Hi everyone, hope you're having a lovely holiday season. Thank you for all your reviews, they really make my day!

ALSO I just realised my scene breaks weren't showing up so I'll be going back and fixing that. Thank you for your patience!

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Hermione caught up with Harry before he reached the front door. The reverse silencing charm still in place, it was impossible to know whether the buzz outside had died down. It seemed unlikely since the Boy Who Lived had spent the past hour or so there, but one could hope for breaking news that would send the reporters scrambling over each other — and more importantly, away from their doorstep — for the scoop.

"Harry, before you go… Do you think you'd speak to Ron for me?"

"Don't get me wrong, I want you two to reconnect more than anyone, but I've no desire to be a middleman. I'll give you his address," he said, summoning a quill and parchment from the pockets of his robes. Harry scribbled the information down, squinted at his atrocious handwriting, and extended it to her.

"Thanks," she nodded, accepting the proffered parchment. "It's not that I don't want to see him; it's just that I don't know where to start. I need to apologise, of course, and I want to hear everything that's happened since I've been gone. But I also want to ask him to look into Narcissa's murder. And I'm not sure it'll go over well."

"Like I said, Ron works for the Ministry, but he's not drinking the pumpkin juice. Plus, it's you, Hermione."

She picked at her nails. "Yes, but I'm asking for Draco."

For us, she wanted to say.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the soft hem of his sleeve. "Maybe don't call him Draco to Ron's face right away," he laughed. "Why don't you start with an owl? Knowing Malfoy I'm sure there's an owlery on the roof of this place. An owl for every occasion."

Hermione grinned. "You think Pureblood families breed owls for the specific purpose of imparting things like 'Sorry I've lied to you and avoided you, but now I need your help' with the proper aplomb?"

"'Course not. They don't apologise," Harry joked. Her smile faded and Hermione couldn't muster even a hollow laugh. Draco apologised, and she'd already begun seeing him in a new light. It hurt to hear traces of the Ministry's propaganda had nested in Harry's mind and flown forth from his lips. Their subtle assault on the remaining Purebloods must have crept in so slowly if even Harry Potter, who knew full well blood status didn't make the witch or wizard, didn't realise his microaggressions.

There was an awkward shuffling of feet, the indelicate chewing of lips.

"I'm sorry, that was wrong of me."

"No, I'm sorry, Harry. I've let you down. I've let everyone down."

It would be easy to think that if she'd been here, things would be different. That she, surely, would not be in the cauldron with all the other frogs, slowly boiling to death. If she'd stayed at the Ministry, would she have felt the same as so many others? Certainly, revenge appealed. She'd been on the receiving end of vast emotional and physical pain inflicted by Death Eaters and Purebloods, and so had many others. Too many.

But, as the saying goes, when seeking revenge, one should dig two graves. And she'd already dug enough graves in her lifetime.

"You haven't, and you never will," he paused, glancing down the hall, and Hermione glimpsed platinum hair in the reflection of Harry's glasses. "Don't make him a project, Hermione."

"What?"

He lowered his voice so that only she could hear. "If you care for him, don't try to solve his problems behind his back. Work with him."

She'd barely recovered when Draco appeared at her side. "Hermione? Are you alright?"

"Of course," she scrambled. "Only sad that Harry's leaving so soon."

"Would you care to join us for dinner this evening?" Draco asked Harry. His open stance and relaxed shoulders told her it was a genuine offer and not extended out of politeness.

Harry took the shock in stride. "I couldn't impose, plus I've got a new little one at home."

"I saw the news. Congratulations. Perhaps another time."

"I'd like that," Harry said, meeting his old adversary's eyes. "It's been a pleasure, Malfoys."

"Potter," Draco said, stopping Harry in his tracks. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I'll take good care of her."

Harry turned a bright grin on Hermione that couldn't have been captured even by the Deluminator. "Didn't even need the speech," he crowed.

Draco looked at his wife, a confused expression on his face.

"I can take care of myself," Hermione protested.

"You can," her husband agreed. Harry, examining the wards, likely to make sure he could exit in one piece, didn't see Draco lean in close and whisper in her ear. "But I'll endeavour to do it so much better than you could on your own."

"I'll see you both at the ball," Harry said in lieu of a formal farewell. Hermione pulled Draco towards her so they could hide behind the door as he opened and shut it, flashbulbs going off again but only capturing images of the flat. She found herself pressed against his chest, reminiscent of the photo in today's paper. Her breath hitched as he pulled her even closer, the crown of her head tucked under his chin.

The moment had passed, but Draco didn't let go. Heat suffused her entire body, and she melted into him, breathing in his soothing lavender scent.

"I take it you aren't ready to face the public?" His words rumbled through his chest and into hers. She shifted so her cheek could rest between his shoulder and neck, her lips close enough to taste the salt of his skin. It took all her willpower not to take a lick.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," she admitted. He let go of her, and she stepped away, rubbing her arms over the ghost of where his own had held her only moments ago. "But I don't think putting it off will help matters. May as well ride the wave of goodwill."

"Let's go out to dinner, then. I'll ask Pansy for a recommendation. Maybe we can get an appointment with Patil beforehand."

She thought back to her pre-dawn vigils; wiping her mother's brow, the small whimper emerging from Judy's dry lips as the cool cloth met her crepey skin. Wendell, without the flush from alcohol, resembled a wax mannequin displayed in a tourist trap, a crude imitation of her father. The Dreamless Sleep kept the worst at bay, but for how long? Her parents couldn't afford for her to delay. She'd owl Padma immediately, and maybe after dinner compose a long letter to Ron.

"Do you have an owl, by chance?"

"I have a few. What's the occasion?"

She couldn't help her laughter.

00000

Hermione wrangled her hair into something resembling a French twist. As she appraised her effort, Draco approached, and when she let him through her wards all thoughts of a fourth attempt at the hairstyle fled from her mind.

She tried too hard. She always had. Where her sleeves sat just so, kissing her carpal bones, his perched at the top of his forearms, rolled and slightly wrinkled. His wand lay securely in the leather holster, ready at a moment's notice. A charcoal grey cable knit vest and black trousers completed the look. She thought she saw him flex, but couldn't be sure.

"I thought a more casual look would be best," he said, interrupting her thoughts. "But you look absolutely —"

"You're right, it's too much," she confirmed with the mirror. She reached around to her back to unzip the chestnut-hued boatneck dress, but with one arm bandaged and the other much less flexible, she struggled to locate the pull.

Draco stepped behind her and brushed her hand away. "Allow me," he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His mouth quirked up. "Wouldn't want to have to vanish this one."

Hermione held her breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the man as he unzipped her dress, the blonde hair falling over his face and the slow glide of separating metal teeth never distracting him from their locked gaze. Draco held the dress together, although whether it was to preserve her modesty or keep her close, she didn't know.

"Thank you."

His breath on her neck gave her goosebumps. "My pleasure. Before you cut me off, I was going to say you look absolutely beautiful in this. But you don't seem comfortable."

Heat crept over her face at his genuine compliment. "Right. And we've been married a long time now. We should look a bit more… broken in."

He still hadn't moved his hand. And although it couldn't have been any effort at all, his fingers twitched, grazing the lace of her bra clasp. "Perhaps a little more undone?"

They looked at each other in the mirror, neither moving, barely blinking.

"I've got it," she assured him over her shoulder. The words emerged weaker than she intended. His eyes held bright galaxies up close, and Hermione, no astronaut, looked away as he relinquished the sides of the dress into her care. "I'll pick something else."

"Whatever you like," His voice cracked. How was he still so near, but so much more remote than just a moment ago? "I'll meet you at the front door?"

She tried not to watch him leave, but it was futile. No one can resist wishing on a shooting star.

00000

Draco stood in the fading light, twirling his signet ring around his finger. Next, he adjusted his wristwatch. Then he tucked his hands into his pockets and back out again. Though he was sweating, he resisted the urge to wipe his palms on his trousers like some sort of cretin, instead casting drying charms. He'd just had his hands on her, again, albeit through fabric.

Gods, he didn't even have to touch her skin. He craved her at every turn, in every state of dress.

She thought she'd done too much, but the truth was he was too far gone.

Yes, he wanted to be friends with his wife, but that was at a minimum. As much as it stirred his blood to spar with her, it exhausted him to fight like kneazles and crups. But every time Draco convinced himself they'd finally reached that point where a truce made the most sense, he wanted more. Could he allow himself more? Would she allow it?

If only she knew he'd thought of letting go of her dress. Maybe he'd have played it off as an accident. He could have knelt to the floor to pick it up, and kissed up her legs to the apex of her thighs. Or he could've summoned his confidence and smirked at her — so much easier to do when they were angry at each other — and let her in on the fact that he'd done it on purpose.

He wandered, as he often did, over to the picture of his mother. She'd eschewed traditional magical portraits since even before the war, afraid that in death she might give something away that might harm her family. He wished now he could've convinced her to sit for one.

The black and white portrait didn't showcase how powerful she'd been in living colour, but she was the definition of serenity and elegance. Draco remembered struggling with the Muggle camera, traipsing through the Manor's gardens to capture his mother in action, rose petals and laughter trailing in her wake. Finally they'd come to the fountain, surrounded by all the bushes and vines she'd planted over the years, and she sat on the edge. She'd tucked her greying hair behind her ears, held the bouquet to her nose and breathed in, her diamond earrings winking in the light. It was the perfect shot.

Astoria developed the film at something called a Muggle chemist, which carried everything from crisps to newspapers and, much to his delight, scented bubble bath — although it wasn't up to snuff, as far as he was concerned. She'd brought the photo back and given it to Narcissa, who'd taken one look at it and swept Astoria into her arms.

At least that was how he remembered it happening. But now he began to doubt himself. His brain set new backdrops, new costuming for them all. Astoria, in sunny yellow, at tea. His mother, in a silver gown, after a decadent dinner in the refurbished dining room. Himself, all in black, staring at a single rose on a closed, empty coffin.

His focus fell to pieces as Hermione gently wrapped her arm around his waist, as if he was a hippogriff that might spook.

"This photo was one of the first things I saw when I got here."

"She'd changed, Hermione. She really had." He pulled at his collar. Damn thing was choking him.

"You both did. I believe that now."

"We never should have done the things we did. I regret it," he managed, though the picture in front of him became blurry. "I regret every minute I spent looking at the world through my father's eyes. And I want to be better, but here I am, the war more than a decade behind us, and what have I done? The world at large assumes I'm still carrying a torch for Pureblood supremacy, and I haven't shown them any different."

In fact, he'd let Goyle continue to believe it just the other day. Draco rolled his shoulders, reluctantly breaking away from Hermione's touch. What would she think if she knew he'd stood in front of a mass gathering of Death Eaters the other night, affirming their thirst for vengeance? She wouldn't want to comfort him then.

"You can show them now, Draco."

"And what if they don't believe me?"

They shouldn't believe him. Most of all, she shouldn't believe him. He wanted to tell Hermione everything, but he couldn't confess now. Not when what they had — and they had something, didn't they? — was so fragile.

Hermione patted his shoulder, her hand sliding down his chest. "I'll be right back."

Draco watched her go, noting that she looked much more like herself now. Her hair was down, curls bouncing with each step, and her wrap dress was an unmistakable shade of emerald green. He bemoaned the lack of zipper, but the colour signalled her intent.

She had aligned herself with him.

He wouldn't let her down.

He'd Floo Goyle after dinner and let him know whatever plans he had, he'd better shelve them. And no one should even think about turning their wand on his wife.

Draco tapped two fingers against his wand, snug in its holster. He'd made it himself after a rough night following a rumoured Death Eater. But he'd mixed Pepper-Up with pain relieving potions, and he'd woken up face down in a scummy puddle in an alley surrounded by thugs. His wand, unbeknownst to him, had rolled behind a bin reeking of mouldy chips. The odds had been abysmal, and if it weren't for the bouncer rounding the corner, Draco might be dead. From then on, he was never without the black leather that looped around his waist.

Draco considered himself a formidable opponent in any scenario. Goyle might be more conniving now, but he was still just a lackey who'd stumbled into leadership, chasing after the glory of more daring, sadistic Death Eaters. However, his former friend had numbers. Better to be prepared. Draco made a mental note to get an additional duelling practise with Theo on the books. His stomach dropped, knowing how difficult that would be now that the solicitor avoided him.

Hermione emerged from her bedroom, and he immediately noticed the diamonds in her ears. "I know they're legally mine, but they'll always be hers. And they're so huge, everyone's going to know these are Malfoy diamonds."

And everyone will know I gave them to you, he thought wickedly. Everyone will know you're mine.

She belonged to herself, of course. But the primal urge remained. Draco was more than willing to be hers for as long as she liked.

"They suit you."

"Your mother is one of the reasons we're doing this. Wearing these will keep her front and centre. I think we should be public about the fact that we're looking for her killer because the Aurors didn't do their job."

"Won't that embarrass the Ministry?"

"They should be embarrassed," she said, sticking out her chin. The diamonds flashed as if in agreement with their wearer.

Gods, she was brilliant.

"I couldn't do this without you."

"I know." She cast an array of protection charms over them both.

Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "I think it's customary for you to say you couldn't do this without me, either."

"I know that, too," Hermione smirked.

He laid his hand over the doorknob and looked down at her. "You're getting rather good at this whole 'putting me in my place' thing. Very Lady Malfoy."

She beamed at him. "Someone's got to keep Lord Malfoy in line," But as she said it, a little of her glow faded into a nervous expression. "They'll probably hound us for a kiss."

Draco frowned. Hadn't they come too far for her to fear him? "It's just like the other night. I promise, Hermione, nothing happens without your consent."

He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath, but bugger didn't seem like something she'd say.

"I'll kiss your hand, if that's alright with you," he offered.

"Perfect," she replied, although her tone indicated it was anything but. Therefore it came as a great surprise to Draco when Hermione slipped her hand into his, and indicated he should open the door.

They were instantly met with a wall of light and sound.

"Draco, Hermione, over here!"

"What do you want to tell your adoring fans?"

"Is he holding you captive? Is it a sex thing?"

As the questions continued, Draco found himself squeezing her hand harder and harder, likely cutting off her circulation. His vision swam, and the undulating mass of reporters shifted into a rush of black-robed Death Eaters accosting him in the Greengrass graveyard. He blinked back the fuzziness only to be met with more flashes, more scratching quills.

But Hermione, who'd had far more experience with the hungry press, didn't bat so much as an eye. For all her fire, she could be quite cool under pressure.

"Don't lock your knees," she whispered. "I've got you."

"Hermione, give us something," a rather rotund man with thick-rimmed glasses shouted from the back of the hallway.

"Step aside, please," Hermione brandished her wand, sweeping it back and forth to make a path through the throng, much like a swashbuckling adventurer might hack through a dense tropical jungle. "Make way. We'll pose for a photo on the doorstep."

A witch with bright purple hair wearing combat boots called out to him. "Draco, what's it like being married to Hermione?"

"It's like a dream," he answered, his wife tugging him along. She looked back and flashed him an adoring smile so genuine he'd take it for the real thing.

They led their assailants down the wide square spiral staircase, and when at last they arrived at the front door, Draco's hair was much more tousled than he preferred, and Hermione's cheeks were as bright as a raspberry gelée. His heart raced, likely from the nerves, or perhaps the exertion of running down several flights of stairs in new loafers.

The reporters raced to set up, and although most of the crowd had dissolved by now, the cheers of onlookers sent a thrill up Draco's spine. He'd never received a warm welcome in his life. And despite winter's cold blustering, with Hermione's hand still soft in his, it was like stepping into the sun.

"I still can't believe they're so happy for us," Draco couldn't help his grin.

Hermione grinned back, and if he thought he was in the sunlight before, he looked directly into it now, and found it dazzling beyond compare. He lifted their joined hands, and placing his free hand under them, brought the back of her palm to his lips.

Before he knew what was happening, Hermione got up on her tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck and whispered in his ear. "Well done, you."

He wrapped her in his arms without a second thought. Between her praise, her curls tickling his nose, and her delicious scent — that same sweet honey, now spiced with vanilla — Draco felt he was going a bit mad. His plan, now their plan, was working. He'd convince Goyle to go to ground, and in a few days, he and Hermione would appear at the Solstice Ball, win the Aurors over, and he'd start getting some answers.

And Hermione would go back to Cyclamen, hopefully with her parents, and have their last Christmas as a family. The Grangers, even if they didn't know themselves, were a real family. None of this was real. Everything would go back to the way it was before. He'd have his flat — and his bathtub — to himself. He'd grab a pint with Theo every Thursday night, lingering at the bar long after his friend went home, tracing the rings the frosty glasses left behind. He wouldn't need to worry about wards tearing his bespoke clothes to shreds, or losing miserably at Muggle games, or deciphering the woman staring back at him right now.

But that's what he wanted. Right? Right.

He'd decided. But then she pulled back, her eyes starry and searching, and kissed him right on the lips.