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.

12. The Struggles of the Mighty

Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Hey guys! I know, it feels like it's been forever! So sorry it's taken me so long to upload this chapter, but I've rewritten and rearranged it about a thousand times. I honestly debated whether or not to upload this version or to revise it one more time—I've literally poured my sweat and tears all these months trying to work through this, so hopefully everyone enjoys!

As always, a gigantic THANK YOU to ellabelle12 for being my beta. Without you this chapter would probably have taken an entire year to see the light of day!

To JayBat, mami1, SPECKto Patronum, Genevieve, Guest (1), rosejpotter, katelynnwho, Guest(2), Ein011, Guest (3), Guest (4), Your fan, Guest (5), Refictionista, Chrysanthemums5, Guest (6), moonscape-iron, The Griffindor Hatstall, TheseLittleWonders, Marilyn, vickety, Moogirl, ashenrenee, lovely maychan, SmartKoala, estrellaastra, Beauty Eclipsed, Jhuffy, riversgirl75, Rafaela, KissStarryDreams, Guest (7), pancake-potch, Beth, Guest (8), Green Eyed Lana Lee, Kyonomiko, WarMad13, Jess6800, Nargles Inspector, viola1701e, brigittar, Chanberra, Aequa, LABM, Nichole O, SilentFrenzy, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, crookshanks the kitty, Chester99, Dolphin02, whitewallskill: You guys rock so immensely that I'm sending each and every one of you massive mental hugs right now. Throughout the craziness that was creating this chapter, I must've reread your reviews at least a couple dozen times—sometimes for inspiration, sometimes for support, and sometimes simply to smile because your thoughts always put a smile on my face. From the bottom of my heart THANK YOU. On that note, I've got a little surprise in there for you guys ;)

/Let me in on all your secrets—no inhibitions, no sin

How deep is your love? Is it like the ocean? What devotion are you?

How deep is your love? Is it like nirvana?

Hit me harder, again/

-How Deep Is Your Love, Ali Brustofski

Chapter 12 – The Struggles of the Mighty

There are moments when you first meet someone that your heart stutters, and the wind stops swaying. It's like the entire Earth decides that this moment is the one that should be witnessed, that this moment should be remembered forever.

But no one ever noticed except him. Except her.

"Excuse me," Minerva said automatically when she brushed shoulders with someone in Diagon Alley.

"Please," Tom smiled charmingly, in that manner that was utterly his. "If I knew such beauty awaited me, I would bump into people more often."

"Empty flattery is not much flattery at all, sirrah," Minerva lifted her nose haughtily. Her eyes clashed with his, and together, a new world was born.

"Tom," he pronounced breathily, uncomfortable with this new sensation. "Tom Riddle."

She wanted to be silent. She wanted to walk away from a man who was so arrogant. But there was too much living inside of her. There was too much promise in his eyes.

"Minerva," she whispered. But he heard her as though she were the only voice in the world that he could hear. "Minerva McGonagall."

Minerva McGonagall: a woman who was barely a woman at the tender age of 18, bright eyed, innocent in her sagacity.

Tom Riddle: a man at 27, who had never been a boy at all, cynical, dangerous in his ignorance and rage.

Who would've ever thought they would be the story that was never told.

---

When Hermione entered their room, it was alight with candles, and there was soft music playing in the background. She felt like she had walked into a different world, a different life where love was something simple, beautiful, and utterly magical.

Shadows danced across Draco's pale skin. He wore a crisp white shirt that was stark against the backdrop of the dim lighted bedroom. There was a bottle of goblin made wine on the glass stained coffee table near the leather sofa. Next to it was a pearl necklace from a Hungarian Horntail—they gave birth to the best pearls, and only the best for a Malfoy.

The music sweeping through the room like a gentle breeze was Underwater—an up and coming singer who was half veela, half mermaid, who sung so heavenly that the prices to see her in live concert were ridiculous.

"Are you still mad at me?" Draco asked her quietly.

His grey eyes pinned her in place, reminded her that he was her husband and she'd rather be bound to him than anyone else. There was a glass of bourbon in his hands, and Hermione couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight that had somehow become comforting. Apparently the goblin-made wine was for her.

Are you still mad at me?

She was. She didn't know how not to be. Not when he did such horrendous things in the name of Voldemort. Not when he was going to recruit children to a cause she'd never stand behind.

Are you still mad at me?

She was. She really was, but they were married. They were married, and they needed to learn to move past it all, so they didn't break.

"I don't want to be," Hermione murmured, and finished walking in. She leaned her hip against the empty leather sofa chair. "But they're kids, Malfoy. They're just kids, and if we bring them head first into this war, that's on us. That's on you. And that's not okay."

"I know." He set the bottle of bourbon down and walked towards her like she was a wounded animal. He raised his hand and gently stroked her cheek. "But, you know I'm in a precarious situation. One wrong move and all my favor goes out the window. I can't just disobey."

"Why not?"

"Things aren't that simple," Draco sighed in frustration and an acute sense of helplessness that he couldn't seem to shake completely. "I don't want to fight with you. You're my wife. I don't want you to be mad or scared, or—you're my wife and I made a promise to you. I promised you everything that I could give, and it's harder to give that to you than I thought it'd be."

She lifted her hand and let it rest against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, and it was like its own seductive song. She reveled in the feeling of home that simply touching him could evoke.

"But you don't want a wife," Hermione peered into their truth. "You never did, not really. You wanted someone to command, not an equal partner to lean on when things got hard."

"I know things are hard for you," he looked away from her. He knew he hadn't been easy on her. But she hadn't been easy on him, either. "I know this, all of this, hasn't been what either of us expected."

"But you're not sorry," Hermione cut him off fiercely. She didn't want to apologize, and she didn't need his apologies. This was better. This was more. "You're never sorry, Malfoy. And that's okay because I'm still yours. I'll always be yours."

He let out a dry laugh, and let his forehead fall on hers. They were connected like they'd always been, but there was an honesty between them now. One of their greatest truths was between them now—zero pretenses; he was mostly without remorse, and she'd accept him anyway…because she cared too much not to.

"I know, Granger," Draco sighed achingly. "I'm yours, too, but it's so damn hard. Being with you is hard. Living up to who you wish I was is so damned hard—too hard."

"I know—I know," she choked out. She never wanted them to transform into people who couldn't handle hard truths or each other's anger. "I know I'm hard to handle, difficult to be with, but so are you. So are you, Malfoy, and we just have to struggle every day to never stop caring. Even when we're wrong. Even when we do things that'll never be okay…All I ask is that you try. Just try to do the right thing—even if you don't succeed, trying does count for something."

"You say it like it's so easy?" he smiled bitterly. "I'm a Death Eater, Granger. Fuck it, I even like being a Death Eater sometimes. The power, the rush. I feel like a king. Like the master of the universe, and nothing, not my father and his expectations, not you and your hopes, not the Dark Lord and his manipulations and games—nothing can touch me. That's who I am. Eventually, you'll come to hate me, y'know. Eventually, you'll resent ever having made the choice to marry me."

He knew he was right. But she also knew that she'd never accept that.

She'd fight, because she was Hermione Malfoy and Malfoy women were born fighters.

"Maybe, but then you'll kiss me and make love to me, and I'll forget it all."

"Am I that good?"

"No, you're that cruel. But you're mine too."

Draco let the glass fall to the floor. It crashed and shattered into pieces as his lips descended on hers with a hunger that was always struggling to get free.

Hermione moaned into his mouth, and for the first time in a long time, they were at peace.

---

Lunch was safe—less serious than dinner, but more appropriate than breakfast. Her stomach flipped and flopped. She wanted to know him.

She wanted him to know her.

"How old are you?"—typical first date question, but Tom was anything but typical. He was the lava inside of a volcano, churning and waiting to burst and destroy everything in his path.

"I do not do lunch dates, my dear, unless they are political. And I have zero patience for small talk." He didn't want to give her illusions. Maybe not the truth, either.

Truth was dangerous. Truth was for those he trusted, and Tom barely trusted his own shadow, let alone anyone else.

"Is this political?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

"Why are you here?" he countered.

They both knew the answer, though neither had answered at all.

---

"I've decided that you will be my heir," Voldemort declared imperiously. He commanded and his Death Eaters obeyed. He was the sole authority, and his word was always law—he had no need to ask.

"Of course m'lord," Draco bowed. What the fuck?! His insides quivered like jelly, but he kept his face emotionless.

"Do not bow and scrape," Voldemort snapped. "You will be better than everyone else. Heirs to Slytherin to do not bow."

He said it arrogantly, which Draco took to understand that Voldemort meant to empower Draco so far as it benefited him, no more. Draco wasn't supposed to bow anymore, but he should never forget who was superior to him.

It was a dangerous line to toe.

"Do you understand what will happen?" Voldemort asked in the tone he used sometimes that reminded him of Professor McGonagall during a lecture.

"No, m'lord."

Draco learned the first time he had a conversation with the Dark Lord that quick, succinct answers were best. Beating around the bush could go very wrong; Draco was still learning the little tricks, which seemed to be a perpetual game in progress.

"I am immortal," he announced as though he didn't bring it up almost every single time Draco saw him. It took everything inside of Draco not to roll his eyes, or let his features twist in amusement—Voldemort really was a narcissist, but one got used to it in time. "But I cannot conceive. I have tried with your aunt"–oh Merlin, that was an image he could've lived without—"and with various other women, until I discovered that it was my immortality, which makes me so great, that does not allow me to procreate."

"I am…sorry, m'lord," Draco answered hesitantly, unsure if he was supposed to be sorry for him or not. He braced himself for a crucio just in case he wasn't.

Thankfully, though the Dark Lord looked annoyed, he didn't attack.

"It is unfortunate," Voldemort waived his long, pale hand dismissively. "But it is to your benefit. You will be my heir, and I will breathe my magic into you."

"How?" Draco asked dumbfounded like whiplash. He added a quick "m'lord" as an afterthought.

"Have you ever heard of Domun autem Luna—the gift of the moon?"

Draco shook his head, entranced.

Voldemort's voice was hypnotic. It promised knowledge of the darkest kind, of the most dangerous and worthwhile kind. It promised and always, always, delivered. It was the everlasting danger of him.

"It's a very old—very ancient ritual that had risen during the Great Dragon Pox Plague," Voldemort continued. He weaved and created a story as if the very essence of a story were made of magic itself. "During that time many magical families were dying out—couldn't survive the Pox Plague. No one's sure who created the ritual, but by 1500 BC it'd gotten around that there was a way, a very dark way, to extend your magic so that the magical line would carry on, beyond the last descendants' death."

"Why haven't I heard of this?" Draco asked without thought. "Surely a ritual this useful would be well known." He added another "m'lord" after a raised eyebrow, and a repentant look on his part.

"The ritual and spell itself were used rarely after the plague was no longer an issue," Voldemort replied silkily. "But from then on, there was a push to produce male heirs, and it fell out of wide use. It was banned in 1770 AC as supremely Dark Magic—anyone found performing it today would face a lifetime in Azkaban or The Kiss."

Silence followed the Dark Lord's revelation, and an uneasiness spread through Draco's being. He didn't want to go to Azkaban. He didn't want to, but there was something darkly thrilling about being the heir to Lord Voldemort—the darkest wizard of all time.

"You will be reborn, your magic a reflection of me, of the illustrious and noble Slytherin Line." Voldemort overpowered the silence like he overpowered everything.

Pride and fear clashed inside of Draco's chest as his ego fluttered at the knowledge that out of all his followers, he would be chosen as the next heir to Slytherin.

"Like a blood adoption?"

"No—your parents' blood still runs through your veins. You are a Malfoy. It is why you've been chosen. But your magic—your magic will be elevated—purer than anyone else's."

"I see, m'lord," Draco said slowly, eyes downcast.

"No, you don't," Voldemort smiled wickedly. "But you will."

---

Every kiss was a promise. Sometimes they promised everlasting joy and happiness. Sometimes kisses could promise the feel and smell of the nectar of heaven. But other times, those rare and dangerously addictive times, kisses could promise ruin and pain.

Tom's lips touched hers.

The light snow fell like magic and hope around them, showering the power of the Earth upon them. There was nothing they could say or do except let themselves be swept by the time and the air and their magnificent feelings that wanted to erupt from inside of them…

"Why did you do that?" Minerva whispered shakily. Her voice was too heavy with the possibility of paradise. Her lips were tingling with warmth and fire—youth.

"I didn't know how to stop," Tom uttered harshly, and his harshness was bright, beautiful, contrary to all the hate and despondency that he'd let consume him for so long.

He was a man tortured by a love he didn't understand.

She should've run, she should've let the world crash around them before taking him in her arms, letting him swallow her in their shared embrace. But she was too young, too naïve, too hopeful that things would be better than they were in a world where people died and killed, and she was lost—so lost, and so hopeful of a future that would never be.

Her lips were fire upon his.

They were the break that Tom Riddle never knew could be reality.

---

The equivalent of a good man in any given war was a pebble in the ocean; the Order would like to believe that they had all the pebbles in the ocean; Voldemort hoped that his ranks had none; both were wrong, and they'd rue the day that they didn't understand the nature of humanity and the complexity of love.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked him sharply as soon as Draco stepped through their bedroom door. He was later than usual, and surprisingly not covered in blood or sweat. It was a pleasant surprise if not for the stricken look upon his face.

You will be reborn.

"Nothing." His voice was strained, his eyes slightly glazed and wild simultaneously. The thrill he'd felt was gone. The greed for power couldn't sustain him, and all he had were the Dark Lord's words.

Your magic a reflection of me.

It was terrifying.

"What's wrong?" she pushed as she rushed to him; there was something in her voice that was too desperate—too soft, that was so unlike them, that Draco froze.

Your magic will be elevated—purer than anyone else's.

He froze because if he didn't then he knew he'd shatter. He'd shatter and there'd be nothing left of his sense of masculinity—the bit he'd been able to hold onto on his knees, whilst he bowed to a Dark Lord. But he didn't need to bow anymore. Not anymore.

You will be my heir.

"Draco," and it was like everything crashed around him.

I will breathe my magic into you.

His shoulder's shook, and his stomach tumbled.

I love you.

I'm yours.

I want you to be great.

Forget what you know.

But how could he forget that he wasn't worthy? How could he forget that he wasn't born to be a dragon, or a king, or an heir? How could he forget that he didn't want to be a prophecy child? He didn't want any of it!

"Draco, please," Hermione said fearfully, because she was terrified.

She didn't know why, she didn't need to know why. This was her husband; he was kind of everything, and fuck it, but she was okay with that. She'd be okay with that if only he'd say that everything was fine. If only he'd say something.

Draco, please.

I love you.

I'm yours.

It was all too much, too soon, too heavy on his shoulders—their love, and the Dark Lord's promise.

And like that, the dam broke—hot tears created lines on his face. His knees buckled, and the ground rose up and met him without mercy. The ground tried to swallow him whole. He was beyond mercy, he was beyond faith, he was beyond hope—because he was the Dark Lord's heir, and nothing was ever going to be better again.

Hermione didn't say a word. They were past speaking on a night like tonight. They were through with pretending. His tears proved that.

She sank to the ground with him, jaw clenched, and wrapped her arms around him. She cocooned him against the world, because she was Hermione Malfoy, and that's what Malfoy women did—protect their own.

Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be.

She let his tears wash over her in silence. She didn't need to give him platitudes, lies that everything would be okay if only he told her what'd happened. Lies wouldn't fix whatever was wrong, and pretending were for people like Harry who were perpetually lied to, who needed to be safe guarded from the truth.

"I'm a monster" he said savagely as he pushed her away. This was more than just admitting that he wasn't the good guy, or that he'd never be the good guy. This was the knowledge that he would be the heir to Voldemort, and that the Dark Lord must have seen something in him that thought that Draco was truly dark—above rapists like McNair, and child abusers like Greyback.

Draco knew that he must be the kind of man that Voldemort would be proud of, and it was so sickening, so horrifying that Draco yelled. He screamed like he was being crucio'd.

He screamed until he was hoarse, and the echoes of his screams could be stripped and peeled off the walls of Hogwarts.

He screamed until he was gravel on the street, and couldn't scream anymore.

And then Hermione kissed him.

She kissed him sweetly, because fuck it, she loved him and she didn't need to pretend.

His screams had shattered her, and brought her up anew, remade her into a woman that was worthy of being called Malfoy, and because of that there was nothing left. There was nothing left but to kiss him and tell him the only truth that she had to give.

"Then I'll be a monster with you."

Just like that he knew that he had tainted the one good thing that he'd had in his world.

He was now irredeemable.

---

His arms had entrapped her, moved her, stopped her from understanding that this was all there was—all there would ever be.

Tom wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled and her heart beat like a scared songbird. He wanted to crush her in his arms until she loved him.

His kisses bruised so good and so right that Minerva forgot everything else except him.

Always him.

She saw the hungry possession in his eyes, the manic gleam that shined like tiny stars in the distance. His hands rove over her body like dancing spiders. His nostrils flared as he breathed her in as deep as he could.

"Mine," he snarled as he plunged into her with might and calculation. But inside, beneath the veneer of gentleman and thoughtful lover, he was beast. He was closed eyes and clenched jaw. He was sweat and complete control. He was confused eyes and complete abandon. "Mine," he repeated softly as his kisses made him forget about the fire that always burned so bright in his veins.

"Yours," Minerva clutched him closer, and rose her hips higher to meet his. "All yours."

It was too much. Her words were the only thing that mattered and now they were reckless hope, because please don't let this end.

Never, never.

Don't stop—

I'll never stop.

Please—

Yes, yes, witch! Reach for it—

I can't, I can't—

Reach for it, I'll give it to you—

Her cries were muted like she fish gasping for breath—and maybe she was dying. Maybe she'd been dying since the moment they'd met. But as her body spasmed, her heart soared, and Tom moved slowly within her, searching for—oh yes, yes, yes, fuuu—that, she wouldn't have it any other way.

Tom watched her as she reached her peak, and he never thought she looked more beautiful. His own chest settled with pride, because he was narcissistic and he enjoyed proving to himself and others how great of a lover he was.

He didn't cause her pleasure because he cared. He drove her to euphoria for him. For his own glory.

It was true, but there was a piece of him that did care. That was true too.

Tom kissed her lips gently, a simple dance of back and forth. In this dance, they sighed and let themselves be taken by a music made by their hands and hearts.

If only he had one.

If only she'd accept he didn't.

If only they had known they were both right, and wrong. Because Tom Riddle was a man made up of contradictions. He didn't just live in the grey, he was the grey, and fuck it, but he liked it that way.

He always would.

---

Sometimes breathing could be like trying to run a marathon for Draco. Everything felt heavy and slow, and like such a fucking struggle. But on his back, arm serving as a pillow for Hermione's head, completely sated like only she could make him, breathing was easy. It was easy like hope and faith. It was easy like love, and fuck if he didn't wish breathing could always be as easy.

There was a trail of sweat creating a journey in the arc of her back. The light was dim, and cast shadows on their bodies. The beads of sweat glistened like little diamonds twinkling in the sunlight.

He turned on his side towards her, and let his fingers follow the trail laid out before him.

She sighed contentedly, and Draco smiled at her tenderly. His wife.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she whispered. Her cheek was on his forearm. Her chocolate eyes attacked him, and he loved it. Too much. But never enough, because even now he wondered when the Dark Lord would call him.

Even now, though he resented being a slave, he relished the power that he gained under the Dark Lord's watchful eyes.

"Yeah," Draco blinked sultrily. "Yes, it is nice."

"But?"

"But what?" Draco started to knead his long, elegant fingers into her skin—his fingers dug and rolled over the arc of her back, down to the plump skin of her backside.

"You have a 'but,' clearly," Hermione raised her eyebrow because this was Draco Malfoy. He didn't do 'peaceful' well.

"Yes, I do," he smiled slowly. It was like that first warm breeze in the space between winter and spring. Her belly felt warm, and her hands itched to take him in her hands. "I have a wonderful butt, thank you very much."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up and escaped.

"You have a positively lovely butt, too," he continued.

"Oh honestly," she scoffed.

"Honestly," he leaned closer and started to kiss her cheek and neck. "The way you move sometimes, hot fuck, Granger, that arse might be a magician all by itself."

"Draco Malfoy!" Hermione blushed. But Draco pulled one of her ass cheeks roughly.

"C'mon, Granger," he pulled and let it loose again and again. "Admit it—you know this arse is its own miracle."

She started to chuckle, and Draco let himself enjoy the sound of her husky voice. He wanted to ease smoothly into the topic, but frankly, he had no clue how he could, so he preferred to simply jump in.

Fuck it.

"Can I, hm-hm?" Draco smiled shyly, his hand rubbing small, languid circles on Hermione's tired back.

"What?"

"Can I—you know?" He poked her backside once, and gave her that look.

"What in the—NO! No you most certainly cannot!" Hermione recoiled, appalled.

"C'mon, Granger," Draco smirked devilishly. "Don't be a prude."

"I think we can both agree that I'm no prude," she pursed her lips, annoyed, but not moved.

"Just try it," he bit his lips seductively.

"Never going to happen, Malfoy," Hermione's eyebrows were on a different continent, they were so high.

"Why? I've cried on your shoulder."

"Is that some kind of sexual marker for you? Once you've cried on my shoulder you can ask me to do obscene things?!"

"Do I have to answer that?" he smirked, mostly because he loved to see her riled up.

There was so much fire inside of him all of the time, burning him from the inside out, that he enjoyed the reminder that she wasn't just his wife. She was his equal. She had just as much fire inside of her too.

Didn't matter. Hermione jumped out of bed like the devil was on her heels, and threw on the first set of clothes she could find.

Draco laughed uproariously as he watched her become decent.

She glared at him balefully, but she could hear her mother in the back of her head.

Hermione had been thirteen, tossing and turning in her bed during the summer. She'd enjoyed being home, but she missed her friends, and her dreams revolved around them. Harry. Ron. Them.

She hadn't wanted to sleep and dream about people who were out of her reach, and so she'd tossed and turned some more. Raucous laughter drifted upstairs, which hadn't helped. Furthermore, it had been passed midnight, and she couldn't imagine who would be over at such an hour.

Finally, Hermione's curiosity got the better of her; she had slowly let her feet slap against the wooden floor as she slid out of the bed, and tip-toed out of the bedroom. The door had creaked a bit, but it hadn't been so noticeable with all the happiness downstairs.

The voices had become clearer as Hermione reached the end of the staircase, and she peaked from behind the corner.

There, her mother, the esteemed Dr. Granger, who had always been prim and proper in Hermione's eyes, lounged against the sofa, legs curled up, wine glass half full in her hand, surrounded by friends with their own glasses. The bottle of pinot noir sat on the coffee table, nearly empty.

The image was clear in Hermione's head as though she were witnessing it that very moment.

"Gretchen," Dr. Granger slurred. She had been drunk, and Hermione felt as though someone had smacked her into an alternate reality. "You really just need to give that man a good ol' fashion fuck!"

All the drunken ladies laughed, and this "Gretchen," with her smeared lipstick and flushed cheeks responded with her whole body, and the red wine in her glass sloshed around dangerously.

"Don't give me that, Ellen! I fuck him! I fuck him proud and proper, but the things he's asking of me. Lordy, I'd be afraid to confess to my priest!"

There had been more laughter, and Hermione had been frozen. She'd felt frozen inside, which hadn't helped. She'd been a bit hurt, too. It had never been more apparent to her that her parents had lives outside of her.

"Well, maybe you can compromise," a blonde with ridiculously long nails had said as she reached for another bottle that was quickly emptying by her side.

"Compromise?" her mother scoffed. "You know as well as I do, darling, that most definitely is not the way to keep a man. Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed."

Everyone had laughed.

Hermione's limbs reacted, and she'd launched herself back upstairs.

But she never forgot, and here was the proof that mothers really did know best.

Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed.

"So, is that a 'no'?" he leered, but there was such mischief in his eyes that Hermione almost couldn't blame him. Almost.

Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed.

She slammed the door on her way out, and his laughter followed her all the way down the stairs and out of the Slytherin common room, nose in the air, shoulders straight.

Whereas she'd looked like a woman who had been ravaged by the hungriest of lovers a moment ago, now, with a quick wave of her wand, she looked like the prissy and appropriate lady she'd always thought her mother to be.

She looked like a Malfoy.

Men may want a lady in the streets. But they want a freak in the bed, indeed.

Indeed.

---

"What are you searching for?" Minerva asked quietly, white sheet covering her breasts. She watched him dress slowly, in that methodical way of his. It always seemed like everything he did was checking just for the sake of checking it off of his list.

Pants—check.

Shirt—check.

Tie—check.

She wondered if she was a check on his list, too.

"What do you mean? Are you not enough for me?" he smiled that quirky, insincere smile of his as he fixed his tie. But she wouldn't be swayed.

"You stopped working at Borgin and Burkes, you refused all those ministry jobs back when we first met—do not bother to lie. I worked there. I know. I asked."

"I will be great one day, my dear," Tom walked over and towered over her for a moment. "Better than those jobs."

He liked the feeling of being above her, in all senses. He always felt out of control with her, and dominating her, even in the simplest of ways, helped him feel as though he were regaining some of that control.

"I know," she smiled, and there was so much honesty in her eyes that Tom could've almost exploded from the sheer feeling of knowing she believed in him. He didn't like how consuming it was. "But that doesn't mean you can't try and be great now."

The very next day he applied for the position of DADA in Hogwarts. Of course, Dumbledore refused in his own manner, which Tom knew he would. Nonetheless, Tom was furious.

He was furious that Minerva had that much power over him.

---

There was never a moment when Ron's eyes didn't search for Hermione. Ever since he was eleven years old, his eyes would search the crowd for her bushy hair, his ears would perk up searching for her bossy voice.

He'd never questioned the instinct, the compelling need to search for her, to always find her.

But as the years passed he became acutely aware of the need. He became aware of his own failings and feelings, which always surged from his chest like little firecrackers when she smiled at him or praised him.

It was this same awareness that caused him to resent her and despise himself. Because the action was too engrained, too buried within himself…now that she belonged to another, it hurt.

It hurt so fucking bad when he naturally searched for her voice like he'd always done, and found her talking to Malfoy in passing.

It hurt too fucking much when he instinctively searched for her chocolate eyes, and found her gaze settled on Malfoy. But she was a Malfoy now, and every time he looked for her and found her, he was reminded.

He was reminded that he wasn't good enough, pure enough; sometimes he hated her for making him care so damned much, only to walk away.

Sometimes he hated himself for caring too much to not be able to let go, but not enough to love her like she had wanted.

"Hey," Harry had sat down across from him in the common room. The emptiness swept through them and around them; they both knew what was missing, what was suffocating him slowly.

That was how Ron ended up here, in front of the Slytherin House door, hands in trouser pockets, cloak lost somewhere in Gryffindor common room, eyes unblinking, waiting for the door to open and Hermione's figure to sweep past.

It didn't matter if he had to wait all night—he just needed this to be over. He needed to crush the incessant instinct to always find her, to need her around. He needed it gone or else he'd go crazy.

As though Merlin had heard his prayers, the door opened, and Hermione walked through, lips turned down, her eyes blazing in that way that always reminded Ron of how alive she truly was.

She had barely taken a step past the threshold when she saw him and stopped abruptly, the door closing behind her with bang. Her lips transformed into a radiant smile, as though she hadn't seen him in weeks.

Maybe she hadn't. Perhaps being right beside her sometimes had nothing to do with actually seeing him.

She went to speak, but Ron didn't want pleasantries. He didn't want "hey" or "how are you." He wanted a truth that would settle the uncomfortable feeling in his gut every time he looked to his right and found she wasn't there.

"Why him and not me?" Ron asked finally, finally. He'd needed the words to be said, to reach out of him and into the universe.

Hermione's smile slipped off her face like raindrops on a windowpane.

"You don't love me, Ron," Hermione sidestepped, unsure as to what brought this on, but completely aware that this had been coming for a long time. But Ron wasn't letting this go. Not today, not when he was sick and tired of waiting for her.

"That's not what I asked you."

"You never loved me," she stressed, but it didn't matter.

"Did he?" Ron felt like he was being gutted. He despaired deep in his soul for something he'd always thought would be his, and wasn't. "Did he love you? Did he lie—was that the difference? I cared too much to lie."

"Okay, Ron," Hermione lashed out at him, furious that after all the blood split, she still didn't regret not walking away—she wanted to. She was furious that Ron always tempted her with his goodness. "Do you really want the truth? Can you even handle it? Because there isn't some magical cure at the end that'll make my decision okay."

"Stop spinning us in circles, Hermione," Ron gritted his teeth and clenched his fits so hard they were white at the knuckles. "Put us both out of this miserable owl's cage for Merlin's sake."

"I wanted him," she glared, hurt that he was forcing the issue, dismayed that she didn't have a better answer, and knowing that he was justified. "I wanted him," she repeated.

"Don't lie to me!" Ron exploded, knowing in his gut there was more.

Because he knew her, and Hermione wasn't so shallow to decide her whole world based on desire. He would, Harry would, but not her. She'd always been too logical for that.

"I'm not."

"Just stop lying!" he yelled and Hermione couldn't stop the vitriol from spilling forth from her mouth.

"The truth? The truth is that I may not have known what I wanted, but he knew. He knew you were too good to ever protect me."

"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to protect you as my best friend, let alone my wife," Ron snarled, affronted at the assault on his manhood.

"Would you have killed for me?"

"Yes!"

"Now who's the one lying?" Hermione sneered and she felt like a Malfoy.

"I would have, damn it!" Ron spread his arms out as if waiting for a miracle. His words bounced off the walls, and they were trapped between the echoes of his fury and pain. He pointed his index finger at her accusingly. "You know that Harry and I would have—still."

"Not innocents," she whispered, tired of lying and hiding, but ashamed of the truth.

"What?"

"If you were given a choice between me and an innocent person, you wouldn't be able to choose," she looked at him sadly.

"So, because I'm not a cold-blooded murderer, I wasn't good enough for you?"

"No," Hermione latched onto his arm that bulged with barely restrained violence. "Don't you see—you're so good, Ron. You're such a good person that I knew you wouldn't be able to, and I'm proud to know someone so good…But that' not what I need. I need someone who I know would always choose me, even when it isn't the right choice, even if it costs them their soul."

"I could've become that for you," Ron lifted his hand and touched her cheek gently.

"Maybe," Hermione conceded, knowing now, after witnessing her own transformation, that there were few limits to what a person could become for someone they cared for deeply. "But I didn't want to be the reason you changed. I didn't want to ruin you."

"Damn you, 'Mione," Ron sighed harshly. "Damn you because things didn't have to be this way. You could've spoken to me about this before you chose Malfoy, and I would have understood."

"But you understand now, right?" Hermione pleaded silently with her eyes. She didn't want to lose him. "You don't hate me, do you?"

"No, I don't hate you," he pulled her to him, and wrapped his strong arms around her, shielding her from the world and his own sorrow. His hug was warm and precious. "I could never hate you, and I do understand. But now you'll always be the one that got away, and you did that to us. You did that to me."

"I'm sorry," she hugged him tighter, wishing he could feel her remorse.

"I know," he nodded as he let her go gently. He nodded again as though he were trying to convince them both. "I know you are."

He smiled slightly at her, but the truth was that he didn't believe her, not really. Frankly, she didn't quite believe herself, either—because if she'd felt truly sorry, she wouldn't have done it in the first place. No, she was sorry that it turned out the way it did, but that wasn't the same.

But Ron wasn't Draco, and this was a truth neither had to face.

---

"It's been years, Tom," Minerva balled her fists up in anger. "Years—of wondering whether or not you ever plan to settle down. Years of questioning whether or not staying as we are is my choice or yours. We are together! Together, Tom. A unit. And at first I loved you so much for respecting my goals and career dreams—for giving me the time and space to be who I'm meant to become on my own. But now…I'm ready. I'm ready, and waiting, and…we deserve more than that. We deserve more than this."

He kissed her, and that was okay too, except it really wasn't.

She sort of hated him for it.

"Take me as I am, my dear," he whispered against her lips. "Or do not take me at all. I have my own dreams and goals to chase after. This is all I have to offer."

She paused. Their lips pressed together, but neither moving.

Her heart contracted painfully in the wait.

She kissed him back, misguidedly thinking that all they needed was a little more time.

---

The November sunset shimmered in the sky the colors of sorrow and hope as Draco and Voldemort stood on top of a hill near the highlands. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sunset as though they were father and son.

It was strange for Draco to be in the Dark Lord's presence without the need to bow and offer words of veneration. There was a feeling of danger that settled on Draco's bones that he couldn't shake.

"Do you know why we are here?" Voldemort hissed smoothly. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it commanded and towered above the cries of the wind.

"No, my lord," Draco barely caught the automatic movement of his head to bow when talking to Voldemort.

"We are here so that you may learn the glory of the Earth."

Draco wanted to ask what in the hell he was talking about, but knew that silence was his friend. Voldemort loved the dramatics, and he loved making most conversations a type of mystery. Because of this, Draco knew the Dark Lord would explain, in his own time. He just had to be patient. He just had to keep it all together.

"When was the last time you attended a winter solstice?"

Draco was sure Voldemort already knew, since his parents and Snape still brought it up. Every year since, he'd tried to make it, but he always got distracted, or disaster hit, and he never made it.

"The last time I went to the winter ritual, I was twelve. Suppose I'm overdue for some grace from the moon."

"Do not be glib," Voldemort turned towards him and glared fiercely. Draco opened his mouth to apologize, but Voldemort waved his apology away. "The moon may smile upon you, yet, young dragon. She may smile on you, yet."

Draco nodded his head swiftly, but he had no clue what Voldemort was talking about. He assumed this meant that he'd be forced to attend the upcoming winter ritual, but he'd been planning to do that anyway.

But, then again, he always planned to go.

There was a sudden pop—the sound of a truly skilled apparater appearing. Draco went to turn around, but Voldemort's hands on his shoulder stopped him. There was a cruel lift on his lips that Draco didn't understand, but then again—he never understood much when it came to the Dark Lord.

"Take a breath, Dragon," Voldemort said mellifluously, which was so damned sinister and jarring. "Breathe, and think about what you want most in the world. What do you want, and how far are you willing to go to get it?"

What do you want?

I love you.

I'm yours.

I want you to be great.

You will be my heir.

Power.

Pain.

Blood.

I love you.

He wanted everything.

---

"I suppose I should begin seeing other people," Minerva announced haughtily to Tom as she stormed into his office in his home.

She didn't own it, but it sure seemed like it. Frankly, she had no way of knowing that he would be in without company, but there he stood, bathed in blood.

"If you are talking about Bellatrix Black," Tom responded nonchalantly as though nothing was amiss. "Let it go, my dear. Her family are very influential and I want them for my cause."

Minerva barely heard a word he said, however. She could barely breathe.

"What happened?" she ran to him, desperately checking him for injuries. Where was he bleeding from? Where was he bleeding from? But she couldn't find any cuts. "Merlin! Are you alright, Tom? What happened?"

"Stop fussing," Tom snapped and pointedly put some distance between them. "I am perfectly fine."

"You're covered in blood!"

"Yes," he smiled wickedly. "Still love me?"

I want them for my cause, he'd said, and Minerva finally heard him.

"What cause?" she could barely ask.

"I told you I was going to be great," he scourgified the blood that was still wet on his skin. He looked into her eyes and let her see him as he saw himself. "Woe be to the person who ever doubted it."

Minerva turned away from him, and disappeared for a week, watching the Daily Prophet for any sign of a brutal murder, or a massacre.

There were only notes about disappearances, and so Minerva convinced herself that everything was normal.

---

Listening to Professor Flitwick lecture was typically an interesting affair, if not exactly rousing. But Draco couldn't focus, and Hermione kept sending worried glances his way, which simply added to his apprehension.

She watched him like Voldemort did at times—as though they knew all they needed to just by his posture, or the way he smiled.

There was a strangeness to it, a certain level of intimacy that made him want to squirm. But he didn't. Malfoy's don't squirm.

That was rule thirty-four in the one-hundred essential rules of how to be a Malfoy. Seriously. It was.

Number thirty-four—Malfoy's don't squirm—squished between thirty-three (Malfoy's don't assume anything) and thirty-five (Malfoy's don't linger). Frankly, he was almost looking forward to having a child of his own just so he could see their face at rule number one: Malfoy's try not to fuck—their wives, their friends, or themselves. But if you have to, fuck over your friend first (you can always make more), then your wife (she'll have to die one day and until then can be sent to live away from you), and finally, if all else fails and you can't help it, yourself (you'll survive).

The rules ranged from outrageous, to basic common sense (Rule one-hundred: Don't die at any cost). There was something so heartwarming and normal about those Malfoy rules that instead of listening to Fltiwick, Draco spent the entire class time reciting the Malfoy rules in his head.

It was just enough to hold it together.

What do you want, and what are you willing to do to get it?

Because fuck, he was barely holding it together, and he knew it.

There was a sudden pop—the sound of a truly skilled apparater appearing

His hands shook, and his breathing kept spiking erratically when flashes of sunburn cheeks, and crooked teeth sped through his mind.

Take a breath, Dragon.

The class was over, but Draco didn't move. He didn't want to move. If he simply stayed perfectly still then nothing was real.

"Draco?" Hermione approached him slowly.

But Hermione always made everything too real.

Think about what you want most in the world.

His body shifted into action, and he fled the classroom, but Hermione was right behind him. He'd barely left the room when Hermione caught him and yanked him to her, into the crook of a small alcove.

Take a breath, Dragon.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, but Draco kept his silence. It was all he had at the moment. It was all he could truly bear. "I thought we were over this, Malfoy. Talk to me."

Is this your choice?

Do not hesitate, Draco. Hesitation is death.

Please, think about this.

Blood.

Screams.

Pain.

"I killed a man, today," he whispered as they settled into their honesty like priest and confessor.

There was so much space separating them, yet they'd never felt closer. Maybe this was what normal relationships were like. No battles. No fights filled with affection and hate, lust and resentment. Perhaps this was what people like Luna and Harry felt when they bared their souls.

But Hermione and Draco weren't them, and they never would be.

"Pretty sure you kill at least a few every week, if not more," she shrugged. It was a mask, but she needed it, because Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be. Now wasn't the time for her moral pulpit."What's so special about this one?"

"He helped me," Draco turned away from her and laid his hands against the wall. He leaned and pushed against it, his arms completely outstretched, his body at an angle. It was as though he was trying to force his magic into his hands. Hermione couldn't see his face, but the way his back rippled, his muscles taut, told her everything she couldn't see. "He sat on a mountain and trained me. Fuck, Granger, can you even picture this."

He pushed away from the wall and turned abruptly towards her. He ran his hands anxiously through his hair, and she realized how frazzled he must be. She tried to reach for him, but he backed away.

"Don't you see, Granger? He spent hours training me, trying to teach me how to hold my magic and not just let it live inside of me. Hours talking about you, my family, my childhood—everything that could've remotely affected my magic and the way I interact with it."

"Why?"

"Because to commune with the moon, really, to be bathed in its grace after I've forsaken it for so many years, I have to be completely open to my magic. I have to be completely unafraid of all the facets of my magic. But that's decidedly unnatural—everyone fears their magic at least a bit. So he—a man I killed afterwards—trained me to be unafraid."

Hermione was horrified at his actions, but she also burned with jealousy; she wanted to learn all of that too. But this wasn't about her. It was never about her. It was always about Harry, Draco, or even Ron.

Her entire life was a reaction to the men around her, and she burned with bitterness too, but she stomped it down and away as if she was stomping on the dreams of children who were learning that Santa Claus wasn't real for the first time.

She was a woman, and there were some truths of her lot that she didn't want to accept.

But Draco's heavy sigh reminded her that this wasn't about her, and right now was not the time to rage about the injustices done to her sex.

"What happened, Draco?" she tried to soothe and comfort him. She held out her hand, and he took it. No heated looks, or electrifying warmth.

This was love. This was acceptance. This was home.

"Voldemort ordered me to kill him, afterwards. When it was all said and done, I felt closer to that guy than anyone I'd ever known in my life. He knew my dreams and fears. He knew my hopes and emotions. He knew everything there is to know about me, Granger, and I killed him."

"Why?"

"To prove that I could kill someone that I felt connected to. To prove that there was no limit to what I would do for what I want."

Draco trembled, and Hermione tightened her hold on his hand.

Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be.

"Then you're the man I married," she whispered fiercely. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of."

It was a lie, but it didn't feel like one—not to him and not to her, not right at that moment.

That was all that mattered.

They were all that mattered.

---

"I was visiting an aunt when the village was attacked, and some stranger—Terrorist—grabbed me and apparated me here! That is not okay!" Minerva raged at Tom.

"They did the right thing," he nodded approvingly as he read through some plans for his Death Eaters. He didn't bother hiding them from Minerva because they were enchanted for only his eyes, through blood magic.

"What is wrong with you?" Minerva yelled, tears pooling in her eyes. "How could you condone this?"

"What's wrong with you?" Tom bit back and finally took all of her in. "I told you that I was going to change the world—I told you that I was going to be great. But you convinced yourself that I was going to do it in a way that you approved of."

"I thought you were a better man than this," she snarled.

"I'm not," he touched her hand softly. "I never was."

---

Draco walked into his room, only to find Harry fucking saint Potter sitting in his armchair, staring into the fireplace as though it held the answers to the mysteries of the galaxies.

Annoyed didn't even begin to cover Draco's emotions.

"Potter," he said slowly, as though he were talking to a small child. Harry turned abruptly to look at him, surprise etched into his features. "Unless I've fallen into an alternate universe, please, please, stay the hell out of my space."

"Don't be a dick," Harry scowled. He thought that something might have changed between them, but he knew that he'd been fooling himself. They had an understanding of each other, of their love for Hermione—nothing else. "I'm waiting for Hermione. A First Year downstairs let me in and pointed me this way to wait for her."

"Of course," Draco sneered. "Make yourself at home then."

"Don't mind if I do," Harry stretched his lips into a painful grimace that was still trying to become a smile. He scanned Draco and noticed his slightly haggard appearance. "You look in fine form, don't you?"

"Unlike you, these walls don't protect me from the reality of the war, Potter."

His words seeped all of the warmth out of the room.

"What's going on out there?"

"Doesn't your precious Order keep you apprised?" Draco mocked, but the sincere desperation for knowledge told him everything that he needed to know. "What do you actually know?"

"I know the war's started in earnest in some ways," Harry admitted, not ashamed of showcasing his weakness if it would gain him more information that he had now. "I know that Voldemort's gaining power, and that the odds are stacked against us. Against everyone who doesn't have the Dark Mark."

"So, basically, you know nothing," Draco boiled it down to the truth because he didn't have the strength or the patience to be any level of polite to the man he was supposed to try to live up to in his wife's eyes—whether she said it or not. He sighed and walked to the bar and poured them both a drink of bourbon. Fuck it. "They're trying to pass legislation that'll make owning more than one property illegal without certain economic standing—you know, rich."

"What does that have to do with the war?"

"What do you know about the way the Order works?" Draco rolled his eyes and passed Harry his glass. They both took a sip at the same time as Draco perched himself on the edge of the adjacent leather sofa. Draco continued softly, "Contrary to popular belief, Dumbledore wasn't under any illusions that he'd live forever. Bloody hell, I'm pretty sure the old coot knew that I was trying to kill him last year. Anyway, the point is that he couldn't be secret keeper to every safe-house of the Order. So, everyone, including Dumbledore at the time, has a place that they are secret keeper for. Of course, even though it's a fidelus charm, so it can't be broken and the secret keeper can't be forced to break the charm, that doesn't mean that those who are secret keepers aren't on the books usually. Someone has to own the house that no one can find or see; someone has to own the land that no one can go near. And even if the owner isn't the secret keeper, it doesn't matter.

Every player in the game knows what's happening and it looks suspicious—sends red flags when the same five or six people own so much land and houses, especially if they're poor or middle class. My best guess is that the Order limits everyone to only one safe-house in addition to their own private property. But, with this law, once it's limited, it's clear who owns safe-houses; kill them and the properties are automatically put up for sale and the bond to the fidelus charm breaks. With this law most of the Order literally can't own more than one property, making it easy to distinguish who owns safe-houses. Whereas before, the Order could do it incognito. Essentially, this is the opposite. And despite being loyal, most people aren't willing to turn their own homes into safe-houses. No one in their right mind would endanger their own family in case it was discovered that their personal homes were safe-houses."

"It would force them to downsize."

"That or be seen as highly suspicious. Even the rich look suspicious if they own fourteen properties, which is probable cause for the Ministry to raid."

"They can't actually do that can they? Anyone with common sense knows that Voldemort is hiding out at your house, but they haven't raided it."

"It's the beauty of being from a Most Ancient and Noble House," Draco shrugged as if he didn't care, which, frankly, he didn't. This was the way the world worked, and Lucius had taught him to accept that a long time ago. "They can't raid any house belonging to the head of a Most ancient and noble house. It's the law, and you know how much the ministry loves to follow the law."

Draco raised that supercilious eyebrow that always mocked, and Harry gritted his teeth, mind racing a thousand miles per hour trying to find a loophole, something, to do the right thing.

"There has to be a way," Harry demanded.

"There is. But I don't suppose you and Longbottom would be willing to fall on your swords for the cause—scratch that. You, maybe, but Longbottom's got a legacy to think about that matters to him. He was taught to care about his legacy."

"Bloody hell," Harry responded, completely surprised. "I had no idea…"

He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. Draco understood, because at one point, he'd had no idea either. No idea that that war had layers. No idea that nothing was like it seemed, and that this war was vastly complicated. But he'd had his own reasons, and he was sure his reasons weren't Harry Potter's.

"What did you think?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. They'd crossed the largest barrier between them—Hermione. Everything else was simply background noise. They'd listen to it when they weren't tired. They'd listen tomorrow.

"What, you thought this war was about you?"

"I know it's not!—"

"Don't lie to make yourself feel better," Draco scowled and drank from his cup. If Potter wanted to talk, then he wouldn't let him hide from his own truth, either. "The Dark Lord killed your parents. Then your godfather died over your prophecy—this, all of it, felt, feels personal. He made it personal."

"I'm not some spoiled brat," Harry leaned his head back against the couch and sighed deeply. "I'm not."

"You don't have to be a spoiled brat to be naïve. You don't have to be a spoiled brat to accept that we're all superstars in our own lives."

"What do you think is going to happen?"

"We'll all do what we have to, Potter," Draco took a large swig of his drink. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down quickly. "That's the truth that everyone refuses to tell you. We all, all of us, from the most self-righteous to the greatest loathsome and despicable rat will just do what we have to. So, word to the wise: be careful who you trust."

Harry wanted to refute the statement, but he didn't. He couldn't. Instead, he drank some more, and let silence take over. He stared into the crackling fire, and wondered where Hermione was.

Or at least that was what he would say if she appeared and asked.

What he actually wondered would have broken her heart: if the time ever came, would he do the right thing, or simply what he had to?

---

Dumbledore's office always looked like a controlled mess—half teenaged boy bedroom and half genius trap. It always made everyone, regardless of age, feel as though they were talking to their father or grandfather.

Dumbledore was no fool, and he wanted it that way. Guilt was better than any veritaserum.

Minerva knew this about him, but it didn't change how she felt, sitting in front of him, and listening to the current events that featured Tom. Dumbledore chatted in a seemingly random fashion about the terrorist attacks that weren't being publicized—the ones that were ignored because they were against muggles. But they both knew his conversation wasn't random at all.

They both knew.

"You look tired and worried," Dumbledore struck when she least expected him to. He let the statement hang for a moment, as his gaze and her guilt created a music of silence that built until Minerva thought she might break. "Anything you'd like to tell me?"

She hoped that someone would stop Tom—catch him, kill him.

She didn't think she could take the heartbreak if they did.

This was love.

"No."

---

Hermione stood in the hallway in front of the DADA classroom. She knew she was tempting fate by being anywhere near the Carrow's classroom alone, but she always seemed to be surrounded by people lately. Draco, Harry, even Ginny—it was as though she rarely had a moment to just breathe.

She needed that, if nothing else. She needed at least a moment, to simply breathe.

So, instead of taking a walk, and risking bumping into Harry or Ron or Ginny, she came early to the DADA classroom.

"Well, if it isn't you," Pansy sneered as she walked towards Hermione.

Hermione on the other hand breathed heavily through her nose; her nails dug into her palms; her teeth grounded against each other in frustration. All she'd wanted was one fucking moment, and even that was denied to her. But she was a Malfoy now, and Malfoys and Parkinsons were close; she'd heard the lecture from Draco enough times to know she had to keep her cool.

"Pansy," Hermione nodded her head once in acknowledgement, but the disdain was clear. Be nice, be nice. "How's husband hunting?"

Okay, so she needed to work on her nice skills.

Pansy glared for a moment, but straightened her back and lifted her chin. Hermione hadn't been the only one commenting on that. It seemed that being seventeen and unengaged in a time when all of her peers were either engaged, married, or simply waiting to be of age to be either, was the worst thing she could be.

Too bad no one beside blood-traitors would ever touch you apparently—still on the market, I hear?

Pansy, dearest, I think my cousin might offer for you, if your father is willing to take a meager amount?

Did you hear that Pansy still isn't engaged? If I were her I'd just die of embarrassment—oh, hello, Pansy! How are you?

Well, clearly good breeding isn't everything, or else you'd be engaged by now, huh?

The pressure to find a husband was practically unbearable.

"How's being in a loveless, sham of a marriage?" Pansy didn't bother to try to play pretend. Not today, not now, not with her.

The pressure was too much, and the ring on Hermione's finger was too cold of a reminder.

"What do you think you know about my marriage, Parkinson?" Hermione glowered right back. "Let alone about love?"

Perhaps they both needed this. Maybe they both couldn't hold everything in, and this was the perfect way to let some of that anger out. Because, make no mistake, they were angry. They were angry at Hogwarts for changing beyond recognition, though the walls still looked the same. They were angry at Draco for letting them both down on different levels. They were angry at themselves, for trying and trying and still feeling like they were utter failures, and failing those around them.

"I know that I loved Draco," Pansy stepped closer, and laid her hand on her own chest. Don't cry, don't cry, don't bloody cry. "I know that I would've married him if not for you and this Merlin-forsaken law. I know that Draco might tell you that you have to deal with my presence because of our families' history, but the truth is that he just likes having me around because I've known him long before you even knew he existed, and I know he's got blood on his hands, but I don't judge him. I'll never judge him—I'll always accept him just as he is. So, yeah, Granger, I know a bit about love, and I'd wager, a bit more about Draco and your marriage."

Hermione didn't know what to say; she knew that Draco wasn't an open book, and that he really might have told her to deal with it because he simply wanted Pansy around; through Hermione was the only appropriate way he could have Pansy around now that he was married. Pansy: the girl who loved him without conditions.

"I broke a good woman's heart," Draco sighed, and his sigh held the weight of the world.

She remembered that night, so long ago. She realized that, just maybe, she and Pansy cared for Draco the way that Draco and Harry cared for her and the way she and Luna cared for Harry and the way Theo and Draco cared for Pansy. They were all young, and intertwined in simple and complicated ways. They were all put in impossible situations, manipulated by old men on power trips.

Suddenly, all of the fight that Hermione had been itching to let out on Pansy disappeared. They were the same, despite how different they really were.

"I didn't take him from you," Hermione looked away, confused at her own reaction. She should be railing against Pansy—the woman that Draco still might care for. But she couldn't. How could she fault Pansy for being unable to let go?

"You don't think so, but I know him," Pansy's eyes filled with unshed tears, but she wouldn't let them loose. She was a Pureblood. She might not be as composed as Daphne 'ice-queen' Greengrass, but she wouldn't resort to crying in public. Even if no one was around besides Hermione. Instead, Pansy refocused. "You took him away from me a long time ago, whether or not he'll ever admit it."

The silence weighed on them, as Hermione remembered remembering the day Draco had offered his hand.

It had been the day she had punched Malfoy right after the Buckbeak incident…Her stomach had clenched, and their eyes met—and the magic in the air had been palpable for that one second where they both felt but couldn't describe. The magic rising in light of their disgust at the alien feelings.

Love was connection. The deepest kind of connection that existed.

Pansy saw the recognition in Hermione's eyes, and shook her head. "What now?"

Before Hermione could respond, the soft heels hitting stone bounced off the walls, until Luna came into view. She smiled serenely at both of them, as she approached, and then, enigmatically said,"You know, love isn't about who you are—not really. Love's about who you want to be. That's the power of love—the ability to transform you. The ability to let us transform ourselves."

Hermione and Pansy both gaped at Luna openmouthed for a moment, stunned at her perceptiveness and targeted comment. Hermione wondered if the girl really was touched with sight, but let the thought go.

Even if she was, Hermione didn't want to know.

"You really are a weirdo, aren't you?" Pansy said cruelly, but there was no real bite in her words. This was Theo's soon-to-be wife. She couldn't hate the girl even if she tried.

"Probably," Luna shrugged carelessly. "But I think Theo's okay with it."

"You don't sound enthused," Pansy noted, her natural instinct to hone in on others weakness rearing its head without her consent.

Hermione wanted to tell Pansy that it was none of their business, but she'd noted the same thing as well. An image of Luna and Harry together, sitting on the floor, sharing secrets and hearts, flashed through her mind.

"He's still in love with you, I think. But he'll be good to me," Luna continued to smile whimsically, and began to play with her strange earing. "And I sort of love him already. Eventually he'll let you go enough to love me back, I reckon."

"So, what's the problem?" Hermione couldn't help herself; she wasn't surprised to find that Luna had picked up on that same signs that Hermione had—she'd seen Theo's eyes stray to Pansy's form enough times in the Slytherin common room to catch the hint.

"I didn't choose him," her eyes focused on them, and damn it. There was something about Luna's eyes that could shift and make everyone think that she was the only one that actually saw the world clearly. "My father decided that he was the one that I would marry, which is fine. I know this is the way it's done. I know this is the way it's always been done. But, well, I would've preferred to have had the choice. Even if I still chose him, it would've been my choice."

Hermione sighed, as it struck her how little she still knew of the world around her, despite all she's learned. Luna was her friend, and it had never occurred to her to ask why she chose Theo.

"I'm sorry, Luna," Hermione touched Luna's arm in sympathy.

Pansy didn't bother to offer her condolences. Her father promised that she could choose for herself once the petitions came in—but he was within his rights to deny her that. Essentially, she was only slightly better off than Luna.

"It's okay," Luna shrugged. "We all have our crosses to bear."

Her eyes unfocused, and she swiftly walked away, just as she had come. If it wasn't for the clicking and clacking of her shoes on the stone floors Hermione and Pansy would've sworn that she'd been a figment of their imagination.

We all have our crosses to bear.

Hermione and Pansy looked at each other for a moment. They could hear a student crying from within the DADA classroom from some curse or another.

We all have our crosses to bear.

---

"They were people, Tom!" Minerva shouted at him, enraged and heartbroken. She was the epitome of a lover distraught. "They were human beings that deserved better than being the punchline to your sick games! Your sick—twisted!"

"I am who I am, my sweet," Tom crowded her space—typical power play. But Minerva wasn't in the mood to cower. She never was.

"You're a monster," she slapped him, tears overflowing from her eyes. His face turned with the force of the slap, and his gaze burned red with rage.

"That was a mistake, my love," Tom whispered silkily in a dangerous tone that spoke of a violence she'd yet to see from him. But she knew had existed. She'd always known. The bottomless rage had always danced around in his eyes, in the swiftness and ruthlessness of his body against hers. She'd known, and she had looked away.

She'd blinded herself to the truth because she loved him too much.

"No," She straightened her back, and let all the revulsion and hate pool in her eyes. "My mistake was ever believing that you could be a better man than you were."

She left on quacking limbs, hoping she'd seen the last of Tom Riddle; her traitorous heart prayed that she hadn't.

---

Draco's silver eyes bore into Theo, peered through him, and saw everything that Theo didn't say. Draco saw the dismay and horror that he felt at being a recruiter for Death Eaters. Emissary.

"Why me?" Theo asked coldly, mask in place but they'd been friends long enough that Draco could see through it.

He could see beyond it.

"Why not you?"

Draco shrugged. Truth was his only defense for asking such a thing of his friend, his brother. "The Dark Lord doesn't share his reasons, and frankly, I don't think he really has one."

Yes. Draco is a dragon, and Blaise a Prince, but you Theo, you are special, too. You're a Protector.

"I don't think I can do this, Draco."

Theo grit his teeth. His sapphire eyes were lost and tortured—a reflection of the horrors he'd seen since his father have never stopped being a Death Eater. Not even during peace time.

"You'll have to at least pretend," Draco ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "I've been covering for you lately, but even I can only shield you from the Carrows for so long. If you don't recruit at all, they'll eventually catch on. They'll know and then the Dark Lord will know, too. Your father will know."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

Silence consumed them and they were too close to too much power—everything they'd always wanted and everything they'd always feared. They bore the weight of age on youthful shoulders.

"What am I going to do?"

"Do what we all do—what you have to. And if you can't live with yourself afterwards, then marry a witch with enough forgiveness inside of her to forgive you enough for the both of you."

"You're in too deep, Draco" Theo snapped at him. Draco didn't want to have this conversation, but he couldn't run. He'd never run. Never again.

"With who exactly?" Draco tried to play naive.

"With everyone!" He flung his arms wildly, exasperated and slightly lost. He wanted to help his friend, to reel him in, but they hadn't been truly close in so long that he felt he didn't know how. He didn't have the words that Blaise obviously did. But he tried anyway. He tried because they were best friends, and he'd never stop trying. "You think I haven't noticed you and Granger? And don't even try to run this as simply keeping the peace—I see the way you look at her. This whole damned castle sees the way you look at her. You love her."

"Spare me the witch and nifflers talk, please," Draco scoffed. It didn't matter if he knew it was sort of true. Knowing, and admitting were never the same thing.

"Heir, Draco?" Theo said with sad eyes. More saddened by the fact he heard it through the ranks rather than from Draco himself. It was left field, but also completely connected because there wasn't a part of his life that Hermione hadn't permeated, corrupted with her goodness, her light. There wasn't a part of his life that the Dark Lord hadn't tainted with his darkness. "Heir?"

"It's not like I could say no," he shrugged.

"You're too deep, mate. Too far, you might as well be falling off the edge."

"Being elevated as a Death Eater, and getting along with my wife are hardly things to be upset about, Theo."

"Yeah? And what about your newfound friendship with Potter?"

"I assure you, we aren't, nor have we ever been, friends."

"Don't be a dick—you're playing a dangerous game and you know it. Too dangerous. Being a prophecy child doesn't make you invincible."

They were at a standstill, impassive in their impasse.

They were the future of the Wizarding world, and it was bleak because they'd die for each other, if only they could get past their Slytherin nature which always wanted more—more rewards, more acknowledgement, more future and life.

"What do you want from me?" Draco asked honestly, eyes guarded.

"I want you to promise me that I won't be forgotten in your crusade to go down in history—and don't fucking lie and say that's not what this, all of this, is about. I've known you too long."

Was it? Was all of this his strange and half-hearted attempt to be remembered? Draco didn't know, but he smiled slightly at his oldest friend. "You won't be forgotten—I promise."

The second the words flew from his tongue, he knew he'd lied. But he didn't take it back. He couldn't. He was soon to be the Heir of Slytherin, and lies were the least of his worries.

---

The nights were long without her. There was an annoying ache that built inside of Tom's chest until he felt particularly savage.

That was the only good thing about missing Minerva—the savagery that assaulted him, the violence that he could do in her name because her absence in his life brought that up in him.

His men cackled as they crucio'd, pillaged, and raped.

The days were longer still, and he felt like a caged animal. He was a lion that refused to be tamed, and fuck it—perhaps a revel in the day could serve his purposes.

They didn't have to be Death Eaters of the night. He didn't have to live in the darkness.

He was supreme.

He loved her.

He could live in the light for her, but it would be spectacularly bloody.

Let Dumbledore see his power.

Let the fools who stand against him watch in awe of his cruelty.

Oh yes, he could live in the light. For her he could.

Because he missed her…and he was a monster.

This was the only way monsters can be close to precious jewels—through death and mayhem.

---

The circle burned, and the runes etched into Draco's skin by Voldemort in the Dark Lord's blood felt like fiendfyre. But there was a chill that burned him in its own way.

Voldemort breathed harshly as tremors spread through his body. The shadows danced around them both as Draco's cries lifted and echoed off the walls.

"Please," Draco moaned for Voldemort to stop the blood ritual, but Voldemort didn't. Pain wasn't real, Voldemort reminded him with a simple look.

The moonlight shone through an opening above them, and the water glistened like hope and life.

"Vow!" Voldemort growled, and his red eyes sparkled like rubies.

"De magia et fides!" Draco cried to the moon, his soul being ripped and torn until he felt reborn. The circle was complete. The fire in his veins was muted to a dull, agonizing pain.

Draco wasn't sure what else he could do except lie still, on his back, and worship the moon from his position; he'd never felt magic like that before, he'd never done any kind of magic like that before.

Voldemort was on his knees, still breathing, still in complete control, though there was a light sheen of perspiration on his face.

Tears were still escaping Draco, and Voldemort, who always seemed to see everything, saw it too. There was a pit of disgust in Voldemort's chest, but he indulged Draco, if only to bring the boy back from the brink of madness.

Voldemort had known before they had started that they would need a tether, a link, to bring themselves back from insanity and the eternal calling of the moon. His tether had been Minerva, though he hated to admit it to himself; she had been the only thing he'd ever truly been attached to.

It was clear that Draco's tether was Hermione Malfoy.

"How is your marriage?" Voldemort hissed slowly.

"What?" Draco rasped out, lost in the greatness of the moon and its magic.

"Your marriage—your wife!"

"Hermione?" Draco's eyes unfocused, confused.

"Yes—how is she?"

"Sad," Draco answered honestly, too vulnerable to lie.

"Why is she sad?" Voldemort resented having to ask. He didn't care. He didn't care about their obvious feelings—feelings that they'd clearly had from the start, even though they'd both hid from it.

Voldemort was a master Occlumens and Legilimens because he never hid from his own truth, especially the ones he disliked, therefore he never hid from the truth of others, which was always more disappointing.

"She's always sad," Draco tried to rip his eyes away from the moon. He could feel himself falling. Something was wrong, he knew. But he couldn't stop the honest words from leaving his mouth. "I'm always disappointing her. I'm too much of a Death Eater. Too good of a Death Eater."

"But she has not tried to run away? She has not tried to leave you?" Voldemort asked because the law never mandated she stay, only that they marry. It was one of the few loopholes that no one, except Voldemort, Dumbledore, and a handful of others had realized. "Has not threatened you with leaving?"

He asked because, though Hermione Malfoy was Draco's link to reality, it didn't mean he had to tap into the positive side of that link.

"She would never," he responded without hesitancy, and the pull became less. The shine of the moon looked less hazy. He could picture her, his wife, filled with rapture in his arms. He could see her, though she wasn't there.

"Why not?" Voldemort frowned, and felt his chest constrict slightly. His whole body knew he was coming to a realization he'd long been denied, simply because he hadn't understood at the time. "Why has she not at least threatened if she disapproves. She knows what you do. She knows of the people you have killed. Your hands are more bloodstained than mine ever were in my youth." He laughed callously, but it was a mask among the many masks that he wore.

"Because she loves me," Draco whispered. There was more truth in that than the blessing of the moon could ever give, and the pull snapped and tore—he was back in reality. Images of Hermione washing his bloody clothes, laughing at one of his jokes, riding him with abandon, moaning her complete surrender as he plunged into her from behind, crying out her truth as she clawed at his back, sobbing at the reflection of his own dark truth, flitted through his mind like snapshots of their life so far. They compounded what he'd always known, and could never forget. He whispered, humbled, "Because she loves me."

Voldemort heard the truth of Draco's confession, and felt the souls he'd given away in horcruxes become one for a moment, and Harry was pulled in like it was Fifth Year all over again. Voldemort was whole, and he understood, finally, the definition of heartbreak, because it hadn't been that love didn't exist.

It had never been that love didn't exist. It had always been that Minerva hadn't loved him enough to accept his darkness the way that Hermione Malfoy loved Draco.

It was the hardest Truth Voldemort had ever had to accept. But in this moment, he was Tom—just for a second, and the man who'd loved Minerva with everything he had, despite his darkness. Tom could accept that love did exist, and it had never been him, despite his monstrosity.

He'd been willing to fight for her. He had always been willing to fight for her, just not change…and if she had loved him half as much, then she would have been willing to accept that he never would change, and love him anyway.

Tom disappeared, all pieces of his soul where they should be except for Harry that clawed mentally to continue to see, but Draco had been watching him closely. He'd seen the shift, though it was slight.

Voldemort rose with the innate grace he'd held even as a child.

"Go to your wife, Draco," he said coldly, but there was more meaning in those words than any Draco had ever heard him say. "Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you. We start your real training tomorrow."

Go to your wife.

Go to your wife.

Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you.

Draco wondered if Lord Voldemort had ever had a wife…

He stood on weak limbs, and left with a quiet pop.

Harry let go and went flinging back into his own space and mind, alone, but worried because he'd just seen a Voldemort that Dumbledore had sworn didn't exist: a man who recognized and valued love, despite how much he sneered at it.

Harry rubbed his chest, only to realize it wasn't his heart that hurt—it was Voldemort's. He didn't know what to do with that, so he closed his eyes, and tried to get some more sleep.

---

Tom watched as Minerva danced, and laughed…with another.

She was better than that ministry employee with no aspirations. More than that average height buffoon with the ridiculous name of Elphinstone Urquart. Greater than that spineless goat that Tom could crush easily.

She was his.

Didn't she know? Couldn't she feel it? It didn't matter that they hadn't seen each other in years—she was his.

The newlyweds shared a kiss for a photograph, and thunder roared in the distance.

It hurt to watch her be happy without him. But even worse, it enraged him that she thought she could escape him.

"Fool," he whispered harshly to Minerva who couldn't see or hear him as he watched on. How could she think she'd ever leave him, if Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort controlled the world?

She wouldn't be allowed to.

She wouldn't be able to, and that was the greatest power of all: the ability to keep those we love. The ability to possess completely those we desire.

Mother. Father. Lover.

"Liar," he heard her in his mind. Her imaginary voice was filled with tears.

He didn't want to know what treachery her conjured voice accused him of in his reprieve into insanity; he knew he'd lied to her too many times.

---

Hermione met Draco out on the courtyard, by the Blake Lake. He sent a letter via his personal falcon to meet him there, which nearly gave Professor Vector a heart attack.

Dear Merlin, is it delivering a letter Mrs. Malfoy, or trying to claw your eyes out?!

It sufficed to say that Hermione was not amused. But as she approached, she noted the blanket on the ground, and the illuminated circle surrounding the blanket enchanted into the dirt and grass. The stars twinkled above them like sparkling diamonds.

The breeze was uncharacteristically warm for the season, which felt like a little piece of heaven on her skin.

"What are we doing here, Draco?" Hermione asked quietly.

He didn't question why or when she moved on from 'Malfoy.' She loved him. That was answer enough, and though he was heir of Voldemort now, he felt as though he'd never understood love before tonight.

What irony, that the monster widely believed to have no heart or hope had taught him more about love in one night than Dumbledore had in years of casually preaching in all of his speeches.

Love was refuge and sanctuary.

"Draco," Hermione brought him to attention. "What are we doing here?" she repeated.

He wanted to lie. But he'd been blessed by the moon—it gave him strength and hope and magic.

"What's the hardest truth you've ever had to accept?" he reached for her the way he always had—with complete precision and purpose.

"What's this about?"

"What's the hardest truth you've ever had to accept?" he pushed. He pushed because he always pushed, and he didn't know how else to be, let alone love.

"I don't know," Hermione lied. Her heart pounded against her chest like a rocket ship pushing against stratospheres, and her hands shook a bit.

"Have you even accepted your hardest truth yet?" he wondered.

Hermione's eyes flared, and Draco's lips twitched in amusement and awe because, fuck, he loved her back.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

Oh, there was that wall.

Draco saw his name for what it was—a shield. But tonight wasn't about building barriers. It was about breaking them.

It was terrifying, but also exhilarating; the moon wouldn't abandon him; his magic wouldn't forsake him when he needed it most now.

"Creatures like you aren't made for monsters like me," Draco whispered tenderly, telling her everything that needed to be said without the actual words.

"Why are we here, Malfoy?" Hermione crossed her arms. The stars danced in the sky above them.

"I'm romancing you," he smirked arrogantly, but there was something she knew she was missing. There was something that she couldn't see.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve it," he shrugged. "But I don't deserve you. Not really. Don't even start, Granger. You know I'm right."

"Caring about someone isn't about what we deserve. Why does everything have a price for you?"

"Everything has a price," he reminded her solemnly. "Even emotions, whether you want to accept that or not."

Everything has a price.

"We're better than that," Hermione insisted.

We all have our crosses to bear.

"Not during war. No one is in war."

I want you to be great.

"We could still try," she pleaded with those eyes of hers that always made him feel like his heart was in a vice. "We don't have to accept everything as our lot in life. You don't have to just accept everything. You're stronger than that. I know you are. I've seen you be."

Go to your wife.

They breathed in tandem as their bodies brushed against each other, but what was brewing between them was larger than even them.

Forget what you know.

"Damn you, Granger, for seeing the world in a way I never have. You see me in a light that makes me—" Draco laid his forehead against hers. His words were rough and raw, but his hands were gentle as they caressed her arms. "You make me want to fucking live like I never knew I could. Like I didn't know was possible, and that's so bloody dangerous."

Go and repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you.

Hermione's heart beat furiously in her chest, because damn it, she wanted him to mean it. She wanted it to mean what she thought it meant.

I love you.

Yeah, they were one of those couples now. She didn't even want to fight it anymore. Denial was a lot harder than faith—faith in him, faith in herself, faith in them.

I'm yours.

She wanted to surrender to the fury of him—to his darkness and brutal love.

Malfoy women are strong when Malfoy men can't be.

"I love you," Hermione gave in with shuddering breath and a sob of relief and fear caught in her throat. "De magia et fides," she vowed, on my magic and my honor because she wasn't a mudblood—she was a witch and her magic wouldn't let her lie.

Pick your battles.

Draco shut his eyes—"I love you back, Granger," He said gruffly. He was so scared he was almost trembling, but fuck it, because this was a battle worth fighting—this was worth fighting for. "I love you back. De magia et fides. Fucking forever."

Fucking forever.

---

Darkness lived in some men, like love lived in others; it was born inside of them, inspired by circumstance to reveal itself; but men who were touched by this darkness lived a life full of contradiction; some days they were warm and happy, content with love as its own reward; other days they were cold, calculating, restless with life and the lack of power. Tom had always been such a man.

The night was brisk, and the moon was high in the sky as Minerva sat next to her windowsill in the small cottage her husband had bought them. Her eyes roamed the sky.

"Where's your mudblood?" Tom's steady voice interrupted the silence.

She couldn't see that his insides felt like a jumbled mess—up, down, twirling and twirling until he could barely hold himself together. Horcruxes always did that him—make him vulnerable, weak.

But he wasn't weak. Not since he was at the mercy of those muggles at the orphanage. No, he'd never be weak again. His heart wanted to detonate and shatter inside of him, but Minerva couldn't see that.

He wouldn't let her.

Minerva turned slowly to face him, but she wasn't surprised. She was always waiting for him, searching for him—he'd imprinted himself so fully in her.

"Why are you here, Tom?" she asked coldly, but he was shaking. His eyes were so open, so honest, that she knew he'd done something horrible.

"Why did you marry him?"

It was such a left-field question, and yet the only question worth asking. It was the last battle line she'd drawn between them.

"Because I thought I could change you," she frowned and looked away. She didn't want to relieve this realization, but he deserved the truth, if nothing else. "You were everything I thought I wanted, but there was so much Darkness inside of you—too much. I thought I could change you, bring light—love—into your life, and you'd change. But you never did. It just consumed you."

"It was a foolish endeavor on your part," Tom gritted his teeth and glowered at her. He didn't want anyone to change him; he wanted to be accepted as he was. "People are who they are, my dear. Nothing can change a person's nature."

"But you let me believe I could," she snarled at him, she was so furious. It didn't matter that she'd married another. It would never matter, because her heart would always belong to Tom. "You, with your kisses and your touch let me believe that there could be more. That I could somehow bring you salvation."

His eyes burned with pity as he walked over to her, and knelt like a knight of old, bringing their eyes somewhat level. His hands touched hers, and magic flowed between them as though they were one.

"I was never meant to be saved," he lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss gently to her knuckles. His heartrate spiked, and so did hers. They were together though there was so much separating them—her marriage, his murders. Her devotion to Dumbledore, his reckless abandon in Dark Magic; he could still feel the effects of creating the Horcrux coursing through his veins. Just one more, and he'd have seven—he'd never be completely human again. "Why didn't you take his name?"

His question hurt Minerva deeply because she was sure he knew, he just wanted to hear her say it. Tom saw the resistance in her gaze, and his lips trailed up into the underside of her forearm. "Please," he whispered.

It was too much, and she caved. She caved because she loved him too much, and she always would.

"I had only ever dreamed of changing my name to yours," she said quietly, lips trembling slightly in heartbreak. "He wanted me to, but I just couldn't. You know how much I loved you—how much I love you, still."

Tom hesitated, but he slowly reached into his cloak, and took out a cursed blade he'd borrowed from Bellatrix Lestarange. He pressed the tip of the dagger to the inside of Minerva's forearm.

She flinched, but didn't move away. She cried silent tears as he carved his name into her skin, forever.

"Monster," she sobbed once he'd finished. "Monster."

It was too much—why couldn't she love him without the conditions? Why couldn't she be the one to change for him?

Tom felt like he was on a rollercoaster ride, up and down on a journey with Minerva that he couldn't truly understand.

It was then that he grasped that love wasn't real. It could never be real, because if it was true, then there would be no condition. They would "love" each other despite it all, and no darkness, no light would be able to stand in between them. He stood up, panic and fear clashing in his chest over the thought of never seeing her again, but whatever was between them was a weakness.

The lie called love was a weakness.

Tom turned around and left, just as silently as he had come. But he'd written his love on her arm: Riddle, not Voldemort.

---

"This won't end well, Miss Granger," McGonagall stepped out from the shadows where she'd observed the newlyweds. "Despite what you may think, I have been where you are, and it won't end well. Men like that, the darkness is too much. They are too submerged in it to want to step out of it."

"Maybe," Hermione nodded and accepted that truth after she shook off her surprise. "But we love each other, and I carry his name. We're forever linked as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. That'll get us through it—this war. It'll get us past this."

"You love him, Mrs. Malfoy," McGonagall conceded the subtle point, but didn't give up. She looked upon her with sad eyes. "But men like him can't love. Not like you and I can. There is too much darkness inside of them. I know. He will never stop being who he is, and that will lead him to destruction. He will never love you like you wish he would, despite what he says. He simply cannot."

Hermione looked upon her favorite professor and took in her knowing eyes, her stiff posture, her defeated slope. Hermione pictured her young and vibrant, with the world waiting to bow at her fingertips.

I know.

Yeah, Hermione conceded. Maybe McGonagall did know. But she had vowed her love, and she'd never go back.

"Perhaps you are right, Professor," Hermione raised her chin. The defiant glint in her eyes expressed all that needed to be said, but Hermione was a Malfoy now, and Malfoys always hit where it hurt. "He may never love me like I want. It may never be enough, and his darkness might consume us both. But, that's okay, because if he can't, then I'll love him enough for the both of us."

McGonagall gasped, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, smooth wrinkled skin pallid in the light of the moon, as Hermione walked passed her.

Tears welled in McGonagall's eyes as she understood what she never had before: even if someone had warned her when she'd fallen in love with Tom that they would only end in disaster, she wouldn't have listened; there was no teacher like time and experience; there was no greater teacher than heartbreak.

Hermione Granger would have to learn the same way she did.

It tore at her heart that she couldn't save Hermione from herself, but McGonagall was a woman of strength and courage, of resilience and fortitude. She could brave any storm. So, she blinked back her tears, swallowed the lump in her throat and marched on.

Because that was what all women have done, and will always do—march on.

---

"Are the rumor's true, Albus?"*

"I'm afraid so, Professor. The good and the bad."*

They both knew they weren't just talking about the deaths of James and Lily Potter, or the fall of the Dark Lord. They were talking about the death of Tom Riddle, a man only remembered as a man by Minerva, his once-upon-a-time lover, and Albus Dumbledore.

Minerva was glad he'd been beaten. She was distraught that he was dead. She was overjoyed that there would be peace. She was desolate that she'd have peace without him.

They were supposed to survive the odds.

They'd never stood a chance.

She cried all night, and took a month off from teaching at Hogwarts. Dumbledore never asked her why. He already knew, and Minerva wished that Tom could've seen Dumbledore the way she did.

But he was dead.

He was dead, and he would never come back—she cried harder. She never noticed the slight shadow that hovered about her window eerily, watching, waiting, because she tethered Tom to this world.

---

So, what do you guys think? Note, that the * came straight from HP. But it just fit so perfectly into my head-canon that I couldn't help but use it. Anywho, Liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**