In the Ministry's archives, the official file on Dolohov would forever read: "ESCAPED FROM CUSTODY – CURRENT LOCATION UNKNOWN." From time to time young Aurors, eager to prove themselves, would open the file and try their luck. They'd hunt for new leads, recreate the Death Eater's last known moments, question old witnesses. Inevitably, they'd give up and return the documents to gather dust until another hopeful – months or maybe years later – retrieved them off the shelves.

When Harry Potter, then Head Auror, would ask his subordinates how their initiative went, they'd color slightly and glance away, blissfully unaware that it was the Head Auror himself who had aided in Dolohov's escape. They had no idea. Who would imagine that the savior of the wizarding world had broken official Ministry protocol and extricated a murderous dark wizard all as a favor to his friend?

Preposterous, and yet such was the truth. Of course, even Harry didn't know what happened to Antonin after he'd dropped him off, bound and gagged, at the coordinates Hermione provided.

Only two people did. But they never shared.

...They never shared about that tiny, dark room in the bowels of Malfoy Manor. It was cold inside, dark, damp; there were no windows and the door was reinforced. Scores of charms protected it; to the random passerby it looked like just another stretch of wall. Sometimes, when her old wounds began to gnaw, and she couldn't sleep, Hermione would enter that room. Draco never followed her in. He would sit near the door, reading a newspaper instead, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. He would wait, diligently, turning the pages until his girlfriend – and then wife – would exit. He'd look at her silently, picking out the specs of blood on her knuckles and the lingering hum of malicious spells that crackled about her wand. He would never question her, never ask. Instead, he'd just offer a hand, which she'd gratefully take. Then, they would ascend back to the floors of the living, and for a few weeks all would be well.

Until the next sleepless night. Then it would all repeat: the itch, the room, and the blood.

But no one ever knew. It was their secret and theirs alone.

. . . .

. . . .

Vela Malfoy was born in late August at the Dolohov estate in the Urals. Hermione's labor, aided by the ancient babushka, went smoothly, after which their verbal contract became sealed. The babushka had been ambiguous during her demands in exchange for making the blood potion; nevertheless, Hermione had agreed to the deal. Only the details needed to be hammered out, and the two witches settled on having Hermione's daughter spend one month out of every year at the Dolohov's, learning the ways of the Yaga. She would do so till she came of age.

It worked out well: Hermione and Draco timed Vela's secondary "education" with their own vacations, and spent the time together, traveling the mountains in Anastasia's company.

And the years flew by…

Hermione returned to the Ministry. With her name and the Malfoy gold, she became a force to be reckoned with, although Harry came to suspect that a more sinister factor was in play. Hermione's rise was just too meteoric. All of her opponents came to switch their positions and willingly align themselves to the witch. Sometimes, Hermione would visit a village and have its population converted to her agenda in a matter of weeks. Old purebloods suddenly touted the muggleborn banner. Some held out, of course – a few lone voices, which were either discredited or were found having committed suicide. Harry investigated some of the deaths – and found them above board. No signs of foul play could be detected by the Auror Department. It was just so convenient how these deaths worked in the Malfoys' favor. At one point, Harry even wanted to contact Dr. Frackenburer for an independent analysis on the victims, but found that St. Mungo's leading neuromagic specialist had been offered a lucrative contract elsewhere and could not be located.

Harry looked around at the world Hermione was building – more equal, tolerant, and kind – and decided not to pursue the matter. Freedom always requires sacrifice.

Draco once again frequented societal events. Always by Hermione's side, he played a pivotal role in bridging the divide between the old families and the newcomers to the magical world. His relationships with Hermione's friends were a bit more tumultuous, but, over time, he could be seen having an amiable conversation with Harry, and then Ron. They played pickup Quidditch on the weekends, while the children enviously watched from below. To the Slytherin's immense dissatisfaction, Vela and young James Potter became very close friends, which garnered a number of cheeky comments from the other adults.

Draco responded by swearing that his daughter would enter the dating pool only by her mid-30's.

When Vela turned six, Hermione and Draco had a second child – Scorpius. Three years later, Hermione became Minister.

. . . .

. . . .

Time went by.

In the middle of a meeting with a French delegation, Hermione's finger, absently tapping at a piece of parchment, froze. The speeches had been boring, causing her mind to wander down passageways she rarely ventured. One of them was the idea of the room, and Hermione realized that its interior hadn't intruded into her thoughts for over half a year. Her war wounds had quietly disappeared, and only thin scars remained. The compulsion to descend into the damp darkness had withered away. She didn't need it anymore.

She cut the meeting short and Flooed home.

Draco and the kids were delighted.

The family spent the rest of the day outside, picnicking on the shores of an azure-blue mountain lake. Linny had packed a picnic basket, and while the children splashed in the water, Hermione fed her husband sun-kissed strawberries under a vast and lofty sky. The juice from the little fruits ended up covering his lips and later hers.

The children were properly disgusted.

When evening came, they packed up, bidding farewell to their picturesque surroundings, and returned home. The Manor, remodeled and airy, eagerly greeted its family.

That night, after the kids were put to bed and a quietness descended around, Hermione drew Draco close, kissing him with reckless abandon. His lips still held the lingering tang of strawberry, and she tasted it till the first rays of dawn broke through the clouds on the horizon, coloring them into peach, magenta and rose.

The pair was sweaty with content exhaustion, and before she fell asleep Hermione leaned in close and whispered something into her husband's ear.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"More than anything in the world."

Draco waited till her breathing became steady and slow. Then he took his wand and descended to the lower levels. By the time Hermione rose, the little room, that dark blemish deep in the Manor's foundation was empty and locked. It wouldn't be discovered for many years, when Vela's grandchildren stumbled upon the entrance and decided it was a disused cellar.

In a way, they were right.

And as for the rest of our heroes? Draco and Hermione, Harry and Ron? They all lived fruitful lives, but even the best ones must come to an end.

Harry was the first to pass into that distant land of beyond. There were two funerals for him: one, a public event; the other, a small, private ceremony. Hermione, standing next to Ginny and Ron, cried. Harry had seemed immortal; a monument that could withstand anything, even time. His hair had still held its color and his eyes were a vivid green – just as they had been so many years ago, when she'd burst into his compartment on the train, inquiring about another boy's missing frog.

But Harry was gone, and nothing could change that.

Ten years later, Hermione came to wake with a strange feeling, like she was being carried far away. There were voices and smiles all around and over there, right there...were her parents. She almost broke down – she hadn't seen them since seventeen. Hermione, wiping tears from eyes, hugged them both tight.

"Hi, mom," she said, crying. "Hi, dad. I've missed you so much."

"Hi, sweetheart. Don't cry. We've been with you all this time. We're so proud, Hermione. So proud…"

...When Draco returned to check on Hermione, who'd left their great-grandchildren's birthday party to lie down for a bit, he found her still. Not a single breath escaped the lips he loved so much. He carefully kneeled down next to her, gently running his fingers through her soft hair, and just stayed there for some time, recalling all the years and good memories they'd shared together. He was thankful for that, and yet it hurt so much inside. After that, it was easy for his tether to the world to grow thin. His death came shortly, just a week later. When he started to feel it happening, all he experienced was joy. He was returning to Hermione's side, after all. They'd be together now, always.

Ron died at St. Mungo's surrounded by his family. He was the last of the Golden Trio to pass, and, lying on his deathbed, his eyes stared into the past. They didn't see his children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews or dozens of other kin. Instead, he found himself reliving days when three children had snuck past a three-headed dog and brewed potions in a girl's lavatory. He remembered lazy evenings by the lake and trips to Hogsmeade; watching Hermione dazzle everyone at the Yule Ball and cheering for Harry on his third task, only to be horrified by the appalling and unforeseen revelation at its conclusion; journeying in a tent and fighting battles no one ever should.

It'd been so long since he'd seen Harry, Hermione or even her blond git of a husband.

Still, he'd shake his hand.

It was only a matter of time.

Only a...matter of...

A chorus of greetings suddenly rose up nearby – voices he hadn't heard in years. Ron looked around and smiled happily.

All his friends were here. He was with them once more.

The End.

. . .

. .

.

It's tough to articulate some of the feelings I have after finishing this story. Suffice to say that I'm happy.

A huge thank you to Frogster, who joined me halfway and has been an invaluable source of help. Her keen eye spotted many typos. She's currently writing a marriage law fic called 'Let It Be Me' and I urge everyone to give it a read.

Also, a mountain of gratitude to all reviewers. I started this fic for myself, because I had an idea I wanted to express and also because I wanted to practice writing, but I quickly discovered that even a single sentence or two in response to a chapter can mean so much. So, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the tale.

And, hey, you see any more of my stories - give 'em a try, wont ya?

Till next time,

kirsant