A/N: Hi friends! Thank you for your response to this story - I am so honoured by your reviews. Although it doesn't feel like it, this story is slowly winding down - the next few chapters will be pretty action-packed. So, all this to say, enjoy this (mostly) fluffy chapter. Drop me a line if you enjoyed :)
Thursday, January 6th, 2000
Hermione Granger does not have fond memories of the Department of Mysteries. Phantom aches shoot down her rib cage with memories of Dolohov's curse, and she had to take both a pain potion and a calming draught before her meeting with the Wizengamot because she couldn't stop seeing the blank expression of death on Sirius' face behind her eyelids every time she blinked.
Harry is beside her — as always. He's wearing his full Auror regalia, mostly as a show of intimidation since it's technically his day off. He's taking full advantage of his reputation, and Hermione is beyond grateful.
Draco is on her other side. She had deliberated at length about the wisdom of him attending the Wizengamot meeting, but he had insight from Lucius about those on the council that she couldn't afford to miss out on. As much as Hermione had come to love him, she wasn't a fool — Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin to the core, and he had been taught how to read people and manipulate them to his advantage from a young age — and right now, Hermione needs any amount of influence she can get.
The black doors swing open before them, and they step inside to be greeted by stern faces of witches and wizards all her senior. Kingsley sits in the center, bookended by Ernest Hawkworth and Gawain Robards, Harry's boss. Robards is notably an excellent head of the DMLE and Harry respects him; Hermione is almost positive that he is an ally inside this room.
Kingsley's expression is closed off, but Hermione notes he looks just as exhausted as she feels. She wonders if he's heard about Hannah, or Tracey Davis, or any of the other witches or wizards who have fit themselves into marriages that are destroying them.
"Miss Granger, you have been granted a hearing with the full Wizengamot, which is quite unusual. Please tell us why you have called us here today." Ernest Hawkworth watches her with narrowed eyes as he delivers the words. Despite Kingsley sitting in the Minister's chair, it's obvious Hawkworth is running the show now.
"Thank you for seeing me," Hermione says with a calm she doesn't feel. "I have requested a meeting with the Wizengamot to discuss the Wizarding Population Growth Act and the many ramifications it has had on Wizarding Britain."
"I'm sure you're unaware, Miss Granger, but since implementing the WPG the economy has been improving, with Gringotts reporting a 12% increase of vault and galleon traffic, as well as nearly 3% increases per month for businesses on Diagon Alley. St Mungo's has seen more magical pregnancies confirmed in the past month than in the past three years. Would these be the ramifications you're referring to?"
Ernest Hawkworth says this all in a slow, confident drawl, and fury licks down her spine. She's not the only one; Harry shifts his weight at her side, and although he looks calm, his jaw is clenching with his particular brand of anger. She'd seen it often in fifth year.
Draco is so still at her side he resembles a statue. Hermione had nearly forgotten the power his name can wield, even in the war's aftermath, but there can be no mistaking it today. Draco is wearing robes that cost more than her cottage, and the darkest Malfoy sneer he can muster. If Hermione hadn't spent her morning curled together comfortably with him, planning this meeting with the Wizengamot, she would have wilted under the power of his stare.
"Mr. Hawkworth, while those—"
"It's Chief Warlock." Ernest interrupts coldly, leaning forward and steepling his fingers under his chin. "Miss Granger, I'm sure that you mean well. But, to be perfectly frank, you've no background in the situation, you're hardly out of school, and by all accounts, you've informed the press that you're happily married. Am I incorrect?"
Hermione bristles and steps forward to leave Harry and Draco at her back. Despite her intention to remain level-headed, she's hardly inclined to let this stand.
"Chief Warlock Hawkworth," she corrects coldly. "Your dismissal of both myself and the abysmal situation the WPG has put so many magical folks into is, to be perfectly frank, the worst case of idiocy I've seen from the Ministry since Minister Fudge's ignorance of Voldemort."
Hissed sighs sneak out at his name, and Hermione counts on this so she launches into her speech.
"I don't give a damn if you think I have no background in this situation. You're a fool if you think I'm incapable of researching — the growth that Gringotts is referring to has nothing to do with businesses actually improving, and everything to do with old families and their money being moved. Specifically, witches subjected to the WPG are being robbed blind by husbands they never wanted, husbands who are being given family inheritances that they should have no rights to! Vaults are being merged, and wizards and witches are pulling galleons and converting into Muggle currency, preparing for — I'm sure — an escape from your tyrannical and short-sighted law."
"Miss Granger, how dare—"
"How dare you?" Hermione interrupts, "How dare you use St Mungo's reports of pregnancy as a positive thing, when you know that half of those pregnancies result from rape and coercion? You're playing with people's lives, and you've fooled yourself into believing that these children, who are going to grow up to know exactly what you've done to their mothers and fathers, that they'll thank you for it."
"Dawlish, get her out of here!" Hawksworth yells, face going red with fury. Auror Dawlish, sitting on the sidelines, begins to draw his wand. He's hesitant, which is the only reason that Hermione is gentle.
She throws her hand out and casts a non-verbal stunning spell, and Dawlish drops back to his chair, unconscious.
It's an impressive show of power, and it's meant to be. She's been practicing with Draco all week — the chamber that they're in is designed to suppress power, and all of them had to turn in their wands before entering. All she has left in her arsenal right now are non-verbal spells, whereas the members of the Wizengamot still have their wands.
Hawkworth is gaping, but he inhales as though he's ready to shout more, so Hermione nearly yells her parting blow.
"The WPG should be held responsible for the extreme uptick, a nearly 37% increase, of incidences of domestic abuse — a statistic you obviously didn't bother to ask St Mungo's for —, as well as the disappearance of nearly 13% of Wizarding Britain's population of fine wizards and witches between the ages of 19 to 40 — the exact ages of those affected by the WPG — who escaped Britain as refugees upon the implementation of this law. Lastly," Hermione takes the shortest breath to stare daggers around the room, at people she's never met and hardly knows, but people who have the influence to do something right. "The WPG is responsible for the deaths of Tracey Davis and Terry Boudreau, both muggle-born witches forced into marriages with known pureblood supremacists. It's also responsible for the magical coma Order of the Phoenix member Hannah Abbot has been placed under in the fight for her life."
"Miss Granger!" Hawkworth's sonorous is so loud it's nearly painful, and Hermione flinches without meaning to. "This meeting is over — you have stunned an Auror of The Ministry, and you'll be taken into custody for assault. Arrest—"
"If you arrest Hermione, you'll have to arrest me." Harry's voice is soft and deadly, cutting through the furor of the Wizengamot chamber with ease. Hermione is once again reminded of how foolish she had been to overlook Harry's power. He's practically crackling with it from behind her, and every eye in the room has turned from her to stare at the Boy Who Lived.
Whispers break out around them, and Hermione has to force herself not to grin. Whatever else the people of Wizarding Britain are, they're all equally enamoured with Harry Potter. Hawkworth will have no choice but to back down, and Hermione knows they have made another enemy.
She's used to having enemies.
"Mr. Potter—"
"No," Harry cuts Hawkworth off. "If you want to arrest us both, you are more than welcome. I hope the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will accept my short notice of my absence. Come to think of it, Mr. Robards, do you think I could have a few weeks off as Division Leader of the Aurors while I go to prison?"
"Harry, please." Gawain Robards says. He hasn't spoken since they entered the room, and he's gone pale and twitchy. Hermione almost pities him, since she knows this isn't Robards' fault — as Head Auror he simply must sit in on Wizengamot hearings. "We don't want to arrest either of you, do we, Hawkworth?"
Hawkworth's glare doesn't waver, but he does take a deep breath. "No. No arrests are necessary, as long as Auror Dawlish doesn't want to press charges."
Dawlish, recovering at the side from Hermione's stunning spell, shakes his head easily. Hermione spares him a small smile — they had been allies once, and this is his job — it had been obvious he didn't want to arrest her.
Kingsley speaks for the first time, and his voice is so foreign in its weakness that Hermione blinks. "The Ministry needed a solution for the aftermath of the war, as you all well know. The WPG was the solution. There was no choice."
"There's always a choice," Harry says sternly. "The Ministry used children to fight a war for them, only to betray them with this law. You made us into soldiers against Voldemort, and now you're surprised when we won't fall in line. The Ministry made its choices."
Hermione takes a breath into the stillness Harry's words have inspired and settles her anger. This is her opportunity to do something.
"All we're asking is that The Ministry reconsider the Wizarding Population Growth Act as a solution for the problems Wizarding Britain is facing. We recognize that the WPG can't be abolished overnight, and instead, we propose The Ministry takes the first step by granting divorces to those couples who desperately need it. Allow for divorce petitions, be transparent about the matching process, and consider other options for both economic and population increases."
"I assume, Miss Granger, that you have some other options for us to consider?" Ernest Hawkworth snaps, contempt written on every inch of his face.
Hermione steps forward and flicks her fingers, summoning a thick envelope from where it has been tucked into Draco's outer robe. She shoos it towards Hawkworth wandlessly, and the envelope slides into his hand as though he had summoned it himself. It's an extraordinary show of magic.
"I believe you'll find a variety of choices in there." She says smugly. "Also, it's Mrs. Malfoy, if you don't mind."
She spins on her heel and steps through her companions; Draco follows her slowly, but not before pinning every Wizengamot member with silver eyes. He is just as powerful magically as she is, and they all know it. They were there, in his trial for his crimes under Voldemort's reign.
Lastly, Harry Potter — the man who finally destroyed Voldemort, the greatest Dark Wizard in a century, shakes his head at Kingsley. Another Minister who has disappointed and lied to him. Harry's presence is electrifying, and Hermione can feel the echoes of his magic even as she walks towards the door.
The Ministry is as power-hungry as they come, as Draco had so helpfully pointed out months ago — and they've made a mistake by creating partners out of the most powerful magical beings in Great Britain. With Harry at her side, Malfoy's influence at her fingertips, and the Weasley family behind her, The Ministry is now at the opposite end of the Order of the Phoenix.
And now they know it.
Hermione steps through the Floo into Grimmauld Place with a smile on her face, and Draco and Harry nearly stumbling over her heels. Ginny, Ron, and George are all sitting on the newly purchased couch, obviously waiting for them to return, and Hermione almost wants to cry at the sight of them.
It's been one of the worst weeks in recent memory, with Ron spending almost every hour of the day at the hospital at Hannah's bedside. George has been working overtime at the shop, covering for him, and it's obvious from their drawn faces they're both exhausted.
"The bad news is that Ernest Hawkworth is rotten arse of a man," Hermione declares. "But the good news is that The Wizengamot has decided to consider our petition to allow divorces under the WPG when the marriage is beyond repair."
"What does beyond repair mean?" Ron asks darkly.
Hermione sighs. "I wish I could tell you, Ron. I gave them all of my suggestions for improving the economy and stimulating population growth, without resorting to something as barbaric as the WPG. The package also included a step-by-step plan for removing the WPG, and the first step was allowable divorce, so it's a good thing, either way."
Ginny smiles. "It is definitely a good thing! At least it will make some of the Wizengamot members think, and with the article Luna is publishing tomorrow regarding your meeting, the public should take notice!"
Hermione nods, and hope she hasn't felt in weeks bubbles up inside her. The Quibbler has been printing submissions it had received following Hermione's last interview with Draco; readers have been sharing everything from WPG horror stories to success stories, and the Quibbler's sale numbers are nearly as high now as they were in the two years before the war. Tomorrow, Luna is running the article Hermione wrote, which is nearly an identical copy of what she had given Hawkworth this morning — which is to say, all the options The Ministry of Magic has for stimulating economy and population without the use of the Wizarding Population Growth Act.
"They definitely will, even if Hawkworth is an arse," Harry says, sitting gently beside Ginny and stealing Ron's spot. "As long as word of Ginny's pregnancy doesn't get out, The Quibbler should be the most prominent bit of news this week."
Keeping Ginny's pregnancy a secret has been wearing — it's one of the few bright spots the Weasley family has right now, but they have all been sworn to secrecy. Harry Potter's child will be considered a silver lining to the WPG, which is the opposite of what they want.
"I think… I think Hannah will be happy," Ron says softly. "Y'know, when she wakes up. At least she might have a choice now, even if she can't have Neville."
Ginny claps, "Wait… couldn't Neville theoretically divorce Pansy — maybe they could—"
"No," George interrupts. "No, Gin. That is theoretically possible now, thanks to Hermione, but we can't put that hope in Hannah's head, nor that choice on Neville. We'll tell her about the divorce option if and when the Ministry gives more information about it."
Ginny deflates a bit, but Hermione's secretly glad George said something. While Neville has been less than forthcoming about his feelings regarding Hannah and Pansy, it's hardly fair to throw this choice at his feet when they don't even know if it's even possible yet.
"At least Charlie can get rid of the harpy now," Ginny mutters.
Draco stiffens at her side. "Astoria is a person."
The group falls quiet, and Ginny's eyes dart guiltily away. While Astoria has hardly ingratiated herself to the Weasley family, she's mostly just silent and sulky, not exactly a harpy.
"Sorry," Ginny says. "That was mean. Perhaps I should have said, now Charlie and Astoria can both be rid of each other since it has been obvious from the very first moment they read each other's names that they were ill-suited."
Draco doesn't correct her, but Hermione has learned him, now — he disagrees with something Ginny has said, but she just can't figure out what. Astoria is, by all accounts, miserable as Charlie's wife and desperate to escape. Meanwhile, Charlie is escaping every moment he is able through the international portkey Romania had gifted him after the WPG's announcement. Of all the couples Hermione has spent time with, they are by far the most desperately in need of divorcing.
"In other news," Harry announces, drawing everyone's attention from the mystery that is Astoria Greengrass. "I followed Hermione's map of Rosmerta's tunnel above ground and pinpointed her actual house. I've been staking it out in the Cloak whenever I get the chance, but so far, no one has come in or out while I've been there. There is a notice-me-not charm on the house, but Rosmerta may have cast it herself to hide her family before any of the WPG stuff."
"We're going to have to draw whoever took the child out," Ron says. "There's just no way around it. 'Mione said someone apparated in as soon as she got inside the house, so they must have wards."
"We'll need to use someone as bait." Hermione groans. She hates plans that involve live people as bait. There are simply too many variables!
Harry grins at her words, and for a second she's back in the Forest of Dean, making plans that inevitably go to shit. "You got that right. I say next weekend I take us all to the house, and I'll go up to the door and when anyone arrives we stun them. Then we can ask them anything we want to know."
"Potter, you realize you're asking us to stalk, assault, kidnap, and interrogate strangers for you?" Draco drawls.
George laughs. "Newbie, he's been doing this to us for years — join the club!"
Draco rolls his eyes but says nothing else. Hermione leans into him, and his hold on her waist tightens minutely. It's a comfort; his warm arm bands around her lower back and his heart beats steadily against her shoulder. She wonders if he's as tired of plotting and planning and warring as she is — wonders if he thinks about how good they are at this, at war.
Hermione misses the days when she was simply good at books and cleverness — though now she can say that she has friendship and bravery in spades as well.
"Would you all like to stay for lunch?" Ginny invites.
George says, "Thanks, Gin, but I left Parv in charge of the store this morning so I better get back."
"I'll take some lunch if you're offering," Ron answers quickly. "Hospital food is shite, it is."
Ginny laughs and stands easily, Harry following her. He's become a puppy dog in a man's body, trailing Ginny everywhere around the house, offering to reach things and rub her feet. Currently, Ginny is loving his indulgence, but Hermione is waiting for the inevitable appearance of Harry Potter at her cottage door when his helicoptering becomes overbearing.
"We better get going, too, actually," Hermione says gently. "Draco and I have hardly slept for days preparing for that stupid meeting."
Harry nods easily. "Yeah, get some well-deserved rest. We'll see what the fallout brings in tomorrow's papers, and hopefully, by Monday, we'll have a plan."
They step onto the snowy porch of Grimmauld Place after saying their goodbyes, and Hermione stares up at her husband. He's watching her carefully, but as always, his expression is nearly inscrutable — though, she has fashioned herself into somewhat of a Draco Malfoy professional reader these days, and it's easy to see that he's pleased by the finest of lines gathering around the corners of his eyes.
"Did you know when you're older you're going to have wrinkles from smiling," Hermione mock-whispers.
Draco rolls his eyes. "Malfoys do not get wrinkles."
"Everyone gets wrinkles, Draco," Hermione argues, fighting a smile.
He wraps his arms around her and tugs her close enough that her head fits under his chin like a puzzle piece. She returns his hold and ties her fingers together against his spine.
"If a Malfoy must have wrinkles," Draco murmurs, "then I suppose they might as well be the smiling kind."
Hermione's laugh is covered by the crack of apparition, and when they land gently in front of their cottage, they release each other from their embraces. The cottage has a dusting of snow on it still, and Hermione had convinced Juney to leave the Christmas decorations up for just one more week. It's the first time the cottage has ever been decorated, and she's loathe to rid herself of the homey Christmas feeling.
She hangs her coat on the lowest hook of her coat rack, and Draco snags one of the taller ones. He's still wearing his dress robes from the Wizengamot meeting, and he looks every inch the handsome wizard she married.
"Enjoying the view, Granger?"
Hermione snaps her eyes up from where she'd been staring to find her husband smirking at her. She flushes at being caught, despite the fact that she's theoretically allowed to look as much as she wants.
Draco doesn't give her a chance to answer. He strides forward and snags the edge of her smart blazer, tugging her to him. She moulds herself to him easily, fitting against him as though it is where she always belongs.
"You were magnificent today." He breathes, pressing gentle kisses down her neck. She rolls her head to give him more access, and his other hand sneaks into her hair, neatly tied back into a chignon. She can feel the curls coming loose from their restraint, wrapping around his fingers as though they want to hold him as well.
"Thank you," she replies breathlessly. Her own hands sneak up the front of his wizard robes — he's radiating heat, and Hermione feels like a cat in the sun.
"Granger," Draco murmurs between kisses, "come away with me?"
Hermione lets out a breathless laugh, "What? Where?"
He pulls back, only enough that he can stare at her. His eyes are endlessly grey — how had she ever imagined him cold, she doesn't know, because he watches her with fire licking up her spine, and she would burn worlds down to keep him in her arms.
"When this is all over, come away with me," Draco says seriously. "Anywhere you want, Granger. Tell me where and that's where we'll go."
"Anywhere?" She teases gently. "What if I want to go to Antarctica, or… or the North Pole?"
Draco doesn't crack a smile, just twines a single curl in his fingers — oh, but she must look a fright, with her tidy chignon half fallen down and love bites traced up her neck.
"If you want to go there, that's where we'll go."
She presses closer to him, so close that she's not entirely sure where she begins and he ends. "I want to see the ocean."
"Okay," he breathes.
"And Paris," Hermione adds. "Maybe New York."
"Okay," he repeats, pressing his forehead against hers. He's hard against her lower stomach, and Hermione desperately wants him — but she always wants him.
"And Sydney. In Australia." She adds quietly. It's far too serious for this type of intimate dreaming. It must show in her voice because he pulls back enough to study her face.
"Why Sydney?"
She swallows. "My parents are there. I mean, they won't know me. I've spoken to mind healers, and the damage I did is irreversible, but—"
"Stop." Draco interrupts. He raises both hands to press them against her jaw, stroking his thumbs across her cheekbones. "You saved them, Granger. They are alive because of the choices you made — you did the very best you could with what you had, and your best saved their lives. That's not damage. That's selflessness."
She can feel tears burning and she wants to escape his hold, hide away as she always does, but Draco doesn't release her. He's not finished.
"We'll go there, then. First," he says gently. "There's all the time in the world, Hermione. We can speak to the best specialists available. If there's nothing for it, then we can introduce ourselves, and they will fall in love with you all over again."
She exhales shakily. She wants to demand promises from him, extract whatever it is that makes him so sure. He kisses her before she has a chance, soft and sweet, the way she'd always imagined a future husband might kiss her; the way she never could have imagined Draco Malfoy doing only a few months ago.
And suddenly, it's easy to see it — perhaps Draco will knock on her parents' door, charming his way into a conversation and maybe dinner. She will shake restlessly at the table, and her father's warm brown eyes, so like her own, will wash over her in concern. He will not know her; but it won't matter, because he will still tell his horrible jokes, and her mother will serve her favourite foods without knowing it — and Hermione will project her apologies silently, her guilt fading away with every moment that she sees their happiness in this new life, this life she gave them.
And Draco will be there.
She pulls away and twines their fingers together, tugging him down their short hallway with ease. Their bedroom has transformed in the past week — her bluebells still light the windowsill, but the photo she gave him for Christmas sits at his nightstand on top of his familiar journal. Their bedding is rumpled, but not with restlessness and fear, but with passion.
Hermione sheds her blazer, and Draco's fingers rest on her shirt's hem, pulling it gently over her head. She undoes the rest of her hair while he steps out of his robes. They face each other when they are undressed, and Hermione lets her eyes trace over the scars she has become so familiar with, evidence of the war in his Sectumsempra scars and fading Dark Mark.
His fingers are as gentle as they always are over the cursed words on her forearm; Hermione sometimes wonders if wherever Bellatrix Lestrange ended up, she knows her nephew, her own blood, spends his nights curled around her, caressing the word mudblood and proving that it doesn't fucking matter to him, again and again.
"I love you," Hermione whispers. Their room is half-lit with the last of the afternoon sun, and Draco's eyes gleam almost silver. She pulls him down on top of her, letting his weight settle onto her skin. If only she had known that this awaited her — that all those years of pain and blood would end in this.
Draco kisses her deeply, his hands roaming up and down her body. He presses gentle fingers against her thighs and pushes them apart so that he is cradled between them. Hermione instinctively wraps her ankles around him, locking him in place.
"I'm going to give you everything, witch," Draco murmurs into her ear. Hermione's breath catches on a moan when one of his palms snags her breast, and he rolls clever fingers over her nipple until it's pebbled with desire. She's burning at her core, but Draco is unhurried.
He moves down her body with ease, pausing at her breasts to pay them attention, and Hermione barely recognizes the throaty cries emanating from her mouth. He kisses her hipbones and lets his tongue run from her navel down, down, down.
Draco teases endlessly, sucking and blowing cool air onto her clit in turns until she's writhing in pleasure. He pins her in place and licks at her in earnest, letting one hand join in and curling two fingers into her at the same time.
Draco raises his head for a moment when she feels like she might explode. His eyes are burning. "Come for me," he commands, the words imprinting onto her skin.
Hermione can do nothing but obey, and when he lowers his mouth to her again, she breaks apart with his name on her lips. He doesn't stop, even when she's overstimulated and gasping, only moves back up her body in turns.
She snakes her hand down and grasps at his cock, rewarded with his choked gasp. She directs him to her center, and he presses into her slowly, savouring every moment.
It's slow — they've made love now multiple times, and Draco is always considerate, but this is new. He watches her as though he's seen nothing like her before, and she forces herself to slow down and stare back. He murmurs words into her skin, and though she doesn't hear most of them, she knows what he's saying, anyway.
He bottoms out and pauses; their combined breath is gasping in the silence of the room.
She squeezes her thighs against his hips, "God, Draco, move."
He trails his hands down her arms until he finds her wrists, and then pins her to the bed. He moves excruciatingly slowly, sliding in and out of her as though he has all the time in the world — and he does, she supposes.
Hermione can feel heat pooling in her navel again, and she whines when he releases one of her wrists to snake his own fingers down to her clit. His thumb presses firmly and Hermione nearly chokes on pleasure — and finally, finally, he moves, rubbing his thumb in tandem with his hips snapping against hers.
"Fuck, Hermione," he pants. "Fuck."
She's beyond words, and with no warning she feels herself spiral off the edge, clamping down on him as she orgasms. Draco is hot on her heels and follows her down, her own name echoing off his lips.
They lay in a heap, sweaty and sticky together. Draco is still puffing against her neck, holding most of his weight on his arms so he doesn't squish her. Hermione wouldn't mind — thinks she would somehow sink further into the mattress and become one with him.
He eventually rolls over, grabs his wand from his nightstand, and cleans them both off with a quick charm. Draco gathers her up easily in his arms and she settles against his chest, the metronome of his heartbeat steady and reassuring.
"Hermione, do you…" Draco trails off slowly, and Hermione blinks her eyes open. It's not like him to leave a question unfinished, and her curiosity is piqued.
"What?"
Draco shrugs; it's awkward because she's half on the shoulder and it squishes her face into his neck. She almost laughs but holds it back at the last second, because she desperately doesn't want him to think she's laughing at him.
"You said once you had to find a loophole within the year." Draco finally says. It's low and soft, and absolutely not a question. Hermione forces herself not to go stiff. She knows exactly what he's talking about, and she's not ready to give any answers. Not even sure if she knows what her answers could be, because it's not that she hasn't thought about children. She thinks about it every time she sees Ginny resting a hand on her stomach.
"I did," she whispers.
Draco lets the silence wash over them, and Hermione relaxes incrementally. His voice, when it comes, is so gentle she can feel tears prick at her eyes again.
"I'm not in a rush, Granger," he says. "I just… wanted you to know that the thought isn't terrible."
She lets herself picture it, in the way she never could with Ron. She imagines tiny blonde children with serious grey eyes. Imagines Draco learning how to be something he never had; can picture how patient and tender and kind he would be, the same he is with her.
Hermione imagines how children could soothe their still-aching wounds from the war; pictures tiny people who have never seen hatred and cruelty and death running around in innocence, lighting up with a curiosity for the world, the way Hermione had when she was young.
She imagines how far she would go so they never had to see it — imagines the love she has for her parents, for Harry and Ron, for Draco, and multiplies it infinitely in her brain, and wonders if her heart has the capacity to risk that kind of pain and love anymore.
"I don't need an answer," Draco says, continuing as though she hasn't been leaving him in silence. "I just wanted to tell you."
"Okay," she says hoarsely. "I'll… I'll think about it."