A/N: Hi folks! This has been a ride. I began writing this story in November of 2020 after a friend introduced me to the world of Dramione. What I expected to be a 50k story ended up being over 170k words, and I have loved every minute of it. Thank you to the kind readers who followed along, gave me reviews and comments filled with encouragement, and generally been the best readers I could hope for. This story is now complete, and I *hope* it wraps up satisfactorily for you all; however, I AM intending to write a few timestamps for some of the more 'ensemble' characters who we might still have questions about (cough *Astoria* cough). Drop me a review if you enjoyed "Remember Us As War", and thank you for your support :)
Wednesday, January 26th
"There's nothing good that comes out of war. It's simply hell on earth, and people survive, and people don't." - Michael Cimino
Hermione awakens in St. Mungo's. It's easy to identify it; soft white walls and antiseptic smells, gentle voices, and muffled crying. All hospitals, muggle or magic, have the same feeling of dreadful hope.
By all rights, Hermione thinks she should feel like she was beaten within an inch of her life, and yet she feels fine. Tired, perhaps, and she can feel her fingers trembling on top of the white sheets, but there's no pain.
She pulls the sheet up and looks at her lower body. Her one leg is bandaged, but straight once again. Her abdomen looks as though the slicing hex never happened, other than a thin, pale scar.
"Magic," Hermione murmurs. It will never stop being amazing.
The only real surprise is that her hospital room is empty. There are flowers on top of the dresser, and a familiar coat draped over the chair, so she knows that Draco's been here, but she can't imagine where he might have gone.
Despite her logical brain, Hermione can feel panic swelling; her heart thunders in her chest, and her breathing becomes choppy. Flashes of the battle fill her mind — from the Battle of Hogwarts, and Greyback crouched over students, muzzle dripping with blood — to the sight of Hawksworth begging for his life, and her leg snapping out away from her knee; Hermione is no stranger to trauma, but even her incessant need to know more about it doesn't stop her panic.
A Healer slams open the door and walks in, taking in the sight of her. She casts a diagnostic spell and watches it as it hangs in the air.
"Shhh," The Healer murmurs. "You're fine. You're okay. You're at St. Mungo's. My name is Vivienne."
Healer Vivienne summons a small bottle and unstoppers it. Hermione shakes her head; she desperately doesn't want to fall asleep.
"It's just a calming draught," she explains. "It won't put you to sleep."
Vivienne sets it into Hermione's hand, and she gulps it down. After seconds that drag like hours, she regains control of her body. Embarrassment takes the place of her panic, and Hermione covers her eyes with trembling fingers.
Healer Vivienne's fingers are cool and gentle against her wrist. "Mrs. Malfoy," she says softly. "Please relax."
"I'm sorry," Hermione gasps. The Healer grips her wrist firmly, but not painfully. She lowers it slowly until Hermione has no choice but to stare into her face. Vivienne's got kind blue eyes, and Hermione focuses on that.
"Please don't be sorry," Healer Vivienne murmurs. "I've seen this every day for the last three years. There's been so much fighting and loss in the Wizarding World, it would be a shock if you didn't have some sort of trauma. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
Hermione swallows and forces herself to breathe; after what feels like ages, she squeaks, "I'm okay. I'm okay."
Healer Vivienne smiles at her. "You are okay, or you will be. You've been unconscious for nearly four days, Mrs. Malfoy. You had extensive damage to your left leg, most of which has now been repaired, though you can still expect to limp for a while. More concerning was the trauma to your brain. I've been informed that you have experienced the cruciatus before?"
"Yes," Hermione whispers. Memories of Bellatrix blend with newer memories of Dolohov, their wands aimed at her.
"Then you understand the side effects. You had a serious intracranial hematoma, a brain bleed. It took us a while to stabilize you. To be honest, we have no idea how the damage wasn't worse. Something out there must have been watching over you."
Hermione swallows hard, her eyes flickering down to her bare wrist where her bracelet usually sits. She remembers Draco saying there had been nothing to show it would offer protections — but there is no other explanation.
"But… I'm okay?" She asks, after a long moment.
"You're going to be just fine," the Healer assures her. "But try to take it easy for a while."
"Thank you," Hermione breathes.
"Don't thank me," the Healer laughs. "Mrs. Malfoy, if I may, I'd actually like to thank you."
Hermione blinks. "What? Why?"
"A lot has happened while you were unconscious," Vivienne explains. "The day after the Diagon March, every witch of wizard of legal age was able to cast their vote for a new Minister of Magic; it was the first time in history we've ever had an elected Minister by the people."
"Who? Who is the Minister?" Hermione demands. A democratic voting practice is already more than she could have ever dreamed of!
"Arthur Weasley, ma'am," The Healer answers.
Shock blossoms within her, followed closely by the strangest feeling of relief. If she could have chosen anyone, Arthur would be incredibly high on her list. He's always been kind, plus, he's familiar with all the convoluted traditions of magic society that always escape her understanding; as well, he genuinely believes Muggles to be valuable and wants to learn from them.
"Are you… serious?" Hermione whispers. "Mr. Weasley… really?"
Healer Vivienne reaches out and takes her trembling hand, squeezing gently. "Truly. And it was a nearly unanimous vote. 97% popularity, I'm told. And you know what the first thing he did was?"
"Demolish the WPG?!" Hermione's voice catches, excitement and relief fighting inside of her. They won!
"Not quite," Vivienne answers. "The first law Minister Weasley put in was the Protection from Discrimination Act. It states that all witches or wizards, regardless of blood or heritage, must be treated with equal dignity and respect, and be afforded the same education and protections of any other individual."
Hermione can't seem to help herself — she bursts into uncontrollable tears, despite the calming draught swimming in her system. Healer Vivienne squeezes her hand over and over, grounding her. She doesn't rush her, and Hermione struggles to decide how she feels. There's a spreading elation; for so long, she has struggled and fought and advocated that muggleborn witches and wizards are just as good as any other. This law is something she always thought she'd have to spend her life fighting for, but now it's here.
She's also furious for the eleven-year-old girl she once was who never had this type of protection from the wizarding world.
"Thank you," Hermione finally chokes out. "Thank you for telling me that."
Healer Vivienne nods, blue eyes looking suspiciously teary as well. "I'm Half-Blood, Mrs. Malfoy. As far as I'm concerned, Minister Weasley is the best thing to happen to our world in the last decade; and somehow I think I have you to thank for that as well."
Hermione shakes her head. "The Wealsey family has always been a remarkable wizarding family. Arthur and Molly welcomed me as their own from the very first moment they heard of me. This is… this is the best possible news I could hope for."
Her door swings open again, and Healer Vivienne straightens up. "I'm so glad I could bring you this news. I'm sure your husband has lots to tell you."
Hermione's eyes stray behind her shoulder to find Draco — and she aches at the nearness of him.
"Thank you, Vivienne," Hermione murmurs. The Healer steps away and exits the room, shutting the door gently behind herself.
Draco steps forward the minute they are alone, settling at her side and pressing gentle fingers to her jaw. Relief and exhaustion seem at home on his face, and Hermione can hardly remember a time when they smiled without worry.
"She told you, then?" He asks. "About Arthur?"
Hermione nods. "And the new discrimination law. I can't wait to read it."
Draco huffs a laugh and leans forward to press gentle lips against her forehead. She closes her eyes at his closeness — if she weren't bound to this damn bed she'd curl against him for possibly the next ten years, content to never move again.
"Granger, you basically wrote it. I lifted most of it directly from your proposal for werewolf rights, and he just changed it to include blood prejudice." Draco says.
"But — but… the werewolves?!" Hermione protests.
Draco smooths his hands down her frizzy hair, and she can hardly bear to imagine what it looks like. "He's already drafting another proposal with Bill. He wants your opinions on it, but safe to say I think you'll be busy."
"I guess I might have to hire on a few people to support 'The Granger Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings' after all," Hermione teases.
Draco grins. "Well, I'm glad I took the time to liaise with him, then. You're officially hired, Granger. Arthur has signed all the contracts to work with your Foundation already."
"Draco! What if I didn't want to do it!? What else did I miss in four days?" Hermione protests. Her head spins with the possibility of consulting directly with the Ministry.
Draco sobers instantly, and Hermione can feel her stomach tangle into knots. It's exactly how she remembers it from the days following the Battle of Hogwarts; somehow, everyone seems to wear the same expression when counting their losses.
"Hawksworth confessed everything under veritaserum." Draco says. "He's lucid most of the time, but he's gone blind in both eyes and has extensive nerve damage from Dolohov's torture. They placed him in St. Mungo's for the rest of his life under high security."
"And what about Dolohov?" Hermione asks, the name like poison on her tongue. Phantom pain seems to echo in her leg, and she wonders if she'll ever escape the sound of it snapping.
Draco winces and looks away. "He's… he's not lucid. I took it too far."
Hermione swallows. She had known, even before asking him. She can still nearly taste the way Draco's cruciatus curse had burnt the air around them in the Ministry. If she hadn't pleaded for him to stop, Dolohov would be dead right now, under the pain of Draco's wand.
Which would have been both a mercy and also something she doesn't want Draco to carry. Even now, she can feel a darkness inside of her from the killing curses she cast; and while she knows they were necessary, she's not entirely sure she'll ever feel as clean as she once did.
"You saved me," Hermione says, because there is simply no other way to get him to forgive himself.
Draco nods once. "I know. I don't regret it."
"And that's why it worked," Hermione whispers. She remembers the way he had said the same to her once after she confessed to killing Greyback.
"Yeah," Draco agrees. He shakes his head as if to disperse the thoughts, and Hermione forms some attempt at a reassuring smile.
"How are the Weasleys?" Hermione asks. "Theo? Cho? Neville?"
"Weasley's are fine. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing St. Mungo's couldn't handle. Neville was scraped up a bit but is all healed. Theo is okay, too. He's back at Nott Manor with Luna."
He falls quiet, and Hermione replays his words. He's missing information.
"Tell me, Draco. Tell me who we've lost." Hermione whispers seriously. "I know you don't want to, but you have to."
He winces and drags her hand into his own, tangling their fingers together. She watches him breathe for a few moments, gathering himself.
"Cho is dead," He says. "Parvati, dead. Dawlish as well. A few others we don't know personally. Quite a few Aurors — some were following orders and got caught in the crossfire, and a few defected to our side and fell. Blaise lost a hand to a dark curse, but he's okay. The curse that Dolohov hit Potter with took most of the hearing in his left ear, but he's alright."
Hermione squeezes his hand so tightly that her bones creak and slams her eyes shut. So much death and pain, and for what?
"Hermione," Draco's voice is soft and intense and incredibly close. She nods, but can't quite answer. His other hand sneaks behind her shoulders, and she's suddenly pressed against his chest, her nose into the warmth of his neck. She clutches at him and tries to imagine a world where it wasn't like this — where her friends grew up without fear, where Tonks and Cho and Remus and Dobby and Narcissa lived.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione finally chokes out. It's not her fault, and she knows that, but there are times in life when there are simply no good words, and that's what she's sorry about.
"Me too," Draco answers.
Friday, January 28th
The bustle of the Burrow is subdued, despite the delicious meal Molly Weasley has served. They speak in quieter voices, and everyone's gaze catches on the scar on Charlie's brow, the limp Hermione has yet to rid herself of, the way Potter subconsciously turns his head so he can hear with his good ear.
The empty chairs beside George and Ron.
"Blaise and Padma got their divorce finalized," George says. His eyes are bloodshot, and he's unconsciously bouncing his leg under the table. Despite this, he's drinking water, and Hermione doesn't know if she's ever been more proud of him.
"Same with Dean Thomas and Katie Bell," Draco answers. "Theo said Luna will be printing that in Monday's Quibbler edition, along with any other divorces from these past few days. The numbers are starting to add up, and it's only week one."
Mrs. Weasley nods, "Yes, Arthur was saying they've granted more divorces in the last week than in the last four decades."
"It's true," Percy agrees. "We've also been dealing with an abundance of pregnancies, and many of them unwanted — the parents followed the WPG and now they are stuck with an impossible situation. Do you remember Marietta Edgecomb? She and Michael Corner are in such a situation."
"That's terrible," Ginny murmurs, her hand resting on her slowly growing belly. She's sitting beside Harry again; her ire at being banned from the March had faded upon learning what actually happened and the danger her family was in. There was simply no room for anger when faced with another war.
"Angelina finally got rid of that snake, Adrian Pucey," George adds. "She's moving off the continent, though. She wrote to me to apologize for leaving. Said she can't bear to stay any longer, after all the loss."
They fall silent, and Hermione sips at the pumpkin juice in front of her. Cho's upcoming funeral is heavy on their minds, but so is Parvati, whose funeral they had held only the day prior. Padma had been a walking ghost at the event, and George had directed her into her seat gently. Her hand had been nearly white-knuckled as she gripped his sleeve.
She hadn't left George's flat since, other than to sign off on her and Blaise's divorce.
"How is Padma?" Ron asks. He's obviously been thinking along the same lines as Hermione.
George sighs. "She's alright. I think she's going to stay with me for a while. I have a spare room, and her parents have already left again for their house in France. Can't bear to stay here, and I don't blame them."
"George, are you sure?" Molly murmurs. "Are you sure you're okay with her staying?"
A curious expression flickers across George's face, but he nods slowly. "Yeah, mum. It's nice, I suppose, to have someone there. I got used to that with Parvati. And Padma understands. I wish she didn't —" he chokes briefly, then clears his throat. "I wish she didn't understand what it's like… but she does. And so maybe we're good for each other in that way."
Molly glances away, tears filling her eyes. Hermione can't even imagine how difficult it might be to watch your children go through this. It's the only comfort she has from obliviating her parents; at least they don't have to see this. They don't have to look at her; with her new limp, scars down her sides, and trembling fingers. She isn't the little girl they sent to Hogwarts anymore.
"When are you getting your divorce, Ron?" Arthur asks quietly. It's the question that's been on everyone's mind, but Hermione's not surprised that Arthur was the one who broached the topic.
Ron scowls. "I think I'll discuss that option with my wife when she wakes up."
"Ron, be serious—"
"Mum, I am serious," Ron interrupts. "This is a decision between Hannah and myself."
Molly purses her lips. "I understand that, dear, I really do. But don't you want—"
"What I want, Mum, is for Hannah to wake up," Ron says seriously. "And when she does — because she will — I will be there. Just because the WPG forced this marriage on us doesn't mean she isn't my friend. I'm going to be there when she wakes up, and we will decide what is best for both of us, then."
Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. She's so fucking proud of her friends — of all of them, really.
"Of course," Molly answers after a moment. "Of course, you're right, Ron. I'm sorry."
The fight fades from Ron's eyes and he slumps. "It's okay, mum. It's hard, I know. But I'm in no rush for the divorce, and Hannah's Healers have been saying there's been more brain activity recently. So I'm okay with waiting. It's only been a week since the WPG ended, anyways."
Hermione watches as Ginny sends her brother an approving smile — for so long Ron has been known for his temper and impatience; now, he has been forged by trauma and strategy, and he's grown used to sitting silently at Hannah's hospital bed and telling her stories.
As always, Hermione is proud of him; but how she wishes this maturity hadn't been forced upon them.
"What about Charlie?" Ginny asks. Charlie had returned to Romania quickly after the March, leaving them behind. He had plans to return the following week, but Hermione hadn't even seen him since before everything happened.
Molly's eyes flicker towards the stairs as if waiting for Astoria to appear from where she has closed herself in her room. The silence is thick, and Hermione can't understand why Molly is hesitating.
"Charlie is… not in a rush, for now," Molly says. "And neither is Astoria. I'm sure that they will… separate soon."
Ron and George wear identical scowls at the answer, but Hermione can't quite parse why Molly is obviously hedging. There's something she's not telling them.
Hermione opens her mouth to demand answers, but Draco's hand is suddenly squeezing her knee. She glances at him with narrowed eyes and he shakes his head imperceptibly.
"My sister would rather stay with me for now, I'm sure," Daphne announces. "My father and Astoria don't always see eye to eye."
"Understatement," Percy mutters, and Daphne swats him with the back of her hand, fondness radiating from her. It's obvious the two have no inclination to divorce, and Hermione is happy to see at least one couple in the Weasley family that was brought together by the nightmarish past few months.
"So, Hermione," Arthur says, drawing the conversation away from divorce. "I heard you have some news to share with us!"
Hermione grins. "I do! As you all know, I've been working with Mr. Weasley on some newly drafted laws for the Wizengamot to look at. Draco has been pestering me to hire some extra help now that we're so busy, so I've actually been writing to Professor Grubbly-Plank to assist with writing a few of the proposals for magical creatures!"
"And…?" Draco prompts, a knowing glint in his eyes. He's been nothing short of miraculous — listening to her recite paragraphs of legal jargon with excitement, and offering actual useful suggestions. As much as she loves Ron, it's so easy to see how they didn't fit together now; each day Draco astounds her with the way he smooths her edges, and she his.
"And — and! I've convinced Juney to take on a part-time role as a consultant for house-elves." Hermione declares.
Draco rolls his eyes. "Juney was devastated."
Hermione waves his words away. "She was fine after I explained we weren't firing her!"
Ron covers his chuckle poorly with a cough, and even Harry looks suspiciously like he's trying not to laugh, but Hermione ignores them.
"And! I also hired Alicia Spinnet — do you remember her from school? — to help with some administration," Hermione finishes.
Harry shakes his head fondly. "Of course we remember Alicia. That's brilliant, Hermione."
"Yeah," Ron agrees heartily, "Always knew you'd change the world, 'Mione."
Hermione blushes at the praise and glances at Arthur. "Well, your dad has been brilliant as Minister. He's basically doing all the work—"
"No," Arthur Weasley interrupts, firm but kind. "Absolutely not. It is all of you who are changing this world into something better. I'm so incredibly proud to be your father and your friend."
Molly beams at her husband's words and nods. "It's true. Arthur and I have been blessed with a large family that we love — and I include everyone in this house in that sentiment, red hair or not."
Hermione's hardly able to swallow down her tears at their words, and she isn't the only one. Daphne, wiping at her eyes and smiling at her husband. Harry, arm wrapped around Ginny's shoulders, sitting amongst the only family he's ever known. Draco, who rolls his eyes but cannot disguise the fondness in his expression, or the way his fingers tangle in her own.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione sees movement, and she glances towards the stairs to come face to face with Astoria — who has a deceptively calm expression on her face.
"'Stori!" Daphne says, "Come join us. Molly made a feast."
Astoria looks to Molly, but Mrs. Weasley is already waving her wand and summoning a new plate from the cupboards. It floats down to rest on the empty spot beside George.
"Oh, it's fine, I can just go—"
"Nonsense," Molly interrupts. "Come eat. We'd love to have you."
Hermione watches as Astoria glances around, whether for someone to tell her she's not allowed, or to save her, she's not sure. But eventually, Astoria walks to the table and sits down between George and Daphne. She's pale and thinner than Hermione had seen her at Christmas, looking almost sickly, but she reaches forward to take a homemade bun, a smile playing at the edges of her lips.
"Granger, eat your food," Draco says quietly.
Hermione turns to him — and she's as surprised as she always is that he is hers and they are safe. Her ring feels as comforting on her finger as her bracelet does on her wrist, back where they rightfully belong.
She doesn't even answer, just smiles at him softly. There are some sentiments that don't require words, though, and this is one. She takes a large bite of her potatoes and he tries to hide a genuine smile at her actions. His palm is heavy and grounding on her thigh, and she loves, loves, loves him.
Sunday, January 30th
Hermione is sitting on their back patio where Draco has placed an illegal temperature charm. Despite softly falling snow, she is warm and dry, wrapped up in a large sweater. Her steaming cup of tea warms her fingers, and she gazes out over the backyard of their cottage.
She's considering applying for an expansion allowance for her cottage from the Ministry. She's thought about it before, when she first purchased the cottage, but had never pursued it since the cottage was protected by a fidelius, and she wasn't willing to let anyone in. Back then, she had dreamed of an entire room filled with books, and a single chair for her to read in; now, though, her dreams are shaping slightly different images. She thinks about twin oak desks, situated amongst books and soft couches; a place where she can work alongside Draco, but also where they can fall together into comfort. Another place to be safe. Another place to grow together.
She also has the good fortune to know the Minister exceptionally well — she would be comfortable giving Arthur the location of the cottage, and Harry already knows it, so the two of them alone could grant the expansion.
The door opens behind her, and she doesn't even flinch when large palms rest on her shoulders and a warm press of lips hit her hair.
"Enjoying our illegal spell, Granger?" Draco asks, plopping into the chair beside her. He looks devilishly handsome, and it tempts Hermione to forgo her chair altogether for his lap.
"I enjoy most of our illegal spells," Hermione retorts, "including many of the warding spells I put on the cottage myself."
Draco grins, "Don't forget the undetectable extension charm you placed on your trunk."
She rolls her eyes but can't help the laugh that spills out. It feels nice to be with him without the shadow of doom around them. From the very first moment she received the WPG letter, with his name spelled out in curling print, Hermione hasn't been truly able to relax.
Now, though, she knows he is here because he wants to be, and she wants him here. Now, their marriage is as real as any other in every sense — there is no WPG binding them, no laws demanding children or marriage or obedience.
There is only them.
So Hermione stands from her chair and takes the three steps to where he sits. She slides into his lap, and he brings his arms up to cradle her. She frames his face with her fingers, and even though they tremble and shake almost incessantly these days, she doesn't let it distract her. The shakes and scars and limp she now lives with are proof that she did exactly that — she lived.
She presses a soft kiss to his lips and drags her fingers into white-blonde locks. Draco's hands trace up her spine, and they luxuriate in the feeling of time.
She pulls away only to whisper her lips across his jaw, and his hands frame her rib cage, dragging up her oversized sweater until he can feel her warm skin underneath. Hermione digs her own hands into his shoulders, and rocks herself gently on his lap, exactly how she knows he likes it.
Draco groans, flopping his head backwards. Hermione places love bites down his now-exposed neck, and when she reaches the juncture of his shoulder, rocking her hips back and forth as she goes, Draco stands abruptly.
She scrabbles at his shoulder, but he's got both hands under her solidly. He slams their back door open, her tea forgotten on their table. He presses her into the door of their bedroom, inconveniently closed.
"Granger—" Draco rasps, letting her go until her feet find the floor. He sounds as wrecked as she feels. She finds the buttons of his shirt and deftly unbuttons them, and he interrupts her by dragging the sweater over her head.
When he's done, he steps back, admiring the way she stands there in only her underthings. She opens the doorknob behind her and slides inside, very purposefully swinging her hips as she heads towards their bed.
He follows her — as he has always promised he would.
They crash together on their sheets, and Hermione gasps his name as he kisses down her ribs, exactly where the thin white scar still shows. His other palm is rough and warm on her inner thigh, and he ghosts his fingers over exactly where she wants him to touch, and Hermione whines.
"So impatient," Draco murmurs, lips dragging against her navel on their downward destination. She can't quite summon an answer before he reaches her center, and when he licks at her, every sentence she's ever known leaves her head.
Her fingers are gentle in his hair, but she is nearly writhing beneath his ministrations, on the cusp of release. Every time she thinks she is going over, he pulls away, finding new sensitive and ticklish spots on her knees, her thighs, her hips.
"Draco," she breathes, "please."
He hums against her, but her pleading has worked, because suddenly he is nearly face to face, silver eyes all at once tender and intense. She drags her calves over his hips and digs her heels in, forcing him to exhale in shock as he sinks deeply into her.
They moan as one, and it feels like eternities and seconds pass before he pulls out, the drag intensely erotic.
"Fuck," Draco sighs into her neck.
Hermione clenches down around him, just to hear his breathing go shaky, and presses her lips to the shell of his ear. "I love you," she murmurs because she knows it drives him wild.
He wraps his arms around her, dragging her body over his as he turns. She's staring down at him, and she lets her hips rock experimentally against him. Draco slams his eyes shut, biting at his lower lip.
She drags her nails gently down his chest, catching on his nipples. His eyes fly open again, taking her all in.
It's only then that she realizes she's not nervous — there is no part of her he hasn't seen, nothing he doesn't love. He knows her scars and her shakes and her fears and her bravery — he knows her, and he loves her.
So she throws her head back, and he reaches to where they are joined, thumb flickering up and down until she is gasping and rocking against him; only when she cries out his name does he drag her down to press their chests together, thrusting a few more times until he comes with her name on his lips.
After her pulse returns to normal and Draco has cast a cleansing spell, Hermione allows herself to curl up against him. They rest like this, soaking in the afternoon sun. She's got her head resting over his heartbeat, and he's playing with a curl aimlessly.
"I have an idea," Draco says eventually, his voice soft in the stillness of their afternoon. Hermione is almost asleep, but she blinks her eyes open at his words.
"I love your ideas," she murmurs teasingly, thinking of the lovebites on her skin and the heat still suffused in her veins.
He laughs briefly, and her smile curves into his skin. "I'm serious, Granger."
She sits up slowly, pulling the sheet up enough to cover herself. His gaze invariably dips down to her chest, even though he's only just seen her naked.
"Tell me your idea, then." She prompts. Draco's eyes return to hers but skitter away quickly, and Hermione realizes he's actually nervous about whatever he's trying to say.
"I've been thinking about Marietta Edgecomb." Draco blurts.
Hermione blinks. "Okay?"
Draco sits up, closing the distance between them. "Well, she's pregnant, right? And she's not the only one, Percy said. There are so many pregnancies resulting from the WPG, and lots of those matches are divorcing, right?"
Hermione nods slowly. "Yes?"
"Hermione, so many of those witches and wizards didn't want a family yet. The WPG forced into it them," Draco says. "And some of them want the kids now, I know. And lots of divorcing couples want shared custody. But Marietta… well, she doesn't, and neither does Michael, right?"
"You want to take their baby?" Hermione asks, frowning. It's not the worst idea, and she's coming around to the idea of children, but she's just not sure if it's the right time.
"No," Draco shakes his head. "No. I mean, sure, if you wanted to, we could, but that's not what I was thinking."
Hermione tilts her head — it's so rare that she doesn't follow the train of conversation that she can feel herself scowling at this unknown.
Draco sighs. "Listen, Granger. I've got this giant Manor that I have no intention of living in ever again. You hate it, and I can't sort out my good memories from my bad. But my Aunt Andromeda is barely scraping by living in her tiny flat with Teddy, and she's technically a Black."
Understanding crashes into Hermione like lightning, and she can almost feel the press of her heart expanding into her ribcage. "You want Andromeda and Teddy to move into the Manor?"
"Yes," Draco nods decisively. "And I thought maybe I could open the Manor up to the orphans from the war. Teddy can't be the only one. It's large enough, we could convert an entire wing into a wizarding orphanage, and I could hire staff—"
"Hannah," Hermione interrupts suddenly.
Draco blinks. "What?"
"Hannah loves children. She always wanted a big family, and once she wakes up, she'd jump at this chance. Ron said she's interested in becoming a Healer, but she could take courses and look after the children." Hermione explains.
Draco nods. "Yeah… yeah, that's a good idea."
"I'll tell Ron to tell her," Hermione says. "He told me he talks to her when he visits her. Tells her about what is happening now after the WPG. How if they want a divorce they could get one, but he's waiting for her to wake up to decide. Maybe this would be something she'd wake up for."
"Then we'll do it," Draco decides. "I'll ask Arthur to grant some licensing, and we'll open the first Wizarding Orphanage in Britain. It gives Marietta and other witches in her situation an option, at least."
Hermione leans forward and presses her forehead to his. Her heart is so full it could burst, and the feeling slowly pushes away some of the grief and horror she has been mired in.
"I love you, Draco Malfoy," she whispers. "This is a really good idea. I'm so proud of you."
He swallows audibly and snakes his arms around her to pull her into his lap again. He takes a moment to gather his words, but Hermione doesn't mind. She rests her head against his and soaks up his warmth and devotion. She's spent her entire life trying to feel like she belongs somewhere, to be good enough — but with Draco, she doesn't have to try.
"Everything inside of me that is worthy of anything," Draco whispers, serious and determined, and so very genuine. "Began with you, Hermione."
He presses a gentle palm against her jaw, as though she is spun from the most delicate glass, and Hermione drags her fingers up his skin, her ring twinkling from her hand. Draco leans in and kisses her, and Hermione presses forward until she cannot tell where she begins or ends, because it is only them, always them, together.
Saturday, February 5th
They bury Cho on the Nott Manor property. Luna plants astrantia, verbena, and zinnias all around her grave as symbols of her unwavering bravery, friendship, and strength. Minister for Magic, Arthur Weasley, presents her with a post-mortem Order of Merlin First Class for her role in the Diagon March, which her parents collect in tears.
It is Harry Potter, though, who swallows his discomfort for the spotlight and speaks at her funeral. His words, recorded by Luna, are shared through the Quibbler and Daily Prophet over and over for the following months.
"Cho Chang was one of the strongest witches I've had the pleasure of knowing. She was a good friend, an invaluable ally, and a young woman who knew the pain of loss from a young age. I'm sorry to say, that like so many of us here today, she never had the chance to know peace." Harry says, his voice echoing over the peaceful grounds.
Hermione glances around at the small group. There isn't a dry eye in the crowd. She can see Thestrals grazing in the distance, and she knows they are visible to every last witch and wizard in attendance.
"Please join me," Harry invites. He brandishes his wand and conjures a peace lily. Hermione follows his lead, and soon the entire funeral is holding pure white peace lilies. They all let their flowers drop, and watch them float gracefully down to rest on the mahogany casket in the ground.
"For Cho. May you have the peace that you always deserved and never received." Harry says. "Please do not remember us as war; but as forgiveness, as hope, and as loyalty that never wavers and friendship that never fails. We will always remember you the same. Rest in peace."