A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful reviews! This chapter is a monster, clocking in at 6400 words! I hope you enjoy it. Just a reminder, since ff does not have the comprehensive tagging system a03 does I have gone back to chapter 1 and added some tags at the first author's note, but throughout this story, there are multiple references to PTSD, panic attacks, suggested dub-con (regarding the WPG specifically), and angst. I do promise this story will have a happy ending though :)

November 6th, 1999 - Saturday

Ginny is resplendent.

Her dress is ivory; with a plunging neck and lace detailing down to the small of her back. There are no sleeves, and her long red hair is pulled back into a crown, laced with delicate forget-me-nots and white wisteria.

Molly fusses over her, tears occasionally overwhelming her. Ginny is patient and allows her mother to flit about with nerves, worrying over some minor detail or another.

Hermione is wearing a mulberry coloured dress. It's long and fitted, with small cap sleeves. It's pretty — and it will match Harry and Ron's navy dress robes well. She's got a small bouquet and greenery to match Ginny's larger one, and Hermione knows that the wedding is lovely. The wedding is happy — so unlike Astoria and Charlie, who had married at the Ministry only two days prior. Astoria had been the picture of beauty — clear blue eyes and long blonde hair. She'd worn black. Charlie had kissed her on the cheek and disappeared back to work after depositing his wife at home.

Hermione had a feeling they hadn't spoken since; perhaps until today, where they were seated together with the Weasley's.

"Hermione?" Molly Weasley is watching her, sadness in her eyes. Hermione summons a smile from deep inside and crosses the room to the Weasley women.

"Sorry," she says, "I was a bit lost in the moment. You look lovely, Gin."

Ginny grins, "Thanks, Mione."

"Umm, I have a gift for you," Hermione digs in her beaded bag and pulls out a small box.

Ginny opens it to reveal a very delicate silver necklace, with a sparkling diamond pendant. It's small and lovely, and Ginny gapes at the expensive stone.

Hermione rushes to explain, "It's a muggle thing, you see? We say when we get married we need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I knew you'd have blue flowers," she gestures to the forget-me-nots placed in her hair. "And you borrowed Fleur's wedding shoes."

Ginny is still staring, and Hermione twines her hands together nervously.

"Hermione," Ginny finally speaks, "I know this chain. The chain… it's yours. You've worn this for years."

Hermione sighs in relief, "Yes. I'm glad you noticed. Something old — I got it when I was a little girl."

It had been her grandmother's, and though Hermione feels naked without it, she is honoured to gift such a thing to Ginny. It should go to her — it should always go to family, and now it would.

Ginny's eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, "Mione… this necklace is important to you. And this diamond is… a lot."

Hermione laughs, "I confess… the gift is from both me and Malfoy. He bought the diamond."

Ginny snorts, "Malfoy got me a gift?"

"Well," Hermione hedges, "he doesn't exactly know I charged it to his account, yet."

Ginny stares at her, then bursts into laughter. "Hermione Granger — you're evil. I love it."

Hermione impulsively hugs her, and she sees Molly Weasley watching them out of the corner of her eye.

"Ginny," Molly breathes. She approaches them and raises one hand to rest gently on Ginny's face. "You are so lovely. I couldn't be happier for you — and I wish you a lifetime of joy."

Ginny sniffs and hugs her mother tightly. Hermione watches with a lump in her throat. God, how she longs for her mother.

Molly Weasley pulls away, "Okay. Go get your father — it's time to head downstairs. Harry will be waiting."

Ginny springs into action at her mother's words and heads for the door, an eager smile on her face.

Hermione turns to Mrs. Weasley, expecting to see the same warm smile that had been there only moments before.

Instead — instead she sees heartbreak.

"Hermione," Mrs. Weasley murmurs, "my darling."

Hermione feels her breath catch, "Mrs. Weasley?"

Molly Weasley straightens her spine and reaches out for Hermione's hands. Her expression is infinitely gentle. "Hermione — you are as much a daughter to me as Ginny. I would do anything, anything to give you the same happiness as her."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley, it's okay," Her voice is shaking. "I'll be okay."

"I know," Molly says sadly, "of course you will. You're strong. That doesn't mean I'm not sorry. I have a gift for you, as well. For your wedding."

Hermione holds the large box Mrs. Weasley produces from seemingly nowhere in her shaking hands, watching tears drip onto her skin. She opens the lid slowly, exposing champagne coloured fabric.

"Mrs. Weasley is this—" she cuts herself off.

Mrs. Weasley tuts, "My wedding dress. It's not quite the style, I'm afraid — but it's yours if you'd like to alter and wear it. Ginny wanted something new, and I thought you might like to have—"

Hermione throws her arms around the Weasley matriarch, great gulping sobs becoming unhinged from her chest. The wedding dress spills half out of her fingers, the box long forgotten, and Mrs. Weasley holds her gently while she cries her heart out.

It's only after Hermione stems her tears that Mrs. Weasley detaches herself. Her eyes are wet, but she clears her throat and waves her wand, restoring the dress to the box, and righting Hermione's hair and makeup with only a charm.

"All fixed, dear." She clears her throat. "I'm glad you like it."

Hermione nods, "It… it means more to me than I can ever say, Mrs. Weasley."

Molly finally looks at her — familiar eyes burrowing straight into her soul, and a strange smile on her lips. She says nothing though and instead gestures for Hermione to head out the door. Hermione shrinks her present down and puts it in her beaded bag and heads out of the room.

Somehow — and she's not quite sure why she thinks it — Hermoine has the strangest feeling that Molly Weasley knows exactly what she's done to ensure Harry got Ginny's name.

They make their way to where Ginny is standing, lined up outside a great tent in the front of the Burrow. It's a similar setup to Bill and Fleur's wedding; Ginny is peeking around the corner, showing Hermione flashes of strung up lights.

"You're first!" Ginny reminds her, and Hermoine walks as the music starts. They practiced the night before, and Hermoine sets a sedate pace down the makeshift aisle. She doesn't glance away — she's terrified to meet the eyes of Draco Malfoy. Though she had invited him to the wedding, she has yet to see him since she has been trapped in the house getting ready until the ceremony started.

Hermoine feels almost in a dream as she walks, and she seeks out Harry and Ron's familiar faces. They are standing at the end of the aisle as they are supposed to be, looking handsome in navy dress robes. Harry is positively beaming, and Hermoine allows the sight to heal her sore heart. Ron shares a grin with her, and Hermione imagines a time so long ago when she had dreamed of an aisle with Ron Weasley standing at the end.

Instead, she veers off when she reaches the small platform and allows herself to stand on her spot as the maid of honour, watching the entrance for Ginny.

A hush falls over the crowd as Ginny steps through the tent with Arthur Weasley at her side — she's glowing. Harry's eyes lock on hers immediately, and it's as if she's floating down the aisle. Arthur's eyes are misty, and he kisses his daughter's cheek gently before he shakes Harry's hand.

How similar wizard weddings are to muggles — Hermione wants to tell Draco this.

She finally allows herself to look for him, finding him almost immediately. He's sitting with Theo Nott and Luna Lovegood. He's watching her with a smirk on his lips.

Hermione glances away, back to Harry and Ginny, cheeks scarlet.

The ceremony is short and simple; traditional vows said by both parties, with a Ministry official presiding. Most witches and wizards marry with a simple ceremony, though Harry and Ginny had requested a binding ceremony as well, which will unite their magical cores. While binding ceremonies increase the power of both individuals by bolstering their magic, it also carries a risk that both will die if one does. It was a common practice in marriages only a few generations back, and also how couples may go about creating traditional family-magic, an art that is less common as every year goes by.

The actual ceremony is less intimidating than Hermione had imagined when they had described it.

Harry simply raises his hand to hers, and Ginny grins when they press their palms together.

"Speak the word - iungo." The officiant says softly.

Harry goes first, "Iungo."

Ginny follows, but Hermione hardly hears her over the glow of their magic in their palms. Warmth descends over the crowd; an almost instantaneous joy. It's like being bathed in love.

The ceremony ends shortly after — Harry lunges towards Ginny and kisses her so hard they nearly topple over. Ginny laughs as it happens, and Hermione can feel tears determined to escape her eyes.

She almost wishes Kingsley was here — wishes he was here so he could see just what he almost destroyed.

Molly and Arthur Weasley appear at the end of the ceremony and wave their wands, turning the simple pews into long tables, and the front stage into a dance floor. Food appears on the tables; a feast to rival one of Hogwarts.

Hermione makes her way to her date; Draco watches her every step of the way, and by the time she reaches the table, her cheeks are burning.

"Hello," she greets.

Luna beams, "Hermione — what a lovely wedding. I can't believe all the nilfairies around. It's a blessed union."

"Umm, yes." Hermione agrees. Draco's smirk hasn't left his face, but he pulls the chair out beside him for her.

"You look nice." He says, and Hermione nearly falls off the chair she had so carefully sat on. She thinks perhaps that is the first compliment Draco Malfoy has ever given her.

He frowns, as though her surprise is unwarranted, but before he can open his mouth and ruin it she blurts, "I got a dress."

Theo Nott attempts to cover a laugh with his fist, and Hermione shoots him a glare.

"A dress?" Draco repeats, nonplussed.

Luna giggles, "She means a wedding dress."

Hermione stares down at her plate of food, nerves stretching taut at the sudden absence of conversation at their table. Though music and laughter surround them, it seems almost far away.

"Well, that's — that's good." Draco finally chokes out, and Hermione looks up. He's glaring daggers at Theo Nott, who is suspiciously looking away.

Hermione swallows, "It… it is?"

"Yes," Draco turns to her suddenly, "Of course. You should have a dress you like."

Hermione stares at him for a moment; it has not escaped her notice that Draco Malfoy is being oddly compliant over their wedding. He's already agreed to marry her in a muggle church, of all places — what more could she possibly need him to give her for this sham wedding?

"Well, what do you want?" Hermione asks, suddenly.

Theo cuts off whatever he was saying to the table and looks at her. Draco is already staring. Luna seems amused.

"What… what do I want?" Draco repeats warily.

Hermione nods, "Yes. I mean — if I get a dress I want, and the location I want… well, what do you want? It's your wedding, too, you know."

Draco snaps his jaw closed.

"Draco, mate, this is where you tell her you already got the bride." Theo advises, cheeky grin present, "what more does a man need?"

Draco doesn't seem capable of an answer, and Luna laughs suddenly. "Theo — look, people are dancing!"

Theo looks as though he'd rather be murdered on the spot by the way his jaw clenches, but he still stands dutifully and extends his hand to Luna.

"You're going to dance with me?" She asks, blue eyes glowing.

Theo's tense expression fades a bit. "If you like."

"Usually I dance alone because there is no one to dance with me," she tells him, but she eagerly grasps his hand and follows him to the dance floor.

Draco huffs a breath next to Hermione's shoulder, and she realizes suddenly that they have been left alone at their little table.

She turns to him, "I don't want to dance."

"Okay," Malfoy agrees easily.

"It's not because I don't want to dance with you," she blurts.

Grey eyes study her at the words, and Hermione feels herself going red again. She can't seem to control her damn emotions.

She opens her mouth as if to explain why — as if to explain that she can't trust her legs to follow directions or to tell him that the last time she danced at a wedding like this Kingsley's Patronus had broken in and warned them moments before Death Eaters had descended. She remembers a dance floor, and screaming, and then fleeing.

She can't dance here.

Draco doesn't let her speak. "Perhaps we'll dance at home."

"Home?" Hermione asks quietly.

Draco shrugs uncomfortably, "I suppose we should decide where that will be. As of next week."

Hermione watches him — his jaw is tense, and his right leg is bouncing. He looks handsome; black fabric covering his broad shoulders. He had complimented her — he is trying.

"Well, I was thinking. Perhaps you could come to my cottage. After the wedding, I mean. Tonight."

Draco's eyes snap to hers, flinty grey and shocked. "Granger, you don't have to — I mean. We can buy something else. That can still be yours."

She thinks about it; she really thinks about the offer. Buying something new, something for them to live in together.

Hermione remembers how long it took her to feel safe again; how the only place in the entire world that she feels like she can set her wand down long enough to sleep is the little cottage she has warded against the world.

"No," she decides. "I would like to stay at my cottage. If that's okay with you, I mean."

Draco nods slowly, "If that's what you want."

"It is."

They eat quietly, comfortable beside each other. Hermione thinks about their conversation and the question she had asked. What did he want? He had requested nothing — not one thing since this whole damn thing started. Except to avoid the Prophet, and Hermione could hardly disagree with that.

"I spent some of your money today," Hermione confesses suddenly, guilt eating at her. She can hardly reconcile the fact that she's feeling guilty over Malfoy.

He snorts, "I know. I got the bill. Honestly, Hermione, spend the money. Buy your friends presents. It's customary to get a wedding gift, anyway, so it's good that you thought of it."

Hermione watches him; watches for a hint of that angry boy. Watches for some sort of resentment to flare behind his eyes. Watches the way he didn't say Granger — the way Hermione falls out of him sometimes, as if he wants to say it.

The animosity is gone from his gaze. He looks… tired. A little worn thin, as if too much worry for too long has made a shadow of him.

She's ready to say something; she's not sure what. Demand, perhaps, that he tell her exactly what he is now, who he has become. Instead, Ginny and Harry appear as if from thin air, both smiling.

"Hermione," Ginny greets, "and Malfoy. Thank you for the gift."

Malfoy stands and unexpectedly extends a hand to Ginny, "You're welcome, weaselette. Congratulations, by the way."

Harry frowns at the 'weaselette' but the lack of animosity in Draco's tone seems to win him over, because when he extends his hand towards him, Harry takes it.

They both glance at their hands for a moment, and Malfoy laughs. "Guess we finally got here again, huh, Potter?"

Harry chuckles. "At least this time you're less of a prat."

Draco rolls his eyes, and Hermione stands to hug Harry.

He pulls away, and his familiar green eyes are soft and happy. He grins at her.

"Didn't think we'd ever make it here," he tells her softly. "Barely even dared to dream of this when we were in that tent."

Hermione chokes down her tears and laughs, "Me neither. Let's never go camping again, okay?"

Harry sticks out his hand, pinky extended. An old muggle tradition — one they would sometimes use; just them. Ron never understood it.

"Pinky promise," he agrees gently, his finger wrapped around hers.

Hermione leans against him and watches as he smiles. His eyes are magnetized to Ginny, returning to her no matter how far they move away.

"Granger," Draco's voice calls her back to the present moment. He's watching her again.

"Let's allow these lovebirds to go greet the others," he says, "and why don't you show me around the… the Burrow."

He still has the barest hint of distaste in his voice at the title, but Hermione nods easily and follows him out of the tent. They wave goodbye to Harry and Ginny as they go.

The cool night air feels good against her heated face. Fall is leaving and winter is taking its place — the beautiful colours fading into greys and browns. Death all around.

The Burrow looms around them, and Hermione explains each window, and whose room they each hide. She takes him to where the boys and Ginny play Quidditch after most dinners. She even drags him out to the back pond where each of the summers between school years she, Harry, and Ron used to swim. He says nothing but follows her dutifully.

The path has grown muddier with rain, and Hermione bemoans her less than practical heels. She stops and stares off into the fields — the sun has already set, but it's a remarkable view in the daylight.

"Granger," Draco says, "If you think the Ministry is pairing people off to boost the economy, why did they pair us?"

She laughs, but it's harsh in her throat.

"Isn't it obvious?" She answers. God — her voice. She sounds so old.

"What?" For the first time since she's known him, Draco sounds confused. That had been the most surprising thing about him, at first. She'd known he was smart in Hogwarts; but now, she knows that he follows her tangents and thoughts with no problems, as though he was on the same roadmap. He was easy to talk to.

"People who have an enemy in their bed aren't worried about the enemy in power." She answers.

Draco frowns. "You think the Ministry paired us so we would be so caught up trying to kill each other we wouldn't try to take them on?"

Hermione shrugs. "Sounds absurd, doesn't it?"

"No," Draco answers slowly, turning to face her. "It sounds possible."

They look at each other. They're not fifteen anymore, and there's no naivete in their gaze.

"Can you do wandless magic?" She asks suddenly.

Draco glances away, but he answers. "Yes."

"I know you can cast a crucio." She tells him. "How about an avada?"

She watches as his jaw clenches tightly, his silver eyes dropping away from hers. He nods. He looks locked in place, and Hermione supposes he's waiting for all the inevitable questions — when, where, who, how do you know.

"Me too." She says, instead.

His eyes snap to hers. Hermione forces herself not to look away. He doesn't ask questions either, and after a moment she sighs.

"Malfoy. I suspect that I'm the third most powerful witch in Great Britain."

She hopes he doesn't think she's bragging. It's a statement; a fact. She's good with facts.

"McGonagall?" He asks.

She nods. "Second most."

Surprise flares in his eyes and Hermione can feel one side of her mouth curling into a smile. It's no surprise he thought McGonagall; she's Headmistress of Hogwarts, an animagus, one of Dumbledore's closest friends, a long-time member of the Order of the Phoenix, and truly an extraordinary witch.

"Molly Weasley," Hermione answers his unspoken question. "I know you wouldn't expect it, but it's true.

Draco laughs for a moment, but Hermione doesn't let her expression change. She's deadly serious, and his amusement fades slowly into a slack shock. "You think Molly Weasley is the most powerful witch in Great Britain?"

Hermione nods. "Yes. I don't just think it. I know it. Just watch her, Malfoy. Watch her closely… you'll see it, too."

Draco glances away, and Hermione knows he's not convinced yet. It doesn't matter — he knows the Weasley matriarch can hold her own. They've both seen her in battle, and the rumours that continue to circulate that she was the one to finally kill Bellatrix Lestrange are true.

"Why does this matter?" He asks.

"I'll tell you — I will." She sighs and feels herself lean against him. It's almost accidental… she's just so tired. He stiffens, and for a heart-wrenching moment, she thinks he's going to pull away and let her drop to the ground. Instead, he freezes, letting her lean into him. Her legs are shaking, and slowly — glacially — he wraps an arm around her waist, half holding her up.

It's nice.

Something she never thought she would say about Draco Malfoy.

"Not right now?" He affirms, and she nods.

"Let's just be happy for Harry right now. Let's have one wedding that goes well."

They stand there for longer than Hermione would like to admit, letting his arm grow heavier and more comfortable around her waist. The wind is cold, but she is mostly sheltered, and she imagines they are a thousand miles away, on a beach where no one knows who they are, and the war never happened.

"We're going to be on the Prophet, probably by tomorrow." He warns her. "There were a lot of people in there."

"Most are loyal," she tells him, "but you're right. I suppose it's time."

She pulls away, feeling slightly adrift without the anchor of his arm. It would be too easy to get used to being held up. She looks at his face in the near twilight; his eyes are calm when he looks back, and Hermione realizes she isn't waiting on him to hurt her.

She doesn't think he wants to hurt her. She doesn't think he will.

"I think I'd like to show you my cottage, now." She says. "But perhaps we should go say goodbye to Harry and Ginny."

"And Theo and Luna," Draco adds.

They head back toward the tent, and when Hermione's heel slips in a bit of mud, Draco catches her elbow. She doesn't pull away.

The bright light of the tent blinds her momentarily; music and laughter drifting out. The crowd has dwindled a little, but most are still around, dancing together or drinking overflowing wine glasses.

They head towards where the crowd is mingling, and it parts slightly to show Andromeda Tonks née Black.

It's unfair; Hermione knows Andromeda is Nymphadora Tonks' mother. She knows that she is the grandmother of Teddy Lupin and is raising him, that she fought for their side in the war, that she is kind.

It never helps — the moment she sees her Hermione always freezes. This time she lurches herself towards Draco, hand digging for the wand hidden in her dress.

Draco steadies her, though his palms curl around her shoulders and his fingers bite into her skin. He sees it too — he has to.

Andromeda is slight. Her black curly hair is wild about her shoulders, and her face is a near replica of Bellatrix Lestrange. The only difference is her eyes are always filled with warmth and sanity.

Once, Hermione had ended up curled under the sink in Grimmauld Place's bathroom when Andromeda had been visiting with Teddy and laughed unexpectedly. Andromeda's laugh — though not the maniacal cackle of Bellatrix, was so eerily similar Hermione hadn't been able to stand on her shaking legs for nearly an hour.

Andromeda disappears; swallowed up by other bodies, but Draco remains. Hermione is practically shuddering in his arms, and if the Prophet didn't have enough to write an article on them, they will now that they're entwined at the edge of the dance floor.

"Granger," Draco's voice seems far away, "breathe."

Hermione sucks in air and holds it, counting to ten. She breathes out heavily. "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Draco snaps, gentling his fingers on her shoulders, "it's okay."

"She just—" Hermione's voice cracks, "she looks like—"

"Stop," Draco murmurs, "I know. I know what she looks like."

Hermione flinches. She supposes he does.

He steers her gently forward, avoiding the place they had seen Andromeda. Hermione catches her breath and finally feels in control by the time they find Ginny and Harry. They are standing surrounded by Weasley's, including Ron and Hannah Abbott. Hermione suddenly feels as though they are all caught up in separate gravities — similar but being torn apart by their own pull.

Neville was invited, but he is nowhere to be seen. Hermione thinks he may have skipped entirely. Astoria Greengrass is still sitting at her table with a scowl fixed on her pretty face. Percy and Daphne seem to be keeping her company, though Charlie is nowhere to be found.

"Mione," Ron greets happily, his smile falling only a little at the sight of Malfoy's hand tucked under her elbow. Hannah Abbott is beside him in an emerald dress; though her outfit is pretty, her eyes are red and splotchy.

"Weasleys," Malfoy greets amicably, perhaps the first time he has gotten the name correct since she met him.

"Mr. Malfoy," Arthur replies, extending a hand for a shake. "It is nice to meet you properly. It's been a few years."

Draco nods. "Indeed. This is a lovely wedding."

Mrs. Weasley has a simpering smile on, and she pats his arm gently. "So nice of you to come, dears."

"We're about to head out," Hermione mentions, wondering how long her adopted family and future husband can remain civil. "I'm a bit tired."

Ron glowers predictably, but instead of arguing he simply says. "You'll miss George, Mione. He promised to show after dinner — apparently he's bringing Parvati."

"He missed the ceremony?" Hermione's shock is palpable. Though she had known George had been absent since the WPG announcement, she never expected him to skip out on Ginny's wedding.

Ron shrugs despondently.

"Oh, I hope he comes. You must give him my love, though, Ron." Hermione insists. Her legs feel like jello.

"We will," Harry assures her, butting in when it seems like Ron won't answer.

Ginny hugs her again. "Of course. And thank you again, both of you, for the beautiful necklace."

"Of course," Malfoy replies smoothly, "it looks lovely on you. Congratulations again."

"Thanks," Harry says — sincerity flowing through him this time.

"I see Theo," Draco murmurs to Hermione, "I'll just pop over to say goodbye. Will you be alright?"

"Of course," she answers, bemused. He seems to have said it out of some sort of ingrained courtesy, but it's appreciated nonetheless. He disappears quickly.

"Hermione," Ron says the moment Draco is out of earshot, "tell my you are not taking that git to your cottage."

Hermione snickers. "I am, Ron. I'm actually showing him around our future home."

Hannah laughs unexpectedly, and Hermione glances at her. "Hi, Hannah."

She blushes and raises her fingers to her lips, "Sorry. I shouldn't have laughed. Hi Hermione."

"How are you?" Hermione asks — it's only polite to ask, and she is expecting the flimsy fine that everyone else gives.

"Bit shite," she says, "but Ron here is alright."

Ron chuckles and shares a glance with her. They seem friendly, though Hermione wonders how long it will take to build into resentment. How long a marriage that hinges on a law can last. She supposes the same question must be asked of each of them.

"Wait," Harry says, "did you say you were showing Malfoy your future home?"

Hannah frowns. "That's why I laughed. You think Malfoy is going to leave his stupid castle?"

Hermione grits her teeth — she reminds herself that Hannah is hurting.

"Yes, I do think that," she bites out, "since we've agreed we will live in my cottage."

Ron goes wildly pale, but Harry lets out a huff of relief. "Oh, thank Godric. You won't have to stay in the Manor?"

"No. He said he's fine with living wherever. He mentioned buying somewhere new for us, but my cottage is… well, it's safe."

She says the words a touch defensively, and though Harry watches her with sad eyes, she knows he understands. Grimmauld place had to be warded again with a new fidelius that had taken ages once the war had ended. He'd practically gutted the place the moment they had deemed it safe — removing any unwanted memories he could and replacing them all with bright light and clean furniture.

"It's been a truly beautiful wedding," Hermione clears her throat, changing the conversation. "Harry and Ginny — thank you for having me."

"You're our family," Ginny says simply, and Hermione clasps her hand. Ron begrudgingly nods from beside her. Hannah looks sullen.

"Granger," Draco's voice interrupts their moment. "You ready to go?"

She nods and waves to her little makeshift family. Draco leads her carefully out of the tent once again, clearing the entrance for an easy apparition.

He's got his arm around her waist again, and Hermione wonders when it happened. She doesn't mind — her brain feels almost as shaky as her legs. She slips her own around him.

"I'll have to side along you."

He nods. "I figured."

She swallows hard. A few moments go by where nothing happens.

"Granger."

"What?" She snaps.

He sighs. "We don't have to go to your cottage. You don't have to take me."

She grits her teeth — how she hates it. The sound of pity in his tone. She rips them away, the crack of apparition ringing in her blood.

They land outside of her front gate. Her cottage is dark. She's breathing hard, nearly gasping.

It takes a moment before she finds her courage, but it's there, right where she left it.

She swings the gate open and marches for the front door, confident that Draco will follow her.

The cottage lights up at her presence; magic infusing her lamps. The fire roars to life, and Hermione feels the wards surround and press down on her from all angles for a moment. It feels like being hugged.

Malfoy must feel it too because his breath quickens and when she turns to stare at him standing in her doorway, he is wincing. His expression clears quickly.

He takes it all in — the small living room with the overstuffed armchair she favours and the couch. Fireplace burning easily, with a bookshelf beside. Her dining table is small; space enough for only four when it's cleared off. Currently, there are piles of books stacked high on every spare inch of the table. The kitchen is spotless, and her hallway to her office, the bathroom, and her bedroom is dark.

"Well, this is it." She announces. She's suddenly self-conscious — though she hated Malfoy Manor, she knows exactly what Draco is missing. He has a ballroom; he has a solarium and multiple libraries and peacocks. She has wards and an armchair.

"I have some books I'm fond of," he tells her, "and I must bring Taffy. Juney can stay at the Manor, but we must allow her access inside the wards."

Hermione frowns. "What?"

Draco huffs. "Well, if I'm to live here, Granger, I'll need a spot for my favourite books and my owl."

They stare at each other in the firelight; Draco expectant and mildly annoyed, and Hermione terrified.

"You… you still want to live here?"

His expression clears suddenly, and he steps forward slowly. "Granger. Hermione. If you think I have some attachment to the Manor, you're wrong. If you want to live here, then this is where we'll live. It's cozy."

"It's small, you mean."

He rolls his eyes. "It's cozy. And it's safe."

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "That's my favourite part."

His expression softens a bit, and he holds out a hand. She's vividly reminded of Theo Nott doing the same thing for Luna Lovegood only earlier that evening. Almost unwillingly she goes forward and takes it, letting his hand dwarf her fingers. She looks almost delicate in his grip. She hasn't felt delicate since the fourth year when Viktor Krum had lifted her mid-dance.

"Why don't you show me your office. I know you must have one. Do you have a garden?"

She nods, but instead of speaking leads him down her dark hallway. Her office is a disaster, but he smiles slightly when he sees it, as though it's what he expected. She shows him the unexpectedly large bathroom with the huge clawfoot tub that takes half the space. The garden is last, the door at the end of the hall.

It's dark outside, but she casts a lumos maxima and he takes in the flower patch and the bench. The small shed, and the little table and chairs on a small brick patio.

"We could get a hammock, perhaps." He says.

"Okay," she whispers. So desperate not to break the peace.

They close the door, and she slowly opens the last door, the one she had ignored on the first tour. Her bedroom is large — the closet half empty.

He takes it in — she knows he sees everything, the way her bed is pressed up against the corner wall closest to the window, with jars of bluebell lights on the windowsill permanently lighting up the dark. The way her blankets are thrown haphazardly over every part of the bed as if she had spent the night running inside of her own sheets.

Her nightstand holds two pictures — one is non-moving, two muggle people smiling for a camera. The other is Hermione sandwiched in between Harry and Ron, snow coating their heads.

Other than a single book on the nightstand, the rest of the room is spotless — there are no personal traces to be found.

"My room," she announces unnecessarily.

He stares at all the blank space and then turns back to her. She is tugging on a curl with shaking hands.

"I think we could put a rug in here, maybe." He says mildly.

Hermione looks at him, the furrow between her brows smoothing out suddenly, relief pouring out of her.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" She asks.

He frowns at the question; she doesn't see what he could possibly be confused about. It's obvious that he's gone out of his way to be civil and make her comfortable since the WPG was announced. It's out of character — she believes he has changed since the war, but she can't imagine it's this much. Has he become this person who will live in a small cottage with a wife he doesn't want? A wife who can barely hold her own weight up over the course of one evening?

"I'm not really sure," he answers slowly, "but I think that maybe I put you through enough hell already. Don't you?"

Hermione watches — she's never been good with people. Better with books and learning and cleverness; Harry and Ron are her closest friends, and she still doesn't know how she managed that.

"I suppose so," she whispers in the stillness of the room.

Malfoy's silver eyes never leave hers. "Listen, Granger. You asked me what I wanted. I want you to not hate me. If it's possible."

"I don't hate you." It's the truth.

He nods. "Okay. Good. That's good. Then let's have a tea and you can sit down."

Hermione abruptly realizes she's on the verge of collapsing, and she dutifully follows Draco back to her kitchen. She sits on one chair and watches him rummage around until he finds some mugs and the kettle.

They exist in silence, and Hermione focuses on the wards all around her. They feel strong; undisturbed, even with Malfoy inside.

She opens her eyes slowly when Draco sits on the chair across from her. She waves a wand and her book piles relocate to the floor, allowing them the smallest amount of table space. He sets their mugs down.

"Theo and Luna are going to the Ministry to get married tomorrow," Draco murmurs.

"What?"

Draco shrugs, "They mentioned when I was saying goodbye. They need two witnesses and asked if we would be willing. I said most likely yes, but I'd confirm later since I wanted to ask you."

"Why don't they want a wedding?" Hermione frowns, sipping her tea. "I know that they're being forced by the WPG, but they actually seem okay with it. Seems like they'd want that."

Draco's shoulders are stiff with tension. "Any wedding Theo Nott has will be vilified. He's trying to keep Luna out of the papers as long as possible. I'm actually surprised nothing was written when he appeared at the Leaky with her last week."

Everything suddenly clicks in place in Hermione's brain.

"That's why you're okay with us getting married in a muggle church."

Draco shrugs. "I would have done it either way if it was what you wanted. But since you wanted a muggle wedding anyway, it will be better for you in the long run."

"You think the public will hate me. If I'm a Malfoy."

Draco sips his tea silently for a moment.

"I think they'll initially pity you," Draco sets his cup down with slightly too much force. "Married to a monster."

Hermione can see it all now as he describes it: Hermione Granger, the golden girl, saviour of the Wizarding World, forced to marry Draco Malfoy, Death Eater.

The media will pity her — they'll outrage and cry for her and whisper her name as though taboo. They'll eagerly read every scrap of news, waiting for something worth gossiping about; waiting for her to show up with bruises, or perhaps waiting for a body.

"And when they realize I don't think you're a monster?" Hermione asks — she knows the answer, but she wants to hear Draco say it.

To his credit, he's honest. He huffs a laugh, though there is no humour in it.

"Well, then they'll hate you. They'll probably hate you more than they even hate me, because in their eyes, I've always been evil. You'll have betrayed them."

She wraps her arms around her chest. Her tea grows cold.