Notes: Thank you for taking this journey with me.

WARNINGS: Mild sexual content

40. Thou Art Beloved of Many

Time drags forward.

Draco watches the leaves fall from the spindly trees dotting the windswept plain beyond their house. They crunch under foot for several weeks before snow buries them, erasing any sign of autumn.

The chill of winter is colder than he remembers, the days so short he feels time is accelerating, leaving only shadow and darkness in its wake.

They find ways to make the gloomy evenings bright. Ways to fight the inevitable decline of the seasons. Ways to avoid Tom's impending doom.

Hermione's belly stretches and grows, filling him with an odd combination of awe and horror. The rapid progression of her pregnancy forces the unnatural nature of her condition into the forefront for all them. As much joy as they feel, there is no escape from the pernicious air that shrouds the entire affair.

They brought Astoria into the fold—not completely, no one would believe the truth even if they admitted to possessing the Hallows—but enough that she will be there when it matters. Enough that they know Hermione is healthy and approximately six months along—despite it being merely four.

He knows more about pregnancy and childbirth than he ever imagined was possible. None of them have said a word about what comes after, but Draco knows what's expected of him. He doesn't think he's up to the task, but he is quite aware he has no choice in the matter. So he prepares the best he can and attempts to wrap his mind around this new future that has been written for him, yet another existence thrust upon him by forces beyond his control.

He has the power to turn away this time. To say no. But he won't.

He loves them both too bloody much.

He sighs and stares balefully up at Hermione as she drops onto the sofa beside him, hand at her back. It's a handful of days before New Year's Eve and he's still behind on his end of the year reports for the Ministry.

She takes a deep breath, as if preparing herself for an exam, and looks at him. The glint in her eye makes him put down the latest Dark Arts research he's examining. He raises a silver brow and she swallows.

"So I've been thinking."

He waits, but she doesn't continue. He sets the stack of parchments aside and folds his hands in his lap. "Thinking what?"

"Tom may not…" she trails off, but there's no mistake as to what she means. They're running out of time. She clears her throat and shoves an unruly curl behind her ear. "Well, I think we should give him something."

She's being particularly evasive. Draco narrows his eyes. "Just bloody spit it out."

Her cheeks warm to a hue resembling the dusky shade of her lips. Both his brows raise. Hermione inhales sharply and then lets out a cascade of words, all within the span of a single breath. "Tom has always wanted both of us. At once. I think we should do it."

It takes Draco a good half minute to understand Hermione Granger has just propositioned him for a threesome. Laughter clogs his throat the instant he does.

Hermione glares at him, face redder than a bloody tomato. "It's not so absurd, you ass."

He can't help the mirth that continues to bubble over his lips. He holds out a hand, trying and failing to placate her. She crosses her arms and angles away from him, embarrassment evident in every angle of her posture.

Draco focuses on the rug in front of him and finds a way back to sanity, if only for a moment. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, shaking his head. "Truly I am. It's just… I never, ever thought I'd hear those words out of your lips."

"You think it's stupid."

It's insane, absolutely cracked. Under normal circumstances he would never entertain the idea. But these are no ordinary times.

The boy in question is facing a death sentence of his own making. There will be no later. Not for Hermione and certainly not for Draco.

If he wants to taste Tom one final time. If he wants to properly say goodbye to the boy he loves, then this is his only shot, absurd though it may be.

Draco sobers completely, searching Hermione's face. Beyond the flaming color on her cheeks, he finds a steely determination. She believes in what she offers. This isn't a mere gesture. She truly wants Tom to have this before it's too late.

"You're absolutely serious?" he asks.

She angles slowly back toward him, sensing the shift in his mood. "Yes."

"You know I'm not bi, right?" He has to be sure she understands this will be about Tom alone. He may love her, but he feels only aesthetic appreciation for her beauty.

Hermione nods. "I know. And I'm grateful. I don't think I'm ready for anyone but…"

He nods, understanding immediate. They're on the same page then. "So it's for him and only him."

"Yes."

He can't believe he's about to agree to this.

"Okay then," he murmurs. "When? How?"

Hermione gives him a sly smile that belies her earlier discomfort. "I have an idea about that."

~*~Break~*~

Hermione leans further back in her chair, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach, the other on a glass of sparking water. The club is so dim she can barely make out the glass or the table it rests upon, but the dance floor is fully illuminated, writhing bodies twisting to a hypnotic beat that thrums through every facet of the space.

She wonders how the deep vibrations feel to the baby. She hopes they aren't an unwelcome disturbance.

She takes another sip of her water, enjoying the burn of the carbonation against her throat, and lets her eyes wander back to the dance floor.

Myriad couples twine together in intimate geometries, but she has eyes for only one. Tom and Draco are glued together, Draco's back pressed against Tom's chest, the dark boy's arm wrapped scandalously low across his waist. Tom wears a plain black tank top that emphasizes the lean lines of his body over his usual dark jeans and combat boots. Draco's foregone a shirt entirely, his sinuous muscles on display for all. He wears pristine white pants that highlight the burnished glow of his skin. It's been months since their warm summer beside the ocean, but the imprint lingers, his skin a shimmering bronze beneath the flashing lights of the club.

They're mesmerizing together. Darkness and light meeting and melding into mouthwatering perfection. Where jealousy once stood between her and such appreciation, she finds only gratitude that Draco agreed to this. That he gave her the chance to truly see the beauty of them.

Both boys are several drinks deep and their inhibitions—and Tom's initial incredulity at the suggestion of what Draco and Hermione planned—have worn away. Tom throws his head back, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. The blonde twists to face him, dropping low before slowly rising. He presses against the length of Tom as he rises, sensuous and evocative.

Hermione's mouth goes dry.

Tom's focus snags on her, an unmistakable question in his glittering eyes. He will stop this instant if she wants him to. But she doesn't. She wants…this.

Initially it was solely for him—and she knows that is how Draco feels still—but watching them, she understands just what she stands to gain. It is far more than she ever dared to imagine.

She nods to Tom.

Even at this distance, she sees his eyes go midnight dark, the raw power of his desire blotting out the vivid sapphire. The next instant his hand is buried in Draco's hair and the blond's head is tipped back, his angular features awash with ecstasy in the pulsing light. She watches Tom's lips trail the length of his throat. Draco's mouth parts, perhaps with a breathy sigh; she can't tell with the throbbing music swallowing every modicum of sound.

She feels like a voyeur—she is a bloody voyeur. But she's not a stranger and she knows Tom wants her eyes on him, on what he does to the boy in his arms.

Despite their better angels, the three of them have agreed to this.

The heat between the boys slowly rachets up, wanton caresses turning to deliberate strokes. The crowd doesn't pay any heed; half of them are doing the same.

Hermione downs more carbonated water, desperate to sate the parched state of her throat. The water does nothing, but it's something to do with her hands that isn't obscene.

She's thankful they thought ahead and booked a room not far away. Despite her sobriety, she's in no state to apparate the three of them and her child safely back to the moors. It's also wise to keep this particular evening separate from their everyday lives. As alluring as this arrangement may seem, it is not permanent. To pretend anything otherwise would be unkind to all of them.

Another glance at the dance floor finds Tom's mouth covering Draco's in a sloppy, provocative kiss. The apex of her thighs throbs and she brings the latest glass of water to her flushed forehead.

When she looks up, the two of them stand before her, lips bruised and faces flushed with more than the heat of the dancefloor. Tom pulls the glass from between her fingers and downs it in one gulp.

"Let's get out of here."

She hasn't felt nervous butterflies quite this raucous in a long time. She nods dumbly, her palms sweating as she rubs them together. Tom pulls his leather jacket from the adjoining seat and shrugs it on. Draco does the same with an elaborate parka.

Nothing stands between them and the hotel room.

Hermione forces a quivering breath out and shifts to stand. Tom moves beside her, gripping her waist. She leans gratefully against him. The last month saw a dramatic progression of her pregnancy and she feels unwieldy on her feet.

He presses a kiss to her temple and maintains his hold on her as they make their way out of the club.

They must make quite the sight. Two boys drenched in sexual tension and a pregnant woman. But this isn't the sort of club where the patrons judge each other's tastes. Even as she searches the crowd, no one looks back. They're all part of their own dramas; they have no interest in Hermione or the company she keeps.

Outside, snow blankets the landscape, glittering under the neon lights of the strip. In the distance fireworks crackle, heralding the arrival of the new year. Their footsteps crunch as they follow the sidewalk around the corner to the hotel. It's a fancy place with chandeliers in the lobby and a bellhop ready for their bags. But they've brought only what fits in Hermione's satchel—which, to be fair, is bigger than it appears. They wave the bellhop away and climb a grand staircase to the third floor. The carpets are plush, like mossy sponges beneath her boots.

Draco inserts the brass key in the lock and turns the knob. The room that greets them is sumptuous, an array of red velvets and dark wood and oversized furniture. Hermione runs a hand over an ornate embroidered armchair which spills cushions like they're going out of style. The fabric is lustrous and soft.

The door clicks shut and she turns to face them. Draco shifts his weight from side to side, gaze flickering between Hermione and Tom.

"So, we're really doing this."

She glances to Tom. Despite the desire etched into him, he waits for her to reply.

"Yes. We're doing this."

Draco nods and slips out of his parka. "Safeword? Just in case."

"Voldemort."

Hermione and Draco gape at Tom. He gives a shrug. "What? Neither of you is going to say it unless you bloody well mean it. I'm certainly not going to."

He has them both there. Hermione looks quickly away from the boys, crossing the room to the miniature fridge in the corner. "Before we…" she trails off and clears her throat, heat burning upward across her cheeks and to the tips of her ears. She forces a deep breath into her lungs. It isn't nearly as deep as it might have been a month ago. She never realized how much pregnancy affected basic functions such as breathing or walking until she was in the thick of it. Annoyed by her embarrassment and her rapidly shifting body, she takes another breath. This one is almost normal. She reaches into the depths of the fridge before turning to face the boys.

They're both still dripping with sweat, but she finds the look is more toe-curling than not. She focuses on Tom. His dark eyes are wide as he stares at the object in her hands.

"I know you didn't talk about it, but I couldn't let your birthday go uncelebrated." She holds out the cake to him. It's small and chocolate with bright green letters that spell out Happy Birthday, Tom in fancy icing. Exactly what she imagined when she talked to the hotel staff.

Tom doesn't move a muscle. The sultry look in his eyes has fled. If anything, he seems on the verge of fleeing. Draco takes a half step toward him, but stops, clearly thinking better of it.

"Tom?" she asks, voice smaller than she'd like.

She watches his fists clench, his long, elegant fingers spasming. Hermione genuinely can't determine what he's feeling in this moment. It could be rage or it could be shame or it could be something else entirely. She knows him so well, but right now he is a painfully blank page.

Unsure of what else to do, she turns and sets the cake down on the small table between two matching embroidered armchairs. Her teeth dig into her lip as she stares down at the looping frosting. Upon second glance, it seems pathetic.

"I'm sor—"

"No," Tom interrupts her harshly, his voice rough. "No. Don't be sorry."

Hermione has no idea what to be. She can't seem to look away from the green writing on dark chocolate frosting.

Tom clears his throat. A tug on her hand makes her realize he's moved to stand beside her. "If anyone should be apologizing, it's me. You just… surprised me. I haven't thought about my birthday in a very long time. Not during all those years in the diary and rarely before that."

"You never celebrated your birthday," Draco says, moving to lean against one of the velvet chairs. It's not a question.

Dark sapphire eyes slide to him. Tom gives a rough shake of his head. "No."

It takes Hermione's brain a moment to fully process what Draco clearly knew. The more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Of course, the orphanage never celebrated anything, let alone an odd child like Tom. And at Hogwarts his birthday always fell during the winter holiday, when his group of sadistic sycophants were away in their posh houses being fed feasts by their doting families.

Hermione looks up at Tom, searching the anguished contours of his face. "I should have realized…"

His lips twitch into a sardonic smile. "How could you? Your childhood was chalk full of birthdays." The sting of his observation is lessened by the warmth of his hand around hers. He sighs, pushing his dark fringe away from his eyes with his free hand. "I just really wasn't expecting this… birthdays are… difficult for me."

As she stares into the swirling depths of his eyes, she realizes he doesn't just mean the scars of his past. "You don't like being reminded that you're aging. That you're one year closer to—"

She cuts off abruptly. Draco's gaze holds a hint of panic as he catches her eye. They were trying to create a night full of love and all its facets and instead she's just reminded Tom that he's months—maybe even days—away from the thing he's always dreaded, from the reality of the fear that drove him more than any lust for power.

"It's fine," Tom murmurs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his kiss-swollen lips. "I've made peace with my choice."

Hermione doesn't miss the incredulity that sweeps across Draco's flushed face before he corrals his expression onto neutral ground. He clears his throat and gives Tom a saucy wink. "So how old are you anyway, Old Man?"

Tom rewards him with a smirk that contradicts the grateful glint in his eye. "I hardly think all those years trapped in the diary count."

"Fine," the blond allows. "You still owe a us a number."

"If you don't count all… that, I'm just turning seventeen. Unless the last year should count? Then I think it might be eighteen. It's hard to tell."

Hermione does her best not to allow the burst of sympathy that erupts in her gut onto her face. Tom's life is nothing but a tangled travesty and she doesn't want him reminded of that right now. She pushes her lips upward and prays the rest of her face obeys. "Well, let's call it eighteen. That way I'm not having a child with a boy two years younger than me."

Tom snickers. "Maybe we should count the years in the diary."

"I don't want to have a child with a bloody vampire either," she grouses, genuine amusement twitching her lips.

His eyes flash midnight for a moment before he laughs, full and bright. "I'll try to avoid any vampiric tendencies. But I did come back to life after feeding on your blood."

Now it's Draco who's sniggering. "I never really thought about it that way. The Gryffindor Princess and her Vampire Consort."

"That sounds like one of your bloody awful novels," Tom tells her, lips twitching.

Draco outright cackles. "We can do so much with this."

Hermione raises her brows and his smile turns devilish.

"What's a good threesome without some quality role play? I can be the narrator."

Her cheeks are on fire, the heat so fervent she fears she'll ignite from shame. "Can we just eat some cake?"

He cocks a platinum brow at her. "Having second thoughts?"

And third and fourth and fifth thoughts. She drops into one of the armchairs. What exactly has she gotten herself into? She takes a deep breath and tries to remember why she thought this was a good idea. Within her, the smallest flutter, like the wings of a butterfly, reminds her she's not alone. She places a hand on her swollen belly and takes another breath.

Draco is kneeling beside her in an instant, all traces of humor absent from his grey eyes as they search her face. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."

Tom drops down beside him and stares up at her with equal sincerity. "He's right. I appreciate the gesture, but if you don't want this, neither do I."

She reaches out and places a hand on Tom's cheek, caressing the satin soft skin. She repeats the gesture with Draco. She's never touched him like this, but although it's intimate, the caress has no sexual undertone. She looks between the stormy skies of Draco's eyes and the dark abyss of Tom's stare and knows she is safe. Whatever she wishes to explore, they will let her. Whatever she cannot face, they will not force upon her.

She trails her fingers from Tom's cheek to the ebony mass of his hair. Her fingers tangle in the satin strands at the nape of his neck. She tugs him forward and he comes without resistance.

Hermione holds him a breath away, close enough that she can feel the erratic puff of his breath against her lips. She stares into the depths of his brilliant sapphire eyes as she whispers, "I want to watch you fall apart."

Tom's breath stutters. She tugs his head back and he gasps. Her eyes meet grey skies over the dark boy's shoulder. Draco gives her a nod and she returns the gesture. Their lips fall to Tom's skin in tandem, hers devouring the vibrations of his pale throat while Draco's capture his gaping mouth.

Only the heady symphony of moans and sighs fills the room for some time.

Later, Tom and Draco collapse beside her in heap on the bed. Hermione can't blame them. If she wasn't already prone, she'd be collapsing too.

Their breathless pants fill the room for several minutes before Draco props himself up on an elbow and furrows his brow. "Did we really just do that? All of us at once?"

The laugh that escapes Hermione's lips is pure elation. "Indeed, we did."

The dark boy between them says nothing at all. Hermione rolls to look at him. He's dead asleep, lips parted and brow smooth.

She runs a hand over his forehead, smoothing the matted hair away from his eyes. Her gaze meets stormy grey. Draco licks his lips, before lowering his gaze to Tom.

"Thank you, for making this moment possible."

Hermione nods, solemnity cutting through the haze of pleasure. "I want to give him everything, while I still have the chance."

Draco settles against the mattress, his shoulder pressed to Tom's. His lids flutter shut and then Hermione is alone with her thoughts.

As much as she wants to glory in the intoxicating pleasure she just discovered, bitter sadness crawls through her, its icy tendrils chasing away the heat. She drowns in the knowledge that this moment is slipping through her fingers like each that has come before. She is bitter cold now, full of the power of Death and his promises.

She trails icy fingers over the lines of Tom's face, trying to memorize every facet of him until her bladder refuses to be ignored. When she returns, she rearranges the pillows into a semblance of order before pulling the heavy quilt over her and succumbing to the numb exhaustion rattling in her bones.

~*~Break~*~

It ought to be awkward. But it isn't.

Maybe it's because they knew what they were doing. Because it had a purpose beyond attraction and lust. Because the foundation was love.

Or maybe it's because they're both going to lose him. Because there's no winner anymore.

Draco doesn't overanalyze the distinct lack of shame associated with their shared night. The sands of time slip through his grasp with every breath he takes. He doesn't have time to dwell on the nuances of what occurred.

And while he cherishes what they shared, it does nothing to blunt the knife edge of Tom's betrayal. Of his decision to sacrifice everything for a girl and leave Draco to pick up the scattered wreckage.

Several days into the New Year he gets Tom to admit just how little time he has left. The boy's eyes are dark as the night as he murmurs, "until the baby's born. Then the transition happens."

Draco bites his lip until it bleeds before he forces himself to ask, "and when will that be?"

Hermione seems like she ought to give birth any day now, but Draco understands very little of normal pregnancy and childbirth, let alone one enhanced by ancient magic. He has no siblings and his mother and father never spoke of such topics. Indeed, all anyone told him was how to prevent such things.

"I don't know," Tom admits, the lines of his face severe. He's up against a clock he can't read.

That's perhaps the most harrowing part of this ordeal. The uncertainty clouds everything. If they were closing in on a particular date, a number of breaths left, there could be an acceptance, a plan at least.

But they have none of that. There is only Hermione and Draco clawing desperately against the bitter maw of time. And Tom, whose every heartbeat could be his last.

Draco can't blame him for the hours he still spends with a cigarette between his lips and his head cocked to the stars. Draco knows he's not looking for salvation in the abyss of the sky—Tom has given up on salvation. Maybe he's searching for acceptance.

Draco isn't sure what he'd do if their roles were reversed. If he'd traded his soul for another, for the person he loved. He honestly can't imagine loving someone so deeply as to make such a sacrifice.

There's still a touch of coward left in him after all.

He sighs and watches the bright embers of Tom's cigarette flare in the darkness beyond the window. It's been two weeks since New Year's Eve. Two weeks since they made a beautiful memory.

He knows he will never forget watching—feeling—Tom surrender so completely, reduced to pure passion and blind trust. It's not in the other boy's nature to let go, but between Hermione and Draco, he gave in and it was wonderous to behold.

He wishes they had a thousand more nights to discover every nuance of this impossible boy.

They may not even have one.

Hermione joins him at the window, her hand cupping the curve of her stomach. She's silent so long Draco's throat itches for him to speak. He holds his tongue. Whatever she has to say will come. Merlin knows words clog his throat more often than not these days.

"We need to talk," she finally murmurs.

He watches her hand clench, her knuckles turning white. He presses his forehead to the cool glass. His breath fogs the pane, erasing the vision of Tom. He pulls abruptly away.

"About what?"

She could mean a hundred things, but he knows she does not.

"After."

The word is choked out, like it's poison. And he supposes it is. After is something neither of them are ready to acknowledge.

He crosses his arms and looks into the depths of the fire across the room. Its flames reach frantically towards the heavens, searching for heights they will never reach.

"Have you thought about trying to reverse it?" he asks.

"How could I not?" she replies, a bitter twist to the words. "But I can't will away my child. And I know better than to try to make another deal… I might be able to save Tom, but I don't think I could save them both."

Draco swallows. "And it could be worse."

She nods, unruly curls falling free from her messy bun. "It could be much worse. I imagine a deal with Death is akin to a deal with Devil. Maybe it's even the same thing. And I know how those end."

"There's surprising little documentation of Death," he says. "Finding references to the Hallows is difficult enough, but Death? Nothing beyond wild conjecture. I spent an entire week pouring through Tom's private archive—nothing."

Hermione sighs. "The Hallows were mythical enough. No one ever really thought about what it would mean to become the Master of Death. If what Tom's done is any indication, master doesn't mean what we thought."

"Or maybe it does and we simply don't understand such old, primal magic."

She pulls her wand from her back pocket and turns it over, examining the carved wood. "We're so accustomed to magic without a price. To simply practicing a spell and gaining its power. But maybe that isn't how it works. Maybe there's more to magic than what we've been taught."

He has to admit he never thought beyond the superficial. He was taught about magic and he believed what he was told. Just as he was taught that the blood flowing through his veins is superior to hers.

Clearly, he's been mistaken before. Why not this too?

"It could be something… else. Something we never learned about."

Hermione returns her wand and places both hands on her stomach. She looks up at him with wide cinnamon eyes. "What is this, Draco? What has he done?"

He has no answers for her.

"You wanted to talk about after," he prompts because it is better than staring into the maw of the unknown, of the eldritch.

She takes a breath. "Will you stay?"

He knows what she's asking. He's known his answer for weeks, perhaps even months. "Of course."

Her hands tangle together in a nervous mess and her eyes skitter away from him. "I know you…" she trails off, hands wringing. A few fortifying breaths later, she tries again. "You family was—is—complicated and I don't want to—"

"I can do better than he did."

He doesn't specify the man he speaks of, but the emotion that swells in her eyes tells him she understands who he means. "I know you can. And you will. Thank you."

The smile that tugs his lips doesn't reach his eyes. "Who knows, one day you might meet some handsome bloke and then I'll be out on the street."

She shakes her head, expression all too serious. "I won't hold either of us to that kind of obligation. I can't imagine ever wanting… that. All I want is a good life for his child. For the only piece of him—"

She cuts off abruptly and Draco pulls her into him. The familiar simmer of rage rises. Acceptance still isn't within his grasp. He understands—some days he even agrees with—Tom's choice, but that doesn't mean he believes it was the right decision.

At least Hermione gains something.

It's a bitter, petty thought. One that deserves to rot. He knows what was taken from her and the miracle Tom has provided. He knows losing Tom is a blow she cannot endure alone.

While he is losing the boy who changed him, his is also gaining a family. For that's what Hermione and Tom have become—family. And he may not share any blood with their child, but he will raise it as his own. Better than his own.

Hermione leans further into him. He feels the unsteady patter of her heart against his chest. He knows the depths of his own terror; he cannot fathom hers.

"I want to find my parents," she whispers. "They deserve to know they'll have a grandchild."

He goes still for a moment, surprise melting to understanding. "You haven't already looked?"

"If I looked, that made this real… and if it's real…"

Then Tom is truly doomed.

"I'll floo into the Ministry in the morning," he offers. "Get the right people asking the right questions."

"Thank you."

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, the wisps of her wayward curls tickling his lips. "There is no need for thanks. You know I don't do any of this out of obligation."

He will owe her for eternity, for the price of his cowardice, but his choices aren't dictated by such stark motivations. He finds the power of love far outweighs the burden of penance.

She angles her head to meet his stare, wistful smile on her lips. "I know."

He nods toward the flame in the darkness. "Bring him home."

Hermione's lips brush his cheek. "I love you."

He gives her a salacious wink that is nothing but wry humor. She laughs, bright as pealing bells, and pulls away. He watches the darkness swallow her. The flame of Tom's cigarette sputters out and Draco turns away.

Only so much pain can be endured in a single moment.

Notes: When I started this story I gave myself one rule. Do not write, under any circumstances, a threesome between Tom, Draco, and Hermione. And yet, when I got to this point in the plot, the idea wouldn't go away. And due to the circumstances, it kind of fit. So I broke my rule and tried it out. I wrote a much more explicit version of the scene between them, but that didn't feel right. The point of this moment in the story wasn't to be evocative or racy, it was to have them accept their desire and their mutual love. I find explicit content in romance or other novels can be wonderful, but not in every moment. Sometimes it's okay for the reader to imagine the scene and to have that aura of acceptance and love in mind when they do.