Hermione stopped on the steps, people flowing in and out of the manor on either side of her. She had never been there the whole time she and Draco had been together, and she had resented him for it at the time — what was so wrong with her that he wouldn't take her to his home? — but she didn't want to go in now. She had only been there once, almost fifteen years ago, and the memory of it still woke her up at night sometimes — white teeth flashing in the dark, the Dark Mark too close to her face, and a voice croaking "Crucio" drowned by screams that existed in and all around her.

No, she did not want to go in.

It wasn't about what she wanted, of course. Zabini had gone to great lengths to remind her that she still was the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic — until the end of the week anyway — and that as such it was her job, nay, her duty, to make an appearance at the Remembrance Ball.

So there she was, dressed up like a doll in a violet evening gown not meant for standing outside in a February evening, wearing shoes not meant to walk any distance greater than from one end of the ballroom to the other, and rooted in place, wondering what had possessed her to listen to Blaise Zabini when he had showed up at her door offering her a job, and what had possessed her to listen to him now.

Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and forced her legs to move. It was just a house, and dead Death Eaters did not scare her.

It took her a good fifteen minutes to manage to push her way past the hall. The salon was overflowing with people decked out like Christmas trees, and the light bounced off necklaces and bracelets and rings, making it look as if the whole room was glowing. Despite many of the great windows being open, it was oppressively hot inside, and Hermione was only too happy to pick up a glass from a floating tray. At least the champagne was cool.

It wasn't long before she spotted Draco in the crowd. The wizard was standing by a window across the dance floor, engaged in animated conversation with Pansy Parkinson and Kingsley Shacklebolt. The impeccably tailored dress robes fit him to perfection, and never had he looked more at home than there, surrounded by all the splendour and grandeur of Malfoy Manor, watched over by the proud portraits of past Malfoys.

His gaze fell on her and his expression hardened for a moment before morphing once again into a smiling mask as he replied to whatever it was Kingsley had just said. Hermione ignored the painful weight on her chest. She had done the right thing. Draco's numbers were up, and things were looking good again. And he had worked so hard for it. She would not let Nicholas Dennings use her to hurt him. She had hurt him enough. Even if Draco was mad now, it would be better in the long run. It had to be.

Hermione sighed and turned to go find Harry, and in doing so almost walked face first into the chest of the man next to her.

"Oh, I beg your— Ron!" The night just kept getting better and better. "I didn't know you were back in Britain." She'd have to remember to murder Ginny later.

Ron blushed slightly, but shot her a smile that hadn't changed since he was eleven years old. "Came back for Christmas and ended up staying. Mum and dad kept complaining I never visit, so… How's everything?"

Everything was a mess, and getting messier by the minute, but she smiled anyway.

"Everything is good. It's good to see you," she said and meant it. "Are your parents here?"

Ron shook his head. "Remembrance Week always reminds mum of Fred. But Bill and Fleur are around here somewhere."

"Ron, Hermione!" Harry threw his arms around his friends, managing to spill most of his champagne. "I love you guys."

"How many of these have you had, mate?" Ron took the glass away before it also ended up on the floor.

"Not nearly enough," Harry said. "Merlin, I hate Remembrance Week."

Hermione could sympathise. It was a week of reminders of things she would rather forget.

"How about we go out for some air?" Ron said, grabbing Harry's arm.

"Sure," Harry said, shaking his arm free. "But first, listen up you two. This is important." He gestured for them to move closer and then pointed his index finger at each of them in turn. "Do. Not. Sleep. Together. Again." Ron blushed furiously at that and Hermione wished in vain for a hole to open up on the ground and swallow her whole. "I am serious," Harry continued. "Last time you did, you both ended up on opposite corners of the globe and left me all alone. That's not cool."

Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek, ignoring the sudden knot in her throat. "Promise," she said.

"Yeah, mate," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "We're not going anywhere."

Hermione watched as Ron led Harry away through the crowd. They were two of her favourite people in the whole wide world — even after everything that had happened.

One night. That's all it had taken to wreck everything. One night of too much to drink, and too much shared history, and too many shared horrors. They had the same scars, she and Ron, woke up to the same voices whispering in the dark. He had been there for all the big things — Hogwarts, and Voldemort, and the war. And that night, when ghosts and memories had hovered just a little too close, he had been there too — someone broken in the same places, missing the same pieces.

It had been right at the beginning of her relationship with Draco. She hadn't known then that he would become someone precious to her, someone she could not imagine living without. And when she did know, she told him. She told him everything. Because she was young, because she was foolish, because she thought it was the right thing to do.

She loved Ron. She would always love Ron. He was a part of her, like Harry was. But she wasn't in love with him, hadn't been even back then.

"Miss Granger, what a delightful surprise."

Hermione schooled her features into a smile and turned to greet the Egyptian ambassador.

Draco had excused himself and made his way towards the bar, driven by a powerful need for Firewhisky. He shouldn't — he had already drank plenty — but Ronald Weasley in his house called for Firewhisky. His expression was forbidding enough that no one came to disturb him, and he drank in silence, unable to tear his gaze away from Hermione. He had no trouble picking her out in the crowd as she moved across the room, talking to this dignitary and that, exchanging a word with a staffer, smiling at friends, and strangers, and old comrades in arms. Smiling at him. Draco hadn't even known he was back in the country.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the witch next to him until she spoke.

"Has it ever occurred to you," Ginny said, accepting a drink from the bartender, "that you could stop making yourself miserable by just forgiving her already?"

Draco took another sip of whiskey. "Stay out of my personal life, Weasley."

"I would, but you're dumb." He glared at her, but Ginny had always been remarkably immune to his glaring, and carried on without a care in the world. "You're dumb, and she's dumb, and you both make dumb decisions, and it's just painful for the rest of us to watch."

"How much do you enjoy having a job?"

Ginny waved the threat away. "She made a mistake," she said instead. "She made a mistake once, and you'd never have known about it if she hadn't told you."

"I wish she hadn't," he said before he could stop himself. Sometimes he thought that was the part he couldn't forgive. Not the cheating, but that she had told him about it. Everything would have been fine, if only she hadn't told him about it.

"Well, as I said: dumb." She was quiet for a few seconds, before adding, "But who among us hasn't done a dumb thing or two? Have you never done anything for which you needed forgiving, Malfoy?"

And just so he could not possibly mistake her meaning, she pinched his left arm before moving away and disappearing into the crowd.

Draco motioned to the bartender for a refill. Maybe he really was a hypocrite, but he'd be a hypocrite with a fresh drink. It was all very well for Blaise-But-It's-Been-Three-Years-Zabini and Ginny-Have-You-Seen-The-Black-Mark-On-Your-Arm-Lately-Weasley to torment him with their needless advice, but they didn't know — they couldn't understand — what it was like for him.

They hadn't been in the room, that day. They hadn't felt the rage and the sense of betrayal, and the complete lack of surprise — for why would someone like her want someone like him?

He spotted Hermione in the crowd once again, close to the far end of the salon. The witch had just picked up a new glass of champagne from a floating tray and was standing by herself, watching the twirling couples in the centre of the room. Feeling the weight of his gaze, she turned her head towards him, and Draco raised his glass in a mock salute. She raised hers back, tilting her head in what could have passed for a greeting.

Once upon a time — in a world of not so long ago — he would have crossed the room and asked her to dance, and once upon a time she would have said yes. He wondered what she would say now.

Hermione turned away from him and walked towards the drawing room.

"Minister, what a great pleasure to see you." Mr Pill, the head of the Healers' Union, took Draco's hand hostage, shaking it enthusiastically. "I had been meaning to ask you—"

"I'm terribly sorry, Pill." He could no longer see Hermione. "Please don't leave before we talk. There's an urgent matter I have to attend to."

Ignoring the part of his mind that still had a passing acquaintance with reason, he made after her. She didn't get to just quit and then show up here, in his home, as if that were a perfectly fine thing to do, as if nothing had happened.

Hang Ginny and her sanctimonious drivel. He forgave nothing — not Ronald Weasley; not her showing up at the Ministry after three years of being Merlin knows where and bossing him around for months on end only to quit in a display of cowardice that would have embarrassed a Hufflepuff; not even that ridiculous electric kettle of hers. There ought to be a law against people who insisted on insulting the sensibility of their betters with Muggle contraptions.

It was not easy to move in the crowded room — and for him harder than most, as he had to contend with an unconscionable number of people who insisted on shaking his hand — but he finally managed to make it to the drawing room. It was less crowded there, and he immediately saw Hermione.

The witch had walked right into the welcoming arms of Gary James, an Australian spiritualist who for months had been trying to make an appointment with her to discuss the immediate danger posed to the Houses of Parliament by the vengeful spirit of Guy Fawkes.

"It could blow up at any moment, ma'am," he insisted. "Something must be done. If only I were allowed to conduct a seance inside the Palace of Westminster, I could then persuade the ghost to give up his unholy quest and depart form this mortal plane."

He prattled on, but Hermione did not seem to be listening. The witch kept stealing glances at a spot by the fireplace, her face pale and her expression serious. Her laced fingers only moderately succeeded in keeping her hands from shaking.

Draco knew what she was looking at; the memory of it was as vivid in his mind as it had to be in hers.

He should never have let Pansy convince him to hold the ball at Malfoy Manor.

He crossed the room, coming to stand by her side, and cut off Mr James, who was in the middle of a no doubt fascinating story about the time he had successfully convinced the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots to stop haunting a small whiskey shop in Princes Street.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but I require a moment with the Madam Secretary."

Hermione followed him without argument, stepping out onto the terrace before him. It was not snowing, but the night was cold enough that no one else had decided to brave the elements. They moved to the far end of the terrace, just outside the circle of glowing light cast through the open door.

Everything was quiet and dark out on the grounds around the Manor. There was no moon, but the night sky was full of bright stars that shone millions of years away, unconcerned by the petty worries of mortals half a universe away.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice too loud in the relative silence.

Hermione nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "It was a very long time ago." Placing her hands on the balustrade for support, she surveyed the frozen grounds.

He did likewise, his right hand just touching her left one. "I'm sorry," he said without looking at her.

"For what?"

"You know for what."

There were nights when Hermione tossed and turned, her rest disturbed by ghosts that made her whimper and cry out in her sleep. It had never occurred to him until that very moment to wonder how much of that was on him.

Hermione shook her head. "You're not responsible for the actions of your crazy, psychotic aunt, Draco."

Maybe not, but he was responsible for his own.

"She wasn't the only one in the room."

Hermione's hand was warm against his where they touched, her pinkie finger draped casually over his. She was silent for a few moments before saying, "We all did things during the war we are not proud of. Me and you along with all the rest."

He snatched his hand away, suddenly unconscionably angry. Angry at her. Angry at himself. Angry at the seventeen year old who had stood by and watched Bellatrix torture her without doing a thing to help, without raising a single objection. Because it was easier. Because he was scared. Because he would not risk his neck for someone like her.

"I don't understand why you're okay with that," he said in a whisper that could have been a scream. "I don't understand how you just forgive something like that. How any of you do."

Ginny and Creevey, who had both lost brothers during the war. Lovegood, who had been held a prisoner in this very house. Hannah Abbott, whose mother had fallen to a Death Eater's wand. So many others who had lost loved ones to him and people like him, right before they went and elected him Minister for Magic. It beggared belief.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at his outburst. They didn't speak about the war. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. As if it had happened to some other people, in some other country — strangers going about a different life.

"Bellatrix is dead," she said as if it were self-evident. "All those responsible — they're dead or rotting in a cell. And do you think that Death Eaters were the only ones who did unspeakable things during the war?"

Yes, he did, if only because he knew in painful detail the savagery perpetrated by his masked brethren. The savagery perpetrated by himself.

"You forgive others," Hermione continued, she who had always sided with the angels, "so that you can forgive yourself, and then you move on."

Maybe the Weaslette was right and they were both idiots — the girl who forgave everything and the boy who forgave nothing.

Ever the master of changing the subject, Hermione smiled sheepishly at him and said, "Now, are you going to lend me your jacket or are you just going to let me freeze out here in a strapless gown?"

He refused to be teased back into good humour, but removed his jacket anyway, placing it over her shoulders. She turned towards the darkened landscape, tilting her face up towards the sky.

"Stop brooding, Malfoy," she said without looking at him. "It's a beautiful night, and this is a party."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and edged closer to her without replying, almost but not quite close enough to touch. He didn't get her. He did not understand the first thing about her. He didn't understand how she could stand there, not fifty feet from where she had howled in pain as Bellatrix set all her nerve endings on fire and talk about forgiveness. He did not understand why anyone, let alone a witch, chose to live in a place that was one council meeting away from condemned.

Mostly, he did not understand how she was standing there, next to him — the boy who had called her a Mudblood, once upon a time; the boy who had stood by and watched as she screamed herself hoarse under the Cruciatus Curse.

"Come back to work," he said, breaking the silence.

Hermione snorted. "I told you. You don't need to feel guilty about—"

"Oh, hang guilt." His guilt was like the tide — it rose and it fell, but mostly fell, and it never lasted. Someone likely to be burdened with an overabundance of guilt could never have done the things he had. "I'm not asking because I feel guilty. I'm asking because—" He stopped short, his tongued tied into knots by all the things he wouldn't say.

Because I don't want to do this without you.

Because I lost you once and I don't want to lose you again.

Because one day I'm going to figure out why sea creatures follow Lovegood around, how to get on Gallagher's good side, and where Blaise hides the bodies, and you're the one I want to tell all about it.

"Because what?" Hermione asked, closing his jacket more tightly around her.

"Because if I have to give Nott his job back, one of us is going to end up on the other end of an Unforgivable."

Hermione chuckled, but her mirth quickly turned into a rueful smile and she shook her head.

"Dennings has nothing on Nott," she said, her voice just a little off. "And he won't, if you two learn to play nice."

"Hermione, look at me." He touched a gentle hand to the low of her back. "Dennings can write what he wants. I don't care." The look she gave him was all scepticism, but it was the truest, most honest thing he had ever said. He was done trying to mitigate her loss with the approval of strangers. "Come back." He cupped her face with his hand, his other arm around her waist, and drew her closer to him. "Come back." His lips brushed hers, the ghost of a kiss. "Come back." She was a pocket of warmth in the frozen landscape, her lips soft and pliant as she kissed him back.

Maybe it was as easy as that. A little forgiveness, a little faith. A little trust in himself and in her that they could make it work, if they only tried. Maybe Ginny was right and all it took for him to stop making himself miserable was to simply — finally — let it go.

Hermione looked at him, her smile sweet and charming, and then wicked.

"I'll need a bigger office."

Draco's laughter was part relief and part amusement.

"You'll be lucky to keep your current one," he said, holding her tightly to him. "I have a good mind to turn it into a lounge."

"And a decent contract."

"Absolutely not. Your current one cost me a judge. It has sentimental value."

"And a pay rise."

"That you can have. Your flat is a disgrace."