A loud, drum-like sound pulls her from her thoughts as a door in the furthest corner of the room begins to open.

Everybody stands.

She does too, using Harry's arm as support, and for the first time since entering the courtroom she looks up. Her gaze lands on the judge, an old man whom she forgets the name of, entering the room. She watches him with baited breath as he walks up to his podium and takes a seat.

The sound of the gavel hitting the desk signals for everybody to sit down. She nearly falls backwards, her legs weak and unstable for her own body weight.

And as the trial begins, she casts her gaze back down to her fidgeting hands in her lap. The judge reads the prisoner his rights, reads his charges aloud – hundreds of counts of murder and torture, asks him if he understands the charges – his low, throaty voice saying "Yes" is almost too much, asks him if he has anything to say at this point.

"No."

He doesn't defend himself. He doesn't make excuses. He doesn't try to plead his case. [A part of her wants him to – to at least try, to show some remorse, to do something. But then a part of her is glad he doesn't – perhaps it will be better for them, perhaps it shows strength, perhaps it shows more remorse than one might think. Perhaps she's grasping at straws.]

She tunes everything out. The prosecutor's opening. The evidence. The testimonies. The eye-witnesses. More evidence. More testimonies. Moremoremore.

And still, throughout the entire ordeal, his gaze never leaves her. And she, still, cannot bring herself to look at him.

There's a sickness in her stomach and pain in her chest. She is numb to the images on the screen, photo evidence of bodies and victims – it's like she's having an out-of-body experience, watching herself react to this, or not react – but she is not numb to the memories that play through her mind like a movie.

A beautiful couple. A disastrous lie. An ugly truth.

She doesn't know what's worse: the fact that her husband wasn't who he said he was, or the fact that she'd be perfectly happy to have never known the truth. She wonders what they're thinking – the witches and wizards in the courtroom, the families of the victims whose lives were taken by her husband. She wonders what they see when they look at her. She wonders if they're just as disappointed and disgusted with her as she is with herself. She wonders how she would react, how she would feel, what she would think if she were in their shoes, having just lost someone they loved.

But then, in a twisted sort of way, she realizes that she isn't all that different from those families. She's lost someone too.

The entire trial has been nothing more than white noise to her. That is, until, everything falls silent. Now she can't help but to pay attention.

"Do you have anything you'd like to say to the court, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes."

That's it. Her gaze snaps up, colliding with the only pair of light grey eyes in the room looking back at her – and she is lost to him.

He stands up, holding his hands in front of him in such a way that prevents her from seeing the cuffs around his wrists – although she knows they're there. He takes two steps towards the microphone sitting on the ledge of his prisoner's box. She wonders, briefly, if anyone else is having trouble breathing before deciding she doesn't care.

He's looking straight at her, as he has been for the last couple of hours. And for the first time today she sees the emotions. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Pain. Love. Loyalty. Adoration. Self-loathing. Hatred. Tenderness. Troubled. Tormented. Torn. She watches him blink back tears of his own, while a single salty tear leaves its trace down her cheek. She watches his Adam's apple bob nervously, uncertainly. She watches his body shiver before stiffening. She watches the movement of his chest – a deep breath in, a deep breath out.

If only they knew. If only they could see him the way she does.

And then he speaks.

"I'm sorry."

It is a confession. It is an apology. It is a sign of remorse that is quickly brushed off by everybody in the courtroom except for her.

Her breath catches in her throat and her heart skips several beats and she feels like she's about to faint as she grabs onto Harry's arm for support. He catches her, supporting her weight before she can fall backwards.

Draco, meanwhile, tries to move forward as though to catch her. To steady her. To hold her. A magical force field pushes him back and for a single moment he looks helpless. "I-I'm sorry."

Her knees finally give out, despite Harry's efforts to hold her up, and she sits back down in her chair. Everyone, including the judge, is staring at her – like they know that that apology was meant for her – but there is only one person she can see.

In the next few minutes she's aware of only three things:

One, the judge has ordered her husband back to his cell.

Two, the judge has sent the jury upstairs to deliberate – had there always been a jury, or had she just not noticed?

Three, she needs to find a washroom.

X

January 2004

Hermione sits on the toilet lid, chewing nervously on her lip and fiddling with her fingers in her lap.
Draco sits on the ledge of the bathtub, his right leg bopping up and down anxiously with his silver gaze trained on the red meal timer.

She follows his gaze – 45 seconds left. This has, without a doubt, been the longest three minutes of her life. His too, by the looks of it. She pulls her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees.

He looks at her.

She looks back.

He smiles encouragingly, reaching across the gap between them to hold her hand. She smiles back nervously as he squeezes her fingers in an attempt to soothe the tension in her entire body.

The timer goes off, startling them both. They look at one another, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. Anxious. Afraid. He pushes himself to his feet and pulls her to hers. He cocks his head towards the white stick sitting on the edge of the porcelain sink, silently asking her if she wants to look at it. She shakes her head slightly, keeping her eyes trained on his face.

He kisses her forehead softly, his hand still clutching hers as he reaches his other one out to grab the stick. She watches the way his hands shake – would laugh if her entire body wasn't also shaking in anticipation. She watches him hesitate before curling his fingers around the handle.

The look on his face – as his brows come together, as his eyes cloud over, as his features sag – and she knows the answer. Tears gather in her own eyes, her heart drops into her stomach, her throat closes around a sob and she drops his hand. A strangled sob escapes her as she slips past him and out of the bathroom. She's only vaguely aware of him dropping the stick on the counter before following her down the hall and through their bedroom door.

This was their fifth test.

This is their fifth negative.

She crawls into their king sized bed, pulling the dark green duvet over her body as she sobs into her pillow. She feels the bed sink behind her, feels him lay down next to her, feels him curl his larger, stronger body around hers, securing his arms around her, burying his face into her hair.

"It's okay," he whispers, placing a soft, chaste kiss against the back of her neck. "It's okay."

She sniffs back tears, lifting her left hand up to her face to wipe her cheeks. "It's not okay," she chokes out.

"We're gonna be fine-"

"It's not gonna be fine," she protests, her voice shaking as she turns around in his arms. She feels sick to her stomach all over again. He looks at her questioningly. "We've been trying for months now-"

"So we keep trying. It's bound to happen at some point."

"And if it doesn't?"

"We got tested," he reminds her softly. "We're both fertile. It'll happen."

"But what if it doesn't?" she asks again.

"It will," he murmurs, kissing her softly in a vain attempt to distract her.

She closes her eyes, welcoming his touch and his lingering kisses as he trails his lips down her neck, across her collar bones, over her short between the valley of her breasts. He stops at her stomach, lifting her shirt up before resting his forehead against her bare, flat stomach. She brushes her fingers through his messy blond hair.

"It will happen," he whispers again. He kisses her stomach, murmuring something she can't quite make out before crawling back up her body. He places a kiss on the tip of her nose before falling onto his back next to her.

She rolls over, curling herself against his side as she rests her head on his chest. "Girl or boy?"

"Boy, naturally," he replies smoothly.

She giggles softly, rolling her eyes playfully. "Girl."

"Boy. It'll be a boy first."

"Girl."

"Malfoy boys are always born first, Granger."

"Malfoy's have never married a Granger before," she teases.

"Good thing, that is," he point out, grinning down at her. "Do you have any names in mind?"

"Sort of. Scorpius, for a boy. And Cassiopeia, for a girl."

"We don't have to follow the constellation tradition," he tells her softly.

She shifts slight, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him properly. "I thought you liked that tradition."

"I do. I just mean that we don't have to if you don't want to. Besides, I know how much you like the name Rose," he says. Her grandmother's name was Rose.

"And I know how much you like Scorpius," she murmurs, smiling softly.

"Scorpius it is then," he smirks.

"Or Rose."

"Or both."

X

She takes a deep, calming breath as she stops in front of the door, closing her eyes and placing her hands over her stomach.

It's been nearly 25 minutes since the judge dismissed the courtroom for deliberation. It's been nearly 25 minutes since the battle begun in her head: visit him, or not to visit him.

Ultimately, visiting him won her over. He is, after all, her husband. [And so much more.]

She stands, facing the black, steel door for what feels like an eternity. The guards, upon Harry's request, have given her complete and total privacy with him. Although it wasn't much of a fight to begin with, considering the room they've put him in – the room she is about to enter, even if it kills her – repels all magic. Inside the room, her magic will be powerless. It's a frightening thought, not being able to produce magic, but the thought is in vain considering Draco won't be able to produce magic either.

She takes one last deep breath, opens her eyes and turns the doorknob. Her stomach is turning, her heart is beating so hard in her chest it hurts, her breathing is laboured and she feels so light-headed she feels as though she's about to faint. Only when she walks in, her legs shaking and her knees threatening to give way, does he look up at his companion.

He looks surprised. Shocked. Thoroughly confused and pleased all at the same time. He pushes himself to his feet, the legs of the uncomfortable metal chair scraping against the concrete floor. He's still dressed in his robes, albeit they're a bit crinkled from sitting down for hours.

For a moment they stand there, meters apart, staring at one another. For the first time since seeing him today, she takes in his appearance. He doesn't look like the prisoner he looked like yesterday; he isn't dirty or grimy or worn down. His hair is clean, not stringy. His face is clean shaven. His skin looks healthier, albeit still pale. He looks very much like his old, well-dressed, put-together self. He looks like the businessman he had become. He looks like the man she had fallen in love with; the man she married; the man she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with.

More importantly, though, he doesn't look like a criminal; like the monster hiding inside him.

And then, shocking him as well as herself, she runs across the room and throws herself into his arms.
He catches her – just as he always does – and his arms wind around her back, holding her tightly against his chest. He buries his face into the crook of her neck as she buries herself into his shoulder, breathing in her jasmine perfume and lilac shampoo. Merlin, he's missed that. This.

She locks her arms around his neck tightly, suddenly afraid for the moment when she will have to let go. This is wrong, her mind screams. He's a Death Eater. He's a killer. He's murdered people just like you. Her mind is screaming of these things and, logically, it's right. But the man holding her is not a Death Eater. He's not a killer. He's not a prisoner on trial for murder. The man holding her is the man who has loved her for the last seven years. The man who had promised himself to her in marriage. The man who would hum her to sleep when she was upset. The man who would fight her battles for her, defend her, help her, even when she specifically told him not to. The man tried so hard to give her everything she's always wanted – her own home, a beautiful marriage, a family... The man who would give her the world if she wanted him to.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her neck. "I'm sorry."

"Just...hold me," she pleads, her voice thick with tears. "Just hold me like you used to."

He nods, picking her up bridal style with ease, his right arm around her back and his left under her knees. He carries her to the corner of the small room and leans against the wall before sliding down it and holding her in his lap.

Her mind must've given up on its protesting because everything is quiet inside her head as she snuggles against his chest, crying silent tears into the fabric of his robes. She listens to the erratic beating of his heart and his steady breathing, feels the heat radiating from his body. And just as it's always done, her heartbeat and her breathing falls into rhythm with his.

He rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he desperately tries to savour this moment, with his wife in arms. He knows her body better than anyone, including herself, and yet he traces his fingers down her arms, sides, over her thighs. He is afraid of forgetting.

X

August 17, 1998

He watches her from the doorway to the adjoining bathroom in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. She's lying on her back on the mattress, her slick, sweaty skin covered only by thin black sheets. Her hair is a mess, spread across her pillow like a halo and sticking to the sweat on her face. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly as she pants.

She's beautiful. Flawless. Heavenly.

He saunters back towards the bed, slipping his equally naked, slick body underneath the sheets next to her. Propping himself on his elbow as he lies on his side, he trails his fingers across the length of her arm from her shoulder to the tips her fingers. She hums in satisfactory appreciation, a lazy, pleasant smile tugging her bruised lips. He smirks, continuing his exploration of her body, first with his fingers and then with his lips. Across her shoulders, collar bones, the marks he's left across her neck and chest. Over her breasts, down the valley, across her stomach. Down her thighs, over her calves…

Over every. Single. Inch. Of her body.

And when he finishes at her toes, he trails his way back up.

"What are you doing?" she asks finally, pushing her fingers through his hair.

He pauses at her hips, looking up at her through his eyelashes as a mischievous smile spread across his own bruised and battered lips. "Exploring," he replies huskily.

"You didn't do enough of that before?" she giggles.

"Can never do enough exploring," he points out smugly, before continuing his way up her body.
When he reaches her face he pauses to observe her. She smiles shyly at him, a light blush spreading over her cheeks. It's amazing, he thinks, that she can still be embarrassed in front of him – but then, tonight was only their first night together.

"What?" she asks softly.

"You're beautiful."

She blushes even more.

"I'm memorizing you," he tells her honestly. "I'm burning every curve, every crevice – everything to memory."

"Why?" she giggles.

"So I'll always remember what you feel like, what you look like."

She furrows her eyebrows in confusion, sighing softly when he rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. She shifts slightly, rolling onto her stomach as she cuddles into his side. Folding her arms across his chest, she rests her chin on her wrists, looking at him tenderly. "I'm not going anywhere, Draco."

He looks down at her softly, lifting his left hand to cup her cheek gently. "Promise?"

She smiles, climbing on top of him with her thighs on either side of his waist and hands resting on his chest. "Promise," she whispers.

He grins, sliding his hands up her thighs and around her hips. "So I can keep you, then?"

She giggles softly, biting her lip as she nods her head. "You can also memorize me all you want," she murmurs seductively.

"I was going to anyway," he growls, smirking as he flips her over onto her back and grinds his hips into hers.

X

Moments pass. Moments that feel like hours, yet don't feel log enough. Moments she isn't sure she wants to remember. Moments she knows she doesn't want to forget.

Moments spent in complete silence – the only sounds filling the room is their breathing and their hearts beating. More specifically though, the sound of his heart beating against his chest. Steady. Strong. She thinks about never hearing it again, never feeling it again. She thinks about the little heart inside her that beats like his.

And suddenly, it's too much. She shifts in his arms, moving them from around her as she pushes herself to her feet. He doesn't protest, but she knows he wants to in the way his body had begun to feel tense and cold. She looks at him, sitting on the ground in the corner of the small, anti-magical room with his back against the wall. His shoulders are slumped, his arms are at his sides and his head is tilted backwards. He looks defeated.

She feels sick to her stomach all over again and wraps her arms protectively around her middle as she turns away from him. Goosebumps spread across her skin, but it isn't from the cold or the dreariness of the room. It's from something much, much deeper.

"Hermione..." he trails off, his voice thick and hoarse. His sigh echoes around the room.

"I'm pregnant."

She doesn't recognize her own voice. She doesn't even realize she's spoken until he's spinning her around, disbelief, curiousity, concern, fear, hope written all over his face. Her eyes glaze over as she looks back at him, her entire body aching. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"P-pregnant?"

She nods sadly, looking down at the floor between the gap separating them.

He glides his hands across her shoulders, wrapping his fingers around the base of her neck as he uses his thumbs to push her chin up gently. He can't help but smile, pressing his forehead against hers. "When did you find out?"

"The day before Harry and Ron..." she chokes on a sob, unable to actually say the word out loud. Arrested. "I was planning to tell you the next day."

"How far along are you?"

"Two months," she breaths shakily.

"Are...are you gonna..." he trails off, his voice wavering and unsteady.

"I dunno," she whispers truthfully. In fact, the truth is, she hasn't really thought about it.

He blinks, nodding once before tentatively closing the gap between them – like a boy kissing a girl for the first time. The moment his lips graze hers, ever-so-slightly, she gasps. He swallows it, deepening the kiss with every ounce of passion, love, desperation and hunger he possesses. She kisses him back, just the same, as her arms wind around his neck pulling him closer. He walks her backwards, pushing her gently against the wall. She moans into his mouth as he pulls away, gasping for air despite the fact that he would rather die from lack of air than to stop. "Please keep it," he pants, lowering his head into the crook of her shoulder as he presses his body flush against hers.

She blinks back tears, stoking his hair affectionately. "I...I dunno how-I can't do this alone-"

"You won't be alone," he murmurs, pulling his head back to look at her. He rests his hands on the wall behind her on either side of her head. "You won't be – you'll have your parents, and Potter and Ginny and...Weasley. And depending on what happens to me-" he trails off, swallowing roughly as she tears her gaze away him, turning her head to the side slightly. "Hey," he whispers, tilting his head to follow her face as he grazes his nose tenderly against hers. "Depending on what happens to me out there, you'll have me. You'll always have me."

It's a twisted thought, isn't it? That the father of her child – a murderer – is promising to help her.

She shakes her head, ignoring a tear as it trickles down her cheek. "I can't rely on you while you'll in here."

He sighs, nodding softly as he hangs his head, resting his forehead on her shoulders. "I'm sorry."

She lets out a sob, lifting her hands to stroke his hair.

"Tell him – or her – that...I'm sorry," he whispers. "Tell him I'm sorry I can't be there. Tell him I wish...I wish things were different. Tell him I love him – or her – just as I've loved you."

She nods slightly, tilting her head into the crook of his neck. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries so hard not to cry - even as she feels his own hot tears seeping through the fabric of her shirt.

"Tell him that no matter what anybody says, true or not...that I wish it had been different."

"Do you?" she asks softly, curiously.

He pulls back to look at her, stroking the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "Of course," he whispers. "If it means I could be out there, with you – and with..."he trails off, rubbing his hands gently over her stomach.

The door behind him opens suddenly, revealing a guard that's come to get her. He stands in the doorway as she wraps her arms tight around his neck, burying her face against his throat. Because right now, right here, in his arms...she doesn't care. She doesn't care what the guard is thinking, watching her. She doesn't care what her friends are probably thinking, or what those families think. This is her husband.

This is the man she knows; the man she loves.

However twisted.