"The photographer's here!"

Draco swore and Hermione jumped back, opening her eyes. Dizzied by the return of her sight and the desire her husband stoked within her, she hardly registered the stream of witches and wizards pouring into the room.

In mere moments, two witches presented Hermione with outfits, while another assessed the state of her hair. Rejecting a slinky golden dress — she didn't need any further comparisons to her reputation or the trio — she landed on a sheath dress in an orchid hue. Black pumps appeared on her feet, and delicate pearl studs completed the look.

From her place at the centre of the tornado of primping, Hermione caught Draco looking at her bandage. She set a glamour over it, but when that didn't look quite right, she asked for a cardigan.

"Pansy," one of the witches beckoned her boss closer. "Where are the rings?"

"We don't wear rings," Draco growled as a witch powdered his nose. He waved her off, his tolerance for the whole affair clearly waning.

Pansy tapped her toe. "It's fine. They're soul-bonded, so they don't need rings. I know readers want to see a big bauble, but it's more romantic this way."

As quick as they'd descended upon them, Pansy's staff backed away into the corners of the room, ready to apply an extra dollop of Sleekeazy's or adjust Draco's lapel if called upon. They'd put him in a tailored suit with a pale moth orchid in his buttonhole. He wore it like a second skin, and when he turned his eyes on hers, she found herself floating to his side.

He ran a gentle hand down her arm, and Hermione got the message. Yes, there were far more people in the room with them now, but it was still just them.

"Perfect! Hermione, can you cross the room to him again?"

They both flinched at the photographer's request. Hermione nodded and staggered, unaccustomed to wearing heels, back to her original position. She looked to Draco, recalling the feel of his hands on her, and gave him her most sizzling look. It was bold, but if he'd felt even one joule of the heat he'd sparked within her, she wanted him to know she could give as good as she got.

If he hadn't, well, she could pass it off as playing it up for the cameras.

"The camera loves you! Show us the depth of your passion, make us believe you're soulmates!" The click of the shutter matched the beat of her heart in her chest.

If he was acting, he should join the theatre. Draco swept her into his arms, narrowing her world to his face. They adopted several poses at the photographer's suggestion, and even the ones that made them awkwardly laugh seemed to thrill their audience. Only Pansy remained quiet, and if Hermione wasn't imagining things, she fought back a small smile.

"Can we get a kiss?"

Hermione tensed only slightly, but Draco noticed. His grip on her slackened, and he clenched his jaw. Hermione wanted to tell him it wasn't because she didn't want to kiss him. Quite the opposite, in fact. But she didn't want their kiss to be a performance.

This was moving too fast. Just days ago she hadn't seen him in years, and then she'd thrown an inkpot at him. Now she could think of nothing but how it might feel to rake her fingers through Draco's platinum hair and pull his lips towards hers.

Pansy saved them. "I think that'll be a better candid shot, don't you? Got to leave them wanting, after all." The photographer grinned in agreement.

After a few more shots, the photographer clapped his hands. "I think we've got it. Thank you everyone," he unfurled some parchment and handed it to Pansy. "Here's the first draft. Macmillan's open to edits, and he's marked where quotes from the Malfoys would round out the article…"

Hermione turned her attention to Draco. "Thank you."

"It's nothing, Granger."

Granger. But not the way he'd said it when they were alone. And not 'buttercup' or 'dearest' or 'light of my life'. Draco must think she didn't actually want to kiss him, that she'd been caught up in the moment when she'd asked him to place his lips on hers. He said it himself. It was nothing.

Before she could respond, Pansy's staff hauled her away to change back into her street clothes. One of the witches held up a mirror for Hermione to remove her makeup and cleanse her face with a series of quick spells. She didn't meet her reflection's eyes.

"The announcement is more favourable than I thought," Pansy said as Hermione and Draco situated themselves on the settee. He slumped artfully into the corner, much like he did in Theo's office the day they'd been discovered.

Pansy cleared her throat and read. "The Death Eater and His Golden Girl: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger's Decade of Romance. Recently unearthed marriage records reveal Draco Malfoy, 29, wed Hermione Granger, 30, in a secret ceremony on 22nd December 1999. The family's solicitor, Theodore Nott, Jr., confirmed the marriage via owl. 'The Malfoy family appreciates the many well-wishes on their happy marriage. They are private citizens, and request their privacy be respected.' The lovebirds have many estates, including the notorious Malfoy Manor, but reside together in London."

It didn't sound bad at all. Theo did well, avoiding the idea that reactions would be anything less than positive.

Draco spoke first. "What about something like, 'My wife and I are grateful for our past decade together, and look forward to the next ten years.'"

Pansy shook her head in dismissal. "That's too corporate. Sounds like you committed to a merger, not a marriage."

Hermione twisted her lips in thought. "While we prefer to keep a low profile after so many years in the spotlight, we're thrilled to share our love with the world. Draco and I will attend the Solstice Ball as our first public event together."

Pansy's quill scribbled away. Hermione didn't dare sneak a glance at Draco.

Our love, she'd said, as if there was any lost between them. She had to remember who she dealt with. One almost-kiss did not a relationship, let alone a marriage, make.

Draco's drawl cut through her thoughts. "Hermione's love for me proves that even the least likely among us can, with the right motivation and support, find redemption. I don't deserve her, but I try a little harder each day to be a worthy husband."

"That's lovely, Draco," Pansy whispered. "Just perfect."

He stood up and, avoiding eye contact with anyone, hurried out of the office. "Coming, Granger?"

"Good morning, Blaise." Hermione sipped her third lashing of tea as Blaise entered through the Floo. The caffeine did little for her, unsurprisingly, as she'd crawled into bed sometime after three in the morning. Nevertheless, she wore one of her new outfits and styled her hair into a loose braid, telling herself that it was good practise for her return to society.

It was certainly not to impress anyone who almost kissed her, said lovely things, and after a tense Floo trip back to the flat, slammed his bedroom door without so much as a goodnight.

"Hermione," the Healer nodded. He sidled up to the kitchen table while Hermione poured him a cup. "Are your parents up?"

"Not yet. I'd like to chat, if you have a minute."

"As would I," he said, taking a seat across from her. He didn't touch his tea. Hermione took stock of his posture, the way his hands laced together, and the grim line of his mouth. Whatever he wanted to discuss, it wasn't good.

"There's no easy way to say this, but I ran some diagnostics yesterday, and the results showed a precipitous decline in both your parents' health. Based on this new information, I don't think they have much time left. I've consulted with a few colleagues regarding their condition, keeping their information private, of course. The consensus is that even if we knew more about the methods you employed or attempted barbaric Muggle treatments, they will not recover. I'm sorry."

"But my mum, she's half herself," Hermione protested. Blaise couldn't have the right of it. She'd been at this for years.

"You wrote it yourself in your notes. The potions are becoming less effective, and the recent change in scenery didn't help matters. Your father's brain in particular shows his grey matter is shrivelling at a rapidly increasing rate. Your mother is either raging or completely catatonic. It's unsustainable."

Hermione's heart hammered in her chest. "I could go back to the drawing board. Maybe you could put me in touch with some potioneers? Maybe Slughorn has some connections," she begged, clinging desperately to any hope.

"I don't know. Maybe if they'd received proper care sooner —"

"Proper care?"

Blaise pushed the cup and saucer away from his person. "Hermione, we've been through this already. You're not a Healer. You've no specialised training," She wilted at his pointed remarks, and tears blurred her vision. "Do you need another sycophant to tell you you're bloody brilliant? Because it won't be me."

"I kept them alive," she said as a tear stained her cheek.

"Yes, you kept them alive when Voldemort rose to power again. But if you'd left well enough alone afterwards, or reached out to professionals, Wendell and Monica Wilkins would be living out their golden years in sunny Australia none the wiser. It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, but you have to accept it in order to heal."

Hermione wept, deep shame engulfing her as the reality set in.

She'd waited too long.

Her parents were going to die, prematurely, in soggy London.

"This can't be happening."

Everything she'd done had been for nothing. Returning to Australia. Cutting off her friends. Bending the Statute of Secrecy. Marrying Draco. Slinking off to the Cotswolds.

It had all bought her the wrong kind of time.

She'd used that time, that precious time, to trick herself into thinking she could undo it all. She'd return triumphant, her parents the picture of health. And then, what, leverage her war stories to a position at Hogwarts? Help her ex-Death Eater husband take down the Ministry?

She, the witch who'd always thought ahead, who always saw the danger around every corner, who burned so brightly, had been reduced to ash. This morning she'd been thinking about snogging, not her parents withering into desiccated husks in the room across from hers.

Hermione wished the wind would blow her away.

Blaise remained stiff-backed in the chair. He didn't move to hold her hand, nor did he offer her a handkerchief. He waited her out, his eyes focused on some distant point over her shoulder. Perhaps death didn't phase him after a lifetime of murdered stepfathers and years of training at hospital bedsides.

Or perhaps even he thought she was irredeemable.

Hermione's tears slowed, even though she willed them not to stop. She could cry forever and it wouldn't fill the hole inside her heart. A hole she hollowed out herself.

"I'll make them as comfortable as possible," Blaise finally said. "And I will support you through this, as I do all my patients' families."

"Will we have one more Christmas together, at least?"

He looked thoughtful. "I think so. I suggest you let them rest. Your mother in particular gets worked up when you're around."

"I have to do this whole…" she waved her hands, sniffling, "Thing with Draco. I won't be around much leading up to the Solstice Ball. But after that, I'd like to spend as much time with them as they can handle."

"I'll give them Dreamless Sleep for the next few days. It's not like we need to worry about them becoming addicted. And you'll need to brew one more round of their current potions regimen," he said with a sour note. "I'm sorry to ask it of you. Sorry for all of it."

She accepted his condolences with a nod. "Thank you."

Blaise smoothed his robes as if he meant to leave, but then remembered her earlier request. "You said you had something you wanted to talk about?"

Hermione baulked. She was still grappling with the news about her parents. All she wanted to do right now was run to her room, cast a silencing charm, and scream into her pillows. At that moment, her arm burned as if in protest, and Hermione steeled herself. The worst mistake of her life had been borne of prideful delay. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

"There's something I didn't tell you, and I didn't write it in my notes. I performed a spell out of the same book where I found the one that helped my mum, and like the other spells, I modified it," she confessed as she rolled up her sleeve to reveal the bandage beneath. She slowly unhinged the tiny clips holding it together and unwound the gauze. "My intent was to unburden myself of the intrusive thoughts and other sinister side effects of my potions work. And at first, I thought it worked. I had a surge of energy. I thought I'd been reborn."

The last of the bandage fell away, and the horror beneath wriggled to life, as if it missed being on display.

Blaise grabbed her wrist and pulled it across the table towards him. "No. Hermione… please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

The words came out tinny and small. "I accidentally gave myself the Dark Mark."

Hermione waited for him to say more, but she'd stunned him speechless. He rotated her arm in his grip, examining the skull and snake from every angle as if he couldn't believe they were really there.

He shot her a wild-eyed look. "Draco didn't give you this?"

"No, why would he? He's reformed."

"Right," Blaise said, brow furrowed.

Seconds passed, and he said nothing further. Hermione's wrist began to ache.

"Blaise," she said. His head snapped up, as if he'd been lost in thought and she'd called him back to the present. "Can you help me remove it?"

"No Death Eater has ever been able to get rid of the Dark Mark. They faded, after the Dark Lord was defeated…." He trailed off, his eyes trained on her Mark. "I've had Death Eaters in my care who took the Mark after the war, and theirs are a greenish grey. They don't look deep black like that."

"Are you telling me this is something different? Maybe it just looks like the Dark Mark?" She pulled her arm away and reapplied her bandage. She was lying to herself now, indulging in the fantasy that maybe it was just a magical tattoo gone wrong.

"I don't know."

"Can we do anything?"

"I don't know," he repeated. "But you definitely shouldn't experiment on it." His words stung.

"You won't tell anyone about this, will you? Not even your colleagues, Blaise. Please."

Blaise sighed. "You should give me that book. Where did you say you got it again?"

Hermione chewed her lip. On the one hand, she wanted Tom Riddle's bloody book as far away from her as possible. But on the other, she didn't want it to fall into the wrong hands. Yes, Blaise had done nothing but help her and her family. The Healing community trusted him. And she'd seen his forearms; he never took the Mark. But what did she really know of Blaise, when it came down to it?

"Let me look through it first. Maybe I missed something."

He didn't push, which made her breathe a little easier. "Okay, but don't modify any more spells until we know what we're dealing with here. In the meantime, keep it clean and dry, like any other wound."

As if this was like any other wound. "I won't do anything beyond that," she promised.

"Who else knows about this?"

"No one."

Blaise nodded, picking up his bag and moving down the hallway towards her parents' room. "It'll be our secret, then."

Draco lay in bed, hands behind his head. The late morning sun streamed into the bedroom, but exhaustion pinned him down and he didn't bother to reach for his wand to draw the curtain. He closed his eyes, but further sleep escaped him. With a sigh, his thoughts drifted back to the night before.

Hermione, her eyelashes fluttering against her skin. Hermione, all legs in a clingy little dress. Hermione, who he definitely wasn't avoiding.

He hadn't actually had a wank before going to Pansy's office, but it had been bloody fun to let Hermione think he had. In reality, he'd been overcome with guilt and remorse over the fact that he'd stopped thinking about Astoria and started thinking about his wife. But that guilt didn't penetrate the haze of lust that settled over his mind now as he remembered their near-kiss.

After years of celibacy as a youth, and then as an adult, he'd learned a little imagination was a powerful thing. He trailed one hand down underneath the covers and took himself in hand. He was half-hard already, and it was all too easy to think of Hermione again.

They'd had a brilliant time at the pub. Hermione lit up as she taught him the ins and outs of Connect Four. She'd always been intelligent, but her confident instruction was surprisingly sexy. He couldn't admit to finding her pretty during their time at Hogwarts until her strut down the staircase with Krum at the Yule Ball — every red-blooded male had noticed her then — but years later she proved a real beauty. And now… Gods.

Draco stroked himself to the memory of her flushed face, aching for his kiss. His mind took their moment together further than it had actually gone. He kissed her roughly, luxuriating in her honey scent. He massaged her perky little breasts and palmed her bum through her dress before unzipping it and watching it fall to the floor. He imagined tracing his fingers along her hourglass shape until she begged him to touch her elsewhere…

Fuck, it had been such a long time since he'd touched her like that. It'd been too long since he'd touched himself as well, because before he knew it he'd found his release.

He enjoyed only a few moments of relief before the guilt that had been looking for a way in pierced his heart. Disgusted with himself, he vanished the evidence and got up to get dressed. All he could think about as he tugged a grey jumper over his head was how this was such a betrayal to Astoria's memory.

He shared the flat that was supposed to be theirs with the woman that replaced her. Hermione — No, Granger, better to think of her as Granger — slept in the room that Astoria'd hoped might one day be a nursery for a little boy or girl with her almond-shaped eyes and his white-blonde hair.

Reading the letters last night was supposed to help him resist her, but he felt powerless against his attraction to Granger. And the worst part was — he couldn't even blame it on the Malfoy family ritual. The bonding magic that curled between them on their wedding night was only to help with the first time together, so everything he felt for Granger now… it was real.

One long shower and another guilty wank later, Draco joined Granger and Theo for tea. He sat directly across from the portrait of his mother. That ought to keep his newfound libido at bay.

Theo made polite inquiries into Granger's comfort and her parents' condition, and she rewarded the solicitor with a dazzling smile and her signature thorough answers. Draco smiled to himself as she reassured Theo that things were good at the flat, carefully sidestepping anything that might reveal the state of their marriage.

Granger asked about his workload, and if he'd met anyone special. Theo brought an ankle up across his knee, bouncing it, the only tell that he was irritated she'd turned the interrogation around on him. Smart girl.

Soon the conversation turned to their strategy for solving the murder. Murders.

"Draco, do you really want the Aurors involved, after everything?" Granger handed Theo a cup of tea and two biscuits, which he accepted and promptly tore into. Draco simply stared at the witch in disbelief.

She continued to use his given name. And in front of Theo, who of all people knew what a sham this whole thing was.

"They're our best chance," Theo intervened after a bite of biscuit. "They've got the resources, the knowledge. No matter our personal feelings about this mess of a Ministry, the Aurors still do good work. I've got several connections on the criminal defence side of things and they abhor going up against the Ministry's prosecutors because the Aurors usually provide unimpeachable evidence. I don't know who made the call back then not to investigate, but that's a puzzle for another day."

Granger offered Draco a biscuit, which he declined. She shrugged and popped it in her mouth instead. He flexed his fingers over his knee in an effort to stop wishing he was the biscuit in question. "Who heads the Aurors these days?"

Theo cleared his throat. "Ron Weasley."

He nearly spat. "They put the Weasel King in charge?"

"Ron is very strategic, and he's a good leader," Granger protested. "We both spent plenty of time in Harry's shadow. We know what it takes to keep calm and carry on, as the saying goes."

Draco snorted.

"What?"

"You've really lost the plot, Granger." He licked his lips, caught himself, and put his hands in his trouser pockets.

She leapt out of the chair and poked her finger into his chest. "I've lost the plot? You're the one tearing down someone who would put aside old grievances to help you, especially if I asked him to. You claim to have changed, Draco Malfoy, and I don't need to be an Auror to see there's little evidence of that!"

He rose, and her eyes followed his ascent. "Oh, and you're so much better at asking for help? I've got two witnesses down the hall who would testify you're rubbish at it."

Fuck. He shouldn't have said that. What was it about her that had him saying all the wrong things?

Granger stepped back from him with a hiss. "That was low, Draco. Even for you."

Draco stared at her, silently formulating an apology. She stared back with glorious fury. Good, he couldn't stand to see her cry. He could work with anger. Maybe if they could get back to the status quo of outright hatred, he'd stop thinking about her. And her lips, which she pressed into a firm line of irritation. He'd definitely stop thinking about them. Any minute now.

Theo sighed. "Hermione, I need to confer with Draco for a moment. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Thanks for your help, Theo." Her eyes didn't leave his, as if to say this isn't over.

In the end, he blinked as she bent to gather the tea tray so he didn't burn another image of her fantastic arse into his brain. He suspected she did it to torture him, since the housekeeper normally handled that sort of thing. As soon as Granger made her exit, Theo cast a silencing charm.

"You're falling for her." Theo stated it as a fact.

"I am not. Have you taken leave of your senses? We can't even be in the same room together."

"You're pushing her away because you still haven't told her about Astoria."

"I am not. And I'm not falling for Her — Granger. I mean her. Granger."

Salazar.

Theo chuckled knowingly. "Mate, I'm happy for you. You're attracted to your wife! This is a good thing!"

"She doesn't need to know that. Theo, the announcement hits the papers tomorrow. We're days away from the Solstice Ball. This whole charade will be over soon. Something will knock us off the front page and then Granger will go back to Cyclamen. Hopefully her connection with Weasley," he paused, as if the name left a foul taste in his mouth. "Will pan out and the Aurors will finally do their damned jobs."

"And what about after that, Draco?"

He waved his hand off to the side. "I don't know. I'll sell this place, for one thing. Too many memories." He didn't clarify that it wasn't only old memories plaguing him now, and in fact the new ones had already begun to exert a stronger gravitational pull, knocking him off his axis.

"And then?"

"What do you want me to say, Theo?"

"I want you to say you'll stop denying how you feel! I want you to find happiness, Draco. You deserve it."

Draco sank into his chair, spitting out bitter words. "I am the least deserving of happiness."

"Fine. Do what you're going to do. Look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, why don't you, while the rest of us would kill to have any woman, let alone one as lovely and brilliant as Hermione Granger, look at us the way she looks at you. And you look at her the same way, Draco."

"Theo, I —"

Theo's robes billowed out as he walked swiftly to the fireplace. "Not another fucking word, Draco. Owl the office if you need our legal services. I'll see what I can transfer over to Michael Corner. I'm not going to be witness to whatever the fuck this is."

"Theo, come on," Draco huffed, unwilling to let the surprise and hurt reach his eyes. "We've seen each other through worse than this."

Torture, addiction, and death, for instance. None of those ruffled Theodore Nott. Not like this.

"I have to go."

In a puff of green smoke, his best friend disappeared. Maybe for good. And maybe he deserved it.