Chapter 1: Three Days

"Lucius, honestly, I'm trying to open the door!"

"And your perseverance under duress is admirable, Petal."

"I told you not to call me that."

"It's funny."

"It's not."

The door burst forth with the force that only careless sixteen-year-olds can summon, and Narcissa spared nary a backward glance at the earth-shattering crash as it banged shut behind them.

"Mummy?" Silence. "Mum? Mother! Are you there?"

"Mummy, are you there?" Anyone else would've surely mistaken Lucius's tone for a mocking one, but Narcissa heard its loving caress.

"She'll hear you," she hissed, venturing a few more cautious steps into the foyer.

"She adores me."

"You think everyone adores you."

"And don't they?" Narcissa turned away with a reluctant smile and a roll of her eyes.

"Mother, I'm home!" No response. They were into the parlor now, and the air was still and undisturbed. "Don't touch that," she added to Lucius, without turning around. The latter, whose fingertips had been centimeters away from her mother's prized-and probably cursed-crystal candlesticks, withdrew his hand, unconcerned.

"Poppy's left fingerprints on the picture window!" Still, no response. With a sly grin, she turned at last to face Lucius. "My mother, it seems, is out." He nodded gravely.

"And where is Poppy, I wonder?"

"Mother gave her a sock last week."

"Did she, now?"

"Well, she touched Great-Aunt Dorea's golden locket."

"Surely you jest."

"I don't jest about lockets." Narcissa settled onto the sofa, which, as with all parlor furniture, was both a thing of beauty and excruciating to sit on. Lucius crossed to the bar in the corner, eyes flitting over the wine bottles without reading them.

"Not that one." Once again, Narcissa didn't look around before she spoke. Lucius shook his head ever so slightly, but nonetheless selected another bottle. She was right. It tasted like life.

"She's marrying him. That Tonks boy."

"She might as well. No one else would have her."

"Boys always say that, and it's never true."

"Don't let your mother hear you talking like that."

"As we've established, my mother is out." A pause. Narcissa admired the light refracted through the half-filled wineglass.

"How do you know?"

"What?"

"Surely, you're not meant to know who she's marrying?" Lucius's real question was buried so deep within the one he voiced that few would've stood a chance of finding it. It was an extraordinary talent of his.

"Our world isn't large, is it?" She paused. "Mother keeps sending me to school."

"Ah, so it's your mother's fault then."

"She's my sister."

"And you're not a child anymore." What could she say? He wasn't wrong.

"She's marrying him...on the fifth of June." Silence.

"Is that…?"

"Yes." Lucius nodded.

"Well." He paused. "She always did strike me as the sentimental type."

"It's not sentimental, it's crass."

"Often the same, viewed through different eyes." Despite his words, he gathered her up and she melted against him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They were quiet for a few moments, or perhaps a few days.

"There's no reason we have to go back."

"What?"

"You said your mother keeps sending you to school. We don't have to go back."

"You're drunk."

"I'm bored."

"And what, pray tell, would be more to your taste than school?"

"Paris." Narcissa laughed.

"What would we do in Paris?"

"Everything. Nothing. Whatever we like." He paused, eyes alight. "Make the Muggles believe we're gods."

"I won't live among Muggles."

"Even as a god?"

"Gods are often bored, you know," Narcissa told him. "If they weren't, what would the Greeks have written about?" He laughed.

"I'll fit right in." She studied him for a moment.

"You'd really do it? Go away to Paris and never come back?"

"Not without you." He scarcely spoke above a whisper, and something inside her melted.

"I love you."

"And I love you, Petal."

"I told you not to call me that."

~~twenty-three years later~~

Draco had always supposed clouds must move very slowly-after all, every time you looked up, there they were, ostensibly exactly where you'd left them. Today he wondered whether he might be wrong about this; after all, three had drifted across his bedroom window in the blink of an eye. Though, of course, he hadn't a clue how quickly or slowly he blinked. Perhaps he'd gone to sleep without realizing it. After all, there often wasn't much difference between being awake and drifting through sleep. Often. Not always.

Sometimes, ensconced in the symphony of his friends' voices, everything was hysterically funny and every idea was the cleverest in the world. He felt lighter than air, untouchable, immune from gravity. Sometimes, their voices overlapped with a chaotic dissonance that made his heart pound, dried his mouth, and reduced his breath to short, desperate gasps which failed to let in sufficient air until he feared he'd die.

Sometimes, he and Hermione exchanged thoughts with such virtuosic ease that he wondered whether they really needed words, and he marveled that anyone could understand him so well. Sometimes, he was reminded how little he understood himself and paralyzed by heart-shattering fear that, the very second she understood him perfectly, she'd run away in horror. The soul-rending fear that she'd be right. The reality that he himself couldn't follow.

Sometimes, he thought she could tell. There was a certain way her eyes went soft as she took his hand, a certain squeeze she applied to his fingers-not hard, but solid, a reminder of his link to the earth. A certain way she kissed his cheek without kissing his lips, and then she'd let him lie quietly with his head in her lap, softly stroking his hair while she read.

He loved her for it. He longed to tell her, but the trouble was, he didn't think he could ever explain how much.

Three days ago, they'd been caught in the rain-sudden, freezing, torrential rain unlike anything they'd experienced in this lifetime. By the time she'd ushered him into the narrow front entry of her parents' house they'd been soaked to the skin.

Hello? She'd called. Mum? Dad? Are you here?

They weren't, and so she'd led him through a house that felt simultaneously like a hug and a daydream. There were more things in the Manor that Draco wasn't allowed to touch than things he was-he'd counted once, out of boredom and nine-year-old frustration. There were whole rooms he'd never seen anyone set foot in. In this house, everything bore the mark of careful, loving use. Books lay out on end tables, not decoratively, but with markers stuck haphazardly between the pages. The kitchen, into which Hermione walked casually and without a trace of apprehension, was filled with light and had freshly cleaned teacups drying on the counter. Draco had never in his life seen a dish that wasn't actively being used, and the idea fascinated him to no end. The dining table was strewn with what Draco recognized as Hogwarts textbooks and copious rolls of parchment bearing Hermione's handwriting. She looked up after wringing the water from her hair into the kitchen sink, caught sight of his face, and glanced shyly at the floor.

It's not much, she'd said quietly, cheeks glowing faintly pink. Draco, however, was enchanted. He'd told her so, and she'd blushed furiously.

Oh, don't be ridiculous, she'd laughed, noticing a note at the edge of the table.

Darling,

By the time you read this, your mother and I shall be far away-metaphorically speaking, of course. We'll be across town at the Hastings' for the evening. We almost asked you to go. Be grateful we didn't.

In the spirit of gratitude, perhaps I might draw your attention to the state of the dining table. I seem to recall it is oak, but as the days dwindle by, I'm less and less sure. If, when we return home from our enchanting evening, I still find myself unable to verify, the consequences shall be too ghastly to detail here. Hint: They involve your access to the outside world, including its libraries and museums, until I am reunited with my beloved tabletop.

Make no mistake about it. This is a test.

Your doting father

In case it wasn't clear from the above, clear off the table.

Your equally doting, though not so expansive, mother

Draco had always had reason to believe Hermione's parents were very different from his own, but this was beyond his wildest dreams. As she rolled her eyes and tossed the note into the bin, he'd had to wrestle down the urge to snatch it back. It felt precious to him, like proof of the existence of magic beyond any he'd seen performed before.

You've got a spelling mistake in your History of Magic essay, he'd remarked, as they carried the heap of schoolwork up the stairs.

No I haven't, she'd retorted at once. The moment they reached her bedroom he simply tilted the parchment toward her, smirking. She'd gasped, scandalized, as she snatched it out of his hands.

If you tell anyone, I'll kill you.

Who'd believe me? He'd asked. When Draco was small, his bedroom had felt like a cross between a sanctuary and a laboratory, a place he'd curated precisely to serve his deepest needs and most fleeting whims. And then he'd gone away to school, and it had remained untouched. Now, it felt like a memorial dedicated to a person he wasn't sure had ever existed in the first place. Hermione's, on the other hand, felt like her. Despite spending most of her time at school, it was clear both that the room felt her touch each summer she spent in it, and that her parents left it quite undisturbed for her return each year. Eyes lighting upon the bookshelf under her window, he'd taken a few steps across the room. It was filled, he noticed, not with the heavy reference books she preferred, but with precisely the sort of children's stories she claimed to have no time or patience for.

Oh, that. I've told Dad a hundred times…

What's this? He'd interrupted. It was another book by Roald Dahl. The BFG, the cover read.

It's about giants, I think? She'd said vaguely. A little girl who gets kidnapped by them.

That's horrible! He'd gasped, and she'd frowned.

It's not, he's a nice giant.

Nice giants don't exist, Hermione.

Giants don't exist, Draco.

Yes, they do, he'd informed her. Not in Britain, of course, but...I dunno, in the North somewhere. They're vicious, giants. If one really kidnapped you, you'd be as good as dead. Footsteps, and then Hermione had turned sharply to face the open door, stricken.

Dad! We, er...I mean- she broke off, and squared her shoulders. You're meant to be out, she'd amended, tone accusatory now.

Your mother forgot the wine.

Oh. Hermione's resolve flickered a bit. Er...we were...sorry.

Her father, however, showed no sign of anger or surprise. He'd studied Draco with mild fascination wholly unlike the sharp scrutiny he was accustomed to receiving from adults.

Can you possibly be the boy I've been sending books to as long as my daughter's gone to school?

Yes, Draco had replied, before he could think better of it. Matilda is brilliant. The Witches is a bit weird, but it made me laugh.

He's read them both around a million times, Hermione had added, with a light smirk.

Then you must know them quite well, her father had said, and then, to Draco's unmitigated astonishment, he'd asked him about the books. His favorite bits, things he thought were silly or out of place. He was delighted to hear that Draco had thought Matilda was a witch upon reading her story for the first time. All the while Hermione glanced from one to the other, shaking her head knowingly every once in a while and rolling her eyes, but grinning nonetheless.

Now you've done it, she'd remarked, the moment her father left. He likes you.

Before Draco could reply, her father was back.

I'm sorry. Did I hear you say that giants are real?

Er-yeah. They are. It crossed Draco's mind, seconds too late, that perhaps he oughtn't have answered this question.

Brilliant, her father had remarked. Fascinating.

Goodbye, Dad, Hermione had said pointedly.

Fascinating, he'd repeated under his breath as he swept from the room. The door had slammed downstairs a moment later, and Hermione had studied Draco with a soft, keen look he now realized she got from her father.

What? She'd asked. He wondered, looking back, what on earth his face must have looked like. The house...the note...her books...her father's genuine kindness, devoid of suspicion. He couldn't possibly describe what a wonderful gift she'd given him this afternoon. Instead, he drew her in and gave her a slow, soft kiss, concentrating very hard on showing her exactly how he felt. When they broke apart, she held him in her eyes. She understood.

I love you, he'd longed to say. But he'd never be able to explain how much.

That was three days ago. Tonight, she'd be on her way to the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer. Draco wasn't supposed to write to her at the Weasleys', lest their youngest son go mad. So here he was, watching the clouds.

A knock at his bedroom door startled him so badly he would've jumped out of his skin, if he had the strength to move.

"Your father wishes to speak to you." In Dobby's absence, his parents were forced to summon him themselves. It was hard to say which of them did so more resentfully. He tried to raise his head, but it wouldn't budge.

"Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't." His mother sounded as exhausted as he felt. A stab of something resembling sympathy prompted him to try, with every ounce of strength he could summon, to sit up. Nothing.

"I think I'm ill."

"Now, Draco." Retreating footsteps. Gravity, already much stronger than normal, doubled. When at last he managed to drag himself from his bed, he felt dizzy, nauseated, as if he were recovering from a bad bout of flu. That wasn't right, though. He wasn't ill; his heart was. Or his head. Or both.