The door to the kitchen of the Grangers' London house banged into the wall, pushed wide open by a tall, red-haired man with his own hand held over his eyes. "Hey!" Ron Weasley called blindly into the house as he felt for the threshold with his foot. "Charlie? Hermione? Say something. You're not snogging on the table again, are you? 'Cause I'm coming in. So Make yourselves decent."

A scoff sounded from inside the kitchen. "Stop your shouting and shut the door, Weasley."

Ron dropped his hand, quick-drawing his wand, tensing into a battle stance. "Malfoy! What in the bloody blazes are you doing in here?"

"Making pastry, obviously," Malfoy said, ignoring the wand trained on him as he opened the oven door with unnecessary flourish and slid a baking tray inside.

He wiped his hands on Dr. Ann Granger's abandoned apron, leveling a stare at Ron without another word of explanation.

Ron took a careful step closer. "What'd you do to Charlie?"

"Baked him a pie."

Ron was scoffing now. "George said something about the pair of you coming by the shop on a date, but I laughed it off."

"A date?" Malfoy smirked. "No, he's well out of my league. Not to mention he is entirely FAITHFUL to Hermione."

Ron cringed. "Fine. So what ARE you doing here, playing house by yourself?"

"That's none of your business, is it?" Malfoy said, untying the apron from around his waist and flicking the flour out of it, sending a cloud of white dust floating like a magical puff of smoke into Ron's face. "Suffice it to say I'm here as a guest, making myself useful."

"A guest?" Ron coughed. "But how can they - "

"Oh, you know Charlie and Hermione," Malfoy said, standing close enough to nudge Ron's wand aside. "So forgiving, aren't they? Forgiving to a fault. It's ridiculous, really. I'd have thought you'd know all about that."

Ron snatched the apron out of Malfoy's hands and threw it to the floor. "Now you listen here - "

"Ronald!" Hermione gasped, coming into the kitchen just as Ron grabbed a fistful of Malfoy's shirtfront.

Charlie was behind her, breaking into a laugh.

"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione said, prying his fingers off Draco and pushing his wand back against his chest. "No idiotic heroics today."

Charlie spoke to her as if neither of the other men were there. "Which one of them do you reckon started it, love?"

She clucked her tongue. "I'd put 50/50 odds on either of them."

Draco looked like he was about to argue, to defend himself. But then he closed his mouth, took a quiet step back. Throughout the kitchen, it felt like a light had just gone out. He took a deep breath and turned toward the door. "I'll leave you to it."

Ron looked almost sorry. "What is with him?"

"Personal matter," was all Charlie would say.

Ron huffed. "And that gives him the right to come in here and sashay around like he owns the place? I don't get it. Hermione hates him, obviously. And you - Charlie, how do you even know him?"

"Leave it, Ronnie," Charlie said, an elder brotherly authority in his tone that ended the conversation. "What've you brought?"

Ron remembered the packet tucked under his arm. He shook his head. "Right. This is from Mum. Some baby clothes she saved from when you were little, or something."

Hermione pounced on it. "Baby Charlie's clothes?"

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "How can there be anything left of my clothes? I thought they were handed down through the brothers until they disintegrated to rags."

Ron shrugged. "These ones must be special. Probably personalized with your initials. You know, like the Christmas jumpers, only baby sized. She had one for me too, though I can't see Gabrielle wanting to put it on any baby of ours. Not unless there's a way to get it to stop smelling like the Burrow's attic."

Hermione had torn into the package anyway, ravenous for a glimpse at Charlie's long lost, little photographed, middle-child babyhood. She hummed with disappointment as she unfolded the tiny jumper. It was knit out of coarse, burnt orange yarn, definitely made for a baby born in the 1970s, but it was skinny through the body, and marked with a letter P. "Well, it's got someone's initial on it," she said.

Ron swore. "Percy. That means I've gone and left your bundle at his place."

"And you haven't noticed until now?" Hermione said.

"No, actually. Audrey isn't nearly as grabby and nosy as some people. The package was still in one piece when I left it," Ron said. He rolled his shoulders, disappointed at himself for goofing up in front of Charlie again. "I'm sorry, guys. Give it here and I'll go back to Percy's."

"Never mind," Hermione said, mussing his hair before re-folding the jumper herself. "It might be nice to have an excuse to have Percy come 'round. I've got more pregnancy questions for him anyway."

Ron wouldn't stay to eat the chicken pie Malfoy had baked for their tea. If he'd still been a kid, he would have made some sort of ultimatum about it being him or Malfoy, but as it was, he left quietly after one last suspicious glare over his shoulder.

Malfoy came slumping out of the lounge when he heard the kitchen door close again. He stood in the room where everything was beginning to smell delightfully of the pie and heaved a massive sigh. "I can't stay any longer," he said.

Hermione tossed her head. "Nonsense. Don't let Ronald bother you. He goes months without coming 'round and won't even notice if you stay for weeks. And you've only been here a few days anyway."

He only hung his head in reply.

She punched at his bicep. "Chin up, Malfoy. You've been a lovely guest. The cooking alone - oh, is that it? Are you tired of waiting on us?"

"No," he said. "The cooking is rather nice. Kind of like potions class only without the mortal peril and without my secret magical father fretting over me disgracing him again."

"Well, don't let Ronnie unsettle you either," Charlie said. "But if you truly feel like it's time to go back to the manor - only you can decide that. We won't argue with you."

Hermione looked less than certain of this but there was no need to mention it. Not when Draco was saying, "No, it's not time. When I went back to get some clothes after my first night away, Astoria was making like she was hardly bothered at all. It was an act, of course. Stars, that woman can act…" He sat down hard at the kitchen table. "But I heard you say Percy's coming tomorrow. I'll make sure to be gone by then."

"And here I thought you liked Percy," Charlie said. "And if anyone in my family can accept a change of heart…"

"Yes, well, I'm not sure I'm up for any more Weasley personalities all the same. In fact," Draco said, rising to his feet as the oven timer sounded, "After we've had our tea, I'll be off to spend the night at Goyle's. He's been hounding me to visit anyway."

The Goyle family estate was set in a dark, gnarled old wood, the kind of place that would have been populated by trolls in another age. Maybe it still was. The house was all one level, long and sprawling beneath the trees, covered in ropey green vines and furry moss. Dogs roamed the grounds so Draco Malfoy arrived by Floo, the flare from the powder hardly visible in the always vaguely smokey drawing room.

A green blast of wand fire exploded on the mantle not far from Draco's head. He ducked, shouting back, swearing and announcing himself.

Goyle sat up on the sofa he'd fired blindly over the back of. "Malfoy!" he called.

Being in Goyle's presence was like turning through time, back to the age of seventeen. Draco was instantly cross and peevish, barking orders, and hating himself for it. "What's the bloody point in offering me unconditional Floo clearance if you're going to fire at my head as soon as I arrive?"

Goyle was on his feet now, pocketing his wand. "Yeah, sorry," he said, still snickering. "Got to protect my family line, haven't I? Anya here is - Anya! Where has that witch run off to now?"

He glanced around the room, looking for the bride his parents had arranged to have sent to him from the continent. They'd been married for years now but obviously weren't keen on joining the post war baby boom. Anya was nearly as big as Goyle himself, beautiful but hard-looking. The Goyles claimed her English wasn't good, but Malfoy had always suspected this was exaggerated as an excuse for her not to have to speak much to her husband or in-laws. At the sight of Draco, she had slipped out of the drawing room, disappearing into the darkness of the hall.

It was just as Draco thought. Anyone who wanted to avoid him would have no trouble doing so in this house. At the thought, he felt a pang - a deep loneliness for Astoria that he had usually been able to hold at bay until after bedtime while he'd been staying with Charlie and Hermione.

Goyle was waving him into the chair still warm from Anya's body. He rose to his liquor cart, choosing something for them to drink. "Something special, for celebrating no wives here," Goyle said.

Draco wrenched the bottle out of his hand and read the label himself, sniffing at the neck of the bottle before pouring a small drink for himself in a glass he'd wiped clean with his sleeve.

Goyle laughed at him. "You don't trust me, Malfoy?"

Teenaged Malfoy was snarling back at him, shouting Goyle back into his place. "Of course not, you goon. I can't trust my own wife. How can I expect to trust anyone else?"

At this age, Goyle was too jaded and rough to be either cowed or insulted by Malfoy's moods. He pounded Draco on the back, almost knocking the drink back up his throat. "Come on, Malfoy. Tell us what your witch did - or who she did."

This was high wit for Goyle and he laughed heartily at himself. All the while Draco sat wondering at him. He still referred to himself as "us" most of the time, as if Crabbe had never died. Most people probably assumed his new "us" was himself and Anya. But Anya wasn't there, and Draco knew better.

"You know," Goyle went on, "Anya's good friends with Daphne, your sister-in-law. She visits her almost every day, sometimes for hours. And you know what they're saying about your wife?"

Draco downed the rest of his drink as Goyle leaned toward him.

"They say she'd up the duff," he smirked. "Are you telling me that bit of work isn't yours?"

"Of course it's mine," Draco snapped, throwing his empty glass into the fire where it shattered against the glowing bricks at the back of the fireplace. "Shut your filthy mouth."

Goyle was still laughing, delighted at seeing Draco his old, easily infuriated self again. It emboldened him to reach into his robes and produce a small vial. It looked ordinary, made of opaque grey stone with a black glass stopper. It could have contained something innocuous. But from the way Goyle handled it with just the tips of his fingers, as if it was volatile and might destroy him, Draco sensed the evil in it.

"If you want to leave that witch, make clean break, no obligations, then you'll be wanting this," he said, setting the vial down on the table between them with a heavy click. "I never travel without it. Absolutely necessary for protecting the family line."

Instead of leaning toward the vial, Draco shrank away, still not sure why.

"It's Abortifacea Dolarus," Goyle said, perversely pleased with himself for remembering the potion's full name. "Only available on the black market. Not only does it end a pregnancy, it hurts like the devil while it does its work. Makes those women sorry, scares them into silence at what else you might do to them."

Draco shuddered as Goyle laughed at him again.

"Get that out of my sight," he said, swatting Goyle on the crown of the head with a cushion. "What is the matter with you? You'd better not be telling me you've been - "

He yelped as Goyle punched him sharply in the arm. It wasn't retaliation, but a warning. Anya was back, and she wasn't alone. At her side, scowling and fuming from beneath a large black hat complete with a veil which her husband had bought in Milan, stood Daphne Greengrass Bianchini.

Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

Anya tapped sharply at Goyle's shoulder to get him to leave them alone. Goyle stood up so quickly he almost tripped over the table, bumping into Draco and reaching out to steady himself on Draco's knees.

"Draco Malfoy," Daphne crowed. "So you've finally crawled out of the hole you've been hiding in since you walked out on my delicate, pregnant sister."

He heaved another sigh. "Look, I understand your concern. But it's none of your business, Daphne. Astoria knows where I've been the whole time I've been away. If she wanted you to seek me out, she would have told you where to find me."

"How can it not be my business?" Daphne railed. "No, Astoria won't tell me what happened to give you an excuse to go running off. She's always rather mad when it comes to you - irrational. But she also won't get out of bed. The medics say she's healthy and the baby is a little small but not in any danger - yet. Still, she just lies there in her nightgown crying all night and day."

Draco huffed. "As if she does. She thrives on drama and you know it. You're every bit as histrionic as she is. Look at you."

Daphne answered with a gasp. "You don't believe me when I say she is absolutely gutted?" Her eyes were glistening with tears she was fighting not to shed. "If Goyle had a Pensieve here, I'd show you. Use your storied Legilimency on me if you have to. Prove to yourself that Astoria is devastated. She wants to eat but she can hardly bear to. Oh, mother says she should consider herself lucky to be clear of you at last. She's young enough to start over. And the Malfoys are bad blood, vicious and tainted by war. Everyone knows it, that's what we always told her, but she said your heart was true and purified, which is clearly nonsense…"

Daphne's tirade of abuse went on. Draco sat silently, his expression stony, eyes glazing over, listening to how vehemently and consistently the Greengrasses had always opposed him as a husband for their youngest daughter. He had known it was like this, but thought they had grown to accept him, perhaps even to like him. No, it had never ended. This was how much Astoria loved him, putting up with this all along. And now she was in bed, mourning his leaving?

"Alright, show me," he said, breaking through Daphne's onslaught of insults. "Let me see Astoria in your mind."

Daphne fell silent, startled and open-mouthed, her hand rising to the base of her throat.

Draco saw her fear. "Unless you don't really want to," he said. "I understand. Legilimency is a violation, and since you don't trust me…"

Daphne's lip quivered for just a moment before her hands were in her hat, unpinning it from her blond hair. "Oh, I certainly don't trust you," she said. "But my sister, her child - they need you to sacrifice your pride and come back to them before - "

"It isn't a matter of pride - "

"I don't care!" she shouted over him. "I don't care what it is, you have to stop. You may not be willing to make sacrifices for them, but I am willing to make any sacrifice for them."

She dropped her hat onto Goyle's sofa and sat down beside it. "Do it, Malfoy. Hit me with the Legilimency. Please."

He raked his hands through his hair, closed his eyes.

"Do it!" she said.

He bent at the waist, each of his hands gripped to the back of the sofa, hemming Daphne between them, his eyes still closed. "Ask me one more time."

Daphne's voice was low, trembling. "Draco, please, look for my sister."

His eyelids sprung open, and without a word, her mind was his...

Charlie had finished the washing up and found Hermione reading on the sofa, stretched out on her side now that she had reached the stage in her pregnancy where lying on her back for extended periods was not recommended by Wizards What to Expect. He lifted her feet and sat underneath them, easing off her socks, and massaging her soles.

She sighed her thanks and watched him over the top of the book as he curved the pad of his thumb into the arch of her foot.

"Percy says he'll come by first thing in the morning," Charlie said.

She hummed an acknowledgement, returning to her reading.

Charlie rotated her ankle, quiet, staring into the fire Malfoy had left through not long ago.

She thought of teasing him, asking if he missed his friend and favourite chef. But it was the first time they'd been alone in the house together since the day Astoria had paid her last visit. In her heart, Hermione still hadn't quite moved past it. She closed her book.

"So this is where it happened," she said. "This sofa is where you rejected Astoria's offer of a Gravida Triadum spell."

Charlie cradled her foot in both hands, raised it to his face, and kissed it. "Tell me to go to the manor and tell her off and I'll do it. I'll work myself into a fit of anger and do it if it makes you stop thinking of this room and this furniture in terms of any other woman."

She sat up, sliding her foot from between his hands, sitting close beside him, stroking the day's growth of short ginger scruff on his cheeks.

His hand covered hers. "Hermione - I am so sorry that happened. Maybe I should have seen it coming. Maybe I led her on in some way - "

She hushed him. "Stop. Stop that, love," she said as he turned his face to kiss her palm. "Do you know how many women would love to have a husband whose biggest personality flaw is that he is too nice, has too much respect for women?"

He sniffed a laugh against her palm. "Let me do something to make it right. To put it all behind us. Anything you want."

"Oh, I know something we could do," she said, taking her wand from the coffee table. "Let's repatriate this sofa for our own indecent activities." With a flick of her wand, the sofa was as wide as a single best, just big enough for them both to stretch out if they stayed extremely close together.

Charlie's eyes widened as he understood her. "Here? Right by the Floo Draco might come crashing through, all wound up and needy?"

She tutted as she plucked open the buttons of Charlie's shirt. "He won't be back tonight. Goyle's probably got him drunk enough to sleep for days by now. And even if he's not," she said, both her hands pushing Charlie's sleeves to his wrists, her palms dragging along the contours of his arms, "think of the risk of being caught as part of your penance."

"Hermione Jean Granger," he growled as she tossed his shirt behind her head. "That is almost a kink."

"Well," she said as she crawled over him, pushing him onto his back, breathing against his neck. "Like you said, we love a good snog with a dragon looming nearby. And the Malfoys didn't name their son Draco for nothing."

He pressed his finger to her lips. "Not another word about Malfoys. This is us, all alone, taking our sofa back from them."

"And we will," she said, her mouth speaking against his mouth as his hands settled on her hips. "We will if it takes us all night."

Across the country, in the Goyle's troll forest, Draco slept alone in a warm but musty spare bedroom. He was asleep but restless, fitful, his dreams teeming with the shadows of the visions he'd seen in his sister-in-law's mind that evening. He'd seen Astoria, alone in the vast, immaculate manor. She was dressed in a plain white shift, slumped against the wall as she walked to meet her sister, quiet and pale as a ghost, dark-rimmed eyes red from crying.

"It's all my fault. It's all my fault," she'd wept in her sister's arms even as she refused to tell her what "it" was.

Astoria was not acting, but she was not herself either. He'd seen Daphne ordering her childhood comfort foods from the kitchen, and seen Astoria jump up from the table to vomit into the kitchen sink when she tried to eat them. She had coughed and spasmed and when it was over and Daphne had held her again, she wept his name.

The scenes were heartbreaking. He had to go to her. He would be at the manor in the morning after going back to the Weasleys for a shower, something to get the dank stench of Goyle Hall off of himself. Daphne had made him promise he'd go but she needn't have worried. Astoria was sick with grief and loneliness. Nothing could stop him from going back and accepting her repentance. He would do whatever he could to comfort her.

As he slept, draped at the foot of the bed was Draco's cloak, the one he'd been wearing when Goyle tripped against him on his way out of the drawing room with Anya. The trip hadn't been an accident. With this deliberate move, Goyle had taken the small bottle of the evil potion, the Abortifacea Dolarus, and slipped it into Draco's pocket, just in case he changed his mind.