We're taking it back a couple decades (or three) this week.

Songs – Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls, If you Could Only See by Tonic, and Blurry by Puddle of Mudd

Chapter 26: The Letter

Draco was still asleep, his mouth slightly parted and his hair uncharacteristically rumpled as he snored quietly on the other side of the bed. He looked so peaceful with his long limbs sprawled haphazardly around him. It had been too long since Hermione had seen his face painted with something other than perpetual worry, and so even though the sun had been up for nearly an hour, she simply watched him unable to disturb his calm.

She certainly wished she could find the same sort of bliss, gods knew she needed the rest, but if only one of them could be blessed with serenity, she was glad it was him. He had been through enough, and while so had she, she figured a little bit of exhaustion was a small price to pay to avoid the nightmares that haunted her every time she closed her eyes.

The closet she had come to whatever calm Draco had managed to find in his deep slumber was when she was with their son. She had been up for hours staring at the small, chubby-cheeked face that was peeking out of the bassinet beside her, and not even the fatigued heaviness in her eyes was enough to pull her away.

Our baby boy.

He was impossibly small, as would be expected for a child that came barreling into the world almost two months early, but that didn't seem to hinder the way in which he gawked at everything around him. He seemed to study things with an intensity that was more fitting for someone at the end of their life rather than the beginning, something that caused Draco to break into hysterics almost constantly, and even Hermione couldn't hide her amusement when his eyes would narrow in apparent judgement when someone made a noise that he didn't particularly like.

Definitely a Malfoy.

Really, the silky strands of platinum hair and permanent smirk were really all anyone needed to recognize the baby's resemblance to Draco, but for Hermione, it wasn't the physical similarities that she found the most compelling. It was the way he mirrored how his father so often slept – head turned to the side, an arm above his head, the other draped across the body – and the way his little mouth puckered and frowned each time the Malfoy patriarch flounced into the room or when Harry tried to say something funny. She could see Draco in almost everything he did, and it turned her heart into mush.

Baby Scorpius.

Despite the trauma of his birth, and really all of the months leading up to it, he had miraculously survived, but the fact that Hermione was still around to watch over him as he slept was another kind of miracle altogether. If Andromeda hadn't arrived when she did, if Hermione's power hadn't taken hold when it did…

Hermione shuddered. It's done, she tried to tell herself. There's nothing to be gained from running these theoretical scenarios in your head.

But she couldn't stop.

The power now coursing through her veins was destined for her son, and that frightened her more than the knowledge that she herself had been gifted with something that she didn't quite understand. She had no idea what this meant for her son's future or whether he'd ever be able to live a normal life, and a few scattered memories from those who came before her would never be enough to silence the terrified thoughts racing through her brain. She wanted answers – needed them in a way she had never needed any sort of information before. Because how was she supposed to protect her son without them?

And why, when it could have been literally anyone else, did the power have to be fated for her?

Her parents had always talked about the day she was born as if it had been such a magical moment in their lives. And perhaps it really had been. But now, with everything she had learned from the light, she wasn't sure she could really trust the stories she had been told growing up. Something wasn't adding up, and really, she could only think of three possible explanations for her current predicament, none which made her feel any kind of warm and fuzzy inside.

The first, that she had been adopted, was the least painful of the three. It certainly wasn't unheard of for adopted children to be kept in the dark, but if she had been, why would her parents have talked about her birth as if they had been there? Why would they have hidden the truth from her for so long? Adopted or not, it wouldn't have meant she was loved any less, and she struggled to see why they would have had a reason to pretend like it had never happened. And so, no matter how much she wished that this scenario was the one that was true, she found it the most unlikely of the three.

The second, that her mother had been unfaithful, was significantly more painful for her to think about. In fact, the mere thought that her mother had lied to everyone, was not a revelation she was ready to face. Because how could someone who raised her own daughter to hold honesty and integrity above all else have hidden something so terribly important for so long? Wouldn't that have gone against everything she believed in? But it wasn't impossible, and unfortunately, she had decided that this scenario was just a tad more likely than the first.

The last, however, was something she hadn't even had the courage to utter out loud. It was a thought that had come to her in the dead of the night, and she was still struggling to digest it. Because if it was true, it would mean that her mother had suffered at the hands of her biological father, and not in a way that was particularly easy to overcome. It would also mean that she was the product of rape, conceived through an act of extreme brutality, and that was significantly worse than simply sharing some DNA with a madman. Of the three scenarios, this was the only one where she could understand not being told the truth, and so it had risen to the top of the list.

Shit.

So yes, everything was fucked, and nothing made sense.

Well, except one thing wasn't and one thing did.

Scorpius.

Hermione had barely been able to look away since she first held him her arms, not even when she got upset about her parentage. The knowledge that someone wanted to hurt him simply because she was his mother, enraged her.

That man was never and will never be my father. And he will pay for everything he's done.

It wasn't easy, keeping herself under control when these moments of fury hit her, but one look at the child she had almost lost, at the life she almost didn't have, was all it took for her to settle back into the reality of their situation.

Scorpius Theodore Malfoy.

While the name would have seemed ridiculous to her just a few months prior – she had told Theo as much each time he brought it up during Draco's long recovery – knowing what he had sacrificed to save her, to save their child, was really all it took for her and Draco to settle on the name. It wasn't exactly what Theo had wanted, and she could almost hear the groan he would have made learning that his name had been sandwiched between the likes of Scorpius and Malfoy, but she hoped that wherever he was, it would be enough for him to realize that he would always have a family that would care about him.

And Hermione desperately hoped that there was still a way to save him.

Draco had needed to hold her back when she was told that Theo had likely been taken hostage, and he had held on even when an unexpected pulse of energy shot out of her body. Her sudden outburst of power had been enough to cause everyone in the cottage to run outside toward them in horror, but Draco had simply taken it, gritting his teeth in pain until Hermione had finally come back to herself and finally cut off the flow of energy. She had been almost inconsolable when she realized what she had done, and it had taken soft mutterings from both Harry and Lucius to get her to agree to walk back inside the cottage, but Draco hadn't even thought to blame her or complain. She certainly would never forget the look on Draco's face after the whole ordeal. Instead of anger or betrayal, it had been one of resignation, as if he truly believed he deserved the pain for leaving his friend behind, and it wasn't an image she'd easily forget.

I can't ever lose control again.

She tore her eyes away from Scorpius for a moment to glance over at her husband, relaxing slightly as her eyes moved over the pale skin of his shoulders which were exposed above the covers on the bed. For now, he was safe – for now, no one was hurting him (not even her), and she wished that she could extend the peace for a bit little longer. She reached out to run her fingers along the curve of his arm, but a soft groan called her attention further upward.

"Mm the sun's up," Draco observed groggily. "You should have woken me."

Hermione chuckled quietly. And what good would that have done anyone? she replied through their bond, gesturing toward the still sleeping Scorpius whose small fist was still raised above his head. The two of you would probably sleep through the apocalypse.

He's still asleep? Draco asked back, surprised, as he shifted to his side and propped himself up on his elbow so that he could peek over Hermione to see for himself.

Has been since I fed him earlier this morning, she replied, unable to contain the smile on her face. He's still sleeping off his last meal. What's your excuse? she mused, smirking at her husband.

Malfoys need their beauty sleep, he quipped, dropping his head to look at her again, his eyes dark silver in the early morning light. He reached out to brush a rogue curl behind her ear, and paused, his fingers gently skating across the side of her cheek. Did you get any sleep? he asked, finally taking note of the dark circles under her eyes.

Enough, she lied, quickly averting her eyes even though she knew he already could sense that it wasn't the truth.

Draco sighed. You can't stay awake forever, he told her, lifting her chin with his hand. Even Odin had to sleep every once in a while.

He was right of course, but that didn't mean she had to agree. Yes, but he was vulnerable every time he did.

Hermione, Draco began, running a finger over her lips, he can't hurt us now. You said it yourself, he doesn't have the power anymore.

Just because the power isn't his doesn't mean that he can't hurt us, she replied harshly.

Draco pursed his lips together as if her words had elicited more than just a painful memory before shaking his head. He's just a man now, he told her finally. We'll find him and kill him.

They had spent much of the time that Scorpius had been asleep over the past day bickering about what to do next. Draco had argued that they should act quickly and wanted Hermione to use her new powers to hunt the man down. Hermione, on the other hand, was terrified what would happen if they both left their son's side (because she wasn't going to let her husband out of her sight again) and had argued that they slow down and make a plan. They had hoped to settle the argument by asking the others what they thought, but in an almost unpredictable turn of events, Lucius and Harry had sided with Hermione, both citing the added risk of leaving the cottage before they could guarantee everyone's safety, while Narcissa, Ginny and Andromeda had staunchly supported Draco, none of them particularly keen to wait around like sitting ducks.

Their disagreement, it seemed, was about to continue, but before either of them were able to reignite the argument, Scorpius began to stir. Hermione and Draco tore their eyes away from each other to watch in awe as their son yawned and blinked his eyes open. There was a brief moment of continued quiet during which Scorpius scrunched up his nose in confusion before he let out a small wail, signaling his need for attention… and food.

"Did we finish the bottles yesterday?" Draco asked, throwing the covers off his body and walking around the bed to gently scoop Scorpius into his arms.

Hermione shook her head. "There should be one or two left," she replied, smiling as she watched Draco place a kiss on one of their son's rosy cheeks.

"I'll take this one then," he said, moving the now fully awake and very fussy Scorpius against his shoulder. "Need to give those–" he pointed suggestively at her chest "–a well-deserved break."

"This is quite literally what they were designed for," she said, rolling her eyes as she followed Draco out of bed and moved behind him. "But I could use a hot bath," she added as we wrapped an arm on his waist and placed a quick kiss on Scorpius' nose. "Be good for daddy," she muttered quietly, running a hand over her son's soft blond hair.

Draco turned to face Hermione, bouncing slightly on his feet to soothe the baby as he bent forward to place a kiss on his wife's lips.

Knowing they were moments away from a tantrum, Hermione pulled away more quickly than she would have liked. She honestly didn't think Draco had ever looked so sexy, and even though there were more important things to worry about, like feeding the baby for example, she couldn't help but yearn for a time when they got be alone together again.

"I'm not a piece of meat you know," Draco mused, the corners of his mouth turned into a dangerously handsome smirk as he moved a hand to rub Scorpius' back.

Hermione blushed. "Sorry," she mumbled quickly, slightly annoyed that he could still manage to turn her into putty. "Go on," she said, waving him away before she managed to make an even bigger fool out of herself. "I'll try to be quick."

"No, take your time," Draco instructed as he opened the door, one arm still wrapped tightly around the fussy baby against his shoulder. "I'm sure Mother will want to dress Scorp in something ridiculous now that he's awake. Merlin knows what she'll think of this time."

Hermione smiled to herself as she watched the two of them disappear into the hallway, her heart swelling when Draco's murmurs of adoration and their son's high-pitched coos leaked back into the room. She could have listened to those sounds for an eternity, and she might have if her feet hadn't taken control and finally dragged her body to the bathroom at the other end of the hall.

She paused for a moment in the doorway, shivering as the memory of what had happened to her flashed behind her eyes. There weren't any traces of blood on the tile floor, Draco had made sure of that before she had set foot in it the day prior, but she still cast her eyes upward as she tip-toed around the area where she had collapsed a few short days ago.

When she made it to the side containing the large clawfoot tub, she let out a sigh of relief and moved her eyes over the array of bubble bath options Narcissa had left out for her. She picked the scent that reminded her most of home – a mix of vanilla and lavender – and turned the knobs, watching as the tub filled quickly in front of her. It was only when the bubbles finally threatened to spill over onto that floor that she turned off the water and took off the baggy shirt she had slept in. Quickly, before the chill of the morning air settled in, she submerged herself in the warm water, hissing softly as she buried herself up to her chin.

Her body was still sore from her ordeal, and the warmth of the water immediately soothed her tired bones. She let her eyes close as she leaned her head back, her curls hanging down the outside of the tub.

She had only been resting for a few minutes when the sound of something tapping on the window interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up, half-expecting to find Draco's mischievous grin framed by one of the wooden-framed panes, but what she found instead was something a bit more curious. A small brown owl that couldn't have been bigger than the palm of her hand was fluttering outside the window, tapping its beak excitedly against the glass. There was a letter attached to one of its legs, the size of which should have been able to weigh the small bird down but miraculously (or magically) did not. It took a moment for her to compute that the bird was trying to get her attention, and when it did, she pulled herself out of the tub and moved toward the window, pausing only to wrap a towel around her naked body.

The window creaked loudly as she opened it, and she glanced nervously at the cracked door behind her to confirm that she was still alone before opening the window the rest of the way, jumping slightly as the bird flew quickly toward her. It landed on her shoulder, nudging her softly with its beak and holding out is leg for her.

"I don't have any treats," she said quietly, as she untied the letter.

But the owl didn't seem to mind. It simply nuzzled her again before spreading its wings and swooping back outside, disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared.

Hermione stood there for a moment, water still trickling down her body from her impromptu exit from the bath as she contemplated what to do next. It didn't seem likely that this was a trap; if it was, she reasoned, something would have happened to her as soon as the removed the letter from the bird's leg. It also didn't seem likely that this was a letter from anyone at the Ministry who was eager to find them; the Patronus that Harry had instructed Andromeda to send should have been enough to keep anyone from trying to contact them. So, who was so determined to reach her? Any why had it coincided with a moment when she was alone?

With shaky hands, she tore open the seal, deciding that there was no sense worrying the others and sat back on the edge of the tub, taking a deep breath before unfolding the paper now sitting in her lap.

What the…

It had been years, a decade almost, since she had seen the handwriting, but there was no mistaking who it belonged to. She should have been shocked, or at the very least confused, and yet, knowing who had written the letter, the only thing she felt was intrigued.

The question wasn't how a dead man was writing to her; it was why.

Glancing at the door again, she snapped her fingers to shut and lock it. Something told her everything was about to make a whole lot more sense, and even though Draco had promised her some time alone, she didn't want to risk being caught reading something that others hadn't had time to vet.

Taking a deep breath, she started reading.

My Dearest Hermione,

I had hoped that I'd be able to tell you this in person one day, but it seems that I am finally out of time.

First, if you are reading this, it means that congratulations are in order, and I hope this letter finds both you and your family well. The birth of your first child is a happy time, one of transformation and growth. However, as you have undoubtedly already deduced, your transition to motherhood will not have been like others around you, and the blame is my own – and only my own – for inadequately preparing for what you must now face.

If we had been able to have this conversation face-to-face, this would be the moment that I'd ask you to bear with me, to allow an old man a moment to take you on a journey back through time, but seeing as I will be long gone by the time you read this (and I do hope my death proved a useful diversion), you'll just have to trust that everything that follows is vitally important.

I'll start at the beginning.

When I was much younger and a bit more naïve, I stumbled across a man who called himself the Aescling. We met in a dirty old pub nestled in the outskirts of Oslo. I was running from things I shouldn't have been hiding from, and he was fuming over something that I didn't quite understand. We came together, forming a tenuous sort of friendship after sharing a few drinks and bonding over the perceived wrongs that had sent us both scurrying from our homes.

In the weeks that followed, we spent very little time talking about anything of substance, instead finding solace in a seemingly endless cycle of mead and debauchery, but even with the very little he offered me in the way of backstory, I could sense that he wasn't ordinary. When I talked, he studied me as if he could read my mind, as if he knew every single one of my misguided adolescent ambitions. I never once saw him use a wand, and it seemed that it only took the smallest movements in his hands to perform magic that I myself still struggled with. But it was the spells that he muttered under his breath that really caught my attention; they were in an odd but somewhat familiar language, one I eventually recognized as old Norse, and they were like nothing I'd ever heard or seen before.

The man was so different from other wizards I had befriended. And I couldn't, for whatever reason, tear myself away.

I didn't know it at the time, but the Aescling was a member of an ancient but dwindling group of Norse mages whose lineage was rumored to trace all the way back to the humans that first inhabited lands that now encompass parts of Norway and Sweden.

Eventually, many years after we parted ways, I stumbled across an old Viking Age record written by a monk who managed to survive a particularly brutal Viking raid. It documented a strange story, one that involved a woman who decimated an entire battalion of soldiers with a single, large bolt of lightning. The monk had managed to hide during the raid, concealing himself behind a collection of barrels, and after the soldiers had been killed, he managed to overhear a conversation between the women and a man who had appeared suddenly at her side.

They were close enough to the barrels that the monk was able to make out most of their conversation, and although the words were a little difficult for him to understand, he was able to interpret enough. The strangers spoke about a power, one that allowed them to control things they shouldn't. They spoke about their desire to conquer more land further inland, to wipe out the lives of anyone that got in their way so that their own people could claim control over the land. They spoke about sacrifices and boats. But what had terrified the monk most wasn't their words – those hadn't been that much different from any other enemy in war. What had truly frightened him, what nearly caused him to give up his location with a yelp of surprise, was the moment when the two strangers conjured fire in the palms of their hands.

Demons, he had called them. And, at least in that instance, he might not have been that far off.

It took me many more years, and countless days of painstaking research, digging through a myriad of old, crumbling documents to uncover the rest of what I'm about to tell you, and in an attempt to avoid rambling on for longer than I already have, I'll simply summarize the details.

Members of this group wielded an ancient kind of magic, one intimately linked with nature. They were unwavering in their loyalty to family and tradition, but that isn't what really set them apart from others with magic in their veins. They were different not so much because of what they could do, but because of how easily they could do it – all of it.

They could control the elements, and they could read minds. They could cast spells without wands and circumvent blood magic with terrifying ease. And yet, their power, which was both immense and impossibly difficult to comprehend, was a tightly guarded secret that few outside of their group ever had the privilege (or horror) of witnessing and living long enough to tell the tale.

So as it turns out, I knew very little about the man I had met in the pub – for instance, I never even knew that his real name was Eirik or that he had very little family left – but even if I had known what I know now, I'm not sure it would have made any difference.

You see, I found the Aescling to be alluringly charismatic, an older brother figure of sorts that I was drawn to more out of a need for belonging than anything else. He was very much so a stranger, but there was something about him that drew me to him. And so, even despite my reservations at following anyone anywhere, especially someone I knew very little about, I accepted his offer to accompany him north, not quite sure what awaited me at the end of our journey.

In hindsight, I should have realized he wasn't someone who should be admired much more quickly than I did, but by the time I realized what his real ambitions were – and what he could really do – it was far too late. I had already followed him to his final destination, an ancient Norse temple tucked away in an old, overgrown forest. Even though I knew his intentions were anything but pure, I sat there frozen behind a small window outside as he presented himself to two others, shouting words that I couldn't hear. And even when he glanced in my direction with a wicked smile on his face, I still did nothing. I simply watched in terror as he summoned two bolts of lightning and used them to slaughter the other two people before they could so much as blink.

Violence wasn't new to me, but the crazed, satisfied look he gave me when he turned to face me again sent a shiver down my spine. I fled immediately, returning to England with the hope of finding some way to defeat him. I truly expected him to find me and spent the better part of two years living in constant fear, but he never came, and as the years turned into decades, I simply buried the memory so deep that I almost convinced myself it had just been a dream.

But it hadn't been, and my failure to hunt him down, my reluctance to do anything at all because what he had done had scared me so deeply, would turn out to be one of my greatest regrets.

As you might imagine, the story doesn't end there.

Some many years later, long after my tenure at Hogwarts had begun, a woman found me. She claimed to have a message for me from the Aescling, but when I asked her to relay it without so much as a pause, she merely shook her head, her eyes wide with worry.

Her name was Sif, or at least that's what the Aescling had called her after he took her from her mother and forced her to be his slave. The man, she told me, was still powerful, but rarely sober, and she had managed to escape after a particularly violent night, hoping to find someone who could help her. She was pregnant, the child was his, and she insisted that if he ever found her, neither her nor her child would live to see another day.

I'm ashamed to admit that I offered her very little. I was preoccupied with another dangerous foe, and after finding her a place to stay and promising to be there to help with the birth, I paid her very little attention, returning my attention the battle against a darkness that I was more familiar with.

Some months later, she sent me an owl when she went into labor, but instead of coming to her aid as I had promised, I failed her yet again by sending a house elf in my stead to escort her to a nearby Muggle hospital. She was still in the delivery room recovering from a difficult birth when the Aescling found her. I will spare you the details of what happened to her next, but I will say this: she did not die a happy death. Neither did her newborn child, a baby girl, or the nurse who was attending her in a nearby room.

At this point, you might be confused. You might even be wondering why I've blabbered on through all these pieces of parchment. But if I know you like I think I do, you probably have some inkling where this is going.

If not, then perhaps this next bit of information will be enough for you to figure it out. The date of the birth and subsequent death of the child was 19 September 1979. The location was a place you of course will not remember and yet will forever hold a special place in your parent's hearts.

Yes, you were there the day that the Aescling killed his own daughter.

Now, if that were the end of the story, we wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have needed to send this letter. And you would be none the wiser about what actually occurred that day in the hospital because knowing the particulars of this story would serve no purpose other than to traumatize you deeply. However, something very strange happened, and that something, as you might have guessed, involved you.

I told you that the Aescling was a member of an ancient group, but I haven't yet detailed how the man came into his power. When Sif came to me, she knew very little about in the specifics of his power, but she was smart enough to recognize that it was tied somehow to his bloodline, that the birth of a child was a threat to his very way of life. Unfortunately, it wasn't until after her death that I uncovered the real reason behind his mania, and when I did, I realized how silly it was of me to think that Voldemort was alone in his quest for complete control and immortality.

The Aescling's power was inherited, just like all of the other Norse mages who had been chosen as wielders before him. It was a tremendous gift, one that had always been destined to leave him when a chid of his own became a parent, but it wasn't in the man's nature to share anything, not even a magic that at its very roots could ever belong to a single person.

But when he killed this child (and no, I don't believe this one was the first), his actions set off an unexpected series of events. Instead of receding back into him, as he no doubt expected it to, the power reached out for someone else, someone who would be worthy to wield the gift that had been wasted on a man so blinded by greed.

And it found you.

You were barely a few hours old, but the power saw something in you. It sensed what you would grow into, it knew who you really were, that magic was already flowing through your veins, and it latched on, choosing you as the sole heir to carry the gift into uncertain times.

The power chose you because you were desperately needed. And you are needed, even more desperately than anyone has ever needed you for anything before. It is, for the lack of a better word, your destiny.

I wouldn't blame you if you're angry with me for not telling you sooner. Shout and scream and curse at me if you must – I deserve nothing less, and I promise I won't take it personally – but don't dawdle for long. Wherever you are, the Aescling will find you; even without the power, he won't stop hunting until both you and your child are dead.

The last page of this letter is a map; I've marked the location of the old Norse temple. I have no idea if that's where he'll be hiding, or if it's even still in use, but it's a start, and I hope it is a fruitful one. He will be weakened – the power will now answer only to you – but his knowledge of Norse magic will remain, and you must be careful. He is cunning. He is ruthless. But most importantly, he has nothing to lose, so do not underestimate what he is capable of.

When you are ready, go and fight for your family, for what is rightfully yours. Fight for those he has hurt and for those that he has yet to encounter. Fight because it's the right thing to do. Fight because this incredible gift is now yours, and if anyone can right the wrongs of the past, it's you.

I am truly sorry,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. It's poetic, really, that you and Harry found each other, both of you marked so drastically by the greed and violence of one man and purposely kept in the dark by another. I hope that someday you can both forgive me.

Hermione wasn't sure when she had started crying, but when she finally looked up from the page, her cheeks were already streaked with tears.

The story was unbelievable, and yet, almost inherently, she knew it was true. She wasn't the daughter of a monster, her parents hadn't lied to her, and she was still very much so a Muggle-born, but she wasn't just an ordinary witch; she hadn't been since the day of her birth.

The world really is bonkers, she thought.

Suddenly, she caught the muffled shouts and frantic knocking at the door, and a moment later she recognized the familiar voice clawing at the back of her head.

Draco? she called out through the bond, confused about all the fuss.

What the fuck is going on? Draco responded, his terror flooding into her mind.

Hermione stood up, her legs shaking slightly underneath her, and she snapped her fingers to unlock the door. Almost instantly, the door swung open and Draco rushed into the room, his eyes moving around wildly as Harry stood behind him, his wand raised in the air.

"Why weren't you answering me?" Draco demanded somewhat angrily. "I thought something happened…" But he let his words trail off when he finally noticed the fresh tears on her face.

What happened? he asked her more softly through their bond. What's wrong?

"I got a letter," she told him quietly, her voice barely audible above the sounds of the waves crashing into the cliff outside. "From Dumbledore," she added, the words cracking as they left her mouth.

Whatever Draco had expected her to say, it hadn't been that, and he stared at her, his mouth open in surprise.

"Dumbledore?" Harry asked, his confusion obvious as he stepped into the room. "But how?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know," she replied, her eyes flickering back to her husband. "But it explains everything."

"Everything?" Draco asked absently, his chest still heaving with each of his ragged breaths.

"Here," Hermione said, holding out the letter for him to take, "read it."

a/n: I tried to get this posted earlier but just wasn't happy with it until now, so apologies for the delay. Hopefully it was worth the wait! All of your reviews are amazing, and they really are the only thing that gets me through a tough week of writing (like this one). So, keep them coming – we only have four more chapters to go!

Another gold star to LiteraryRomantic who this week accurately predicted that Theodore would be the baby's middle name – are you in my head or are you just really good at guessing where I'm going with things?

Also, I realized when I was writing this that I goofed and totally spaced on Hermione's birthday at the beginning of the story, so once I finish these last few chapters up, I'll go back and fix that.