Hello, all! Thanks for all the favorites and follows for this story, but I am slightly disappointed by the reviews. Can we bring it to at least 10 before I post chapter 5? It's going to be a good one, not less heavy than the previous three but it will be the last part of Dawn, which will end on a good note.

Chapter 4 was a bitch to write. This wasn't what I planned when I first outlined the plot, but I realized that we weren't getting enough of Draco. If he's two-dimensional, the purpose of this story is defeated.

Enjoy!


Finite Incantatem

oOo

Chapter 4 – Dawn: Part IV

October, Philippa – two years and eight months

Draco flinched as the door of the cabinet slipped from his grasp and banged shut. He was a trained Seeker from childhood, stealthy as a cat, and yet his limbs refused to coordinate right when he was trying to sneak out of their bedroom.

Merlin, he felt like a teenager, like he was making up for the tiptoeing behind his parents that had been unnecessary when he was younger. The Malfoys' adolescent only child was free to spend, party, and drink to his heart's content – he did all three to that excess, with friends as ballsy and thoughtless as only Slytherins can be.

The vices of his youth had simply been material statements of his age and wealth. Then he grew up, and money, liquor, and acquaintances had been replaced by denial, non-confrontation, and escape.

He was twenty-seven, and he was sneaking out of his boyhood room, which he now shared with his wife, to avoid her.

Because he didn't want to see her all too expressive eyes as he left her behind to escape into another work-related excursion. He couldn't stand to see the annoyance and disappointment morph into resignation. He couldn't say exactly which trip had caused it, but she suddenly gave up trying to convince him to stay. She never succeeded anyway, but the fact that she wasn't even trying anymore made him feel all the more unwanted, and anxious to leave.

He was escaping into his professional life because it was nothing like his life at home. In the office, hundreds of employees were at his disposal. When he asked for them to stay overtime, they did. Fresh graduates fought for spots even in the lowest recesses of the intern pool to earn mere standing space in his boardroom. His projects never lacked experts, who left the comfortable, well-paying jobs they already had and begged to work for him. His wealth and prestige secured for him these people's respect and compliance, as they had all his life.

But they weren't what Hermione Granger cared for, and they still couldn't give him what he wanted. What he thought he already had.

He scrutinized himself in the bathroom mirror, checking if he was polished enough for dinner at a five-star hotel with a young entrepreneur whose firm he was planning to take over. The businessman, just a few years older than Draco himself, had the idea but lacked the skills to take it to the next level. Draco's appearance had to convey the impression that they were peers, but also that he was consequential and mature enough to be entrusted the man's prized possession.

The cons of age had yet to catch up with him. He wore robes of the finest material, as was typical – his parents had taught him that people respond to one's way of dress, and it was expected of him to use what money could buy him to his advantage. When he was in school, his mother wouldn't stand for him to suffer ready-to-wear uniforms, and so he sauntered around Hogwarts in tailored trousers, silk ties and cashmere sweater vests. He had Lucius's Malfoy angles and eye colour, though his features followed the shape of Narcissa's. Mastery of the passive face was hereditary on both sides. He thought his mother was especially lovely when she smiled. Maybe the same was true for him, but he smiled even more rarely than Narcissa did. He only ever smiled for Pippa these days.

With a heavy breath, he buttoned his suit jacket and vanished his baggage to the foyer with a snap of his fingers. Pocketing his wand, he made his way back into the bedroom.

Hermione was in the position he left her in when he'd gotten up – lying on her side, turned away from his, hands tucked under her head, blankets pulled up to her neck. But now she was awake and staring straight at him.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, leaning against the doorway.

"Of course you didn't," muttered she in a half-sigh. Hermione sat up against the headboard. She looked tired. And bored.

"I know you're avoiding me, but I hope you at least thought of saying goodbye to your daughter."

"I did, before I dressed. She's still asleep."

Hermione nodded, and he wryly noted to himself that she finally approved of something he did.

"Look, Hermione," he began to deny his avoidance.

"I know, I know," she interrupted. What was it that she knew? He never knew what was on her mind anymore because she never told him, nor could he guess just by looking at her anymore. It went both ways, as she couldn't be bothered to hear what he wanted to say.

But the hostility in her eyes dissolved, and she tilted her head to the side.

"Come here, honey," Hermione beckoned softly. And Draco did, desperate to be near her other than in terms of physical proximity.

He sat on the edge of the bed by her legs. Hermione reached out to straighten his blue patterned tie. He was completely outfitted in blue, his shirt a lighter shade from his navy suit, and it all complemented his unusual grey eyes. She stroked his smooth jaw with the back of her fingers; he preferred a clean shave, but he let his hair grow long enough so the front could be parted on one side (most often the left) then swept back, but short enough at the back to only skim the top of his shirt collar. She liked grabbing onto those lowest strands, the softest part of him, whenever he thrust into her the hardest.

Her fingers tingled for the featherlike texture she missed. She barely resisted reaching her hand around his head to his nape.

Gently she tugged the lapels of his suit, causing him to lean closer to her. He smelled…warm, as he always did. There was no other word for the scent he emitted, like wood and spice.

"It's cold outside," she hummed a little headily. "Why don't you wear a wool suit? Where's your cloak?"

"It's spring where I'm going."

"Australia?" she quickly guessed.

He smirked. "Yeah."

"Is that why you have to leave at 4 AM?"

The challenge was back in her tone, and her brown eyes hardened once more. The abrupt change made his insides flare. He pushed of the bed and stared down to her as he snapped back, "Are you actually interested or can we just skip the argument and have my secretary send my itinerary to you?"

She actually sneered at him. "Whatever works for you, Draco. It's not like I have a say in what you do. I don't even deserve prior notice of your trips anymore."

Sharply, Draco turned his head away from her and fixed his eyes on the bathroom door, breathing deeply. It was far too early, and he didn't want to waste his energy on this. He had a long day ahead of him.

He remembered what he'd left for her in the bathroom.

"There's something for you on your dresser," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

"What is it?"

"Shoes. From Mother."

When she didn't respond, he dared to face her again. She had a blank look on her face, obviously confused by an undue present from her mother-in-law.

"She'd like you to wear them to the party today," he explained.

"For Godric's sake," Hermione hissed, closing her eyes. She had forgotten that it was Deianira Zabini's birthday. Now that Draco was leaving, she had to go with only Narcissa. He had scheduled his trip today on purpose, she bet, to set her up with his mother.

"Your mother doesn't even like Deianira."

"No, but you do."

Even though another society event was wholly unappetizing to her, both Draco and Hermione knew that she wouldn't miss Deianira's party. Narcissa and her crowd of pureblood wives were practically the only friends each other had, having been exposed to few else since infancy. Deianira, however, was foreign, uninhibited, and different. Hermione supposed she'd grown tired of trying to please the other ladies and decided that it was more gratifying to do her utmost to shock them. She had gained entry into their ranks only through her third marriage out of seven, but she was nonetheless wealthy. For someone whose family had been completely uninvolved in the war, Ms. Zabini donated generously without having to be asked, and as most charities were run by the Malfoys, Narcissa tolerated her.

But Deianira and Hermione had quickly taken to each other upon introduction, both finding a kindred spirit. Deianira always teased that the ladies held Hermione, Narcissa's daughter-in-law who had the Minister's ear, in higher regard than she. They clung to each other at events, making it easier to breathe in the stifling air of high society.

Deianira's son was accepted by his peers, in stark contrast. Blaise was one of Draco's chosen few, second only to Theodore Nott, his oldest friend. Draco and Theo had grown up together and been raised most similarly. They spoke the same way, had the same mannerisms, and had this uncanny habit of smirking after sharing a prolonged glance, as if they'd just had a conversation just by looking at each other. Theo probably knew Draco better than Hermione did, but Theo was every part of Draco that Hermione wasn't particularly fond of, amplified ten times – snobbish, smug, and worst of all, secretive. Whereas Draco had been outspoken and ostentatious when he was younger, Theodore had always been the menacingly quiet enigma who was assured of himself enough to not be interested in stepping out of his friend's shadow. He was not inconsequential, though – the pensive look he always wore was actually threatening.

Blaise, on the other hand, was jovial and amusing, with his quick jokes and droll wit. Hermione was fairly sure that Blaise was the only one who wasn't betting against her marriage. Only he and Tracy hugged her whenever they saw her, instead of the usual nod, handshake, or faire la bise from Draco's other friends.

If touching cheeks with Astoria Greengrass didn't already make her skin feel like it was on fire, it definitely made her soul burn. It was beneath her to have to put on a friendly show with Astoria, whose disdain for her was almost transparent through her lovely smiles and polite words. It didn't help her case that Astoria's sister was the wife of Draco's best friend.

She was the cream of the crop of pureblood girls. All the mothers found her delightful, and though she remained unmarried, wives her age continued to eye her with a begrudging adoration, the type of envy reserved for those special people whom one emulates but could never equal to. Astoria was, essentially, Narcissa, only with different colouring. The blonde, blue-eyed Narcissa could be matched only by the mysterious allure exuded by Astoria's glossy raven waves and deep green eyes. The striking contrast of her dark features against her pale skin could be argued to surpass Narcissa's ethereal fairness.

"I don't want to give your mother another opportunity to stand me beside Astoria Greengrass."

Her voice unintentionally quivered as she revealed this one insecurity. Draco fixed her with a look that asked if she was actually serious.

"Hermione, come on," he sighed. "Mother does not prefer anyone over you." And so what if she does?

"Well, given the current state of things, anyone would be better than me."

It was for this reason that Draco had schemed to push his wife and his mother into spending time together. Narcissa had been eager to share her responsibilities with Hermione as co-chairs of the Malfoy Initiative. It was only appropriate for Hermione to align with her as part of the family and as a lady of society. Narcissa didn't expect Hermione's outright refusal to have anything to do with the firm, or its subsidiaries, or even its charitable arm. She was a public servant, and quite determined to maintain her probity and impartiality. For the two years they'd been married, Narcissa perpetuated a campaign to entice her daughter-in-law into involvement, which led to a nasty spat a couple of weeks ago. Hermione did not appreciate being bombarded with overenthusiasm and cajoling after a particularly stressful day at work.

"Were you not aware of what you were marrying into?" Narcissa had said in a scarily calm voice, her winning smile suddenly replaced by that cold, blank Malfoy stare.

"I married Draco, not his money or his social standing!" Hermione yelled, angered by the direction that the conversation was taking. She neither needed nor wanted anything from the Malfoys – or from anyone, for that matter. She and Draco had no joint account nor shared assets, which they had agreed would be best from the start. It was also unnecessary, as any children of theirs would be immediately covered by the Malfoy trust.

Now, Draco bitterly thought that it was one less thing to tether her to him.

So much for 'what's mine is yours.'

"Can you just promise me that you'll try to work things out with Mother?"

"I suppose," Hermione allowed so he would let it rest. "Where can I reach you?"

"The Langham in Sydney. The office can forward your calls." As always.

"Who's coming?"

"Fawley, Pucey, Tycho." Accountant, stockholder, and assistant.

"When will you be back?"

"In a week. I have to see what I'm getting myself into."

They spoke with nonchalance – they were far too used to the routine of Draco leaving.

"That long for a survey?" she scoffed. "Careful, darling – whoever it is might think you're too interested and raise the price."

He bristled. She didn't let him comment on her work. "Leave that to me. Is that all, then?"

"I might not be around when you come back. Parole checks are coming up."

"What else is new?" Draco snapped.

For a moment, they measured each other up – she to determine whether Draco had meant to say that out loud, and he to brace himself for a rebuttal.

She lay back down and closed her eyes as she said, "Well, don't let me keep you."

Draco made for the door. An urge to turn around came over him, as if there was something he'd forgotten. He doubted it, as he had already become an expert in packing.

"Anything else?" Hermione suddenly said, eyes still closed.

It was on the tip of his tongue, had been for a while. He was much too proud to release it.

And frankly, most of the time, she didn't deserve it.

He wondered if saying it now would make a difference. If she would be mollified enough to actually try to patch things up with his mother. If she would miraculously be there when he got home. If she would say it back, and he would feel less eager to leave.

"No…nothing. Go back to sleep."

The door clicked shut behind him, and she burrowed further into the blankets. Merlin, she hated how frigid it was in this sodding manor. Much like the people who lived in it.

Including herself.

In an effort to warm her body up, Hermione decided to move around, hopefully enough to tire herself out and coax her back to sleep. She jumped out of bed and marched into the bathroom.

There was a shoebox on her vanity stool, as Draco had said. Treating it as if an unpleasant task, she lifted the lid and tore through the excessive wrapping.

They were green, of course, and they looked painful. It was a satin stiletto in the exact shade of Slytherin House, with a pointy toe and flimsy straps. The only embellishment was a mass of white-spotted feathers, meant to wrap around the ankle via a black satin ribbon. The shoes practically screamed Narcissa.

Repulsed, Hermione returned to bed. When she realized that the cold was coming from the ghost of the man she loved in the empty space beside her, she got out again and left through the door that connected their room to the nursery.

She might have only been imagining it, but it was noticeably warmer in Philippa's room. She sat on the edge of the little bed. Her daughter was sound asleep, and Hermione actually envied her for it. Pippa chewed on her bottom lip as she slept.

Hermione eased her hand under Pippa's body and lifted her out of the crib. The child stirred, but only murmured, "Daddy."

"It's alright, sweetheart, it's only Mummy," Hermione cooed. At the sound of her voice, Pippa's eyes flew open. Once more, she asked for her father.

"Daddy had to go to work," Hermione whispered. "Mummy's feeling a little lonely. Do you want to sleep in Mummy and Daddy's bed till Daddy comes back?"

Philippa hummed her assent, and was carried by her mother back to the bedroom. Hermione tucked her daughter in and settled down beside her. The cold became slightly more bearable.


I've posted Finite Incantatem on Hawthorn & Vine, if anyone cares to check it out!

Also, you can follow me on my personal Tumblr, cheskafrancesca, for updates on the writing of this story.

About the shoes, I was scrolling through Instagram and saw a pair by Aquazurra that looked like something Narcissa would make Hermione wear. Don't forget to review! :) xx