Surprise! I'm not dead. 2020 has been very rocky so far, I think we can all agree on that, so I hope you'll forgive me for being away for so long. I honestly can't say when the next updates for this story or WWKOW will be but do know I'm working on them bit by bit! Cheers xx

Hermione slipped from the bed, her heart pounding, but not in fear.

There had been one knock at the door and no more—her eyes had opened from her deep slumber and she had sat up, looking toward Lucio, and then to Pansy, expecting them to have woken, too, but they remained fast asleep.

She waited tensely for another knock, but there was only silence, and the heavy expectation in the air, emanating from the door from her husband's presence on the other side of it.

She went to the door silently, not wanting to wake Lucio or Pansy, even as deep within her the certainty grew with every step that Draco had made sure only she would hear his arrival, or that he had somehow enchanted them to stay asleep.

Better that way, she told herself. She wasn't entirely sure what to expect once she opened that door. Whatever happened, it wouldn't be good. That was the only certainty.

As she crossed the nursery she straightened the satin slip she had slept in, wishing she'd thought to summon a robe, as the atmosphere had gone quite cold upon the start of the knocking.

Her sleep had been dreamless—she had instantly sunk into it gratefully, her arms wrapped around her son, who had held her just as tightly, but sometime in the night they had come apart and when she had woken his little face was pressed into his pillow and he was facing away from her, bundled heavily in his blankets.

She had finally reached the door. She wanted to hesitate, give herself a minute to steel herself, but that heavy expectancy in the air intensified as she approached, and she sensed Draco might be losing his patience, although she was also certain that he would stand there and haunt that door until she cracked. Were Lucio not in the room, she knew he would have broken it down the second he'd come back.

She opened it and met her husband.

She had not known what to expect in terms of appearance—at once, his eyes swallowed her whole, taking her in as though they'd been apart for months rather than hours.

Her eyes had instantly gone to his throat, her hand clenching at the memory of her talon slicing it open. The power in that action had been so heady, she had staggered slightly at its wake. He had noticed, even as his blood had streamed out in thick rivers, and had given her a knowing smile.

He was devoid of any marks from the night before. He looked fresh. Whole.

Why did you expect otherwise, even knowing he's got a Horcrux? She asked herself.

Perhaps it was the vain, insignificant little wish that she had actually dealt him any damage at all. She eyed his throat again.

Apparently not.

He seemed not to be in any pain, either—what she was most concerned about was whether he was angry or not. She was about to find out.

She knew he could hear her heart pounding. His gaze had fallen to her chest as she watched him, the corner of his mouth lifting, and then it had traveled up to her throat, where despite Pansy's healing from the night before, a dark bruise remained where he had fed from her.

The memory of his sucking at her neck—the feel of the suction resurfaced, and she fought the urge to take a step back—he noticed this, too, and his eyes glazed over, as if he too was reliving the memory, but not in horror. In lust.

He had washed up and changed into clean clothing—he looked as if nothing had happened at all. And he had his Horcrux to thank.

For the first time, she found herself wondering what item he had chosen to harbor that splinter of his soul.

Where have you hidden it, husband?

He held out his hand to her, his eyes like a cell, trapping her gaze within his.

Hermione took it—she'd had half a mind to rip his throat open again or this time, go straight for his heart—but he was right. He would only come back, but it would give her peace of mind for another couple of hours. Quickly, her curiosity stopped her.

I want answers.

He led her closer to him, and she stumbled as he caught her in both arms and lifted her bridal style as easily as if she was a light blanket. Hermione caught her breath, steadying herself by looping one arm around his neck, bracing the other against his chest—pleased, he squeezed her thigh and began to carry her through the corridor. Hermione heard the door to the nursery close behind them.

"How did it feel to die?" She asked.

He smiled. "Very much like sleeping. I saw you leave—everything went dark. I felt very little pain. When I woke up, I was healed. I would have gone to you then, but there was something I had to do first."

"What was it?"

"Research."

She frowned.

"Give that it was my first time dying, the regeneration will occur faster over time as my body acquaints itself to the process, or it builds up the proper resistance all at once. Just a theory—there's only so much research can be done on this without having done it before. When he was alive, Voldemort wasn't the most forthcoming when I'd ask him about it." He smiled wryly. "Then again, he didn't have a murderess wife to experiment with."

"You wanted me to do it," she reminded him. "I would have tried anyway, but without your permission, I wouldn't have been able to."

"That's why I gave it to you," he said. "I was curious about what would happen. That, and how could I deny that fire in your eyes?" His voice was molten, rich with anticipation. "Oh, sweetheart, it won't take much more to turn you. I can feel it."

A chill crept up her spine. Your feeling is wrong. I'll fight you to the last.

Her hand slid up his chest and to his throat, where she had cut him—she felt for a scar. Nothing. He almost purred. His pulse was slow and strong.

"Did that make you feel better?" He asked. "Killing me?"

She closed her eyes, recalling the feel of that power. "Yes."

They had reached the library. The doors opened at their arrival, and Draco walked them through to the sofa at the fireplace, which was already high and roaring. He sat down in one of the corners with her still in his arms, sighing, one hand on her upper arm, holding her to his chest.

His other hand caught her chin and tilted it up so he could kiss her lightly.

I'm kissing a dead man.

He kissed her again, more slowly, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

"Darling, killer bird," he breathed as they broke apart briefly. He kissed her nose, her cheek. "How did you do it?"

She knew what he meant.

"I felt something break inside me," she said, taking care to measure her tone. "I saw someone at the door. And you wanted them there."

"Did I?" His lips found hers again. "What makes you think that?"

"You kept Pansy from coming to help me," she said when he broke the kiss, drawing in a sharp breath as he nipped at her lower lip, which was still tender from his assault of it the night before. "But you lured Lucio out to see."

He inhaled the scent of her hair. She felt him smile against her. "Now why would I want that?"

"You think he's too soft," she said, her anger building again. "You think it's time he knows the truth."

His heavy-lidded gaze challenged hers. "Is that so wrong?"

She dug her claws into his chest. "He is a child. He told me he saw it. You might have traumatized him!"

Draco held her more tightly.

"What will lying to him accomplish, Hermione? He'll find out the entire truth one way or another no matter how well you think you can protect him. What happens when he goes off to school and he hears it all from others and realizes he's been lied to all his life?"

"You might have asked me instead of taking it into your own hands in that way. What kind of father are you to want your child to see that?"

"I only want what's best for him, and if exposing him to a harsh truth makes me a bad father, then what are you for wanting to keep him from it?"

He can't know the truth, Draco."

"Why not? Do you want him to resent you for lying to him? Do you think he'll trust you then?"

"I don't want him to think of me as weak!" She admitted in an agonized hiss. "He'll be like the others. It will take him a long time to understand why I couldn't run away, why I couldn't fight you even though I tried." She let out a dry, ragged sob. "I've tried so hard to get away from you, for years—and I still see it in the eyes of the people we see when we're outside. They think you kidnapping me is a lie I made up to mask my shame for betraying them by marrying you."

Draco stroked her arm.

"You can be comforted in the fact that you didn't betray them willingly," he said calmly. "You've fought me every step of the way that led us here, and while it does try my patience, I admire your resilience. You needn't care for their judgment—they see the lie we feed them, why do you need to convince them of the truth at this point?"

Hermione shook her head. "That girl—she died thinking I'm a traitor."

"You are a traitor."

She shut her eyes tightly.

"You killed a member of their resistance. Longbottom might know about it by now, or he might not. But he will. Do you think that will soften your case? You've willingly joined me. Publicly. There's no coming back from that."

Her heart sank.

There has to be.

"Don't give yourself hope, sweetling," he said as if knowing her thought. "Remember that what they think doesn't matter. In the end, it won't make a difference because you made a promise, and you're going to keep it. Whether that confirms their beliefs or not, I don't care. You're mine anyway, and they are all beneath us."

He leaned down to kiss her again—Hermione leaned away.

"What about Lucio, then? You let him see part of what you did to me last night—do you know how humiliating that feels? He's my son! Think of what seeing that will do to him! But all you care about is being right." She took in a long breath and let it out slowly. "My worry is that he'll see me as the others do."

Draco went still.

"If he ever begins to think of you as weak or pitiful, I'll have him whipped," he said stiffly, and her blood ran cold.

"Don't you dare!"

"But that day won't come, sweetheart. He knows you're strong. He feels it." His lips curved. "And he'll think you the strongest witch alive for surviving a marriage with a monster like me."

Hermione shook her head. "He doesn't need to know, Draco. Please."

"He might even hate me once he learns the truth," Draco added thoughtfully. "Isn't that what you want? I know you worry about how much he loves me."

Hermione went still, torn.

Draco stroked her jawline, trailed his touch to her cheek.

"I'm tired of concealing it, firebird. No son of mine will live in deceit. He needs to know the truth to shape him into who he's meant to be."

"And what is he meant to be?" She asked softly, angrily. "A copy of you? That's what you want."

"Even I don't want a copy of me, sweetheart. That's the point of the Horcrux. I'm the only one of me there is. He'll be his own person, but he will not be weak. This settles the matter."

She shook her head, her hand digging deeper into his flesh, drawing blood.

"As for trauma—" he chuckled. "What child survives their early years without a dose of it in some shape or form?"

"I did," she said through a clenched jaw. "My father and mother loved each other, and when they fought, they did so respectfully and without hate."

"Remind me to send them flowers, then, for creating such a spitfire despite that."

"Don't you pretend I was always like this. You've given me every reason possible to hate you."

He met her withering stare.

"Yes, I have. But don't you play at being mightier when you have been unfaithful, and when you conspired with my enemy and attempted to keep it secret."

"I was unfaithful because I had just escaped a demented marriage I never consented to, and wanted to be with the man I really loved!"

Draco's eyes flashed in warning.

"And Longbottom?" He asked, pinning her with his stare. "You love him, too, or you wouldn't say his name as you sleep. Interesting that you never utter Potter's, but then perhaps that's because I forbid you from it. Would you fuck Longbottom, too, if you had the chance?"

Stunned, Hermione stared at Draco.

"Of course you didn't know—you're deep asleep when it happens," he said, and the jealousy that stirred in his eye frightened her. "But I hear it every time. I don't like to hear another man's name on my wife's lips."

"Draco—"

His hold on her tightened painfully. She winced.

"Do you love him?"

"Only like a brother," she said hurriedly. "I swear it."

He stared angrily into her eyes, so close that she kept herself from swallowing, knowing that he'd hear it. The fire crackled away loudly, unnoticed by both of them.

"I swear it," she repeated. Slowly, his hold relaxed.

"But you still say his name, regardless of what type of love it is," he said. "Why is that?"

Hermione shrugged, exasperated. "Because I worry about him!"

"How long ago did your encounter happen?"

"A few weeks ago," she said, uncertain. "The day I went to the Weasley's home with Pansy."

"Is that where they're hiding?"

Hermione blanched, and he grinned.

"Tell me, wife."

"I don't know," she said. "He said they're there sometimes. I don't think they're actually based there."

"So they have a secret location at the Weasley's old house."

She hesitated, her heart tearing in two.

Traitor, traitor. Neville, forgive me.

Draco held her more tightly.

"I order you to tell me. Don't force me to Imperius you, Hermione."

She couldn't speak. She made herself nod, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall.

Draco thumbed away the rebellious tear at the end of her eye.

"Don't you dare cry for them. You are on my side now. We'll go tomorrow and you will show me the location."

His face showed nothing, but his tone was flush with satisfaction. Hermione looked away and made a silent prayer that Neville and Luna had long since abandoned that secret hideout and left no trace.

Draco caught her chin again, turned her to face him.

"Don't think of it as betrayal anymore," he said. "You're doing your part, and pleasing your husband in the process."

She wanted to slap him.

"Tell me what happened before you realized you could use magic again," he said. "In detail."

She was sweating from the fire, from him pressing his body against hers. Or was it a fever? She couldn't tell.

"Close your eyes and think of it," he instructed.

Her eyes fell shut—by her own volition or his command? She took a breath.

"You—you were restraining me," she said. "You'd told me you knew about Neville. I was frightened. I really thought you were going to kill me. I couldn't breathe. Could barely think."

"I only meant for you to pass out," he said smoothly, and her skin crawled. "Keep going."

"Your hands were everywhere," she continued. "You were hurting me. I couldn't take anymore, but you were at my neck. You've bitten me to the point of drawing blood before, but you've never drunk from me like that. I was horrified, growing weaker. You were like an animal—I was going to call for Pansy to help me—I thought you'd finally truly lost your mind. The door was open, and I saw someone running away."

Draco's hand settled on her waist. His tongue dragged against her jaw. She flinched, fearing it would travel down to her neck.

"Keep going."

"I…I thought it was George at first. But I realized it had to be Lucio because of the height. I was shocked—angry, terrified. I knew he'd seen. I thought I would burst. I felt something crack open inside me…I felt power. I felt I could be as strong as you if I wasn't so out of sorts and panicking. I knew I had to get away. I didn't know how much further you'd go if I didn't stop you. I tried to match your strength, or gather just enough to push you off because I knew a few moments more of it and I'd pass out or die."

"How did it feel to have magic again?" He asked, his voice low and guttural, his hot breath washing over her skin. The hand at her waist was heated enough that she was perspiring under her slip, sticking it to her skin. His other hand migrated down to the hem of the slip, slid beneath it, and traveled the short distance up her inner thighs to where they met and found her wet.

"I gather it made you feel very good," he said in a low rasp.

"Yes," she admitted, slightly ashamed, squirming as he began to stroke her. "I'd wanted it for so long. I was shocked, but I wasn't going to question it until after I got away. It felt like coming home after years of being away."

He was caressing her, stoking that heat between her thighs.

"Stop," she murmured without conviction. Her nails retreated from their burrowing into his skin. Her hips shifted in his lap, wanting more friction immediately. She was already frustratingly close.

"No," he said. "Keep going."

"I've had so long to imagine how I'd want to get revenge," she said, her head falling back into his chest. Her hips jerked as he applied more pressure. "So damn long. I've had so many ideas."

His tongue crawled up her throat—she shivered.

"Tell me some of them."

She expelled a loud breath as his fingers worked away at her, her eyes still closed again.

"Tying you up in the mattress springs and setting you on fire. Spearing you through from groin to throat. Cutting your stupid cock off and letting you bleed out. Gouging your eyes out so you'll stop bloody staring at me. Using my bare hands to tear your chest open and carve out your heart."

Something pushed inside her and she couldn't hold back her moan. He had pulled her slip up to her waist and undone his trousers and she hadn't even noticed. He filled her slightly past capacity and she clenched around him more tightly as his fingers resumed their work at her clit, her hips bucking again. He groaned softly behind her, his hands latching onto her waist.

"Ride," he ordered. She needed no further urging, and spreading her thighs open wider, bracing her arms on his thighs, began to ride him. He moaned loudly.

"Setting the whole manor on fire with you trapped inside," she continued, nearly breathless. "Crucioing you until your mind breaks. Stabbing you with a dull knife until I get through to your heart."

She broke off in a gasp as he grabbed her by the hips and began to thrust hard into her. Hermione threw her head back and bit her lip, moaning helplessly.

"Such a creative little bird," he said roughly, slowing down. A hand left her hip to cup a breast, pinching her nipple. The other returned to her clit and she bucked again, panting.

"Who else would be better suited to kill me than you?" He asked, his fingers picking up speed, knowing it was just how she liked it. She was gripping him more and more, he knew she was close. "Well, you may try those out as much as you like now that there'll be no consequence. But only in private, sweet. Remember that. I'll not have you acting your little fantasies in front of others. That's only for me. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," she panted, and a second later she gasped and climaxed, quivering in his lap, her contracting muscles coaxing his cock closer to completion.

He continued thrusting when she was too weak to continue, and climaxed soon after her, gasping as he pumped his semen into her, his fingers still busy at her clit, which had grown quite sensitive in the aftermath of her orgasm.

She tried to push his hand away. "That's too much," she said. He gave her a brief respite, withdrawing his hand to push her onto her back, his strong body covering hers as he pushed into her again and began to thrust slowly. He restrained her hands together above her head. His fingers returned to her clit, and she jolted, over-sensitized.

"That's too much," she repeated, her expression puckering from pain and pleasure.

Draco covered her mouth, used magic to draw her legs up over his shoulders to push deeper inside her. She groaned into his palm, her eyes shut as he thrust roughly, his balls heavy and slapping against her body. He buried his head into her throat, low, pleasured growls emitting from him between harsh pants.

Hermione's body was growing taut. She was close again. Her hips bucked into his, briefly disrupting his rhythm but he picked back up easily, slowing his thrusts to a steady grind, watching avidly how her body responded at once, how her peaked nipples just begged for his mouth, how her eyes had opened and she watched him through that lust-glaze in her eyes. Something inside him roared with victory.

You're turning more easily than you thought, little bird, he thought, pleased. Have you noticed yet, how quickly you're giving in?

He released her hands to see what she would do.

Instantly, her hands latched onto his head, drawing him closer so they were nose to nose. Draco grinned and kissed her, his tongue claiming hers. He felt her legs shake underneath him, the delicious press of her breasts against him, the relentless clutch of her body holding him tightly. When they broke for air Hermione's hands went down to his arse and urged him deeper inside, climaxing a moment later, her expression one of such pleasured torment that it neared him to the edge.

It won't be long, now.

Draco roared as he came, pressed as far as he could go inside her, his seed filling her again. They lay there together for a moment, recuperating, still experiencing the aftershocks of their climaxes. When her vaginal muscles had stopped contracting around him, he pulled out—she winced. Draco reclined on his knees, breathing heavily—his eyes stuck to where his semen was trickling thickly from her, mixed with her glorious wetness.

He twitched a finger, vanishing most of their mess off the sofa. At the same time, her womb glowed a soft yellow. Recognizing it as the contraceptive spell, Hermione sat up gingerly, enormously relieved.

"Are you a vampire?" She asked after a moment, readjusting her slip.

Buoyed from the sex, Draco laughed.

"Not that I'm aware."

She frowned. "Then why, last night…?" Her hand came up to cup her throat where he had drank from her.

He smiled, and she had been suspecting but saw it clearer now—his teeth were slightly sharper than before.

"Impulse. I don't know why I did it. I just wanted to."

She didn't look convinced.

"Open the curtains."

He smiled, amused, and opened them all so that suddenly the entire library was flooded with early morning sunlight.

Nothing happened.

She looked more perplexed than ever.

"It's just a blood fetish, little bird," he said and stood. "Although I've never drunk from anybody the way I did to you." He held out a hand to help her stand. "Freshen up and get dressed. Martin will be here soon. It's about time we get that portrait finished."

"What do you think, my Lord?" Martin was asking Draco, who had reentered the library. "I am nearly finished—only the details of the face need final touches."

Hermione had met Martin first in the library after having washed up and put on the green dress. Draco had gone to see to Pansy and Lucio, and ordered Bogg to have lunch ready sooner than usual. Nobody had had breakfast yet—Hermione had passed by George's room as she'd gone back to the library and had knocked, not knowing what to say, but wanting to see his face.

Did he know anything about what had happened in the past few hours? Had Draco told him in advance? She didn't know. It wasn't very likely, but she had to make sure. He hadn't answered the door, however, so she gave up and moved along.

Martin had looked at her strangely when she had come in and greeted him—his stare lasted a little longer than normal and she had asked him what the matter was, but he had said nothing but good morning, and shown her the painting in its current state.

He had been working on it since the last time they'd met. The background was nearly complete, and through all its fine details and his masterful techniques, Hermione felt as if she were looking through a window at herself through the eyes of a stranger. It was a feeling she wasn't quite sure how to process. Were the pose not so forced and the dress not so revealing she would have appreciated it more—she looked at her painted image and recognized herself, but barely.

Why are you surprised? This is a painting for Draco, not for you.

She hoped he would hang it somewhere only he could see.

Draco stepped up to the large canvas, appraising the painted image coolly for a long time. Martin waited tensely to the side.

"You do my wife justice," Draco said at last. "It is exquisite. Your skills seem beyond your years."

Martin flushed deeply with relief and pleasure. "You are very kind, my Lord."

Draco stared at the painting again for a moment, then his eyes flicked over to Hermione, who had been watching him. He was frowning slightly.

"I want you to make another of my wife," he was saying, his eyes still locked onto Hermione's. "Once you are finished with the others."

Martin bowed. "I am at your service, my Lord."

Draco nodded and crossed the space to where Hermione still lounged on the chaise, watching him warily. He sat down at the end of the thing by her feet, placed his hand on her exposed leg.

"Lucio has sent me to remind you that you promised you'd play with him today."

Hermione smiled. "Of course. I'd never forget. I look forward to it."

When he had left, Hermione sat for fifteen more minutes until Martin declared he was done, and she gratefully rose from the divan and stretched, adjusted her gown.

"You have been a remarkably good model, my Lady," Martin said as she approached the canvas. "Many, many of my subjects are prone to fidgeting."

"I've found it's harder to fidget when I'm being stared at," Hermione said. "May I see?"

"Please."

The finished painting truly was exquisite. Now that her face was completed, she recognized herself better, more so in image than spirit. She wished it had been made under different circumstances. She looked at herself in Draco's chosen pose and blushed. Still, she admired his skill.

"I'm glad you'll be painting more for us," she said. "You have a gift."

Martin bowed. "My lady, you honor me." He cleared his throat. "I understand from your husband that I must also paint a portrait of the whole family."

Hermione nodded.

"It's his wish to immortalize us all together."

"Mummy, look at that bird! It's so big!"

Hermione spied the falcon Lucio had pointed to, sitting high up on the tree closest to them.

"It really is," she said. "That's a falcon, my love."

"A falcon," Lucio repeated, making a face. "That word is funny."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, it is. But that's its name."

"I saw a cat yesterday," Lucio said importantly, pausing in his walk to attempt to kick a mound of dirt. "It was grey and Pansy said it was old but it came up to me and sniffed my hand."

"It didn't bite you, did it?" Hermione asked.

"No, Pansy let me touch it but then it ran away." Lucio resumed walking, taking Hermione's hand in his. "I like cats. Why can't we have a pet, mummy?"

"Your father doesn't like animals very much."

"Not even cats? Or dogs?"

"No, love."

Lucio looked toward the pond. "What about a frog?"

Hermione laughed.

"When you're older and start going to school, you'll be allowed to have a pet. How does that sound?"

"But that's so long!"

"You may talk to your father about it," Hermione said, "but I'm sure he'll agree with me."

She squeezed his hand. "Think about it. I had a cat when I was in school. Many of my friends had owls."

"Why an owl?"

Hermione paused.

"Owls carry mail for us," she explained. Draco was the only one in the family who received mail or packages at all though the post so Lucio not knowing about it had surprised her for a moment. Seeing as Draco received post in the privacy of his study where they couldn't bother him unless summoned, it had been some time since Hermione had seen an owl that wasn't untamed. She saw owls frequently in their lands and in the villages beyond but knew at once by looking at them, they were not the sort trained or used by magical folk for post.

"Really?" Lucio was asking. "I want to see!"

"You'll have to ask your father about that, too," Hermione said. "I don't get any post."

At the mention of his father, Lucio went quiet and held Hermione's hand a little more tightly.

"Now," Hermione said as they reached a large tree with a comfortable looking, shaded area underneath its span. "What do you think about having lunch here?"

"Okay."

Hermione set the basket she had been carrying down and sat promptly on the earthen ground. Lucio followed suit. A playful breeze ruffled their hair and threatened to balloon her skirt. Hermione tucked the excess fabric underneath her legs, wishing that Draco would for once give her a pair of trousers.

Pansy had helped them pack the basket after lunch when Martin had left and Draco had told them he was due at the Ministry for a private conference with the Minister. Relieved, Hermione had waited until Draco had left to quietly let Pansy know that she could have the evening off.

"But—" Pansy had said, looking lost, "My Lord instructed me to watch over you and Lucio until he returns."

"I will reckon with him if he's angry when he returns," Hermione had said, willing confidence into her tone. "I won't let him punish you. I must speak privately with my son."

Pansy had frowned, sensing something was amiss. She had missed most of what had happened that morning, having been so deeply asleep that she had missed her regular waking hour and had missed Lucio's as well. She had woken in a start, dazed, sitting up in the nursery only to find that the afternoon light filled it and that Hermione was not where she had been when she'd fallen asleep.

Fear had jolted her off the bed, rushing over to Lucio to make sure he was there, and Gods forgive her for even thinking it, but she checked his pulse, too, and found it regular. She'd breathed a sigh of relief, and jumped, turning to the door when she heard Draco's voice coming from it.

He had been leaning against the doorframe, watching. At once she realized she had overslept because of him—and he must have enchanted his own son, as well. Her panic fled at once.

"Everything's alright now," he'd said, and though he hadn't smiled, she could sense satisfaction in every mote of his being. "Hermione and I have resolved our dispute."

Pansy's thoughts raced to Hermione the night before, bleeding heavily and covered in Draco's blood as well. Had he kept them asleep to take her away again?

"I'm glad to hear it," she replied cautiously.

Did you really? Or did you hurt her until you got your way again?

As soon as it had registered, she mentally tossed it away. It was not the first rebellious, hateful thought she'd had against her Master. Many had preceded it—the first had appeared upon her traumatic first meeting with Hermione the day she had been hired.

You kept me from her, came another dangerous thought. You wanted to hurt her further and she was afraid for her life and you kept me from her.

More of these thoughts would accumulate over time, she knew that. It was impossible for anyone with a conscience to not have them when working for a man like him—but if she wanted to keep her job and her life, none of them would ever be uttered aloud.

Even if I wanted to quit, she thought, her spine stiff with dread, I highly doubt he'd let me. Either death or entrapment in this awful place would follow. I know too much.

Not that she was likely to leave anyhow—with circumstances against her (What have I done?) she also couldn't bear the thought of leaving Hermione and Lucio.

So much for not forming attachments.

Her Master had nodded.

"She's upstairs with me," he'd said, and as if he sensed her doubt, his eyes went cold. "Lunch will be served soon. We'll expect the both of you there."

"Yes, my Lord," Pansy had said automatically, and he'd left.

She had hardly had a chance to speak privately to Hermione all day—she had hoped that after Draco had gone to the Ministry that they might speak and Pansy could learn what horrors, if any, she and Lucio had missed that morning. But Hermione had insisted on speaking with her son and so Pansy let them go outside for their little picnic. They'd just had lunch so she had sent them off with juice and some snacks, and watched them go with worry pressing at her heart.

Hermione had sensed her anxiety and had hugged her before she'd set off. Lucio had been too happy to leave the manor—Pansy thought about what he had seen the previous night and how it was probably affecting him already. Had Draco not kept them both asleep for half the day she might have helped him. She found herself wondering if she would receive an order from him to erase the memory from his son's mind…but what she had learnt last night was that he had wanted Lucio to see it.

Disgust crawled down her arms, raising the fine hairs there.

Gods help us.

"Mummy, why don't you get any post?" Lucio asked. He had gathered a handful of smooth pebbles in his hand and was mixing them around in his palm with the other.

"I don't write any letters," she said simply. Easier than saying all her friends were dead, and her family had no memory of her, and that any letters she did write would probably be heavily censored by her husband, if not outright destroyed.

"Why not?"

Hermione shrugged. "I have nothing to write about, my love. The only one I'd write letters to is you, and you're here with me." She stroked his cheek and he pulled away, distracted in trying to find the smoothest pebble within the mass in his hand. She pulled hers back and hesitated.

"What did you see last night, Lucio? When you saw your father and I."

Lucio kept staring at his palm.

"You are not in trouble," she added.

Lucio looked like he might cry.

"Daddy was hurting you," he said quietly. "I heard screaming. I was scared." He wiped a tear from his cheek with a grubby fist and Hermione, feeling her heart tear, reached out and hauled him to her, cradling him in her lap.

"I'm so sorry, my love," she said brokenly. "You should never have seen that. Never, never."

She pressed Lucio's curly little head into her chest, feeling his thin little arms wrap around her.

"What was daddy doing?"

Hermione didn't dare go into specifics.

"Does he frighten you, Lucio?"

"Will daddy hurt me, too?"

"No," Hermione said sharply. "I'll never let him hurt you."

She wiped at his eyes and let out a long sigh.

"Has your father told you the story of how he and I met?"

Lucio nodded.

The wind danced in the trees around them. Branches swayed protectively around them.

"What did he tell you?"

Lucio tried to remember.

"He said you were friends."

Hermione stroked his hair.

"We were never friends. I want you to know that. I never liked your father at school."

Lucio frowned, confused.

"Was he bad?"

"Yes. He was a bully and he did awful things to my friends and I."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said. "But we fought a lot and he hurt me then, too." She closed her eyes, still stroking his curls. "He liked me but I didn't like him. He said he would marry me and I told him no, I didn't want that."

Lucio was still frowning. "But you're married now."

"Yes," she agreed. "When we were still in school, he did something terrible and left. He went into hiding."

"What did he do?" When she didn't reply right away, he peered up at her and shook her arm. "What was it, mummy?"

Hermione looked at him sadly.

I'd keep you from knowing this your entire life, if you could, so you wouldn't know this shadow that always hangs overhead. But Draco is right. You need to know. Even if you'll see me differently because of it. If you have to know, you'll know through me, and not your father.

"He killed someone."

Lucio's frown deepened, and he said nothing, looking down at the forest floor as her words registered and he processed the news. Would he refuse to believe it? She couldn't tell. All she could do was continue.

"Your father was working for Voldemort, who was an evil wizard who wanted to kill someone very important to me. Voldemort was very powerful and wanted to kill the Headmaster of my school, but couldn't get inside, so he had your father do it. And he did, and he left school and I didn't see him for a long time."

"I want you to know your father has never been a good man," she said. "We've known each other since we were very young, and he has always been cruel and wicked and selfish. I know this might be a lot for you to hear right now. I know you love your father. But you need to know the truth, even it if pains me to do it. Your father knew I did not love him and he made me marry him. He kept me from my family and has killed many of my friends. What you saw last night was not the first time he has hurt me and it will not be the last. I have been his prisoner for a very long time."

"Is that why you can't use magic?" Lucio asked suddenly. "I never see you use magic, mummy, but you're a witch."

"I am. Your father will not let me use magic, because if I could, I would run away."

But I would kill him first. At least, I could have, before the Horcrux.

"I want you to know," she started, blinking quickly, her voice cracking. "I want you to know that I may not love your father but I do what is necessary to keep you and me safe. I love you more than anything in the world, and I will protect you from any threat at any cost, and that includes your father."

She was in Draco's arms again that night in bed. He stroked her belly gently. His other hand held hers just over her sternum.

"How did he take it, then?" Draco said.

Of course he knew. Hermione sighed.

"He's been very quiet since. It will take him time to process it."

"Do you feel better now that he knows?"

"No. He's too young for that sort of talk."

Draco's lips smoothed over her forehead. "The longer we'd have waited, the more resentment we might have risked from him, love."

When she didn't reply, he slid down onto his back, supported his head with his arm and pillow, and rolled her on top of him. Hermione laid her head into her crossed arms over his chest. His other arm rested possessively on the small of her back. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the steady beat of his heart irritated her. All she could think of was Lucio, how silent and pensive he had been as they had walked back into the manor, how he had dutifully gone to Pansy after she had kissed him good night.

We'll see how he fares in the morning.

"Have you tried using it again?" Draco asked suddenly.

Hermione blinked. His hand left her back to take her hand in his, his finger delicately tracing the edges of her ring.

"No."

At that, he looked minutely surprised. "Why not?"

"I don't know—I think I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"That I was only able to use it once."

He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it.

"Why should you be afraid?" He asked. "You used it earlier today and didn't even realize it."

She frowned. "What?"

"You made me bleed, sweetheart," he said. "This morning. You dug your little claws into my chest and made me bleed, and didn't notice. I only let you do that during sex."

She thought back and remembered it, wondered how she hadn't known as it had happened. Draco smiled gently.

"Try it," he said. "Show me your claws again."

Hermione brought up her free hand, concentrating. It was taking more effort—last night it had felt almost effortless. Had the crack within her sealed back up again? She closed her eyes, reaching within. She felt the fissure—it had closed up, but she sensed that with enough force she could break it open again, perhaps even widen it. Her magic waited on the other side, attempting to reach back out to her.

Gritting her teeth, she tried again and felt her hand tingle with the start of a transformation. This time, she would attempt the full thing, not just one.

When she opened her eyes, her head was swimming, and she felt weaker than before, but she saw with a lurch of excitement in her stomach that she had succeeded.

Draco stared at her talons, transfixed.

"I've read accounts of magic being unleashed unconsciously during episodes of extreme emotion," he said, studying her scaly wrist and her taloned fingers, fascination heavy in his gaze. "Cases usually are reported in children, who haven't learned to control their magic yet. I thought my ring was foolproof—I never considered this outcome—I should have suspected it might happen with you, considering everything I've put you through. There were signs…"

Hermione went quiet, thinking hard.

"The first time I tried to kill myself. The doors to the balcony were locked."

"Always."

"You were asleep—I was terrified you'd wake up any second and find me gone. I almost lost control—when the doors opened, I barely questioned it. I went through and jumped."

His eyes tightened a fraction at the memory of lurching awake, urgency howling in his veins, his ring tugging him to Apparate beneath the balcony and he'd done so without wondering why until he'd seen her figure hurtling down. He reacted on instinct—the scream that had left him, he wasn't aware of. He'd loosed magic to slow her descent and had caught her. His knees had buckled and he'd sank to the ground in relief, in confusion as to what and how it had happened. How had he not felt her creep away? How had she got past his lock? There had still been blood between her legs—how had she even managed to walk? The only thing that mattered was that she was still alive.

He had wondered about the lock sparingly since, simply thinking she had found a muggle way to thwart him, as she'd done before, or that their house-elf at the time had helped her.

But it had been her all along.

"I thought I could restrain you. I was a fool."

At this, Hermione smiled wryly. "I've told you as much."

He chuckled, and with a sudden burst of movement, rolled over, flipping their positions so she was underneath now, almost breathless with his weight laying on her. He kissed her deeply, holding her face in his hands.

"I've been too proud and arrogant to listen, I suppose," he said when they broke apart. "But I'm listening now."

He kissed her again, stealing her breath until she managed to wrench away.

Power simmered inside her—strong, but not as strong as it could be. Part of her was missing, and it had been long enough. Panting, Hermione gripped his chin in one hand, her talons barely digging into his flesh. Their eyes locked on to each other.

"Then I expect you to obey," she said, almost snarling. "Give me back my magic, husband."

His eyes glazed.

"You've got me weak in the knees, firebird," he said, smiling wickedly. "You ask so sweetly."

He took hold of her hand. His fingers found her ring, and with no effort at all, pulled it off her finger.