Roses are red

Violets are blue

I don't own Harry Potter

This is sad, but true

Thanks and crushing hugs go to ravenclaw-sass and littlered1992 for being such wonderful betas!

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Draco could barely remember a time in which he had been in control of his own life. As a child, he was expected to talk a certain way, behave a certain way, and think a certain way. His future was laid out for him; graduate with the highest marks at Hogwarts, enter the family business, find a suitable wife, and produce a male heir. He had thought that was what he wanted.

While he was young, it was easy to ignore the gnawing sensation in his gut that he wasn't being authentic, but as he grew older he longed for some semblance of power over his future. The hope that one day he would be able to sit down with his parents and tell them that his dream was actually to help people, and that he didn't really understand the whole blood prejudice thing was dashed when the Dark Lord took up residence in their house.

He was sent like a lamb to slaughter when Lucius failed to retrieve the Prophecy at the end of his fifth year, forced to wear the burden of his father's mistake. It was then that Draco accepted that he would probably never call the shots; he was to die as a warning to the rest of the Death Eaters, without the promise of a future to plan at all.

In Azkaban, he lamented that his lack of making choices had landed him in the worst possible scenario. He was still no closer to making his own decisions...and then Hermione had come along, her help unbidden though welcome, though he would not have admitted that at the beginning of their tumultuous working relationship.

Finally, when his house arrest had been lifted, Draco thought he might actually be able to do something with his life that he could be proud of. That was, until Lucius returned home and took up the role of puppeteer. His father was once again pulling the strings and it made Draco feel sick with rage and impotence.

How the man had time to suck Draco's will to live from his very being without his wand and while under house arrest was beyond comprehension. Hermione had said that it was because controlling Draco was how Lucius kept a grip on his frayed sanity. Draco thought that his father was somehow powered by the souls of others.

More elves had been brought in by the Greengrass family so that Draco could barely step out of his room without tripping over a cluster of them. Surely it wouldn't take more than a few people to arrange a cake and some flowers, he thought savagely as a particularly small elf bowed low and stammered a garbled apology to Draco's shoes.

"It's fine," he muttered, waving the creature away.

He made his way to his mother's room and began his usual morning routine. He waved his wand in complicated movements so that the pillows would fluff themselves and the sheets and duvet settled comfortably around his mother's still-frail frame. She did not stir as he worked, not even when he opened the curtains and a wide band of yellow sunlight fell across her sleeping face.

Draco sighed as he took his seat beside her and took her hand. He brought it to his lips and brushed them over her knuckles. He had never been one to miss his mother—such an emotion was beneath a Malfoy, his father had taught him from a young age. It had been the elves who had raised him, and never the same one for a consistent length of time. Developing attachments was dangerous, or so Lucius thought. Draco remembered his father warning him before he got on the train for Hogwarts that friendship was for the middle class, and that he would fare better by making cronies out of the buffoons, Crabbe and Goyle.

Right now, however, the stabbing feeling in his chest was almost too much to bear as he gazed down at the limp figure curled into the side of the bed. He longed to talk to her; a proper conversation in which she would respond and offer advice, or comfort, or… something.

Draco sighed and allowed her hand to slip from his grasp. The Healers would be here soon and he was hoping that his mother would choose this morning to show them that she was having periods of lucidity, because so far, the only time she seemed to wake was when they were alone. Draco was beginning to believe that the Healers thought he was making it up.

Right on time, the two women stepped through the grate which Draco had linked to St. Mungo's the night after Granger had saved his mother from certain death.

"Good morning," they greeted him quietly.

He nodded in response and moved to stand back against the wall while they worked. It was common decency, now that he knew that his mother was being appropriately cared for, to turn away while they lifted the sheets and changed her gown. He looked out the window which faced the forest to the south of the property. The trees were still and the sky was clear, an unusual occurrence as they were fast approaching December.

A gasp from behind him drew Draco quickly from his internal babbling about the weather and he turned to face the Healers. One was still bent over his mother, but the other was standing a few paces away from the bed, one hand clutched over her chest; she looked as though she had seen a ghost.

"Is she okay?" Draco demanded, striding quickly over to stand next to the Healer who was still working. "What happened?" His chest constricted as he spoke, the words being forced from his throat like toothpaste from an almost-empty tube.

"Sh-she squeezed my hand!" the other Healer whispered. Her eyes widened as she brought her own hand up to her face to inspect it.

Draco's heart leapt. "Mother?" he called over the shoulder of the Healer closest to him. "Mother, it's Draco. Can you hear me?"

Unwilling to get in the way as the Healer muttered spells without drawing breath while flicking her wand down the length of his mother's body, Draco hovered awkwardly at her elbow.

"Dra-co." The sound was barely there, but the Healers both froze and his slumped in relief as they registered that they had heard it too.

The Healer whose hand his mother had squeezed came quickly back to the other side of the bed and began running her own diagnostic spells while speaking in a calm, clear voice.

"Mrs Malfoy," she said. "Can you hear me? My name is Healer Murphy. Do you know where you are?"

Draco was pushed back to the foot of the bed and he stood, shuffling his weight from side to side impatiently, trying to see what they were doing. After a few minutes he could not stand it any longer and asked what was going on, but both Healers ignored him. He began to concoct scenarios in his head of what he would do to the women if anything happened to his mother and they didn't miraculously save her.

Finally, the older of the two turned to face him, a frown on her face. Tears had threatened, burning, at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back as his stomach flipped over at her expression.

"What?" he barked. "What is it?"

"Mister Malfoy, I'm concerned for your mother's mental wellbeing."

His stomach plummeted towards his toes. "What?"

"Well, at first we thought that she was actually registering that you were in the room...but now we're not so sure." She licked her lips and placed a hand on her hip; Draco felt as though he might strangle her if she didn't get to the damn point soon . "Somewhere she recognises that you are important, but whether she knows that you are here, we don't know. Your mother is showing signs of cognitive degeneration, which may be a symptom of having been unconscious for so long, or—" the Healer paused and Draco's hands clenched into fists "—it could be a permanent condition due to a multitude of circumstances; Azkaban, lack of oxygen for an extended period of time…" she trailed off at the look on Draco's face.

"So, what you're saying…"

"What I'm saying, Mister Malfoy, is that we're still not sure of anything, and your mother is nowhere near out of the woods yet. We're going to increase our neurological observations, and visit four times per day instead of two."

Draco's throat felt as though someone had placed a balloon down there and blown it up, restricting his airway almost painfully. He attempted to swallow the forming lump, but it only seemed to grow. He nodded instead, his mind boggling at the very real possibility that his mother may not actually recognise him ever again. The stinging sensation in his eyes returned, and he quickly excused himself from the room.

Later that morning, Hermione arrived in the sitting room of Malfoy Manor and dusted off the front of her jeans. As she straightened up and made to move towards the hall and then towards Narcissa's room, she realised that she was not alone.

She had not expected Draco to greet her; his owl had sounded serious and she couldn't imagine him leaving his mother's side in order to walk her down a few corridors, but she hadn't been expecting this particular welcome party either.

"Miss Granger." Lucius' eyes glinted maliciously as he took in her appearance, his gaze roaming from the toes of her scuffed sneakers to the top of her head, where her wild hair was barely contained in a loose ponytail.

"Mister Malfoy," she murmured, making eye contact as soon as he had finished assessing her.

Hermione suspected that the Malfoy patriarch had not happened to be lounging in the sitting room during her arrival; he was here on purpose, which meant that he probably had something he wanted to say to her. But she wasn't interested in hearing it.

She made to move past him towards the archway which would lead to the entry hall. "If you'll excuse me," she said softly as he blocked her path. It was expected, but Hermione's chest turned cold and her fingers itched to reach for her wand which was sticking precariously out of her back pocket.

"Not so fast," Lucius said, his blank eyes, so much colder than Draco's had ever been, holding her in place. "I wish to speak to you about something that is of the utmost importance to me and my family."

Hermione swallowed her response—something along the lines of you don't understand the meaning of family—and turned to smile tightly up at the blond man.

He towered over her, and if Hermione was being honest she had to admit that Lucius did frighten her, but she couldn't let him know that. "Oh?" She quirked an eyebrow and settled for taking a step backwards out of his reach.

A cruel smirk curved at the corners of his mouth and Hermione suppressed a shudder. "I wanted to thank you, first and foremost," he said, his voice barely above a gravelly whisper. "Without your help, I wouldn't have a family."

Hermione narrowed her eyes unwittingly. "You're welcome," she murmured.

"I am eternally grateful for your help, Miss Granger." Lucius began to move, pacing in front of her, like how a lion may stalk its prey. His hands were tucked behind his back and he addressed the floor as he continued. "However, dating my son was never part of the bargain." He stilled once more, his gaze settling on her face.

Hermione stood glued to the spot, her back teeth clenched together as his words washed over her and permeated her brain. She should have known that Lucius would corner her at some point. The manor had been transformed into some sort of wedding boutique with vendors popping up randomly in different rooms, and elves carrying all sorts of objects from lengths of material, candelabras, and bouquets of flowers almost twice their size, all over the house. It really wasn't a shock that Lucius should corner her and basically tell her to get lost; Draco would be signing the contract in twenty-four hours, and the betrothal was as good as legal even without his autograph.

"With all due respect—" Hermione fought to keep the building anger out of her voice "—you underestimate your son, Mister Malfoy." Lucius' eyes flashed dangerously but Hermione rushed on. "Draco isn't you; he doesn't want the life you're so insistent on giving him. I think it's unwise to believe that he is going to roll over and do as you ask without question. You may force him into a marriage he doesn't want, but that doesn't mean he will stay there—or that he will follow any of your other instructions. Did you know he wants to become a Healer?"

Lucius' eyes widened and he gnashed his teeth together. "You don't know him," he spat. "Draco will marry Astoria and he'll be happy about it. I've already told him if he wishes to keep you around as a whore after they have produced a male heir then so be it, but—"

Hermione's vision blurred as rage surged through her veins, mixing with her magic and sending crackling energy through her limbs. "Excuse me?" she whispered. "I am not a whore and if you think Draco will—"

"Draco will do as he is told!" Lucius' voice was still low, but it held a dangerous finality and spittle was flying from his mouth.

"Draco is not a child!" Hermione, on the other hand, was shouting now, glaring at the man who was stupid enough to think that his son was still the pliant, scared sixteen-year-old he had inadvertently sent off to face his death. "He knows what he wants and he is tenacious in his pursuit of what makes him happy. He won't idly accept your bullshit anymore; if you can't see that, you're much more ignorant than I thought!"

"You don't know anything," Lucius snarled, stalking towards Hermione and towering over her in an obvious attempt to intimidate her; it didn't work—she was far too angry.

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Just keep telling yourself that," she hissed.

"I don't need to," Lucius countered. "You may think that you understand him and our ways, but there isn't any way a Mudblood—" he spat the word as if it physically hurt his tongue to pronounce "—could keep up with—"

"Lucius?" a new voice sounded from the archway and the irate man pushed away from where he had cornered Hermione against a wall to face the owner.

"Draco," he greeted, his cool tone laced with warning. "I was just chatting to Miss Granger here."

"I heard." Draco arched an eyebrow in apparent amusement, but the thunder in his eyes gave away his simmering rage. "And calling her names and invoking her inevitable wrath?"

Lucius snapped his mouth shut and a muscle began to work in his jaw. "I was merely explaining a few things—" he said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, well, your explanations bear no weight anymore, Father." Draco sneered as he stalked further into the room. As he came to Hermione's side, he wrapped a hand around her wrist and then slid his fingers down to entwine with hers. "And Hermione here is far too intelligent to believe anything that comes out of your mouth. So if you'll excuse us..."

Draco tugged on Hermione's hand and she followed him towards the archway, leaving Lucius standing facing away from them in the middle of the room. As they reached the hallway, the elder Malfoy called out, "You're making a mistake."

But to whom he directed this statement, Hermione was not sure.

When they reached his mother's room, Draco locked the door behind them with a wave of his wand. He didn't lead her any further than just over the threshold before he began to explain what the Healer had told him that morning in a low voice. He was grateful that the brunette witch did not interrupt him as he spoke, but he avoided making eye contact lest he would see pity in her eyes. He didn't think he could handle it, not from Hermione.

When he finally finished, she took a deep breath and he finally met her gaze; relief flooded him as he registered nothing but fierce determination in her brown orbs. "Whatever happens, we'll deal with it," she said in a whisper.

They made their way over to the bed and sat on either side of the sleeping matriarch. Draco thought his mother looked incredibly peaceful. He was torn between desperately hoping for her lucidity and wanting to leave her in this blissful state.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked after a few minutes of calm silence. Draco arched an eyebrow in question; did she mean in terms of Mother? "I mean with the signing of the contract tomorrow."

Draco exhaled slowly through pursed lips, a soft whistling sound echoing around the room. He shrugged one shoulder and searched for the right words. It was not something he could put into words; it was a paradoxical feeling of simultaneous apathy and desperation. Apathy, because he was not able to control it; desperation because he wished he could.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. He cleared his throat. "I'm trying not to think about it; Mother provides a good distraction." He leaned across the bed and took a cool, pale hand in his own. "Especially with the news of this morning."

Hermione hummed in agreement and Draco lifted his head to meet her gaze. He offered her a weak smile. "I'm glad you're here."

"Would you like me to be tomorrow, too?" she whispered.

Draco shook his head, a feeling of melancholy settling around him like how the cold of a bitter winter's day settled into one's bones. "No," he said. "It's best if you stay away for the… celebrations—" his mouth twisted around the word in an ugly sneer "—lest my father decides to add a death clause or something."

"Death clause?" Hermione tilted her head to the side and Draco allowed himself a brief moment of mirth as he realised that there was something that he knew that the Golden Girl did not.

"In the event of divorce, one or both parties instantly die. It hasn't been used since the nineteenth century," he assured her quickly, noting the look of horror on her face, "but I wouldn't put it past my father to bring it back…"

"Merlin." Hermione shook her head. "That's—"

"Yeah."

They fell silent at that, both lost in their own thoughts.

The dining room had been transformed by the swarm of House Elves during the day. The long table had been turned into a series of smaller round ones, with the middle one set for five people. Draco took his seat between his father and Astoria, who was looking pretty but aloof in a ivory-coloured cocktail dress which floated effortlessly insilky layers to her knees. Her blonde hair was piled elegantly on top of her head, and her lips were painted a glossy red.

Draco wasn't blind; she was beautiful, but as he leant in to kiss her cheek he could only feel repulsed by the sickly sweet smell of her perfume. His stomach rolled and he wondered whether his father would notice—or care—if he chose not to eat any of the food placed in front of him.

Dinner was a stiff, formal affair. Lucius talked to Mister Greengrass about business while Mrs Greengrass paid attention only to the food on her plate. Astoria's elbow brushed against Draco's as she cut into her salmon, and Draco wondered whether she was trying to get his attention.

Every time he turned to her she seemed to be ignorant of her movements, and after the fourth time frustration began to bubble dangerously in his chest. Is she indicating that I should leave? he wondered. He chanced a glance at his father, who was apparently listening to a story Mister Greengrass was telling about a particularly difficult investment deal he had closed several years ago.

As if he could sense Draco's gaze on him, Lucius turned to him and narrowed his eyes infinitesimally. It was all the indication Draco needed; he was not permitted to leave the table until instructed.

Draco declined dessert and waited impatiently, fidgeting with the hem of the tablecloth as the otherwise silent room was filled with the clinking sound of metal spoons against crystal dishware.

Finally, Lucius stood and indicated towards the exit with an elegant wave of his hand. "Shall we?" he said in his most oily businessman tone.

Draco followed his father and Mister and Mrs Greengrass, with Astoria trailing behind him. As they entered the hallway which led to Draco's study, Astoria slipped her small hand into his and gave it a squeeze. His annoyance from earlier dissipated at the contact; they were both unwilling participants in this farce of a game their parents insisted on playing. Draco squeezed back and continued to hold her hand as Lucius opened the door, allowing their guests to breeze past him and enter the room first.

Lucius smirked at Draco as he entered and Draco fought to keep his grip on Astoria. He longed to throw a punch and wipe the smirk off his father's face; he knew that Lucius had chosen to host the signing in this room just to rattle Draco further.

The desk had been cleared, save for an ink pot and the contract which lay in the middle; a copy of which was torn up and sitting in the waste paper basket to the left of the study door. He fought a smirk at that thought as Lucius opened his arms in a gracious movement and welcomed them to the formal signing of the betrothal contract.

"Of course, this is simply a ceremony; the legal side of things has already been taken care of." He bowed to Mister Greengrass, who offered him a brief smile of recognition. "Miss Greengrass," he called, looking towards Astoria with a would-be friendly smile. "If you'd like to do the first honours."

Astoria moved forward slowly, walking around the desk while running a perfectly manicured hand along the edge as she did so. When she halted next to Lucius, he moved out of the way and she picked up the large, eagle-feather quill from the ink pot. She glanced at Draco, an arch to her eyebrow, and Draco nodded once in a sign of solidarity. With that, Astoria placed the quill on the parchment and wrote her curly signature along the appropriate dotted line. When she was done, she gently returned the quill to its resting place and shuffled back to stand next to Draco. He heard her sniff once, and Draco glanced down; his heart clenched as he registered a tear on her cheek, but as soon as it had started Astoria seemed to pull herself together and she once again held her head high, her eyes dry. A perfectly raised Pureblood witch, Draco thought.

"Draco," Lucius' dangerous whisper pulled Draco from his reverie. "Your turn."

As Draco made his way stiffly to the other side of the table, Lucius picked up the quill and handed it to him. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. What does he think I'm going to do? Refuse to sign it? Maybe he hopes I'll cause a scene, he thought savagely as he took the quill. Perhaps he wants a scene so he has a reason to punish me… like I'm twelve again.

Draco gnashed his teeth together and pinched the quill between his fingertips. He knew that he was in danger of snapping the implement, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He bent over the parchment and scrawled his signature along the parchment; it was barely legible, but it was there and it would do. Lucius would be annoyed at the way he had managed to land a blot of ink on the corner, but it wasn't enough to invite retribution.

Draco smirked as he handed the quill pointedly back to his father. If he wants to treat me like a child, I might as well act like one, he thought. Lucius glared at him as he returned the quill to the ink pot, but then he was once again smiling coldly and ordering Miksy to produce the finest bottle of elf wine the cellar had to offer.

Later, when the Greengrasses had left, Draco sat alone in his bedroom. He had drunk a glass of wine with the rest of them, but now he slouched in the armchair by the window, his tie undone and his shirt unbuttoned, nursing his fifth tumbler of Firewhiskey. The room was swimming, but his head felt clear enough.

He brought the cool crystal to his lips and drained the remaining amber liquid in one go. As he filled it again, the previous mouthful still burning its way down his throat, he began to reflect with a definite air of moroseness about how he had ended up in this mess.

He longed to talk to Blaise, missing his friend more than ever in a moment such as this. He wasn't used to dealing with the aftermath of Lucius without the Italian prick, he realised; while his fellow former Slytherin may have disappeared before the Battle of Hogwarts, he had really tried to be there for Draco since their reunion.

Draco placed the now empty bottle back on the side table and roughly ran his free hand over his face. What he had asked of Blaise had been unfair and selfish. He had meant to owl an apology, but was forever being sidetracked. Astoria was brought to the manor often, and Draco was forced to give her tours of the grounds, which they usually completed in silence.

When he wasn't playing tour guide and when he could escape the manor, he was either sitting with his mother or spending time with Hermione—or both at the same time. He felt in his bones that his mother would like the feisty Muggleborn witch, and so desperately wished she would wake up and fix everything that had developed a permanent ache in his chest.

Part of him felt that he would prefer Azkaban; in a lot of ways it seemed that he had more control over his life while behind bars than he did now, with his wand and the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Lucius had once again made his home a prison and there was nothing he could do about it.

He brought the glass to his lips as a ragged sob tore from his throat. He blinked away the tears and coughed determinedly. There was no use getting emotional; it wouldn't help. What he needed now was a miracle.

At that moment, the fireplace across from him burst into green flames which dissipated quickly to reveal the scantily-clad figure of Hermione.

"Granger?" he whispered, his jaw dropping open as he took in the black satin nightgown which barely skimmed the top of her thigh.

She didn't say anything, instead fixing him with a burning gaze and striding towards where he sat. Hermione straddled him in one fluid movement and Draco felt himself instantly harden as he wrapped one arm around her waist while the other placed his drink sloppily on the table. He growled as she kissed him, her tongue instantly entering his mouth.

It was hot and passionate, and exactly what he needed. She always knows, he thought as his hands fumbled with the hem of Hermione's nightgown and forced it over her head, exactly what I need...