A/N Thank you so much for the nice reception of that last chapter! In order to make up for an almost two-month hiatus from this story, I be updating twice in two days! Hehe. That and I'm really on a roll for this fanfic. Hopefully I get the ball rolling for Renegade, too…

On a side note, I'm getting very excited because I'm going to be writing about their wedding soon, inspired by two songs: Slow Show by The National, and Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews Band. Which gets me thinking about another question to ask you guys (because I like it when you tell me things, like your guesses on where this plot is gonna go):

What's your ultimate Dramione song?

I'll tell you mine the next time I update. Which won't be for a while; come Thursday I'm leaving on a five-ish day field trip for school (we're going to see some piss-ass cold mountains) so I won't have time to write until after that. Please leave me many happy reviews to read when I get back!

Long author's note is long. Chapter time!

xxxxxxxxxx

"This is-?"

"Mine. I bought it a few days after I moved in, from a, antique store around the block. Not that I really use it to store cocktail ingredients, but it makes for a nice display piece."

"And this?"

"Yours. You brought it home from one of your trips to Italy."

"One of?"

"You've been there five times, four times on business. Italy was one of your favorite places to go to, when you worked in International Magical Cooperation, since it was so rich in both wizard and Muggle culture. You took me there once, France twice."

"I've been to France…?"

"Four times. It was a struggle to invite them to join the World Cup after their embarrassing loss in the last one. You'd smoothed it over, though, and Harry was always joking that it was because their Minister took a shine to you and your pretty face."

Hermione laughed, a little hollow, her fingers idly playing with a worn paperback she'd picked from a side table. Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body. "Mine or-"

"Yours. I'm not much for books; I always complained that reading all the paperwork for my job turned me off from reading anything else." Draco ran a finger down the cracked spine. "I have a photo of you based on this, you know."

Her head jerked up, a furious blush spreading across her slightly protruding cheekbones. "Y – you – what?"

"You brought home some fancy Muggle camera for our first anniversary, in April. A Poly – polynoid?"

"Polaroid."

"That." Draco moved over to the bookshelf, hooked his finger around the top of his favorite hardback – one of the few books he really read and enjoyed. He took the photograph from where it was pinned between pages 54 and 55 – where his favorite passage could be located – and handed it to her. "I took this after…the morning after our…anniversary."

"Oh." Her fingers hovered over the dulled photograph of her in a halo of early morning sunlight, her only piece of clothing a rumpled button-down, one shoulder slipping off. There was something dark and loopy on her back that was hard to make out. "Draco, what-?"

"A temporary tattoo." Draco was sitting now, on the couch, the book idly open on his lap. "Why is the measure of love, loss? It's from the book." He held it up briefly. "You told me three days afterward, when it had faded, that you'd gotten that particular quote because you felt it summed up our relationship so well." Because we had to lose so much in order to love each other, he wanted to add, but refrained. This was painful enough for them both.

Hermione was silent, gazing at the photograph from her spot in the middle of Draco's living room, and not for the first time that afternoon he simultaneously felt a dizzying euphoria and a soul-crushing sadness. Yes, she was home, she was right where he wanted her, right where he'd dreamed of her being, these past two years – but she was standing in the midst of a home they had built up together, recognizing almost nothing. Items from years back – things she'd carried from Hogwarts days, and some even from her childhood – these she knew and understood. But everything else, things they'd picked out together, things he'd kept and owned in this apartment before she'd moved in, stirred nothing in her.

"How…" Her voice was so quiet he wasn't sure she'd spoken, until she gently placed the photograph on the shelf. "How long were we…?"

"Four years." Draco's wedding ring caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through the curtained windows. His voice felt flat and detached, as if it wasn't him speaking. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe the real him had been locked up somewhere, leaving behind this person who could actually find it in himself to reintroduce Hermione to the life they'd shared for years. "I had you for almost two."

There was a heavy silence between them as he sat on the couch, absentmindedly twirling the ring around his finger, and she drank in the photographs on the shelf, mementos of the time they'd spent together. A random date to Godric's Hollow, a few months after the war ended. A photo of them on the couch, a few weeks after she'd moved in. At Harry's and Ginny's wedding, then at their own. Their second trip to France, at a café on the Champs- Elysées. So many things forgotten.

"Draco…" There was a hesitance to her voice that set Draco immediately on edge. Was she forgetting – remembering – "Is it safe for me to be here?" Ah, practical as always. "I mean…if my memory lapses are as chaotic as you said, then-"

"I'll be here to look after you." His answer was short, sharp, shattering. "I won't have you staying at St. Mungo's again."

"But if I-"

"There's a chance the lapses might become less drastic if you're in a familiar environment." He was speaking mechanically now, in dull tones; there was simply nothing left in him to muster, no matter how happy or agonized he wanted to feel about her being here again. The apartment had felt so empty without her, but it felt emptier still when she was here, surrounded by memories but unable to grasp them. "You'll be going back for checkups every so often, anyway. But if I find I have to, I'll take you back there to stay."

He turned to face her, catching her as she opened her mouth, and for a moment Draco was sure she'd retaliate, talk back. That would have been a resurfacing of the Hermione he had married, the passionate and independent woman who'd fought so hard for this future. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded, seeming resigned to his decision. This, if nothing else, sparked something in Draco, and he found he was irritated. He wanted her to fight back – wanted her to contest his making the decisions for her – wanted her to be anything but listless and acquiescent. He'd wanted her back but he'd wanted her, not this shell of his wife. Almost immediately he felt the guilt at being angry with her for something out of her control. It wasn't as if she wanted to be forgetting. She was still his Hermione.

Perhaps leaving her there was the better choice, after all.

"I'll… I should go take a shower," she murmured, turning from him, but not before he caught the single tear slipping down her cheek. And Merlin, how it made him want to go to her now, pull her into his arms and simply hold her. Weeks ago he would have given anything to be able to hold her and have her home again. Now he simply nodded and silently guided her upstairs, gesturing to where her clothes were still kept before going back down to cook dinner. The diary was on the kitchen table, untouched by either of them since she'd set it down, a few minutes after their coming back.

Draco busied himself in the kitchen, going through motions almost ritualistic, his only acknowledgment of her presence his cooking enough for two instead of one. The pots clanged and glasses clinked and Draco pretended – just for a few moments – that it was just like before, when he'd be cooking dinner those six nights out of seven, while she was in the shower, having just come home from work. A daydream made all the more convincing when, from behind him, excited, came –

"Chicken parmesan?"

Draco thanked whoever that he'd transferred the pasta into the colander by that time, because the pot it used to be in crashed to the ground, narrowly missing his foot. All the same, the noodles nearly tipped out as he whirled around, a million and then some questions crowding his mouth.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, jolted by the abruptness of his actions. "I just – I recognized the spell – Mrs. Weasley made it a few times at The Burrow, so-" Her voice cut off, making Draco painfully aware of the disappointment etched on his features. He knew he ought to be immensely grateful that her sanity had remained stable this long, and that she at least remembered being in love with him, but he couldn't help it… For a moment, he'd been so hopeful that she'd remembered something, anything…

"Chicken parmesan," he repeated, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "It…" It what? It had been her favorite dish of his, since it was the first thing he'd ever cooked for her? It had made her cry sometimes, remembering Ron and the happy days when a war had not gouged at their souls? "It's one of my better dishes," he finished halfheartedly.

"It smells wonderful," she offered, as she tentatively entered the tiny room. Draco picked up the pot from where it had fallen and replaced it on the stove, cursing himself all the while for having all these expectations.

Dinner was a quiet affair, though Hermione complemented him twice on his cooking. The diary sat awkwardly on the table, neither of them wanting to touch it. Hermione looked a few times as if she might ask something – mention the little book – even just break the silence – but she simply returned to the meal, chewing quietly.

The chime from the living room startled them both.

Momentarily forgetting her presence, Draco dropped his utensils and stood, making to enter the living room so he could tap the figurine and let whoever it was in. The "what-?" from behind him arrested his walk, however, as he turned and remembered just who he'd brought home today. He was still uncertain about telling people he'd had her discharged from St. Mungo's – though they were bound to find out eventually; the wizard world harbored many gossips, and the Ministry would have to be informed – but if it were someone like Harry or Ginny or the twins, it might be worthwhile to invite them in.

"My fireplace," he shrugged. Said piece of furniture chimed again. Turning his back on Hermione, Draco made his way over to find the grim face of Harry staring up at him from the embers.

"Let me in, Draco, there's something you need to know."

"I don't think I should let you in until you know that-"

"Now is not the time to tell me you've been drinking again or something, Malfoy. Let me in."

"I haven't, and quite frankly, I'm insulted you'd think so. But you really need to know that-"

There was a flash of violet and suddenly, Harry was dusting himself off on Draco's living room rug, the owner of which was busy coughing and trying to wave ashes away from his face.

"Bloody hell, Potter, I thought you said you'd never override my protection charms unless it was an absolute dire emergency-"

"And it is. I looked into the hospital we saw, and it turns out-"

"Potter, before you say anything, Hermione's-"

"Yes, it's about her, and-"

"Potter!" Draco's abrupt yell made Harry blanch, but it was that or risk letting her know what they'd been doing – well, he supposed it was behind her back, but it was for her own good. He hadn't gotten around to telling her of their little efforts to try and dig up the cause of her ailment, though for what reasons he still wasn't sure. He'd tell her eventually, probably, but this was not the best way to find out. "She's here."

Draco would have paid good money right then to get a photo of Harry's utterly flabbergasted face. "She – what?"

"Hello, Harry," came Hermione's small voice, drifting in from the kitchen.

And as the cherry on the utterly chaotic and painful cake that made Draco's day, he found himself doing something he had never, in a million lifetimes, thought he'd do: catching a suddenly lightheaded Harry as he almost fainted dead away into Draco's arms.

Now, a photograph of that would have been priceless.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Sorry again about-"

"Let's just never speak of it again, Potter." Though his words were clipped, Draco found the corners of his mouth twitching. Oh, he'd have paid good money to have a wizard's photo of that golden moment. The Boy Who Lived, Head Auror, and Dark Lord Vanquisher extraordinaire, Harry Potter, fainting away into his arms. This would make for a good dig in the ribs in the future.

Harry nodded briefly before glancing up at the door to Draco's bedroom, where Hermione currently lay sleeping. "How long-?"

"Just today." Draco barely concealed his displeasure at the memories. "It took me a day to get them to discharge her; even then, I'll need to bring her in for regular checkups. To see if she's progressing or whatever it is they want me to believe."

"Why did you, er… Why did you bring her home?"

"Because the Healers are idiots."

"Mm," Harry replied, and they lapsed into silence. Draco broke it a few minutes later.

"What was it you wanted to tell me, Potter?"

"Er." Harry glanced up toward the bedroom door again. "I don't know if-"

"She won't hear you." Draco's lips drew a thin line; whatever Harry had to say could not be good. "Out with it."

"I had Fletcher check out the hospital we saw in the memories. When he reported back to me, the information…" Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed. "Well, I had to check it out myself."

"And?"

"The patient records were still there. Purpose of visit, tests, appointment dates…"

"So what was she there for? Why couldn't she have gone to St. Mungo's or some other wizard hospital?"

"Your guess is as good as mine on this one." Harry's fingers twisted and twined, reminding Draco very uncomfortably of Healer Carnegie, sitting across him, telling him to – no, Draco wouldn't go there. But he had a feeling what Harry was about to tell him would be just as grave. "But…"

"But what, Potter! Spit it out already, you've been beating around the bush for ages!"

"Draco-" and here Harry's green eyes met Draco's dead on, the emotions in them positively overwhelming. "Draco, she was pregnant."

xxxxxxxxxx

A/N You guys got that much right! Haha! I was debating on whether they'd find out through the memories, or Harry would find out first and then Draco through the memories, or… well, let's just say this could have gone off on many tangents, but eventually I settled on this one.

Did you guys like that I brought her home? And the glimpses of their married life? I was planning to wedge a diary entry in here but I figured I'd wait until the next chapter.

Here's a little rhyme: read and review, please and thank you!