Thanks very much for all the reviews! I really appreciate them and they inspire me to keep going. Happy New Year!
/
She hadn't been able to resist him.
The Muggle phrase that Harry seemed to live by was true. It really was far better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Because Draco Malfoy kissed her back.
At first, their mouths met closed and chaste, and then, as if searching for answers in the bottoms of teacups, they drank from each other again and again.
He surprised her with his gentleness. Instead of an urgent pressing of lips, or an onslaught of tongue, he nudged his nose against hers, never taking what he wanted, only gratefully accepting what she had to give. When she opened her mouth to him, Draco mirrored her movements, his hands tightening at her waist. He tasted like whisky, and his slow siege of her senses made her feel like she'd had a few shots herself. Their kisses had a molten quality about them that softened her all the way to her core, but she needed more. More of this, more of him.
Pretending to be a happily married woman with years of experience emboldened her. Hermione raked her fingers up into his hair, and she swore even amidst the uproar she heard him moan. An overzealous reporter bumped into them, and Draco broke the kiss, holding her closer against his chest, protecting her and burning her up from inside at the same time.
When she opened her eyes, she couldn't bring herself to look up at him. What would she see written on his face? And what would he see on her own?
Delaying the inevitable reveal, Hermione took her husband's hand once more, and he called out the Apparition point nearest to the offices of Padma Patil.
00000
"Healer Zabini is one of the best. I don't see why you need to consult with me."
Padma Patil flicked her kohl-lined eyes over the medical records, the pile slowly decreasing with each tap of her wand. She wore her long black hair in a simple plait, just as she and her sister Parvati had at Hogwarts over a decade ago. The fire crackled behind her, the orange flames throwing light onto the walls plastered with anatomical charts, a large tapestry depicting ancient herbal medicines, and too many diplomas and certificates to count.
"We're simply looking for second opinions," Hermione said. She sipped at a cup of Blaise's soothing tea as her stomach rumbled. They'd waited outside Padma's office in the cold for far longer than she'd expected, avoiding eye contact and making idle small talk about their hopes for the evening's weather. The kiss hid in the silences between them, untouched. But whether it remained so because it was a cursed object or a holy artefact remained to be seen.
Padma finished reading and leaned back in her mustard-coloured velvet chair, ignoring her steaming oolong for the moment. She tapped the pads of her fingers against each other one by one, thumb to pinky and back again — another habit Hermione recognised from their schooldays.
"He's run all the same tests as my team and I would," she affirmed. "And a few we wouldn't have thought of."
"But?"
"But nothing. I've never seen anything like this before, and I've been working with the Auror department for years now. You're lucky to have Healer Zabini invested in your parents' case. I concur with his prognosis."
Hermione sat there, frozen. Speechless. Padma's words set off a chaotic cacophony in her brain, echoing again and again. I concur with his prognosis. I concur with his prognosis. I concur with his prognosis.
Her own thoughts scrambled above the fray, shaky and unconvincing. She could try again, maybe. Consult another specialised Healer, perhaps someone abroad with a different background. But there wasn't enough time, was there?
There might have been a chance. She'd had time. And she'd wasted it.
The prognosis was death.
Draco's voice cut through her inner noise. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. We'll follow Blaise's care plan and hope for the best. I promise you, if there's anything I can do to make their last Christmas special, I'll do it."
Padma raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Her earlier hunger soured to nausea. Everything was a last now. There would be a last for every day of the week. A last meal, a last sharp glance from Judy and a last weary one from Monica. A last pat on the hand from Wendell. An even worse thought churned her stomach — maybe some of the lasts had already happened. One would even happen tonight: Hermione needed to brew their last potions after she and Draco returned that evening.
Even though she'd be relieved to be done with the endless list that encompassed all her parents' care — which admittedly, had been mostly lifted off her shoulders when Blaise and Mrs. Tannenbaum entered the picture — she'd spent the last twelve years defined by the albatross around her neck. Who would she be, if not a dutiful daughter?
All of her efforts really had been for nothing. And the man she married to save their lives was not only going to be her only family in the world, but also the only thing tethering her to reality.
Said man, who Hermione supposed was something more than a friend, but not quite a husband, nodded to Padma. "Thank you, Healer Patil."
"It's no trouble. I'm sorry it's not better news," Padma stood and looked at Draco's outstretched hand, pausing only a moment before shaking it. She looked thoughtfully at Hermione. "If you want my advice, try to make the most of the time you have left with them."
"Yes, of course," Hermione said numbly as they moved towards the door.
"Take care, Hermione. I'll say hi to Ron for you." Her last statement decrescendoed into a question.
"That'd be lovely," Draco said, adjusting his scarf. "Tell him the Malfoys send their best."
00000
"We can go home," Draco offered. He'd meant to say the flat, surely, but the raw pain radiating from his wife had him tripping over his tongue. Hermione terrified him, all limp and quiet in his arms.
"No," she said finally. "We should eat. I can keep up appearances." She squirmed out of his grasp and righted herself on the snow-covered cobblestones.
He rubbed a hand over his face. The last thing he wanted right now was for her to worry about their agreement. He replayed the way her face fell in Patil's office, even her hair collapsing as if it, too, had been holding onto a sliver of hope that slipped away.
"Don't do this on my account. Please," he added.
"Let's just go. I'm famished and I don't want to argue with you."
Draco extended his arm to her, and she took it, walking alongside him in silence. Hermione cast a disillusionment charm over them both and he wished, not for the first time, that things were different between them. First he wished they weren't so well known so they didn't have to hide. But also he longed to talk openly without worrying about whether he'd let it slip that he was afraid to lose her like he lost Astoria, or that he wished Goyle would leave him the fuck alone. The more Hermione opened up to him, the more he wanted to tell her everything from the very beginning.
The first time his father hit him. The first time the man left marks, laughing as he licked the blood from his knuckles, and masked Draco's wounds instead of healing them. The first time the Dark Lord killed in the Manor, and the first time he threatened his mother. The only man who ever showed him a scrap of affection was Severus Snape, and he was magically bound to do so.
What was it like, to be a better man? A man who could love without throwing around words like poison barbs? A man who held out an open hand without the intent to create a fist?
Could he drag himself into the light?
He couldn't, not alone.
They trudged through crosswalks banked by slush, eyes on their feet. To anyone they met on the street, Draco and Hermione Malfoy were just another wizard and his witch running last-minute yuletide errands. Festive red and green lights washed over them as they approached their destination.
Red. Stop. Don't tell her.
Green. Go. Tell her.
Stop. Don't ruin this.
Go. If you tell her now, she might even want to be friends.
More than friends, if her kiss is anything to go by.
They stopped in red. "This is it, right?" Hermione pointed up at the neon sign. Virtuoso, it read. Fine Dining in Diagon Alley since 2002. The posted menu edged with gold filigree boasted cuisine from around the world. His mouth watered in anticipation of the meal and at the idea of sharing it with his wife.
To hell with it. To Draco, this was a real date, and he decided he'd better pull it together and start acting like a gentleman. He pulled open the door for Hermione and followed her in, trading the bitter cold for the pleasant heat from the restaurant.
The sounds of jovial conversation and the gentle clinks of utensils meeting were accentuated by a live pianist. Delicious aromas wafted through the air as wait staff held silver trays filled with soups and entrees above their heads, en route to waiting diners. And, unlike in his nightmares, no one turned to him and stared, or yelled at him to get out. Hermione allowed him to take her coat, pulled her shoulders back and marched forward to the host's podium. Her diamond earrings sparkled despite the dim lighting.
"Malfoy, table for two."
Now something would go wrong. He was sure of it. Their reservation would be missing, or they'd be forced to dine near the loos.
Again, no proverbial axe fell. The host merely dragged his finger down a list in front of him, stopping with a smile. "Of course. Right this way."
Draco told himself he didn't need to be nervous. Pansy would never send them somewhere he would be unwelcome. But this was much more crowded than the pub he frequented with Theo on the outskirts of the city. Despite the packed dining room, they followed the host to a beautifully appointed booth with only a few glances thrown their way.
He sank into his seat and reached for his napkin. "Do we still have a Notice-Me-Not on us?"
She laughed. "No, everyone sees us. They're just pretending not to."
The pretending came to a screeching halt as soon as they received their wine and an overflowing bread basket. A line formed at their booth, wait staff and busboys alike weaving in and out as more and more magical people waited their turn for an autograph from the Golden Girl.
Some of them had questions. Draco and Hermione gave non-answers to the prying diners, smiling and demurring if pressed, exactly how Pansy had instructed. All things considered, for two former enemies reacquainted after many years, they gave actors in the West End a run for their money.
"My hand's cramping a bit," Hermione grimaced, shaking her arm for the second time in the last ten minutes. The next person in line, an older wizard with a large toad on his shoulder, did not take the hint. Draco fought the urge to send him his most withering glare.
"Please, it's for my wife. She's such a huge fan."
"What's her name?"
"Charice."
Hermione scribbled out a note to Charice — although it looked more like Charlie. He noted the quality of her handwriting suffered after two dozen signatures. As she finished, Draco snatched it from the table and shoved it against the man's chest.
"You've got your autograph. Leave us to enjoy our dinner in peace."
The toad, disgruntled by the display of poor manners, continued to croak at them as its owner found his way back to his own table. The next hopeful was a young girl, and Hermione, bleeding heart that she was, gestured the tiny redhead forward as the soup in front of her cooled to an inedible temperature. Draco put his foot down after that, shooing the diners away and restoring the heat to her meal as best he could.
But there was nothing he could do about the cameras. Everyone owned one these days. Draco recalled reading that Dennis Creevey opened up a shop in honour of his late older brother and his passion for photography. With the help of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, he introduced a line of mini cameras that spit out miniature moving photos as soon as the eager photographer pressed the shutter. Now the flashes went off in their faces every few seconds.
Hermione ate quickly, but Draco, accustomed to eating at the much slower pace dictated by Pureblood matrons, soon sloshed gravy onto his shirt after a flash left him momentarily blinded. Just as he was about to make a scene, his wife brought out her wand, erased the offending spot of brown, and mouthed one word to him.
Smile.
He did her one better. He laughed, infusing as much warmth into the sound as he could, as if she'd said the funniest thing in the world. More flashes, more shutter clicks threatened to pierce their bubble, but Hermione barely batted an eye.
He kept his countenance flirty, remembering he's supposed to be happy to be out with his wife after so many years of privacy. But his words didn't match his face.
After poking around at a conversation like one would scuttle an offending pile of peas across one's plate, Draco worried they'd taken another step back. Hermione was retreating into pretending, he could feel it. And as much as he didn't want that, he wanted her to be uncomfortable even less. He cast a silencing charm so they could speak freely.
"You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
"Do what?"
He sighed. "Sign the autographs. Be seen with me. All of it."
"The more you remind me, the harder it is to keep my head on straight. This whole thing has been such a whirlwind." Hermione picked up her spoon and stirred the soup idly. A few moments passed before she spoke again. "I've been thinking. Why haven't you sold your estates, or surrendered them to the Ministry? Why do you pay them all off instead?"
"We talked about this."
"Yes, but Harry says you can't keep it up forever. Why keep paying them off?"
Potter. Of course.
"For starters, I agreed to give you whichever property you wanted. I couldn't evict you from Cyclamen, especially knowing what I know now about your parents. Secondly, where do you think our friends are living? Pansy, Theo, their homes are gone. The Ministry razed them to the ground. The Zabini place would be too, but Blaise appealed to some ex-Wizengamot and I gather he hopes to buy it back one day. Some of the others have been taken by Death Eaters."
"And Malfoy Manor?"
Draco lowered his voice, keeping it as light as possible. "It's unoccupied, and ancient magic dictates only a Malfoy can open the gates. I preserved the crime scene, thinking Aurors would eventually come. When they didn't, we had the funerals with closed coffins."
He didn't like to think of how he left them, blood coagulating in Astoria's hair, spattered across his mother's lips, slippery under his shoes.
"Funerals? You had more than one funeral for her? Is that a Pureblood thing?"
His heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He should tell her. But not now. "No, she only had the one. I misspoke."
Their plates were magically cleared away by a passing busboy.
His wife furrowed her brow and continued along her line of questioning. "So the Manor is still in your possession?"
"And yours, too. You were added to the wards as soon as we wed. Although I'm sure you never want to go back there."
"Circe willing, I never will." She looked down at her arm, but before he could apologise for bringing up yet another wound he'd caused her, the maitre d' approached with the offer of dessert.
The restaurant cleared out, and the evening grew late. He hadn't been out in public for this long in years, and he missed the comfort and safety of the flat. In an effort to be polite, Draco scanned the menu and declined, handing it back, along with payment for the meal. Hermione handed hers back as well, demurring with a shake of her head.
As soon as he turned his gaze back to his wife to suggest they leave, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. "I thought it'd be best to wait until the end of your meal to stop by," drawled a familiar voice.
A glamoured man rapped on the table once, his signet ring glittering in the candlelight. Daphne Greengrass emerged from behind him, looking wan in a red satin dress. The man gripped her to him roughly without even a glance her way, the glamour fading to reveal Gregory Goyle. "Plus they wouldn't have let me in. Damn world's backwards these days."
Draco Occluded, his genial mask slipping into place. "Ah, Greg, Daphne. So good to see you both. You've met my wife, Hermione."
Neither of them reached out to shake her hand or acknowledge her in any way, so Hermione nodded. Draco wished he was a Legilimens in that moment, so he could press inside her mind and warn her that unlike his other close Slytherin schoolmates, Goyle was still a servant of the Dark Lord.
"I heard congratulations are in order," Draco said, faking a smile at their unwelcome guests. "Daph told me you're set to wed next summer."
"Congratulations to you both," Hermione echoed, fidgeting with her napkin.
Goyle's eyebrows nearly touched his receding hairline in surprise. "This is impressive magic, even for you, Draco. Not many wizards can hold a wandless Imperio this long, let alone one requiring involved conversation."
Draco kicked Hermione under the table before she could answer, unable to caution her any other way. "Aunt Bella taught me well," he lied smoothly.
Hermione dropped the napkin.
Fuck.
Goyle barked a laugh and shook his head. "What I wouldn't give to see her Crucio in action again. But the past is the past. It's the future you and I are worried about. I never received a reply to my letter."
Draco's hand drifted down to his holster. "Letter?"
Playing dumb still worked all too well with Goyle. The portly man sighed. "Mate, I sent you a letter days ago. That batty old housekeeper of yours must've misplaced it. We need to talk."
"As you can see, I've been rather busy," he gestured with his free hand to Hermione, who thankfully remained calm, her face expressionless, as if she really was under his curse. "None of this works without giving the public something to distract them while you and I fulfil my father's dream. Our dream," he corrected at the last second.
"You need to trust me. Let me in on your plan. These secrets will kill you, Draco," Goyle said, leaning onto the table. The ice in their water glasses clinked out a warning.
Don't spill.
"Greg. Not here." Daphne craned her neck to see into the kitchens. She leaned away from her fiance, but he tugged her back even closer to him, digging his dirty fingernails into her dress.
"Quit nagging me. If anyone sees or hears anything they shouldn't, we'll Obliviate them."
Hermione shivered, and a bead of sweat trickled from Draco's collar down his back. Anger simmered in her eyes, and he knew there'd be hell to pay even if they both got out of here undiscovered. He was fucking done for either way. The day had gone so well, but the evening was one disaster after another.
"No, Daph's right, too many eyes and ears around. Plus, I don't talk shop in front of her," Draco jerked his head towards his wife.
Relief shone in Daphne's sunken eyes. She set a shaky hand on Goyle's shoulder, which he shrugged off. "The Prophet says you'll be at the Solstice Ball. We can talk strategy afterwards at the Manor. Hopefully you'll be done with this charade by then."
"Of course. I'll be there."
"See that you are," Goyle said, fixing his eyes on Hermione. Draco held his breath and gripped his wand. "Are those your mother's diamonds?"
"Replicas, of course. All for show." He hoped the lie came out smoothly.
The man rapped the table once more. "You sell it well, don't you? Enjoy your evening."
"Goodbye, Draco, Hermione," Daphne whispered as Goyle dragged her back the way they'd come.
00000
Hermione rounded on Draco as soon as he followed her into her room and shut the door behind him. She regretted her decision to add him to the wards. Circe, she regretted more than that. Her head ached remembering how eager she'd been to kiss him just a few hours ago.
She ripped the diamonds from her ears and threw them at him. "What the fuck is going on? I should never have trusted you."
"I can explain. Please, Hermione, let me explain," he took a deep breath. She crossed her arms and glowered at him, waiting. "The first night you were here, Goyle got in touch. We fell out after our time in Azkaban but he was close with my father. At first, it seemed like he only wanted to offer condolences for my father's death. He said he wanted to hold a vigil for him, and of course I was against it. But then I thought maybe I could learn something about what happened to my mother, so I reconsidered."
"You're kidding," she said, venom lacing her words. "Tell me you're kidding."
"I'm not. When I arrived at Greengrass Manor, it was an ambush. The place was crawling with Death Eaters, more than I ever dreamed might be active, and then I didn't want to be killed, so I pretended I hadn't changed my views," his voice sped up as the confession poured forth. "Goyle has them all convinced I've got some sort of master plan, handed down to me by my father, and I'm going to use my connection to you to restore everyone's land and money."
"And that's not your plan? Your views have changed?"
"Of course they've changed! And that's not my plan, I swear. You had just gotten here and I thought—"
"You thought you would just play Auror? Bloody hell, Draco!" She slammed her palm against the bedpost. Pain radiated up through her arm, settling in the hollow of her bones.
"Before you showed up, that's all I did. I'd sleep all day, and at night I'd wake up, work out or duel with Theo, and track down my father's old friends and their connections. And then I'd come home, or crash in a hotel, write down whatever I learned, pass out and do it all again the next night. Why do you think I wear a wand holster?" He pulled at his hair, the very picture of frustration.
"But you're not an Auror!" Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden.
"You're not a Healer! Damn it, Hermione! Why is it only okay when you risk your life?"
"Let's get the real Aurors involved," she said, sidestepping his question. "I'll go with you. We'll tell them everything we know."
Draco started pacing. "Now? You think they'll believe me now?"
Her vision blurred as he strode across the room and back again. Soon there were two Dracos, two loud sets of footsteps. Her grip on the bedpost slackened. Her head pounded, and her throat grew dry.
Before she could warn her husband, Hermione's legs gave out and she fell to the floor.
00000
Hermione groaned as she woke in the darkness. Her forehead throbbed, but her hand came away clean when she checked for blood. She remembered yelling, falling…
Where was Draco? Had he really been so angry that he'd left her on the bedroom floor?
She attempted to get up, but her arms and legs were heavy and useless, as if filled with sand. Hermione reasoned it was better to wait until her eyes adjusted before trying again. She patted around for her wand and bag. A Lumos died on her lips as she realised with horror that they were gone, and she wasn't in her room. Not at all.
Freezing air bit her exposed skin. A murky rectangle framed her vision. She struggled to lift her hand, and crumbs of something fell on her face. Dirt?
No. No no no no.
She was in an open grave.
Hermione swallowed and assessed her situation.
All was quiet. The night sky was void of stars, a sliver of moonlight slicing through the black. She caught the smell of peat on the wind and forced herself to sit up, more dirt and a lone beetle falling from her shoulder.
This was another hallucination. It had to be.
How did she get out last time? Hermione pinched herself, and finding she was still in the grave, slapped herself across the face. It did nothing but increase her headache.
She steadied her breaths as best she could, grit her teeth and stood. Was she alone? The grave was too deep for her to know. She reached for the shadowy outline of snow-tipped grass and pressed her fingers into the blades, lifting herself briefly over the edge.
What she saw next had her scrabbling for purchase, and finding little, screaming out for Draco.
Above her, a field of open graves stretched on forever.
She realised her mistake immediately. Her heart raced, and the world narrowed to a pinpoint. Now that she'd screamed, anyone in the vicinity knew someone was here. Someone very much alive.
Her brain finally communicated with her legs because she jumped, grabbing hold of a root. She dug her toes into the earth and grit her teeth, preparing herself for the climb. Wherever she was, she had to get away, and fast.
She flattened herself as much as possible against the wall of the grave, ignoring the creatures she disturbed there. Her hands trembled with each movement. Dirt fell in her eyes, in her hair, in her mouth. Hermione didn't care. She focused on upward movement, and despite a small slip near the top, she fell over the lip of the trench into freshly fallen snow.
The snow melted beneath her, and the wrap dress clung to her body. Now she was wet as well as cold, without a wand, and not a clue as to her whereabouts.
Had she touched something cursed? Activated a secret Portkey?
Hallucinations didn't work like this, right?
Hermione pushed herself up and staggered forward. Now that she was above ground, she was able to see more. So much more.
The graves were occupied.
Death Eaters — some she knew, some she didn't, but all presumed to be alive — lay perfectly still inside their resting places, untouched by snow or ice. Their eyes were closed, as if they merely slept. She was careful not to get too close. If they woke, she had no chance against them.
She walked for what seemed like hours until she reached the top of a hill. The wind picked up soundlessly. Her teeth chattered as she looked down into the valley.
It looked identical to the way she'd just come.
Panic gripped her windpipe and clamped down. She spun in a circle, searching for something, anything, that might help her find her way home.
A series of thumps sounded from behind her, and Hermione could only turn and stand there, horrified, as a banded snake heaved itself out of a nearby grave.
This isn't real. It's not real.
But then came the telltale slide of scales through snow. The snake navigated around the rectangular graves, headed straight for her. It opened its jaws, revealing glistening fangs.
The basilisk.
"Mistresssssss," it hissed. "Summon us, when you have need. We await your call."