to see the Headmaster at Christmas with that image in my head."

It was a good moment, to laugh and joke; it was something the three hadn't shared together so genuinely for a while now. Not since before she'd agreed to marry Draco.

But like everything in a world post-Dumbledore, simple joy was hard to hold onto.

"Hello," Luna appeared behind them, startling Ron so much so that he choked on the orange juice he was drinking. "Alright there, Ron?"

"Yeah," Ron coughed, and Hermione patted his back in sympathy.

"How are you Luna?" Harry smiled at her, genuinely glad to see her.

"Oh Harry!" Luna looked like she could burst. "I'm really rather wonderful. I think the Aquavirius Maggot has finally infected Draco and Theo!"

"Oh, for the love of Merlin," Hermione rolled her eyes and breathed through her nose. Luna didn't even notice Hermione's annoyance.

Be nice. Be nice.

No matter what situation Hermione found herself in, regardless of how much middle ground she could find with Luna, Luna was still one of the few people in the world that could test her patience without even trying.

"It's deadly, I hope?" Harry deadpanned.

Ron choked on his juice again, this time from laughing and drinking at the same time.

"Oh no," Luna shook her head, her pale blue eyes so happy and content that Hermione almost marveled. "But it definitely has strange effects. See for yourself," she said as she thrust the front page of the Daily Prophet at Harry.

Hermione and Ron both squeezed next to each other to look over Harry's shoulder to the front page that read in big and bold letters: LORDS MALFOY AND NOTT: MODERATE LEADERS OF A NEW GENERATION!

Hermione was stumped; Draco hadn't said much of anything when he'd arrived back at Hogwarts the night before—only that that he had to go see the Dark Lord, and that she shouldn't wait up. Since some of his meetings with Voldermort could last all night, Hermione had fallen asleep, and awoken only to notice that he had not yet returned.

But now, a hope so bright and brilliant shone in her heart. Could this be? Would he have voted against?!

"Open it, open it" Hermione rushed Harry.

Harry's hands shook as he opened to read the article on the next page.

"Bloody hell," Ron mumbled as his eyes took in what his brain had yet to fully understand.

LORDS MALFOY AND NOTT: MODERATE LEADERS OF A NEW GENERATION!

By Alexa Guillermo

Yesterday, Saturday afternoon, as the sun was high, one of the most important (and dare I say revolutionary) decisions of this era in Wizarding Britain was being decided. There's been a lot of change in the past year, with the death of Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, the removal of some of the most influential Lords from the Wizengamot due to incarceration and other unfortunate circumstances, and the growing influence of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Anyone seeking proof that our world has moved into a new era need only look at yesterday's Wizengamot vote.

In its original form, the Muggle-born Registration Act would have required—among other things—every Muggle-born register their blood status with the Ministry of Magic (as part of public record) and to submit their wands for Ministry registration and monitoring. Proponents of the law stated registration would benefit the entire magical community by ensuring that the Ministry of Magic could immediately trace and punish violations of the Statute of Secrecy.

It appeared that the law would pass unaltered and by near unanimous vote, but the legislation's sponsors hadn't expected to hear the voices of a new generation. As many are aware, former Lord Lucius Malfoy and Lord Theodore Nott Sr. were stripped of their titles and their Wizengamot seats. Both men were succeeded by their sons and heirs, Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy and Lord Theodore Nott Jr.

These two Machiavellian mavericks played their unassuming parts to a tee—most took for granted that they were an absolute 'aye,' but when push came to shove, Lords Malfoy and Nott led the charge to amend the registration, removing the wand registration requirement as superfluous, given the Ministry's current ability to respond immediately to violations of the Statute of Secrecy and including language in the legislation to simplify the registration process and make it as non-invasive as possible.

Their decision, though unprecedented, comes as no surprise to those who witnessed the marriage between Lord Malfoy and Lady Hermione Malfoy, formerly Hermione Granger and presumably still current best friend—and rumored possible former paramour—to Harry Potter, the-Boy-Who-Lived. The affection and love between the two were clear as day to any with eyes as they tied the silk thread of destiny and bound themselves to each other. [for pictures of this event and others, see pg 10 of the Society Section]

Lord Theodore Nott Jr. is rumored to be in the process of finalizing his engagement to Luna Lovegood, another friend of Potter's, the-Boy-Who-Lived.

In these uncertain times, Lords Malfoy and Nott have given voice to the new generation of young and up-and-coming wizards and witches. Their respect for tradition and rule of law, combined with a desire to avoid drastic upheaval in our world has many wondering if someday we'll call Lord Malfoy or Lord Nott by the title of "Minister of Magic."

Hermione couldn't believe her eyes. Maybe Aquavirius Maggot really had infected Draco and Theo Nott. Sure, she'd hoped, oh she'd hoped, with every shred of faith she had inside of her that Draco would do something, but she hadn't actually expected him to.

I'll always do what I can, he'd promised her.

Draco Malfoy was a man of his word; she'd known that the day she'd agreed to marry him. She was reaffirmed in that truth now. There was a twinge of disappointment deep in her ribcage at the fact that the law had passed at all, but she ignored it in favor of a better feeling. Pride.

Pride swelled inside of her chest, aching to burst out of her—that was her husband. It was her husband who'd bothered to stand up when no one else would. No one else save for Theo, and at that thought Hermione looked at Luna's beaming face.

Hers was filled with pride too.

She could forget about Luna's imaginary creatures for a moment to bask in the exhilaration of being two women who could say their men's names with pride today. No, it wasn't the grand gesture a Gryffindor would have made, declaring the legislation unethical and immoral, insisting it be voted down, but he'd done something.

In a moment like this, she actually could love Draco—even if only for a second.

She needed to see him. Now. It took only a second for the thought the flash across her mind before her feet were lifting her off the bench, and carrying her out of the Great Hall, down through the dungeons, into the Slytherin Common Room, and up the stairs that lead to her bedroom.

She was out of breath, she'd been running so fast without stopping. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except seeing Draco.

She wished beyond anything that Draco had returned from seeing the Voldemort. She wanted to kiss him like she'd never kissed him before. She wanted to liberate herself in his arms, and offer him sanctuary.

Her chest felt too full with yearning, delight, and unadulterated happiness that she had married a man worth knowing. That Draco wasn't the monster he'd like to think he was. That—

She opened the door, and it was like a glass falling from a top shelf; everything shattered in an instant.

Draco's blood was thick and smooth like honey; Hermione wanted to scream in horror.

No, no, no.

Her eyes were wide and entranced. She was frozen at the opening of their bedroom door. This couldn't be real, but it was. It was real in that way that children sometimes had trouble distinguishing nightmares from reality.

The lights were too bright. The shadows too large. The blood too thick as it pooled around his figure that was hunched against the sofa, Snape quietly murmuring spells after spells.

"What happened?"

The words left her mouth, but they didn't belong to her, did they? Her hands reached for Draco's face—when did she walk over to them?

It was like the world had betrayed her, and she was now missing something vital.

"Draco," Hermione whispered his name like she was being tortured. Maybe she was. Maybe, through some twist of fate and magic, she could feel all of the pain he must have felt.

"Hold that…thought…until we're…alone and…you can…scream my name…properly" Draco croaked out crudely, voice trembling, body being help upright with a spell, eyes burning with tears begging to be unleashed.

"Who did this?"

"Don't badger him, Miss Granger," Snape snapped at her, eyes tight and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione snapped right back like a bullet being shot by a gun. "Mrs. Malfoy," she repeated slowly, as though that were the great injustice in this moment.

Perhaps it was. Perhaps, it was all she could handle, because that was Draco Malfoy, Dragon—whatever the hell that meant—and husband bleeding all over their bedroom floor.

"Who did this?" Hermione whispered, crushed.

Tears glistened in her eyes. Draco was so proud—too proud. To have been at someone's mercy like this—she could barely stand to think of the shame, embarrassment, and pain he must've felt.

"Who do you think?" Snape snapped at her, his patience obliterated. "Everything has a price, Mrs. Malfoy," he sneered without once taking his eyes off his task.

Everything has a price.

It was a truth that Hermione had never bothered to truly understand. She'd always lived in a bubble created by Dumbledore that everything would always work out in the end—good deeds having good rewards.

But as Hermione took in the blood, the pain on Draco's face, eyes clenched, she knew that Dumbledore had done her and her friends a disservice.

Everything has a price.

This was his price for amending the Muggle-born Registration Act. Voldemort must have been furious.

"You should go," Draco told Hermione, clearly thinking of her Order meeting. At Snape's penetrating look, he clarified. "She has somewhere to be."

Snape's gaze realigned in understanding, shifting only for a moment and then back to its standard impassive expression. "She has no nowhere to be for another three hours."

Hermione was gob-smacked. They were saying so much, without really saying anything.

She knew that they were talking about the Order meeting, but anyone that would look in either of their heads would simply see an innocuous conversation that could have been about anything from detention, to prefect duties.

It was genius, and heartbreaking that these were the lengths that a godfather and his godson must go to in order to have honesty between them.

Hermione didn't know what she could do to help, so she lifted her hand, and ran her finger through his sweat-matted hair. Draco leaned into her, taking as much comfort as she could give him.

Everything has a price.

But they were still together, linked, fucking super-glued, completely past the point of no return.

Perhaps there'd never been a point of return—not with the way Draco's lips were practically born to claim hers. Not with the way their eyes could meet and clash and break each other apart.

No, there had never been another choice.

Together, always. It was a quiet truth that vibrated in their bones, and that neither needed to voice aloud.

---

Hermione stayed with Draco until the sandman claimed him, and Snape had moved him face down on the bed. There were so many spells—spells that Hermione hadn't known existed, let alone how to perform.

It had been awkward though, once Draco fell asleep.

"Is he going to be alright?" Hermione had asked quietly. She wanted the truth, but she also wanted the truth to be something good. She didn't think she could take it if he weren't—not when she knew in the deepest corners of her heart that what he'd done, he'd done for her. "Shouldn't we take him to Madame Pomfrey?"

"I assure you, I am more than capable of attending to my godson," Snape had said icily. Though his eyes had softened just a tab bit when he answered her original question. "He'll be fine—with a few days of rest."

"Absolutely—I'll chain him to the bed if I have to," Hermione had nodded profusely.

"I said rest, Mrs. Malfoy," Snape had given a clearly suggestive and pointed look.

Hermione had lit up like a tomato, she'd been so embarrassed.

"O—of course," she'd stammered. She'd wanted to escape this conversation so badly!

"Yes," Snape had drawled in that way that could shame and infuriate even the most mildly tempered person. "I assume the ruckus people were complaining about the other night won't become a common occurrence—"

"Oh my god!" Hermione clasped her hand to her mouth in shock and humiliation.

"Yes, I believe He was mentioned quite a few times as well during that rather sonorous debacle."

Hermione had turned to run from the room, but Snape had halted her steps with his quick words. "Be there at noon, Mrs. Malfoy. Noon."

Hermione had barely nodded and squeaked her assent before she fled the dungeons in search of Harry—to apologize, and ask him if she could go in his stead; to forget about the most awkward conversation of her life.

All the while, Severus Snape had let out a dark chuckle at Hermione's expense. One of the few joys he found as an educator—finding new ways to embarrass his students, especially when they deserved it.

Once she'd found him, Hermione's words had tumbled around, barely understandable, though the sentiment was clear. Harry, in true Harry form hesitated for a moment, always desperate for any scraps of information he could get from the Order. But, he must have seen something in her eyes. Something in her demeanor. Something that made him pause. And instead of bringing up the fact that they'd already established that he'd go to the Order meeting (like anyone else who loved Hermione less would have done), Harry had been open and understanding about letting Hermione go in his stead, though his eyes had been burning with curiosity. Hermione hadn't had time to come up with an answer, and had simply left, knowing they'd have that conversation once she got back.

But now that she was here, she didn't know what to say.

Her anxiety in the Shrieking Shack was palpable.

She knew the people in this room. There was no reason for her heart to be beating like she'd run a marathon, or her palms to be sweating. She'd known Molly Weasley and Professor McGonagall since she was an ickle firstie, Remus since her Third Year, and Mad-Eye Moody since Fourth Year (even if Moody hadn't really been Moody at the time—Barty Crouch Jr. honestly had done one hell of an impersonation, and really had been a good Professor). The only person she didn't know well at all was Kingsley Shaklebolt—she'd simply met him once when he'd come by Grimmauld Place.

"So," Remus smiled that crooked smile of his at her. "How've you been, Hermione?"

"Good," Hermione responded stiffly.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Shaklebolt tipped his head towards her from the dusty corner. He looked efficient. "Married life seems to agree with you."

"Married life agrees with all newlyweds," Molly noted tensely as she fussed a bit over Hermione in that way that she fussed over everyone she came into contact with, though her smile wasn't as warm and her touch didn't linger.

There was a clear separation between them that Hermione didn't know how to fix, and wasn't sure she cared to.

Nevertheless, Hermione respected Molly Weasley; the woman could smother like no other when you were in her good graces (which Hermione could tell she was not), but she meant well. She loved her family deeply, and defended them fiercely. Hermione thought she'd be lucky if she could be half the wife and mother that Mrs. Weasley was, despite the woman's failings.

"Not to disturb the sufficiently awkward pleasantries," Snape interrupted the stilted conversation. "But time is against us."

"The snake here has a point," Moody agreed insultingly. But before Remus or McGonagall could smooth Hermione into the questions, Moody simply asked, "Well—whattaya have for us?"

Hermione froze. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't do anything except throw his words around in her head. What did she have for them, except hesitance and disloyalty?

"Well, things have been a bit crazy lately," Hermione stalled. "Did you honestly expect me to have much?"

"No, Miss Granger," McGonagall jumped in to reassure her. This wasn't a witch hunt. She'd volunteered to help, which is all any of them could ask—they had to trust her to work at her own pace. "And we certainly don't expect you to put yourself in any danger to procure information—"

Hermione opened her mouth to correct her name—why can no one seem to remember?—when Moody interjected instead.

"Ay, we don't expect much girl," Moody rolled his one eye as though he were dealing with imbeciles. "But you've been living with devils. You can't honestly say you've found nothing useful?"

"Well," Hermione bit out, incensed. "I don't see my husband as a devil."

Snape was suspiciously quiet, which unnerved Hermione. He must know so much more than her, and yet they were all looking to hear what she knew.

"Hermione, what's going on?" Remus asked her kindly.

"You can tell us, dear," Molly prodded gently, though Hermione knew it was just a mask. She'd forsaken the love of her son for another—no mother, especially Molly Weasley who was quick to judge, could forgive that so easily. The falseness of it all…

It was all Hermione needed.

"Have any of you seen the news today?"

Their silence was answer enough. She wanted to rage and storm—with what audacity were they able to stand and ask more of her, and by extension Draco (whether or not they realized)? Maybe it wasn't audacity, but instead blindness.

Maybe they were blinded the way she'd been before she'd seen all of the blood. All of the pain on her husband's prideful and strong face.

"Do you think that his actions didn't have a price?" Hermione whispered savagely. She caught Snape's eyes and held them for a moment. Understanding flooded between them, and Hermione looked away with his words on her lips. "Everything has a price, and my husband paid a heavy one for me—for my cause."

"You've turned him?" Shaklebolt pierced her with his shocked but hungry eyes.

She knew that if she could turn Draco, it would be a major coup for the Light Side, but she wouldn't be shaken.

"That's all you care about? Then no, I haven't turned him."

It would be a major coup, and likely get him killed in the process. That wasn't a price she'd ever be willing to pay.

"We're in a war," Shacklebolt tried to communicate his reasoning, but Hermione couldn't be reasoned with. Not right now. Not when Draco was lying in their bed, body broken from abuse and torture.

"That justifies nothing," Hermione roared. She wanted to break the walls down with her screams until Draco could be built back up from the wreckage. "Not to me, not when my husband was the one to pay the price!"

"And we're sorry, dearie," Molly took on the mantle of peacekeeper for the moment. Her hands were outstretched, waiting to evaporate the fury inside of Hermione with a stiff hug. "We're sorry that Malfoy was hurt. What he did was brave—whatever his reasons."

Just like that, Hermione was defused. She felt so tired, so drained from it all. From the pressure of trying not to care about Malfoy. From the burden of caring for him just the tiniest bit and seeing what his own reflection of her feelings brought him.

"You never answered the question," Moody noted. Hermione tensed, but said nothing. Her silence was as good of a condemnation as any answer she could have given.

"Moody," McGonagall warned him silently to tread carefully. But the man was an auror—through and through. He didn't tread carefully, he bulldozed and fought until he died or his enemies died first.

"You're hiding something—what is it?" Moody asked Hermione suspiciously.

"I'm protecting my husband!" Hermione snarled. She might not be Molly Weasley or Minerva McGonagall, but she could be ruthless. She could be fearless and fierce in her own way.

She might be on the Light side, but she wasn't about to throw Draco under the bus. Not after she'd seen that he truly was trying. For her. He was trying so damn hard for her. She wouldn't pay that consideration with betrayal—not even for the Order.

"He's on the wrong side," Molly beseeched Hermione to see reason. But her words only served as more fuel.

"And if Mr. Weasley were on the Dark Side, then what? What would you do?" Hermione stared her down, daring her silently to lie and say she'd do the right thing.

Molly tried to reason, but her naturally overbearing motherly instinct, combined with the anger she still felt for Hermione's slight against Ron, had her shrieking at Hermione before she could stop herself. "He isn't!"

"But if he were—if he decided to join the Dark Lord, what would you do? Would you betray him? Abandon him? No? Then why should I? Why does everyone expect me to? Because I'm Muggle-born? With all due respect, Mrs. Weasley, even in the Muggle world being married means something," Hermione said through clenched teeth.

"What do you know?" Remus tried to focus everyone before the conversation got even more out of hand than it already had.

"I'm not a spy" Hermione stated boldly. "Not if it puts Malfoy in danger."

"If you're not a spy then what are you? Because look around, girl, you ain't here cause you got a hard on for dusty places." Moody scowled harshly at her.

"Moody!" McGonagall screeched his name, scandalized.

"Eh, you know I got a point, you ol' wench. The chit was as good as beggin' to be in the Order, to fight for the Light, but now that it counts, now that she has information she wants to hold back because the Malfoy boy knows how to use his—"

"Now that's enough, Mad Eye" Remus said sternly, his eyes and tone sharp. Moody didn't back down, but he didn't continue on either.

Hermione could have cared less if he had, because she wasn't putting Draco in danger. Not tonight.

"I know this is a trying conversation, but I'd ask that you refrain from vulgarity again in my presence," McGonagall said tersely to Moody, with a pinched look upon her face as though she'd tasted something foul and sour.

"Hermione," Remus' tone softened. He'd never been in her position, but he could only imagine how hard this must be for her. "No one expects this to be easy for you. Doing the right this is never easy. But this is the right thing. Telling us whatever you know is the best option—the only other option is to let the world go up in flames around you, and that's not who you are. That's not the Hermione Granger we know."

His words were like a spell trying to take hold of her. But it couldn't stick, because he was right—that wasn't the Hermione Granger they knew. Too bad she wasn't Hermione Granger anymore; she was Hermione Malfoy and Malfoys always protected their own first.

She lifted her chin, eyes hard and bright, and said, "The Pembrook, Ganish, and Wentworth families are working for the Dark Lord—I pestered Malfoy a bit, and he admitted that the Wentworth's have a daughter that's sweet on Jackson Tinterlunk. Jackson's a half-blood staunchly against the Dark Lord. That's your way in, to turn her, if you need one."

She didn't wait to hear any responses, and turned on her heel and left, her cloak billowing behind her so dramatically that surely Severus Snape would be proud.

The chill in the Shrieking Shack sank into all of their bones.

"I'd bet my last leg that's not all she knows," Moody snarled. "Not by a long shot."

"You're probably right," Kingsley sighed tiredly. "But we can't force the information out of the girl."

"She's protecting her husband," Molly sighed resignedly. She might not like it, but she couldn't really fault Hermione for it either. "Any wife would've done the same."

"The question is how do we get her to open up," Remus wondered aloud, feeling slightly guilty. "We need a way to get her to willingly share what she knows…"

"Eh, ain't you lot saints," Moody rolled his eyes. He'd been an auror longer than he'd ever been a good man, and he wasn't above using underhanded means to get to important information. "We all know her weak spots are her best friends. So, we use Harry Potter."

"That's abhorrent!" McGonagall shook her head at him, face stoic, but her eyes were filled with disgust. Disgust at Moody, and at herself because she saw the merit of his idea. "Perhaps if we could offer some safeguard to Mister Malfoy, then she wouldn't be opposed to sharing. She wants to tell us—tonight's conversation proves that if nothing else."

Kingsley shook his head, pragmatic to the end. "We can't offer him any consideration unless he joins the Order."

"But if he's told her things—secrets—knowing she's a part of the Order, and that she'd likely come tell us, then doesn't that mean that he's a bit on our side, too?" Molly reasoned.

"Or he knew she wouldn't betray his trust," Remus countered sadly. This was war, and nothing was sacred, anymore. Let alone blind faith in those around them. "They've been married for months, now. We don't know much about their relationship, but they clearly must talk. And since they do talk, for all we know they could have some sort of agreement that what they say to each other stays with each other. Most married couples do. It shouldn't be that much of a surprise if they do, too."

"So we're agreed," Snape's velvet voice cut through the room, viciously reminding everyone that a plan of action had to be taken. "We use Potter to get the information from her?"

Hesitant nods went around the room until everyone was agreed.

They would use Harry Potter.

But what they didn't know, couldn't see, too wrapped in the chess of war, was that just as Harry was Hermione's weakness, she was his too. And woe be to the person who didn't understand the kind of love and loyalty they shared, even in the middle of a storm.

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So, what do you guys think?! I swear there's a method to my madness! Anywho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know and review! **Reviews are love** :)