Song Suggestion: Anastasia Soundtrack– "Once upon a December" (First Half) and Galleaux– "Tether Me" (Last Half)

A big thank you to MyPrivateInsanity and my alpha group for all of their work helping with this chapter!

Check Trigger Warnings at the bottom of the chapter.

A Silent Graveyard

Hermione spent much of the next morning practising how to present her plan to Draco. No matter how she phrased it, she couldn't help but realise that when she stated it out loud, it sounded absolutely insane. When she finally gathered the courage to ask him, finding him in his study, he spoke first.

"I have a surprise for you today," Draco said while standing and pulling on his cloak. "An early birthday present. It took me forever to find it."

Hermione had started to look forward to Draco's surprises. He always kept her entertained, bringing her on limited outings to the countryside and cities, meeting up with Katie and Flint in Diagon Alley for ice cream— anything he could get away with and some things that pushed the boundaries.

Used to Draco's random, spontaneous ideas, she held out her hand to take.

"Floo or apparition?"

"Floo at first, but then we'll need to travel by broom."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, about to tell him what she thought of that, but he cut her off.

"It's the only way."

Hermione breathed out hard through her nose.

"Fine, but I won't be happy about it."

"I'm sure you'll let me know the entire trip."

"Most definitely."

He gave a snort and grabbed her hand.

"It will be worth it. Have I ever let you down before?"

Not yet, but there was always room for a first time.

Because he was so good at occluding, she had to rely on subtle clues to know his emotions. Right now, he was shuffling his feet, showing excitement or nervousness. He displayed both in similar ways. She hoped soon to narrow it down like she'd been able to with Titus, but he remained mostly a mystery.

"Let's go then— surprise me."

She could always ask him to help her some other day.


The floo brought her to a muggle office building. When they entered, a few men jumped from their seats, staring at the floo with wide-eyed fear in the way muggles tended to stare.

Draco ignored them as he cleaned his clothes and then hers from the ample amounts of soot, but she found it hard to tear her eyes away from their fear.

The building seemed familiar, but she couldn't place it, as if it lived on the edges of some hazy memory.

After one of the men asked if they needed anything, they avoided eye contact. Further toward the door was an old wizard sitting in a chair who seemed half asleep.

"You're definitely a Malfoy," he said, cracking an eye open. "Look like your grandaddy, Abraxas. Knew him in my Hogwarts days." The man checked their parchments, using a magical device that scanned the scrolls. When finished, he asked if they needed directions to anywhere, but Draco said they were just there to see the countryside.

The man was supposed to give them a broom with a tracking device, but Draco slipped him another few galleons.

"You bribe like a Malfoy too." He blinked at the gold, pocketed it, and then leaned back and closed his eyes, indicating he wouldn't tell a soul. "It will be toward your right."

Once outside, Draco pulled out his sleek black firebolt, pulled her in front of him, and took off to the left.


They flew through the grey clouds, avoiding being seen by other wizards, using a disillusionment charm just in case. Wherever they were going, they needed to do it secretly. The thrill of it made her whole body brighten with energy, even if the fear of plummeting to her death dampened it.

When they began to descend, Hermione closed her eyes tight, trying to keep her breakfast down. Right before they landed, Draco secured his grip around her waist.

"We're here," he whispered in her ear. "We won't need to fly back."

"Thank Merlin." Her feet touched solid land, and she opened her eyes to find a dilapidated house. The windows had shattered long ago, and the roof sagged. The rose bushes in the front had overgrown, curling into the house, the vines creeping along the exterior. Nature reclaimed what humans attempted to tame. The yellow door was cracked open, and she saw evidence that small rodents had been in and out.

It took a moment for her to recognize it. Her memory erased the foliage, rebuilt the exterior, fixed the window— and then it was exactly how she remembered it.

Her mind conjured a little hand pressed against the door, footsteps running in and out. A woman's voice chiding her for leaving it open too long.

Hermione almost stumbled in shock, but Draco kept his arm wrapped around her waist until she regained her equilibrium.

"My home," she whispered. She'd dreamed of one day seeing it again, as if the act would heal something injured in her soul.

Though she'd forgotten the door had been painted yellow.

Hermione wasn't sure why that made her breath hitch. She'd also forgotten that her mother had planted roses, and that the doorbell had never worked. But how could she have forgotten the bright yellow, reminding her of the sun? She used to think it provided enough light even on dreary days.

"I promised you," Draco reminded her.

Hermione never really thought he'd be able to find it. It had been a wild request. The last memory she had of it was hazy, clutched in her father's strong arms as he ran to his death.

Hermione walked up the stoop, feeling disconnected from her body.

A terrible thought came to her.

"My mother—"

Draco shook his head. "Her body is gone."

"Do you know where she's buried?"

He hesitated and allowed a grimace to show. "They send muggle clean-up crews after raids, since dead bodies are a public health hazard that breeds sickness— and then they burn them."

So her mother had no grave to visit either.

Did they burn her father's body too? Or did it rot somewhere, bones bleached from time?

Hermione swallowed and glanced down the row of houses, all similar in look, all abandoned. It didn't seem as if anyone had moved back in after the first massacre.

"Can I go inside?"

"Yes, the stairs are a bit unsafe, but we can use the broom."

That's right— they had two floors. The bedrooms were above, the living spaces below.

Her steps to the door echoed against the concrete. The old wood of the door was warped and halfway off the hinge. Scorch marks still etched where the death eaters had blasted the doorknob away.

She pushed it open, hating the creak it made, and stepped inside. Her shoes squished against soggy carpet, rotten from years of being exposed to the elements. Animal droppings littered the corners, and foliage had made its way inside long ago.

She tiptoed in, finding the smell horrid. Hermione tried not to look too closely at the photos on the wall, because they all looked ruined.

She wandered around the house, avoiding the spongiest parts of the floor. The kitchen remained in good condition. A teacup rested on the table, as if forgotten. Had her mother sipped on it, while her father read her a story before bed?

She wished she could bottle the memories from the bones of the structure and pour it into a pensieve to peruse. All the little moments of her first years of life. She imagined her mother at the stove, and her father at the sink. Imagined herself in a highchair.

This was what had been stolen from her. The ordinary, everyday moments. Insignificant and yet everything.

The grief of it was too much. She had to move on. She couldn't continue to stare at the skeletons of her could-have-been life.

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

Hermione didn't. What would she find? A rumpled bed cover from when she tiptoed out to see the Death Eaters from the window. Would her old toys still be displayed, rotting remnants of old artwork? No, she didn't want to view the silent grave of her family.

She'd returned to her home to find her past decayed.

Hermione clutched at her chest, the phantom pains rising, the grief of her youth. The inconsolable agony of losing her mother and father at a young age.

She'd clung to Nott manor so tightly because she'd had nothing left. When Titus had told her there was nothing to return to, he'd told her the truth.

"No, I'm finished."

He gave a nod, and she kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed it to the rotten door frame, a goodbye to her brief muggle life, safe in the arms of her parents.

She had a new home now. It wasn't like the one she had before, or the one she had at Nott manor, but it was one she'd chosen.

"I have another surprise," he said.


This time they landed in front of a newer building. Magical, based on the feel of buzzing wards.

"Is this a hospital?"

She couldn't see a sign anywhere, but she thought she saw the lime green robe of a healer walk by one of the windows, and the building seemed for commercial use.

He shook his head. "It's a care home for old wizards."

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion. Why would he bring her here? She didn't know any older magical people.

He grabbed her hand, and they crossed the wards. They let them in without even a warning buzz, indicating Draco had access.

An attendant sat in front of a desk up front, but she merely nodded in their direction before getting back to her administrative tasks, showing Draco had been here often enough to be recognized. Though she suspected most of the wizarding world knew him on sight with his trademark Malfoy hair. Still, no one stopped to question him.

Random healers passed them, sometimes guiding floating chairs with ancient wizards with long beards, and hunched witches. Magical people had long lifespans, but even they eventually all reached a point where they needed constant care until death.

Draco led her through corridors, mostly empty besides healers hurrying past them. They went upstairs and around corners until he stopped at a simple door, just as innocuous and plain as the others besides the number 86 nailed into the wood.

Draco reached out, gripping the doorknob, and then glanced back at her, searching her expression.

"It took me a long time to find her," he said.

"Who?"

The door opened without a squeak, revealing a small room with a bed topped with an old rose quilt. A religious object hung on the wall, something she'd discovered was called a crucifix— a symbol of muggle Christianity. Jesus, their god, perpetually dying on a cross. It made her pause, realising the person to whom the room belonged was not a wizard at all.

The room was outfitted to look less like a hospital room and more an average bedroom. A table with a frilly lace tablecloth. Odd delicate knickknacks.

Right in front of a window, looking out into the courtyard below, was a chair. And on the chair sat an old woman with knitting in her lap. The click of needles made a continuous noise, as the woman stared at the gardens. The hazy grey sunshine gave enough light to study her.

"Who is this?" Her throat tightened, knowing something before her brain did.

"Go closer."

The room smelled like an old person—a scent hard to describe but close to powder and flowers.

She walked her way around the furniture and squatted down in front of the chair, studying the woman's face.

The recognition came by instinct. The familiar slope of her nose, the bow of her mouth. Her hair had changed, and she'd gained many more wrinkles. But her eyes— brown and wide. If she glanced in a mirror, she'd see a reflection of them.

Hermione had thought she was dead.

"Grandmother?" Her voice choked her. The child inside her soul wanted to throw herself into the pillowy arms, lay her head in the soft lap like she did long ago. Have her fingers thread through her hair.

There didn't seem to be any recognition though, besides the clack of needles and a soft hum.

"What's wrong with her?" Hermione reached out and grasped her hand topped with wrinkles and paper-thin skin.

"The healers say she has a muggle brain disease called Alzheimers. Wizards get it too, but our potions are much stronger. She's on them now, but most of the damage is irreversible."

Unable to stop herself, Hermione leaned her forehead down and pressed it against the hand, feeling the fragile bones beneath.

"Where did you find her?"

Draco shrugged, still hovering in the doorway. "Some of her neighbours had done their best to take care of her. But they struggled, having to also provide for their own families. Before moving her here, I gave them a bag of galleons for their trouble."

To a wizarding facility. Given the bigotry permeating society, she knew he had to pull a few strings to allow a muggle inside.

"And the healers—"

"I vetted them personally."

The old woman blinked and stared down at her, as if just realising someone else was in the room.

"Jean? Is that you?"

Her mother's name. Hermione hesitated before answering, unwilling to upset the woman with the truth.

"Yes, it's me."

"Why do you never visit me anymore?"

"I've been— busy." Hermione's voice cracked again. She kissed the top of her hand— a hand that had once held her, bathed her, changed her. Hermione remembered being excited to go to her grandmother's house, though she didn't like the scratchy dresses required for church. Hermione wasn't sure when that stopped. At one point, the wizards took over and banned all religion.

Grandmother—that's the honorific she'd insisted on, wishing to be formal. She'd always been an elegant woman, always dressed nicely, always used formal table settings.

"I'll be back, I promise," Hermione lied. She wasn't sure how often she'd be able to visit. Even with a disguise, it would be hard without Draco by her side.

"That would be nice, dear. Next time, bring my little Rose. I do miss her so. The nice doctors say she'll come to see me soon."

Hermione sucked in a loud breath, trembling.

Little Rose. That was what she had called her. The revelation was almost more disturbing than forgetting the yellow door. Her memories were a butterfly's wing. Fragile, able to be shredded and then only viewed by patching the tears.

"I'll remember."

Hermione stayed with her head in her grandmother's lap for a very long time. At one point, her frail hands left the knitting and stroked her hair, as if a part of her remembered too.

But every hello had a goodbye, and eventually Hermione got up and drew her grandmother into a deep hug. The years they'd been separated were a giant wound, bleeding profusely. She'd never get that time back. She doubted her grandmother would ever recognize her as an adult. Her little Rose might as well be in a grave alongside her parents. How frightened her grandmother must have been to have survived by herself.

Hermione stood up, releasing her. She seemed to be getting agitated, picking up her knitting, the clicking becoming disjointed as her hands began to shake. Hermione didn't want to distress her with things forgotten.

She would one day come back to visit her again, but right now, she needed to escape the fossilised memories that had just been excavated in her soul, chipped away, seeing everything turned to stone.

She walked slowly to the door, but before she exited, she turned to Draco. His face was expressionless, but his fist clenched. A nervous tick, she believed. She grabbed the sides of his face and drew him into a kiss. His hands curled into her hair in response, and he relaxed with the touch.

"Thank you," she whispered after pulling away. "You have no idea what this means to me to know she's alive and somewhere safe."

He gave her a sharp nod and followed her out.


After arriving back at the manor, Draco turned to her.

"I have one last surprise."

He dug in his robe pocket and extracted a letter.

"What is it?" She drug her finger along the paper, and it cracked open. A piece of parchment rested inside, and she pulled it out.

No, not a parchment.

A photograph.

Faces stared back at her. Ones she'd long forgotten in the folds of time. Ones she thought lost forever, stolen from her.

The figures on the photo didn't move, showing the muggle origins.

Her father held her on his hip, and her child self clutched Hopper close. He grinned at the camera, while her mother stood beside them, so beautiful under the sunlight. Hermione resembled her a little, though she looked more like her father.

"I remember this," she gasped. She had dreamed of it while recovering from Karkaroff's dark curse.

They had been at a stream, the creek bubbling behind them. It was in the middle of the starvation period; her parents had frequently argued about food at the kitchen table. She thought she might have had her first bout of accidental magic. Her parents knew what it meant instantly, since the wizards had already revealed themselves, hunting for muggleborns. A dark-haired man with tattoos had arrived at their house the next day and said the Order would attempt to protect her, perhaps wanting to take her with them, but her father refused to give her up.

She could connect the dots now. The Order had found them first and offered protection, but they didn't have the resources to shelter all of them. Instead, her father offered to work for them.

That day at the stream had been their last vacation. Her mother had insisted on it, wanting to feel normal, like they were still in the time before the curse.

They'd splashed in the sun. She'd caught tadpoles and run barefoot over the smooth creek bed, finding the goldfinch feather.

Before leaving, they'd asked another person to take the picture. Looking at the photograph, these memories played out in her mind. She wished she could enter the photo and experience again that last happy family outing.

Shortly after this, everything had ended.

Hermione glanced up. Like always, he didn't wear an expression, but his fingers twitched.

"I don't want you to occlude around me," she said.

Draco struggled to do as she asked, but she saw the intentional loosening of the muscles in his shoulders. The way his mouth relaxed. But his eyes changed the most, from a steely, cold grey to something warmer.

"Is that better?"

"Almost. You know so much about my wounds, but I know little of yours. You don't have to hide your past from me anymore." She paused when he recoiled. "But— you don't have to tell me, of course."

"But you want me to?"

"I do."

"What would you like to know?"

Hermione thought about it.

"Deanna."

"I don't—" he glanced away. "You're right. It's unfair for me not to tell you. Though I'd prefer to show you instead."

He reached up and cradled her head in his hands. She didn't need to ask, understanding he planned to perform a projection like he did during the ritual.

"Look into my eyes."

She did as he asked. Months of occlumency practice made it easy. The intrusion no longer felt strange, and he fit inside her conscious thoughts comfortably.

"Don't look away." He dragged his thumb along her cheekbones and then the images began, reminding her of viewing a memory in a pensieve.


A little Draco ran through the corridors. He had a play wand and a toy broom, and he seemed to be on his way to the floo. Blond strands of hair kept getting into his eyes as he turned the corners.

"Father I–" Right as he entered the front sitting room, he pulled to a stop.

A beautiful woman stood at the fireplace next to a younger Lucius— possibly the most stunning woman she'd ever seen in her life, besides Zala. She looked to be in her twenties with curly dark blond hair that reached her waist. On her arms were tattooed vines and flowers in an arresting pattern. The only imperfection were her eyes, red and puffy, as if she'd been crying.

Hermione couldn't help but think the woman resembled Narcissa, though possibly even more beautiful. It almost hurt to look at her. Lucius had a heavy hand on the back of her neck, leading her somewhere.

From what she knew, Deanna's trial had lasted a day for formality. Lucius rigged it, and no one went against him seriously. Hermione assumed she hadn't been a virgin, because it was still daylight, meaning she had been spared the horror of the ritual.

When Lucius noticed his son standing in the doorway, he paused.

"Who is that?" Draco asked.

"Her name is Deanna, and she will be living here."

"Living here?" Draco's brow crinkled in confusion. "Wait— is she a mudblood?"

Deanna's mouth cinched tight in displeasure.

"She is," Lucius answered in a flat voice.

"Send her back. I don't want this one. I wanted the other one!"

"Draco," Lucius warned. "Deanna's not your mudblood. She's mine, and I won't be sending her back."

Draco seemed put out, colour rising on his cheeks. His eyes went from Lucius to Deanna. Back and forth, until they grew frighteningly cold for one so young.

"I won't ever like her. You can't make me."

"You don't have to like her," Lucius explained. "And you don't have to be around her. After she gives you a sibling or two, we could sell her to someone else."

She didn't miss Deanna's flinch, or the way Lucius tightened his hold, as if to remind her of something. Draco stood up.

"Well, I don't want a stupid sibling either."

"Sit down—" Lucius began but Draco had already run out of the room.


The setting changed. Draco looked around the age that she'd seen him at the party. His blond hair fringed his eyes, and he hesitated before a closed door. His hand went to the doorknob and then dropped it. Finally, he seemed to gather his courage and opened the door.

Hermione recognized the room, but she'd never been inside. An atrium, with plants. At the moment, it was splattered in colours. Giant canvases were spread around. Some finished. Most half done, filled with abstract art, blocky shapes and splashes and drips.

In the center of the room, Deanna perched on the edge of a stool. She had her hair bundled on top of her head, with a paintbrush clenched in between her teeth and another clutched in her fingers. She was examining the painting in front of her, framed by the sunlight—so beautiful a scene it was almost a painting in itself.

Draco didn't seem to notice. He waltzed in confidently, all traces of nerves erased. He sneered at the paintings.

"I'm not sure why my father allows you to participate in muggle art."

Deanna didn't look up from her painting, but she thought she might have seen a roll of her eyes, biting her bottom lip.

"To entertain the mind," she answered. "Your father lets me do anything I want if it means I'll comply with his other silly demands."

Draco's frown deepened. "Well, you must stop this at once. I need to ask you something."

Deanna sighed. She placed her paintbrush gently on the stand and turned her body toward the boy.

"I'm not sure anyone has told you this yet, but being demanding is an obnoxious trait. You're getting too old for anyone to find it endearing."

"Father is demanding."

"My point stands."

Draco went to one of the empty canvases and stared at it. "How do you choose your colours?"

"Instinct," she said. "I thought you wanted to ask me something."

Draco picked up a paintbrush. He hovered over the green paint a moment before he chose a blood red. He dipped it inside, and then made a slash across a painting that had been completely finished.

She waited for Deanna to get angry at the destruction of her work, but the woman only considered the canvas with her head tilted.

"What do muggleborns like?" Draco asked.

Deanna just blinked a few times. "What do you mean?"

"There's a muggleborn. A Nott ward. I got to meet her at a party and offered her my friendship, but she—" he dipped his head down a little and frowned. "Well, what do muggleborns like? How can I get her to be my friend? I could buy her all sorts of things, but I have to know what she likes first."

Deanna was still for a very long time. "Is this the muggleborn you talked about the first day I arrived? The one you said you wanted?"

He nodded, not seeing the wariness Deanna displayed. "Her name is Hermione. I hadn't seen her since we caught her. Thought she would be happy to see me too, but she wasn't, and I'm still not sure why. She got mad that I called her a mudblood—"

"She was right to be angry," Deanna interrupted.

"But I promised I wouldn't call her it again, so she has no need to be. I think she would have gotten over it, but her stupid brother interrupted us." He glanced back at her. "Which is why I wanted to ask you, since you're a muggleborn, you must know what would make her want to be my friend."

She shook her head, as if getting rid of a bad thought.

"Draco," she said slowly. "Muggleborns aren't all the same, just like purebloods aren't the same. We're all people and like different things. If you want to be her friend, you'll have to go about it in the normal way."

Draco made another slash of red with a scowl.

"Father said that I needed to show people that to mess with me would be a bad idea. That if I wanted to rule Slytherin, then I needed to be mean until the others followed me."

"You father is the most manipulative, cold man I've ever met. What would he know about making friends? If you want Hermione to like you, then you must first treat her like a person. Figure out how she likes her tea, her favourite colour. You have to try and be a friend first, and if you're kind enough, then I promise that she'll like you without having to force her to. And if you do try and force her, she'd just pretend to like you, but she'd hate you behind your back. Do you understand?"

Draco slashed again, though his frown deepened.

"If I figure out everything about her, does that mean she'll like me then?"

"It—" she seemed to be thinking, staring at Draco thoughtfully. "It's a start."

"And then she'll be my breeder?"

Child Draco didn't catch Deanna's flinch, but adult Hermione caught the small glance of horror. She now understood the dread— an innocent child raised to produce children, shackled to an emotionless, manipulative, cold man.

"Let's work on making friends first. Tell me the whole interaction from start to finish, and then I'll explain what you can do to help salvage it."

There was a gleam in Deanna's eye, a determination when she stared at Draco. Hermione wondered if the woman was a little manipulative herself.

Draco gave another slash, and the red dripped from the lines, covering the previous art.

"Aren't you angry I ruined your painting?"

Deanna stood up and got closer to him. "Should I be?"

"I thought you would be."

"Emotion creates art," Deeanna replied, ghosting her fingers over the violent slashes. "It can never be wrong. I think it was you who was angry, but you don't need to be with me." She tapped a dot of red and then playfully tapped his cheek, smearing it. "Perhaps you'd like to come paint with me tomorrow. I'll even let you choose the colours."

"Paint with you? Why would I want to paint with you? It's a pointless muggle activity."

His tone came out harsh, but his eyes betrayed him, and she knew he really did wish to paint. It occurred to Hermione that it might have been the first time anyone had ever asked him to spend time with them.


The next memories flew by. Fragments of life, all of them happy— painting, eating ice cream, swimming in their pool.

Draco hovered on a broom far above the ground.

"Look what I just did!" He gave a flip, and below Deanna stared up at him, sitting on a picnic blanket, clapping her hands.

Then they were across from each other, playing chess. Draco shouted with triumph, but she suspected Deanna might have let him win when she raised an eyebrow and hid a smile.

The next memory was familiar, the echo of voices from the night of the ritual.

A young Malfoy stood in front of the mirror. He had his pale hair slicked back in the pretentious way he used to wear it, and he held Hopper in his hands.

"This is yours." He held out the old bunny, as if someone could grab it. "I hope you don't mind that I slept with him sometimes—" He cut himself off and shook his head, cheeks brightening, as if he hadn't meant to say that. "No," he scowled. "That makes me sound stupid. She wouldn't want to be friends with a ninny."

"I think she would," Deanna said, though she couldn't see her face. "Being kind doesn't make you a ninny. She'll be so relieved to have him back, I think."

"I'm not sure I like being kind. Besides, maybe she's forgotten the dumb bunny."

She took a moment to answer.

"We never truly forget the things we love."

Draco lowered the bunny, glaring at it. "This is a waste of time. I'm not sure why you're making me practise this. I can't give it to her anyway. Hermione's brother doesn't like me near her."

He turned with a scowl. Deanna was sitting on the end of the bed, looking deep in thought. "Maybe you could make friends with him at school. Perhaps you'll even be in the same Hogwarts house. And then when Christmas comes around you could send it back with him as a present to her, along with a letter to apologise."

His little scowl deepened. "I don't like her brother. He tried to tell me what to do."

Deanna rolled her eyes dramatically, and the scenery changed abruptly.

This time they were side by side on a couch, with a book open between them. She listened with rapt attention as Draco read her the story about dragons and manticores and a dark wizard who wanted to steal a princess. The door opened and Lucius walked inside the room. He paused, watching Draco and Deanna for a moment. He wore the same occlumency shields as his son, but his eyes froze on them for just a second longer than normal, and it looked like he might say something.

Hermione wondered if Lucius hesitated because he worried how close his son was to someone he viewed as disposable, or if a part of him wished to join them. It didn't matter, because instead, he left the room.


The next memory jumped through time, and Draco lingered longer. He'd just gotten home from Hogwarts, his trunk floating behind him. He seemed possibly in the third year of Hogwarts.

Lucius peeled off his gloves, and Deanna— who had been waiting for them to get home— surprised Hermione by throwing her arms around him in greeting. Lucius didn't loosen his stance or embrace her back, but he didn't push her away. One of his hands reached down and caressed the barely noticeable bump on her stomach. It was more affection than Hermione expected him to show.

After letting go of Lucius, she walked to Draco, who was patting off the soot. "I'm so happy you're home for Christmas." He flinched for a moment into her touch before he melted, giving her a hug in return. After pulling away, he blinked in confusion at her rounded stomach.

"I thought the healers said you couldn't get pregnant." Draco blushed a little after he said it, shifting on his feet.

"They said it would be difficult, not impossible. Your father decided to wait until it was further along this time to tell you. I should be due around the start of the summer."

Remembering what Draco had told her, Deanna suffered from a chronic illness, making it hard to keep pregnancies. Past the smiles, her features seemed tense and drained of any healthy colour.

"Oh," Draco said. He didn't sound too thrilled about the prospect of a sibling. "Congratulations, I guess."

Deanna rolled her eyes and ruffled his hair.


What must have been a short time later, Deanna was eating breakfast with Draco. Lucius wasn't there. Deanna placed her hand on her stomach, stroking it over and over. Her gaze was trained to the side.

"Is something wrong?" Draco asked.

"I think I've had a vision."

"A vision? Like a seer?"

"I don't know."

"But you don't have any seer blood. Ignore it."

Deanna shook her head.

"My instincts are never wrong. The colours. This time they were blacks and greys— ones I've never been led to use before, even during my worst moments."

"I don't understand."

"I think I'm going to die," she explained. "I think this birth will kill me."

"Nonsense," Draco said, but he set his silverware down. "Father hired the best healers money could buy. He's even transferring that renowned one from Switzerland."

"Healers can't change my fate."

"Don't—"

"No, Draco. You don't have to believe me, but I want you to listen to me."

Draco hesitated, but he gave a nod of his head for her to continue.

"If I die," she said, still stroking her stomach. "You need to remember what I told you. One day, you'll get to the age where you'll need to choose what kind of man you'll need to be for the woman you love."

"But you're not—"

"Let me finish," she admonished, voice strained. "No matter what they try to tell you, you can't own people. You may own their bodies, but you will never own their minds. It's criminal what they're doing. Against nature. I love you as if you were my son, and I'd grieve like a mother if you turned into a monster. Do you understand? If you ever win Hermione, don't you dare hurt her or take away her autonomy. Don't you dare— fucking hell." She wiped a tear away. "None of those poor children deserve this."

"I wouldn't—"

"Don't lie to me about the person you could be. You bully your classmates, acting just like your father, despite my pleas for you to be kind, and I— I can't die peacefully with the thought that you might become like them, so I want you to promise me right now that you'll be different."

The table went silent for a long time. Draco was clenching his jaw tight, staring at his plate.

"You're not going to die," he said, as if he said if firmly enough, it would come true.

"Promise me!"

Draco swallowed hard. He barely seemed to move. "I promise."

The silence stretched between them.

With his compliance to her demand, she slowly relaxed and then placed her head in her hands and wept.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you're just a child too."


Hermione was thrown out of her head for a moment. It was a bit of a shock to get back to reality. She understood now why he cared for Deanna. She might have been the first person to show him any sort of attention or affection, encouraging him to be better.

It didn't work entirely. He still bullied others, including Theo. He made sure to be the top of the pack at Hogwarts, just like his father wanted. He killed multiple times and was capable of stomach-turning torture. And she could see under it all, he could be terribly cruel and callous if he wanted. But Deanna's efforts weren't in vain. She saw the remnants of them in the man before her—making him able to give and receive love in a way his father never could.

Draco stroked her cheek.

"There are two more memories I'd like to show you, but they are the worst of them."

Hermione's heart clenched, a little afraid of what she'd find in his mind, but she gave a nod, wishing to understand him.

She let him in.


Her vision went dark, and the edges of the memory came into play.

A healer in a green robe stood in front of Lucius. Draco stood behind him. A horrific scream rent the air.

"The child didn't make it."

Lucius seemed frozen.

"Say that again," his voice lowered dangerously.

"The child passed in her mother's arms."

Lucius' looked abnormally shocked. He opened his mouth and shut it. "It was a girl?"

The healer gave a nod of affirmation.

"And Deanna?" Draco asked behind them. "Is she okay?"

The healer hesitated.

"We've done everything possible—"

"Do more," Lucius demanded in a voice that would scare a normal person.

"I'm sorry. We're trying everything, but the blood keeps—"

Draco rushed forward, pushing past both his father and the healer.

"Draco!" Lucius shouted, but his son ignored him, sprinting into the room, where he hurtled to a stop.

Healers busied themselves around Deanna, but it was already useless. She lay in a bed with her hair slicked to her head in sweat. Blood covered the bottom part of the bedclothes.

A little bundle of cloth rested in the crook of her limp right arm, tilted so the face wasn't visible. It looked like the aftermath of war, of violence. As if she'd been tortured. And she had, Hermione realised. She'd endured one of the greatest pains a person could experience.

And still it meant nothing. The labour only birthed silence and pain.

Draco walked forward, as if tiptoeing across muggle explosives.

Deanna's eyes were open, but already empty, so different from the beautiful, vibrant woman she'd been. Her skin was leached of colour, already a grey pallor. Nothing of her was left.

"Mum?" his voice cracked, but she wasn't alive to hear him.


Draco stood in front of a small headstone. Hermione recognized it as the small cemetery on the Malfoy grounds. His mother's giant mausoleum was on the opposite side.

The sunshine brightened the day; birds chirped, the clouds meandered. It was so peaceful, besides the young man dressed in stark black robes, wearing a sombre expression.

The headstone only said Deanna.

Hermione wondered what her last name had been. Had she ever told anyone, or did she keep that information all to herself?

A little gravestone was beside them. Carina Malfoy, it read.

Draco buried his face into his hands just as a crunching of grass came behind them, and Hermione saw Lucius approaching. But when he reached his son, standing behind him, Draco didn't turn to greet him. Instead, he dropped his hands, showing a blotchy red face, eyes watering. He glared at the headstone.

"We should have buried them together," Draco said.

Lucius hesitated.

"It didn't seem proper at the time."

"What if she's cold—Carina. What if she's lonely? I think she would have been happier in the same casket as her mum."

A long silence followed.

"Son, they're gone. They can't feel anymore."

"No thanks to you," Draco hissed.

"Careful how you speak to me."

Draco grit his teeth, balling his fists.

"Or what? It's all your fault. All of this," he swung out his arm, pointing to the graves. "Deanna would have still been alive if you hadn't gotten her pregnant. You knew she wasn't healthy, and you still made her." His voice caught on the last words, followed by a choking sound, as if the swallowed emotions were shards of glass, lacerating on the way down.

Lucius laid a hand on Draco's shoulder, but he shrugged it off violently and twisted, raising his fists as if he'd strike his father.

"Draco—"

"It's all your fault!"

Lucius reached forward and grabbed Draco's shoulders.

"Don't touch me!" He fought, hitting Lucius' chest, but it was half-hearted, flatlined by grief. "I fucking hate you."

Lucius dragged his son into a tight hold. Draco was taller than in the past, coming up to his nose. He wasn't a little boy, but he clung to his father like a young child, crying against his shoulder.

"I fucking hate you," he whispered again.

Lucius' jaw clenched, though he didn't show any other emotion. "I promise to never get another breeder, Draco. It's just me and you, until you find your own companion. Whoever you want. I promise—"

"Hermione," Draco said. "I want Hermione."

"The Nott ward?"

"Yes."

She saw the wheels turning in Lucius' eyes, as if calculating plans. "I was considering her as your breeder regardless. She shows promise of power, but a breeder doesn't make a good companion. Perhaps you should consider another—"

Draco tugged out of his father's hold, face now devoid of emotions, putting up his own occlumency shields.

"I don't want any others."

"Okay," Lucius agreed. "Then she'll be yours."

Draco went still for a long time. "I don't know if I'll ever forgive you."

There was a moment—a single flinch— where Lucius let down his shields. His whole face wrinkled in pain before smoothing out.

"I know."


Hermione hurtled back to reality with a gasp as Draco lifted his fingers. Her throat burned with emotion. Seeing Draco like that, clinging to a father he both loved and hated, made something inside her shatter.

He'd lost so much. Two mothers and a sister. He grew up sheltered but lonely, distanced by his father's Machiavellian complex. She believed Lucius loved his son, but much like Titus, it became twisted in its expression. He gave his son everything except what he really needed.

She knew a big part of Draco obtaining her was due to Lucius' machinations. He wanted to give his son things that made him happy. In some ways, he protected him from the truth, like with the boundary. But in other ways, he exposed him to things he shouldn't have. A violence resided in Lucius, and he passed it down to his son.

Draco stared at her, hands still resting against her cheeks. He searched her face, for once vulnerable before her. All his secret pain was exposed. She took a deep breath and released the tension inside her, the tight ball of resistance, the fear of being betrayed again.

"Do you see now?" Draco placed his hand on her chest, right above her heart. "The only thing I ever want to own is the one thing I can never take."

Hermione was ready to fall and crash and burn. What else was worth the risk of injury besides what stood before her?

Pain is the price of love, but it's worth paying.

"Do you—" she started, but he caught her off guard with a firm kiss, half searing, half gentle.

"I'll be different for you. Different from all of them." His lips hovered over her. He smelled of mint and of Hopper.

"But do you lo—"

Again, his lips cut her off, and her stomach swooped. His hands slipped to her lower back and pressed them together.

"Let me be your safety," he said, mouth trailing down her neck. She leaned to the side, letting him taste and tease as he pleased. "Let me be your sword. Your shield. Let me be your everything."

He undressed her with the precision he usually did, but achingly slower. He kept his lips on her as he unbuttoned her dress, as he slipped it off her shoulders, as he unhooked her bra and then slipped his thumbs past the edge of her knickers. She stopped trying to press for answers to her questions, and instead let him show her.

After stripping her out of her clothes, he laid her down on the yellow couch, running his hand down the soft skin of her thighs, tracing the scars on her lower stomach, following the sloping contours of her curves.

He gently lifted her legs, guiding them around his waist. They never had sex like this, with him hovering over her. It had always cut too close to trauma. Sensing her sudden fear, he kissed her again. "Let me have your trust."

He waited. She knew what he really wanted. It was more than trust, and he wouldn't push past her hesitance without permission.

"I'm here because I want to be," Hermione assured him. "You didn't force me into anything. It took me a little to realise it, but you saved me from a lifetime of imprisonment. Deanna would be proud of you. And I think— well, I think I'd like to be everything to you too."

"Granger," he groaned, tightening his hold on her hips. The fear she'd had with this position was the intimacy, the sound he made. The look in his eyes as he stared down at her. Could two people ever be closer than they were now?

A desperation flashed in his eyes as he pressed tight into her. With a gasp, she grabbed at the edges of his shirt to go even deeper.

His strokes were strong and slow. Fully sheathing himself before dragging out of her in exquisite torture, and then after a hard thrust, he'd let himself linger inside, as if to stay as connected as possible.

"Faster," she begged.

"No."

He grabbed her hands, tangled their fingers, placing them above her. She tried to take over, lifting her hips, but he wouldn't let her get lost in pleasure, forcing her to stay in the moment while looking into his eyes. The connection was too much. The heat inside her rose higher and higher, until she almost sobbed.

He didn't let her orgasm easily. He drew it out as long as possible, kissing her whimpering screams as she clenched around him with her climax, legs tightened around his hips, heels digging into his lower thighs, as she arched into the oblivion.

"Fucking hell," Draco groaned as he came inside her, resting his forehead against hers. "You've ruined me."


Trigger Warnings: character death, birth trauma, stillbirth (all in a memory)