Hullo hullo lovelies!

It's rather late, but I promised myself I would post this chapter before I went to bed.

Quite a lot of plot and explanation happens in this chapter. This is an idea I've had for years now on how they go back to the present/future, so hopefully it all makes sense. Hopefully.

Please, please leave a review and let me know what you think. Please.

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

For AEdmo13, hope you enjoy the chapter lovely x

A week after Dorcas passed away, Remus Lupin left in the middle of the night. His note was shorter this time.

I'm off to the packs again. I love you all. You know why - Remus.

It was his way of dealing with Dorcas's death. He was trying to be useful; a greater need to help out the order and garner information on their behalf must have possessed him. He wanted to give them even the slightest advantage against Voldemort.

Draco wished it wasn't something Moony felt the need to do, but it was. Draco tried not to mope about, but with Dorcas's death lingering in the air and Remus's unforeseen departure, the atmosphere hanging over their heads was so thin it felt like they were gasping for breath whilst simultaneously it was charged with leaden balls that descended upon them without warning.

Draco wandered out onto the back porch. He'd wrapped his duvet around himself, burrowing into its comforting warmth; it trailed behind him as he'd roamed his home without purpose. He found himself on the way to the back porch, and he threw open the door. Draco was greeted by the frigid outdoors; the wind hitting him full in the face felt good. A crisp wake up call.

"You'll catch a cold like that," said a voice to his right. Draco hung in the doorway, half-inside, half-out. Stuck. Draco pressed his head into the doorframe, the wood grounding him as he stared at his brother with one eye.

"And I'm sure you'll nurse me back to health," Draco said softly. He took in his brother's black pyjama bottoms—tucked into bold red socks—his well-tailored winter coat and black knit hat with a poof on the end. James was sitting on one of the two teak Adirondack chairs on the right-hand side porch, a cup of tea was on the small wooden table in between the chairs, steam billowed off of the liquid's surface.

"I'll feed you soup, swaddle you like a babe and make sure you take medicine," James smiled wistfully, he took his cup off of its saucer, bringing it to his lips and he let it sit there for a moment before he drank.

"I'd expect nothing less," Draco said. He waddled over to the other chair, trying not to trip over his duvet as he sat down, arranging the bedding so it came just below his chin and enveloped him like a cocoon.

"He's really gone again," James said after a few moments of companionable silence. His gaze was fixed on the Orchards in the distance, and the frozen, icy ground. The snow came less frequently, but sporadic rain showers had begun making their seasonal debut, and thus the remaining snow on the ground was icy and resembled slush.

The magic of snow and winter was wearing thin, and Draco longed for the days when they'd built blanket forts and baked too many cakes. He longed for the Christmas roast—Mipsy insisted on preparing one—that they'd spread out on a picnic blanket in the Sun Room and enjoyed while the snow cascaded outside; each snowflake like a small promise.

"He'll be okay," Draco said hollowly, more to himself than his brother. James quietly drank his tea, nodding in a dazed state, as if his mind was in a far away, distant land.

"He's Remus. He has to be okay," Draco repeated. Some of his hair fell forward onto his forehead, and he tucked his chin against his chest. He had to be.

Monday, February 26th, 1979

Potter Manor

Hermione was safe. The first conscious thought she had as she roused that morning whilst her night terrors ebbed away, was she was safe.

In an odd turn of events, she had less nightmares these days, but she supposed there was enough tragedy in their lives and in the Prophet's pages to make up for them. Draco remarked that his dreams were more pleasant, less haunted.

Strong arms were wrapped around her, and the hard planes of Draco's chest were pressed against her back, their legs entwined. His chest rose and fell steadily, and soft breaths bathed her nape and ear. She'd hastily thrown her hair up last night so Draco wouldn't have to contend with a face full of her hair.

A more concrete thought came to mind. Today was the day they'd decided to run 'errands' at the Ministry of Magic. Hermione sighed gently, snuggling further into her slumbering boyfriend, savouring their warm, safe bubble.

Sleep claimed her again. The Ministry could wait.

Hermione and Draco had two purposes for visiting the Ministry that fine February morning. The first was to try and deal with any implicating paperwork that proved Hermione and Draco Potter had existed. The second was to implement the first stage of their elaborate—possibly insane—plan to send them back to the future whilst hiding away everyone's memories of their existence.

There were many drafts and ideas tossed between the couple as they sequestered themselves in their Potions room—on several occasions after graduation—as they tried to formulate a concrete plan. Draco had tiredly suggested they spike the water supply for wizarding kind throughout Britain with a complex memory potion, but Hermione dismissed the idea offhand; there were too many unknowns with that mode of attack. The pair had poured through text after text in the Manor's library until they stumbled across blood runes.

Blood runes. They were a flexible, generally forgotten kind of magic that could be applied over a variety of unique situations.

"This could actually work," Draco had murmured as his eyes roved across the yellowed page, holding the ancient book carefully in his hands. It was in remarkable condition, but the spine was worn and he was afraid the binding would come undone with unnecessary force.

It was a long shot, but Hermione and Draco had searched high and low for any mention of that branch of magic. They accumulated notes on the topic, grasping for straws. Eventually, they got enough information to formulate a plan.

"So, we can carve these runes in important places throughout wizarding society and they can be used as focusing points and unifying agents for the spell that will hopefully send us back to the future, and for the memory spell. They'll serve two purposes." Hermione said, pacing back and forth. She turned sharply, and stubbed her toe on the corner of her potions workbench. She swore loudly, her entire body tense as pain radiated from her foot. "Fuck!"

The blood runes were versatile. They were however only half of the equation.

"So the runes can be carved wherever we can manage—columns, door frames, walls, floors—and if we can manage it, we can set a time limit within them so their effect will wear off on December first, nineteen ninety-eight." Hermione said, sitting down on the floor, worrying her lip between her teeth, hands thrust into her hair as she worked through it all in her head.

"So…the runes themselves will act as the memory spell—that means they would have to be incredibly specific, not to mention we would need Riley's blood not just ours. Everyone needs to forget about her as well." Draco pointed out a couple glaring issues. Hermione groaned softly, falling backwards onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling in thought.

"We could ask her for some of her blood, keep it in a phial with a stasis charm and use it sparingly for each individual rune," Hermione suggested with a wince.

"How do you propose we ask for said blood? We're already going to have a hard enough time convincing her to participate in the blood ward ceremony."

"Reminds me, we have to buy that land."

"That we do."

"Hypothetically, we get her blood, we carve all the runes, and we use them for the memory spell and as focusing points for…the theoretical time spell you found?"

At one point, they'd discussed breaking into the Department of Mysteries and stealing a time turner, but it seemed like a great hassle when they began to lay out all the possible complications. The biggest—of course—was access. They had considered using the Invisibility Cloak, but there were a plethora of charms laced around the Time Room to keep unwanted persons out. Not to mention a Caterwauling charm, which was a nasty bit of business.

"We could use polyjuice to try and get in?" Hermione threw out.

"There are magical signature detectors. The best and craftiest wix become Unspeakables."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I peeked in Dad's office, and a lot of his stuff was coded…but I was able to find out about a handful of the charms and spells protecting the time room."

They were both surprised their Father's fellow Unspeakables hadn't requested to comb their house for any of their secrets he may have had in his personal home office, but were eternally thankful in that moment that they hadn't.

The Time Room was one of the best guarded areas in the Ministry, and the Unspeakables were its formidable guardians.

"Besides. Must I remind you how dangerous travelling decades can be with a time turner? If done improperly, it could steal years from us." Draco said with a huff as he sat at his desk, tapping a finger across its gorgeous wooden surface, staring at one of his open potions notebooks, his vision blurred and caused his elegant scrawl to melt into the page. His mind was running around in circles.

Thus they'd kept digging through their family's ancient library, and they stumbled across part of a spell. The words were worn, faded, barely legible and half of the page was missing; torn out of the book and lost forever.

It was a lazy summer afternoon. The rest of the Manor's occupants were otherwise occupied, and Hermione was propped on the edge of her desk, staring listlessly across the room. Draco was diligently hunched over his own desk, a magnifying lens hovering over a weathered, battered text in front of him. He was slowly deciphering the text into a small leather-bound notebook beside the ancient book.

"I can help," Hermione said.

"I know," Draco replied, but he didn't indicate that he had any intention of asking for her assistance. "It just had to be written in bloody Etruscan." It was not a language that either of them were particularly well versed in. Not many were. It had been derived from the Greek alphabet and was the source of the latin one.

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if you decipher the whole thing, and it doesn't help us in the slightest?" Hermione mused, and Draco shot her a foul look hissing with acidity.

"You are not helping."

"Fine. I'll leave. I'll ask Lily if she wants to go for a swim, and you can sit here with your dusty old book and I shall check on you later." Hermione said irritably, pushing off of her desk. Draco seemingly hadn't heard her, his brow drawn together in concentration. Hermione sighed, and left the room; gently closing the door behind her. She had a redhead to seek out.

The spell did in fact help them. I helped them far more than they'd expected. It was the base that they used when creating their own spell that would essentially transport them through time. Hopefully, they arrived shortly after they'd left the future; using Arithmancy they projected it wouldn't be more than a few days.

It was insane. There was no map to guide them through this, much like the potion they'd engineered to heal Cruciatus curse victims. They were on their own in an overgrown, perilous wilderness, guessing blindly as they proceeded. The only thing that gave them comfort was the thought that time itself wasn't entirely linear. It was fickle, an uncontrollable variable, but, if no one recalled a Hermione and Draco Potter during their first lifetime, then, they'd probably succeeded.

Thus, months after they'd formulated their plan, Hermione Potter marched into the Ministry of Magic with that idea firmly cemented in her head. (They'd probably succeeded.) Her dalliances with a time turner in her third year swirled about her noggin.

Hermione's black heels clipped across the dark tiles of the Ministry's vast entryway, the emerald robes draped over her shoulders billowing gracefully out behind her. Hermione smoothed down the front of her borrowed shirt. It was Draco's and was thus a lot larger on her (a black button down that was half-tucked in at the front of her fitted trousers). Draco was closely following her in black robes with an intricate floral pattern embroidered around the hem in silver, a light-blue jumper, and faded jeans that were tucked into his black leather boots. He looked incredibly bored.

Hours later and they were still stuck in the records department, having been tossed back and forth from one drab desk to another. Finally, they found themselves in Malachai Gerard's office. They had expected a fearsome, brooding man when they knocked on the office door, but couldn't have been more wrong.

The room was small, and Malachai's desk was squeezed into it. There was hardly enough room for him to scoot along the wall to get from one side to the next. Several floor-to-ceiling metal cabinets were shoved against the wall behind his desk, their drawers deep. Two torches lined each wall, their lights dim. An oddly coloured stain was in the far corner at the intersections of the ceiling and wall. It was an oppressive, cramped room. There was nowhere for them to sit, so they were forced to stand in front of Malachai's desk.

The man was jittery, almost a foot shorter than Hermione with a round gut. His hands were bony, and his short, blond hair was slicked back, plastered stiffly onto his head. His robes were brown, dull, and Hermione could tell they'd been darned many a time.

"We were told you have the records of our apparition licenses and possibly our adoption papers?" Hermione asked gently (she'd already told him why they were here, but he hadn't seemed to ingest the information). The room smelt of canned fish, and she wished to leave as soon as she could.

Mister Gerard sniffed loudly, a revulsed expression on his face, his hands clasped on top of his desk as his beady eyes jumped from Hermione to Draco. "Even if I did, why would you need them?"

Draco—clearly fed up with his fishy environs—muttered, "Imperio." Gerard smiled dopily a few moments later, reclining in his desk chair; it creaked awfully.

"Really?" Hermione asked, exasperated. She gestured to the man swaying side-to-side in his chair, absently chasing psychedelic butterflies in his mind's eye; his hands wiggling through the air in front of him.

"I've been given the run around for hours, dear. We have other things to do whilst we are here. Remember?" Draco grit out, already trying to squeeze through the small gap between the man's desk and the wall.

"Fine," Hermione sighed.

"Now, Mister Gerard. Would you mind telling me where Hermione and Draco Potter's files would be?" She made sure to enunciate clearly, speaking slowly and evenly.

It took longer than expected, but with Gerard's dreamy assistance, they managed to track down all of the paperwork proving they existed and without hesitation Hermione tucked them into the small black clutch hanging from her wrist; an undetectable extension charm in place.

"Are you sure we should be taking these? It'll probably complicate things in the future," Hermione stated as Draco stunned Gerard and removed the Imperius curse he'd cast on him. The man was slumped over his desk, looking like he'd fallen asleep on the job.

Draco's head was tilted to the side as he examined the man, and with a hefty sigh he placed the tip of his wand to the man's temple. Extreme focus grabbed hold of him, and he murmured, "obliviate." Hermione was silently observing him. Draco shrugged, "cannot be too careful." Hermione nodded curtly, her bottom lip captured by her teeth.

"Also—concerning the files—I'm sure that as a War Heroine and friend of Kingsley Shacklebolt you will have no problems," Draco teased, and Hermione ignored the toothy grin he was shooting her way.

"Just because we are friends with Kings, and he is Minister of Magic in the future, that does not mean we can blatantly break the law."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and dismissively gestured to the stunned Ministry worker. "So, we are ignoring the myriad of other laws…?"

"You did that. Not me," Hermione shot back, closing the distance between them, her hands ghosted over his chest before she wrapped an arm around his waist. A bright expression lit up her features, she was clearly not upset by his actions in the slightest.

Draco scoffed, poking her side before he removed himself from her grasp. "As much as I would love to debate ethics with you, we should get out of this office. It smells foul."

"That is true," Hermione said, her nose scrunched up in disgust as the scent hit her full force. The pair left quietly, and it was if they'd never been there at all.

Many hours later, when the sun was setting in the sky and most Ministry employees were beginning to wrap up their work, leaving the rest for another day, Hermione and Draco were completing the last of the blood runes they'd intended to carve today.

Each set of runes was a complicated number of strokes and characters detailing the particulars of the memory spell, but they wouldn't be evoked until Hermione and Draco cast their time spell, and would lay dormant until both of them left the past.

James's Invisibility Cloak was used, silencing charms and Notice-Me-Nots were thrown up, and they'd both intently focused on executing their task today so they didn't have to return to the Ministry to add more. They'd added a few around the columns of the Atrium by the gilded fireplaces on the left and right side of the long hall. A couple by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and at least one on every floor. (Aside from the Department of Mysteries, they couldn't find a way to get the elevators to take them to the ninth floor.) It was arduous, specific work as they took turns etching the runes; with the same silver dagger they'd used to cut their palms during the blood wards ceremony. A few drops of blood on the rune sealed the magic in place.

After the cryptic circumstances surrounding the blood wards and the bluff they'd taken Riley to, the Hufflepuff wasn't surprised when Draco and Hermione came to Hogwarts yesterday and asked for more of her blood. This time they'd been allowed to conduct their business in the Infirmary in the early morning when most of the students would still be asleep, and they'd gotten a phial full. Pomfrey was present to provide blood replenishing potions, a chocolate chip cookie and some orange juice.

"Promise me this isn't some dark magic that will hurt people." Riley said, clutching Hermione's hand with a desperate need for reassurance.

"Magic isn't…" Hermione trailed off. She too once assumed that there were stringent rules and a rigidity to magic's nature, but that was not so. Magic was a wild thing, and it wasn't broken into firm categories such as 'light' and 'dark'. Not really. Magic was all about intent and how the user wielded it, whether that was for good or evil normally tinged magic in those respective hues.

There were tolls attached to magic with certain intents, some kinds of magic that were inherently dark because their intentions could never be just. Such as horcruxes. Those kinds of magic came with a formidable price.

Hermione tried to explain all of this to Riley, to the best of her capabilities. There were subtle nuances of magic that weren't taught at Hogwarts because those of a magical background grew up immersed and knowing about them. Those that didn't had so much to learn, and there wasn't enough time to cram it all into their heads; so it had been left off of the curriculum.

Riley mostly understood, but demurely she'd asked, "and your intent?"

"To keep everyone I can, safe," Hermione murmured, teetering on a knife's edge as the Vow swept and poked along the hollow of her throat like a rolling pin in which a thousand needles were buried.

"You sure you didn't turn into a vampire without us knowing?"

"Merlin, no. I know I'm pale, Riles, but I'm not that pale." Hermione smiled, rubbing some warmth into her friend's forearm. "Funny how in all my years I've never met a vampire."

"Probably a good thing. Although, you could probably get on their good side with some of those lollipops from Honeydukes that taste like blood."

"I'll be sure to purchase some on my way home, and keep them on my person at all times," Hermione deadpanned. She maintained an impassive expression for an impressive amount of time, and Riley swatted her on her shoulder.

"You're ridiculous, kitten."

"What? I'm Sirius."

"And I'm a unicorn."

Hermione and Draco finished up, magically drained and more than ready to head home, run a hot bath, eat some dinner with their family, and go to bed early. They had a few actual errands to run before they could return home, and they had to hurry because one of the shops in Diagon Alley was bound to close soon.

Their plans were delayed as they strode into the Atrium on the Ministry's eighth floor—in search of a fireplace—because they stumbled across two familiar faces. Fabian Prewett and Arthur Weasley.

Hermione hadn't interacted with Arthur much during this era: a brief greeting at the first Order meeting, married with pleasant small talk, and a shared glass of Elf wine. It struck her how similar Ron looked to his Father at this age. Their faces weren't much alike, but there was something about him that evoked a nostalgic feeling in her chest that overtook her diaphragm, and stopped her in her tracks like a bolt of lightning had struck her. Ron had inherited his height from his Father, but Hermione knew Ron eventually gained a few inches on him; Ron was one of the tallest people she knew; he used to tower over her.

Additionally, Arthur wasn't as active an Order member—he didn't go on missions—he simply kept an ear low to the ground listening for any information that could be vital to their organisation.

"Hermione! Draco!" Fabian greeted. He spotted them first, and by the time they'd turned round to see who'd called their names, he'd reached them in a few quick strides. In a smooth motion, the man swept Hermione off her feet and span her in a circle. Her hands were on his shoulders, cheeks pink. He'd been spending more time with his brother now that Gideon was back in the country—for the time being—and it was clear some of Gideon's more affectionate tendencies had rubbed off on him.

Fabian—unfazed—carefully placed her back down, and didn't hesitate to release her and tug Draco in for a brief embrace. He and Draco parted, but Fabian couldn't resist rumpling Draco's hair before he stepped back from his former pupil altogether. Fabian turned to his brother-in-law, hand on his arm as he gestured to Hermione and Draco.

"You've met Hermione and Draco, right?"

"Yes…shortly after they graduated," Arthur replied warmly, taking care not to openly speak about the Order in the vast room. They were alone, but their voices could surely be heard by all who entered the space, and one never knew who was listening.

"Two of my favourite students," Fabian said proudly.

Hermione cleared her throat, a hand in front of her mouth. "Former students, and I think I know someone you clearly liked better."

A blush tinged Fabian's cheeks at her insinuation. Everyone present was aware that Fabian and Marlene were courting, and outwardly it appeared to be serious. "Yes, well. I'll tell Marlene you said hi."

"Draco and I are going round their cottage this weekend for a spot of lunch," Hermione commented lightly. "Perhaps we'll see you there." Hermione was referring to Peter, Mary and Marlene's cottage. After graduation the trio had moved into a quaint cottage in the countryside. It belonged to Marlene's family, but they rarely used it so they'd given it to their daughter as a graduation present to do with as she pleased.

From Mary's owl a few days ago, Hermione knew that she baked far too many pastries, and the auburn haired girl had complained that Marlene often dragged them out of bed on a morning to go for a run. Old habits.

Mary was apprenticing as a Healer at St. Mungo's, Marlene had found employment at Gringotts training to be a curse breaker, and Peter was working with magical creatures under one of Kettleburn's acquaintances.

The group naturally travelled to stand in front of one of the gilded fireplaces intended for departure, but none of them made any movements to do so. They stood in an informal circle, chattering lightly.

"Why are you two here?" Hermione asked. Feigning ignorance about Arthur's profession and the obvious reason why he would be at the Ministry at any given time.

"Arthur works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office—" Fabian started, tucking his hands behind his back as he continued, his expression morphing into something grim, "—and I was here dealing with some of the affairs pertaining to my Father's estate."

In a tone deaf manner unbecoming of her, Hermione simply uttered, "oh." It was an impulsive syllable that tumbled from her lips without permission, and her eyes instantly widened in horror. Hermione raised her hands, trying to salvage the situation, but Draco jumped in, her saviour.

"We'd heard he was ill for a long time. We're terribly sorry for your loss, Fabian. The death of a parent…even if our circumstances are different—we understand." Draco stepped forward, placing a hand on the side of Fabian's neck, his thumb stroking the edge of his jaw in comfort. Fabian smiled tightly.

"Thank you, Draco. My Father was a strict but kind man. In all honesty…I'm glad his suffering was finally over, his last few months were—" Fabian shook his head, and with a bright grin attempted to change the topic of conversation.

"Arthur's twins are almost a year old," Fabian said. Choosing to speak about life in lieu of death. Draco respectfully removed himself from the man, taking a few steps back and settled back into place besides his witch. "They're growing up so fast."

And what miscreants they'll be once they are fully grown, Hermione thought cheerily. Outwardly, she clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling with joy. "Right! You have…five children, correct?"

"Raucous little hellions, but bundles of joy all the same," Arthur nodded, love bursting from him as he thought of his children. A hand reached into his inner robes, and he fumbled about for a second before he brought out a photograph.

Molly and Arthur were wrangling their children, trying to get them to look at the camera. One twin was in each of their arms (they only looked a few months old), and Bill, Charlie and Percy were chasing each other round their parents legs. They were outside—in the gardens at the Burrow—under a large tree whose branches were swaying in the summer breeze. Sunshine glinted around them, the grass was bright green.

"Moments before this, by some miracle we'd gotten them to all sit still, but then Bill and Charlie shared a look, and this happened," Arthur explained, a finger tenderly ghosting over the image of his wife and children. "Shame their grandmother wants nothing to do with them…because of me."

"Arthur, that's not true."

"Molly and your Mother have always had a strained relationship, and I fear now that your Father is gone, any connection they have to each other will disintegrate altogether."

Hermione had never pressed for details about Molly's family in her former life: she was a young girl, it was not her place, nor was it any of her business, and Hermione could tell that bringing it up would not end well. Ron wasn't privy to any of the particulars, why should she be? Now, she understood that once Molly's Father and brothers died, she'd become indefinitely estranged from her Mother.

"Regardless," Arthur cleared his throat as he shifted his robes and tucked the photograph in his inner pocket. "I think we are quite done having children."

"Really?" Fabian grinned. "I bet you have at least one more."

"I'll take your bet, and raise you one. I think they'll have two more children. Ending on lucky number seven," Draco said, examining his well-manicured nails; he always kept them short. He buffed them on the front of his robes for a moment.

"If we're all tossing in bets, then I think you'll have a girl." Hermione fiddled with the charm bracelet on her wrist, smiling gaily as she joined in. "I'll bet eight sickles."

"Highly unlikely," Arthur said, directly addressing Hermione. He smoothed down the lapels of his robes thoughtfully. "I don't think we can have girls. Or the chances of it happening are terribly slim. Mollywobbles agrees."

"Mollywobbles?" Draco asked.

Simultaneously Hermione cut in with, "would you like a girl?"

Arthur either hadn't heard Draco, or he was dutifully ignoring him as he answered Hermione's question, "it would be a change from having a rowdy house of boys…but if we have any more children I just want them to be happy and healthy, regardless of gender."

The conversation maintains a pleasant, jovial path for a time, but a stillness took over Fabian, he rubbed at his nape, and deep perplexion consumed him. "Have you heard about some of the new bills they managed to pass a few days ago? The Wizengamot was split on the matter, but the Minister helped tip the scales."

"New bills?"

"If you can call them that. Atrocious and discriminatory is what they are," Arthur grumbled, fussing at his robes and he shifted from one foot to the next; as if exasperation and pent-up energy was trying to fight its way out of him.

A grave curtain fell down on both men's faces, and with tight grimaces they explained. Hermione barely recalled her manners long enough to bid them farewell—and express a desire to see them both soon—before she angrily gathered a handful of floo powder from the bucket beside the fireplace. The witch hurled the powder into the fireplace, green flames exploded forth, and she marched into the inferno.

"We'll be in touch. Always a pleasure, Fabian. Perhaps we'll see you on the weekend," Draco managed to get out. His anger was dark, blinding and he fumbled for the floo powder. Moments later he followed in Hermione's footsteps, the flames less explosive, more sinister this time, as if they were reacting to his volatile emotions. "Adieu," Draco said. The flames curled and licked at the soles of his shoes as he sauntered into them, twirling around his person; they swept him away.

Fabian Prewett had his suspicions during his year teaching at Hogwarts about why Remus Lupin took poorly once each month around the full moon, but he deemed it none of his business. From the Potter twins' reaction, he must have been right.

I do hope young Remus is doing well, Fabian thought, ushering his brother-in-law towards the fireplace. The new bills would only serve to make Remus's life harder, and in the midst of a war, Fabian feared it was the last thing the boy needed heaped onto his plate. As Arthur prepared to leave, Fabian stared at the fireplace, lost in the marble etchings.

Neither of them looked surprised, rather, a murderous rage simply took over them, Fabian mused. Arthur vanished in a burst of green flames, waving, with a merry smile pinking his cheeks. Fabian was left alone, hands clasped behind his back, and wondering if he would ever unravel the mystery of the Potter twins.

"I know I use this threat a lot, but this time I mean it. I am going to set her pink swaddled arse on fire!" Hermione snarled. She was pacing, sparks following her heavy footfalls, her heels digging into the floor.

They were in the Potter Manor library, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a desk against the wall underneath one of the windows on the outside wall, a couple prussian armchairs in a corner (one of which Draco was occupying). Normally this vast space with its rows of bookshelves comforted the pair; not today.

Draco thinly veiled his anger. He was leaning back in his armchair, one hand stroking its luscious upholstery, the other held a copy of Lord of the Flies by William Golding. (He'd errantly popped into one of the shops in muggle London a week ago and purchased quite a few of the classics, he wished to branch out he'd said.) "Don't be a cliché, Hermione. Don't burn the witch," Draco replied, his tone anything but calm.

"Do you want me to set a wizard on fire instead?" Hermione asked challengingly, her pacing halted harshly, and her head whipped around to look at him.

Draco wordlessly held open his arms. Hermione cocked a brow, hands on her hips as she strode over to him. She'd abandoned her heels, outer robes and bag by the door in a vehement fit before she'd commenced her pacing.

When Hermione reached him, he pulled her down into his lap, and reticently said, "simmer down, sweet."

Hermione took the book from his hands, turning it in her hands, examining it, lips pressed together in a thin line. She'd read it years ago, and she was quite happy to discuss it with Draco as he devoured it. He was almost done, and somehow she'd managed not to spoil anything despite all the finer details of the story being reduced to a fuzzy recollection. (She wasn't entirely positive when certain things had occurred.)

Hermione's eyes bored into the cover, and callously she said, "those new laws are barbaric. They are banning magical beings and beasts—especially werewolves—from receiving medical attention at St. Mungo's. Not to mention—"

"Hermione—"

"No. The restrictions and regulations they've proposed will make it practically impossible for a werewolf to find gainful employment, healthcare—they've stripped them of all their bloody rights!" Hermione gripped his thin book in her hands so tightly, for a moment he thought she might rip it in two.

"Fucking Umbridge led the whole charge! No one treats our Moony like that and gets away with it," Hermione snapped venomously like a vexed viper. Draco gently pried the book from her hands. He stared at her balled-up fists and white knuckles.

"Agreed," Draco said, his jaw wired taut. It was difficult getting out a proper thought when all he wanted to do was scream. Dolores Umbridge had been lobbying the Wizengamot for years to pass bills of this nature, and apparently she had schmoozed just enough favour to split the vote in half. Others called for reform and regulations, but didn't think they should be so strict as to take away an entire group's rights.

"One day we'll make her pay for what she's done," Hermione swore, a hand slid into his hair, her short fingernails scraping along his scalp as she massaged his head. Draco felt some of the tension and anger ebb out of him. He found words.

"It's going to have to hurt. The horrid hag hasn't left us with a choice," Draco said, a quiet promise. Hermione nodded. The witch bent down to press a kiss to his temple.

She breathed in deeply, and with great fatigue she exhaled. "I hate it when he isn't here. I know he isn't some helpless damsel that needs rescuing, but…" Hermione trailed off, wrapping herself around Draco, her head resting on top of his. Draco discarded the book in her lap, and loosely looped his arms round her waist.

"Our Alpha is gone, when we need him the most…" Draco tried to encapsulate his thoughts.

"So…we're in agreement. One day we're going to hog-tie the toad-faced bitch and set her on fire—or maybe we could spit-roast her!" Hermione said dreamily. She was already imagining ways to enact revenge on Dolores Umbridge for her abhorrent actions. It was a touch macabre, but it was helping hold herself together.

Draco disregarded her prior statement—despite thinking it was a brilliant idea—and chose to steer the discussion back in Remus's direction. Draco stroked her hip and said, "I miss him so much more this time. I know he comes back, but, there's this ghastly worry congealing in my gut whenever I think about where he is or how he's doing. Plus his note…"

Hermione had no words for her lover, only comforting touches, her breathing even and hot against his head. Draco closed his eyes, fingers tugging the back of her shirt out of her trousers, his cool fingers sliding up past the fabric and spreading out across her warm back; revelling in the feel of her. He let his eyes flutter shut, and they sat there, their breathing syncing up, simply being there, being present for each other.

Thoughts submerged in a thunderous sea that roared vociferously, the swells surged like a mighty beast. Word must have spread that Voldemort was attempting to win over the packs, but instead of making similar efforts and treating them with basic decency, they'd gone the other route. Most likely only festering discontent; any hatred the werewolves were harbouring would multiple tenfold. Fear drove people to behave rashly and lose their ability to rationalise properly, and thus injustice had prevailed.

They'd known these bills were in the works, they knew they would one day pass. But, living a reality where Remus could be injured and denied access for any help was not a reality they wished to accept; just because he was different.

Hermione wished she could protect Remus from all the suffering he would endure during their absence—more than anything—but alas, it was not meant to be.