Thank you to everyone following along. I appreciate your follows and reviews! There will be 32 chapters total, the last one (32) will be an epilogue. I update weekly, so this story will wrap up in mid-March.
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Hermione directed her suitcase to empty itself into a waiting laundry basket, in no mood to attend to anything else on the dreary Monday morning. The ball was tonight, and she hadn't said she'd changed her mind about going, but she wasn't certain there was any reason to anymore.
She looked both ways as she stepped out of her room, unsure if she wanted to run into Draco. After two awkward sleepless nights away (at least on their end), she knew her plan to pull away was failing. She'd expected to steel herself as she always had, but she was no Occlumens. She worried he saw right through her.
They'd sat down just yesterday with Luna, united in their desire to deliver the strongest condemnation of the Ministry possible. Draco spoke with passion, describing in detail the fallout from the misguided policies. Hermione mainly lent her support, emphasising the similarities of the new laws to the discrimination against her kind found in old laws. But she didn't know what to make of Draco's glances, the strange distance she felt even when she reached for his hand.
"What's next for you two?" Luna's expectant smile made Hermione's chest ache.
Draco shrugged and looked at Hermione to answer for them.
She bit her lip. "We'll continue to advocate for fair treatment of all magical beings, regardless of their blood or family of origin."
"Of course," murmured Luna. "Well, if that's all…."
That wasn't all. Not even close. Draco squeezed her hand on the settee, reassuring her with his solid presence. But Hermione wanted more.
The worst part? It was all her doing. She pushed him away, only to find herself wrapped around him when they woke in the morning.
He'd apologised, like it was his fault. And after breakfast and hugs goodbye (Pansy was a surprisingly fierce hugger) the Portkey activated, bringing them back to the flat. Draco kissed her forehead and retreated to his bedroom.
They were in separate camps once more. And even though it was what she'd asked for, more in action than words, it was neither what she wanted, nor what she needed. She should have expected this outcome, because the Draco Malfoy she'd known most of her life was no fighter. He told her himself he was a coward, but she'd seen someone else, a different Draco. Fierce, protective, intelligent, patient.
The cowardice was just a front, a defence mechanism. Certain species of snake play dead, waiting for the threat to give up and leave. Draco would let her walk away under the guise of giving her space, and that was the last thing she wanted. She could admit that now.
Her cauldron glowed on the kitchen worktop, portending only good things. She peered over the rim, and to her delight, the liquid within was the perfect shade of molten gold. A golden girl stared back at her, older now, and more uncertain.
Her gift for Draco, the one she'd brewed as a symbol of how far they'd come, was ready.
But when to give it to him? Should she, still?
She opened her beaded bag and rummaged around for a phial, but her hand closed around a crumpled sheet of parchment.
Hermione pulled it out and smoothed it on the worktop. It was her parchment — the one where she recorded Draco's answers to Pansy's questions that night at the pub. He'd taken it from her to write his answer.
What is your favourite memory with your partner?
And underneath, he'd written: The one we're making right now, and all the ones I hope to make tomorrow.
Underneath, he'd signed it with a flourish. That man, she thought to herself with a wet sort of laugh.
That man.
She folded the parchment, careful not to stain it with her tears, and returned it to her bag. After a moment, she found a phial and poured the Felix Felicis inside, not wasting a drop.
As Hermione popped the stopper on, Pansy breezed in through the Floo, a copy of The Quibbler tucked under her arm.
"I know, I know, you're probably sick to death of me after this weekend, but Luna insisted I bring you a copy. It hit newsstands this morning and sold out in a flash. Luckily I have an in with the editor," she winked.
"Thanks Pansy. You can leave it right there, if you like," Hermione sniffled and Pansy's face fell.
"What's wrong? Is Draco being an idiot?"
"No. No more than usual, anyway," she said, attempting a smile.
Pansy set her things down and leaned on the worktop across from Hermione. "Talk to me."
Hermione explained at length her recent conversations with Draco, leaving out the bits about her Dark Mark and hallucinations. She outlined her duties to her family and to Draco, her worries about the future, and even mentioned their intense physical and emotional chemistry — she laid it all out there. They were friends, after all.
At the end of her rambling speech, Pansy laughed.
"Pansy!" Hermione groaned as the witch doubled over in hysterics.
"I'm sorry," Pansy said, wiping tears from her eyes. "It's just that I never expected the great Hermione Granger — Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age — to be so fucking stupid."
"You don't need to be rude, Pansy."
Pansy gave her a sympathetic look. "Darling, you love him."
"I know!" Hermione put her face in her hands and leaned over the worktop. It was true: She loved Draco Malfoy. "But this is supposed to be a temporary thing. We agreed I'd be here until after the ball, and then I'd go back to Cyclamen and he'd stay here and, I don't know, maybe he'd owl me if he needed something? Although he could just filter our communication through Theo…"
"Slow down, I think your hair is smoking."
Hermione patted the top of her head, and finding nothing amiss, glared at her friend. "Very funny."
"What I'm trying to say is — you're making a Hungarian Horntail out of a Common Welsh Green. You love him. I'd bet my last Galleon he loves you."
Hermione shook her head. "It's more complicated than that."
Pansy steered the conversation toward safer waters — and steered Hermione to her room. "Why don't you show me your gown for tonight?"
"I don't know if I should go," Hermione said, pulling the dress from the armoire. She lay it on the bed and Pansy gasped.
"If you don't wear this, it'll be a crime. I'll testify against you," Pansy paused, shooting Hermione a threatening look. "Come on, Hermione. Is whatever that's going on between you two scarier than what you've already faced?"
"Maybe."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I love him, Pansy. It hurts."
Pansy nodded. "You've both been hurting for a long time. But this is your chance now — to heal, to become something together. It's hard, I won't lie to you. But Luna is worth it all. I still feel the sweetest ache in my chest at the littlest thing she does. It hurts, but it hurts in the best way possible, because you're growing. Growing means you're alive."
"Thank you Pansy," Hermione wiped away a tear.
"It's nothing," Pansy said, opening her arms. "Now come and hug me. Oh! Watch the dress, you clumsy thing. What are you accessorising with?"
00000
Draco nodded to Dovie as he stepped out of the Floo. He passed several doors with black and gold stencilling, the gilded lettering announcing their occupants, until he found the right one. Theo's office door was closed, but light shone through the frosted glass window encompassing the top half, a half-opaque invitation. He took a nervous breath and turned the doorknob.
Theo sat hunched in his wig and robes, clutching his quill. His hand moved from left to right, adding notes and striking out words so firmly he nearly pierced the parchment. His eyes had bags beneath them, deep purple bruising his light brown skin.
"Unless you're here to apologise, you can get the fuck out. We're in recess, but I've got to get back to the courtroom in less than an hour." Theo's thick fingers searched for the edge of his wig and, upon finding it, flung it on his desk. "Merlin's beard, that thing itches."
Draco glanced down at his dragonhide boots and back up again. "As a matter of fact, I am here to apologise."
"Good. It's taken you long enough. Come in and close the door." His friend sighed and got up from his work.
Draco shut the door, the sounds of scuttling secretaries sealed away. "You were right, Theo. I told Hermione about Astoria. She knows everything now."
"And?"
"And I'm sorry." He'd gotten rather good at saying that particular word.
"And?"
Draco racked his brain. What else?
"And I'm falling for her. Have fell. Fallen. Fuck." He sank into one of the chairs across from Theo's desk. Was it possible that less than two weeks ago his wife had sat next to him in this very room and hurled an inkpot at him, but now kissed him as if her life depended on it?
"Thank the gods. You're an idiot, Draco, you know that?"
A smile broke out on Theo's face as he returned to stand before his desk, his dimple signalling all was well again.
"Yes, but I'm your favourite idiot," Draco grinned back.
"Don't get too comfortable. I ran into Pucey the other day." They both chuckled.
"He's still stuck in the Ministry's sorry excuse for an accounting department?"
"He's the reason they're a sorry excuse for an accounting department. Although he's been terribly useful," Theo leaned over the desk, his hands spread wide and pressing into the ancient wood, searching for something.
"Useful idiots. The best kind."
"As I said, don't get too comfortable," Theo located whatever he was looking for and held it up to Draco. "But look at this, he owled it to me just this morning."
Draco took the parchment, which unrolled all the way down to the floor, and reread it twice in disbelief. "This is the money trail."
The document enumerated, in great detail, the various accounts and their contents of the lowest-ranking Ministry officials all the way up to Podmore himself. It also listed Pureblood families and their assets, categorising their appraised values. Draco noted his accounts and estates were near the top written in red ink, indicating they remained in his possession.
Theo and Pansy's homes appeared in blue ink, the proceeds from their sale next to each seized property. The new owners had destroyed both estates. Even if Draco could have bought them back, they were gone. In even smaller print, Pucey's discovery showed who received the money and who owned the homes now.
Draco furrowed his brow. "Why would Griselda Marchbanks need all these homes?"
"That's what I'm wondering. I've argued in front of her for years, and she oversaw O.W.L.s at Hogwarts if memory serves. Lovely old woman, aside from her penchant for gaudy fascinators. Her husband died a few months ago and as far as I know, she has no other family to speak of, so I don't think she needs the space. She recently stepped down from the Wizengamot. Rumour has it her health has been in decline for some time."
Something in the back of his mind tried to draw his attention, but Draco dismissed it in favour of continuing down the list.
"She's got the Zabini and Bulstrode properties as well. Is she Pureblood?" It wouldn't be the first time a Pureblood family overtook an estate and forged documents to reflect it had been theirs all along. Usually the house-elves and ghosts put a stop to any serious undertakings. The portraits mostly complained.
"I had the same thought, but Dovie looked into it and she's only Half-blood."
"History buff?"
"Maybe. The fascinators were positively mediaeval."
"Can I get a copy of this? For Hermione," Draco clarified.
"Naturally," Theo tapped the parchment. "Geminio."
Draco rolled up the fresh copy and tucked it inside his greatcoat. "The ball is tonight. Will we see you there?"
"No, I've got to get caught up. The Wattle trial is next week."
"What a positively Granger-like thing to say."
"Yes, well, it's true. And I don't have a date. Not that I need one, because as I said, I'm not going," Theo glared in warning. "And she's not for me, anyway," he muttered under his breath.
"Who's not for you?"
Theo shot him a look so full of anguish that Draco took a step back. "Isn't it obvious?"
The memories surfaced all at once. Theo, shaken but determined, so quick to recommend Hermione to be the next Lady Malfoy. Theo, frozen in the lobby of St. Mungo's, transfixed. Theo, the cooler head in their friendship, storming off after Draco insisted he wasn't falling for his wife.
It was her.
Theo gave up any chance he had with Hermione Granger for him. Maybe he'd thought they'd be good together, despite their pasts. Maybe he thought Draco would take care of the woman he admired from a distance. And what had Draco done? He'd wasted years that he and Hermione could have been together wallowing in his pain, trying to do it all alone.
Fuck.
Theo forged ahead. "You don't need to kiss up to the powers-that-be anymore. In fact, that's damn near impossible after that interview you two gave. The public is already smitten. Just go to Head Auror Weasley with Hermione, and make sure you're seen. Besides, do you really care what all those arseholes think anymore?"
"It's not about that, Theo. It's about justice. My mother and Astoria deserve this. Hell, I deserve it. I've chased this for the better part of my life now. Don't you want to see whoever did this pay?"
"Draco, I know justice. I see it every day, dealt out to people just like you or me. It's determined by a room of flawed people who drank cold tea that morning or fought with their wife or had a bully as a child that looked similar to the defendant. Trust me, petty revenge masquerades as justice more than half the time. And I have to tell you, friend to friend, even if they get it right, it's never as satisfying as you think it is," Theo paused. "Have you considered that you already have something infinitely better?"
Draco said nothing, unable to tear his eyes away from Theo's. His friend rarely showed strong emotion; his legal education ground that out of him. But now his eyes were glossy, and a crimson butterfly spread its wings across his nose and cheeks.
"Love, Draco. Love."
Dovie knocked twice and swung open the door. "Court will resume in ten."
"Thank you, Dovie," Theo redonned the wig and breezed past Draco, only pausing once he reached the threshold. "A word of advice? Don't be an idiot forever."
00000
Draco tucked the parchment from Theo in his bedside drawer with Astoria's letters. He looked at the pile of stationery and for the first time in years felt no inclination to pick one up. Those letters still meant something to him, but they were written to a different man; a much more self-centred and much less broken man. A man who feared the future because of what it meant for him, and not what it might mean for others, or the next generation. But also a man who made progress, little by little, because of the love of two women.
He'd surprised even himself with how readily he'd accepted Astoria's news. His opinion had already been evolving, even during his stint in Azkaban. But she'd expanded his worldview through their conversations, chaperoned excursions, and countless gifts to one another of art and literature. As Draco travelled the world after her death, he'd sometimes see her face in the reflection of a shop window, standing beside him in her navy peacoat, pointing excitedly at some statuette or oil painting. He'd buy it, take it home to the flat, and let it all sit in a room — Hermione's room — gathering dust.
Funny how he never thought of that room as anything but hers now.
Without realising it, he'd made a space for her, first in his home and then in his heart.
Theo was right. He loved her.
He didn't love Astoria any less. Their love had been different, a delicate friendship that both hoped might lead to a stable life together. That was all anyone could hope for after the war, really, especially in light of the restoration efforts and constant new legislation. They teased, and they talked, and since an arranged marriage had always been in the stars, he considered himself quite lucky.
Draco shut the drawer and rested his palm against it. Something inside him told him he'd never read those letters again. It was time to move on.
His thoughts shifted to his wife. The woman he loved.
With Hermione, Draco felt like he was flying. They might soar along peacefully for hours, and then dive into a thrilling Wronski Feint. He never knew which way was up, only that he was unconcerned with anything below them, or behind them. He wanted to race through the clouds with her, unfettered, high on thin air and adrenaline.
He'd never been at the top of his class, but he was smart enough to know that she likely felt the same. He didn't blame her for being cautious; it had only been nearly two weeks since she left Cyclamen Cottage and moved into his London flat. Her parents were dying, and she didn't know what she'd do without them. On top of that, she was experiencing health issues of her own. Hermione preferred to be in total control, and hadn't been able to replicate that feeling in a while. It was a terrible time to fall in love, but in his limited experience, that's exactly when it seemed to happen.
Draco could show her flying wasn't so scary if you had the right partner. He wanted to be with her, in whatever capacity she would accept him. But deep down, he knew that no matter what relationship they settled on, he would be a good husband to Hermione. And he hoped she would want him to be a husband in every way.
Draco recalled the conversation in front of Luna's cabin, Hermione's face falling at the mention of his lacklustre proposal. He'd propose again, somewhere that meant something special to them, and with a ring this time.
But all that would come. First, he had to tell her how he felt and hope she felt the same way.
He wore a path into the floorboards, pacing back and forth, practising his confession of love. The ball was in a few hours, and the choice would be hers. He would fight for her, kneel at her feet. Whatever she wanted, it would be hers, if she would take him, too.
Ten years ago, Theo had said there was a ninety-nine percent chance Hermione would refuse Draco even on his best day. Today was certainly not his best day, but it couldn't be helped. Draco sighed and started his speech from the top once more. He needed all the luck he could get.
00000
Hours later, Draco knocked on her bedroom door. Hermione, wearing hair curlers and her dressing gown that hugged her curves, opened it to him a moment later, and he stepped inside. A long garment bag lay across the bed, still closed.
Would she come to the ball tonight? And if she did, was she coming as his wife? He fought to resist his nervous habit of tucking his hands in and out of his pockets, opting instead to make a fist at his side.
"Draco, is everything—"
"Please, let me get this out before I lose my nerve. Two nights ago, I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to you. I meant it, and I still do. But maybe that's not what you needed me to say, because you're too fucking smart for your own good, and you know that as much as I want to protect you from everything, pain and grief and death, it's all inevitable. What I should have told you is that even if this is all we get, and all our worst fears come true, I want this. I want us.
"I don't know how I've made it this far alone. And I don't want to be alone anymore, and more than that, I can't stand the thought that you'll go off somewhere and be alone. We tried that already. We both hate needing other people, but we do, and if you have to need someone, it may as well be someone you love.
"And I love you, Hermione. I love you. I know it's fast — I mean we'll be married ten years tomorrow, so maybe not that fast… fuck… what I'm trying to say is," he ran his fingers through his hair.
"Please come tonight. Not because you said you would, or because you think it'll help me get the case solved, or because you want to say goodbye — I'm used to a lack of closure, anyway. I'll be there because I want nothing more than to be there with you. This is real, Hermione, it's real, and I don't know when it happened exactly, but I'm sick of pretending it isn't. This is the most real thing I've ever felt and I don't know how to let it go, so I'll be there.
"I know what I'm asking might be more than you have to give. You give and give and give and if it's too much, I'll try to understand. You don't have to tell me your answer now — maybe it's better if you don't. But I'll be there."
Draco was out of breath, like he'd flown around the Quidditch pitch one too many times. He'd gone and done it now. He'd risked it all and made the first move. She'd taught him that more often than not, the first move wins, and gods, he needed to win her, heart and soul.
"Well, we've got about an hour before the festivities begin. I have to go pick up my tux. There's a Portkey in the fruit basket. Little silver bell, you can't miss it."
He chanced a glance at her. His heart caught in his throat, seeing her brown eyes filled with tears. Her soft lips were parted, and she looked like she might speak.
Draco panicked.
His instincts told him he should Occlude now, start building a new well, and fill it with memories of Hermione. This version of himself would die of thirst, but he'd been through worse, hadn't he?
No, he hadn't. He didn't know if he could. But if he left now, there was still hope. He Apparated away before he lost that, too.