Twelve
Phoenix
Weak from atrophy, exhaustion burrows into Hermione's bones, and pain hinders her every thought.
But she stands.
She moves.
And through it all, she breathes.
With scars both visible and hidden, Hermione endures.
Recovers.
Lives.
The last is most difficult, but there is a sacred comfort hidden in the ordinary.
Debating with Vasades is the touch of home Hermione has ached for. Visits from Harry bring a peace only family can provide. Having Ginny as her faithful companion, rules be damned, is a return to normality.
The remaining gaps are filled by new additions.
Firenze continues to heal the damage done by torture while giving counsel when Hermione feels frazzled. Cho reads, Daphne encourages, and Luna is pure light. They rarely leave her side. Pansy's company is steadfast, too, except when she has to continue performing Hermione's duties. Even Alicia is more present, splitting her time between monitoring the other Ladies, who continue to whisper and spread news of her recovery in all directions.
They are here. Even when Hermione's misery refused to acknowledge it, she has not been alone. She keeps this in mind through the highs and lows, the setbacks and successes.
Today is a milestone.
The most significant yet.
The longest walk Hermione has made.
Each wobbly, labour intensive step from her chambers brought her to the door leading someplace she has not been since the attack.
Outside.
Hermione is exhausted and nauseous, craving much needed rest, but she refuses to turn back.
The doors open. The warmth of the sun washes over her.
Fresh air floods her senses. The forest and the sea smell familiar. Birds chirp and free dragons fly overhead. In the garden before her, butterflies land on flowers. A giant lumbers across the grass, transplanting a tree from one part of the garden to another.
It has been nearly a month since everything changed, but the world remains intact. It is just as she remembers.
Only brighter.
Negativity has battled for dominance over Hermione's emotions during recovery thus far, but today joy and relief replenish her spirits. The comfort found in them nearly sweeps Hermione off her feet. Only Vasades' steadying hand behind her and Pansy's hold on her waist keep her aloft.
Hermione does not know she is in tears until Ginny wipes them away. "You did it."
"I did."
"This is all fantastic, but are we going to stand here or…" Pansy arches a brow.
Laughing, Hermione uses her second wind to carry her through the threshold and beyond.
"Winky!" Pansy calls when they reach a spot in the grass. The little elf appears. "Bring us some food and a blanket. We're celebrating."
Winky bows. "Yes, Princess."
"Thank you," Hermione adds.
Winky blushes no matter how many times Hermione treats her with a kindness she is unfamiliar with. She vanishes, returning with a large blanket and a small spread of food. Hermione sits around it with Pansy, Ginny, and Vasades.
"Why is it that you thank her?" Pansy asks while they eat cheese, bread, and grapes. They have wine, but Hermione has no taste for it.
"It is good manners to thank those who complete tasks for you," Ginny says.
"She is a servant. It is her duty."
"That may be so." Hermione's empty goblet fills with water, likely Winky's doing. "Still, it does not hurt to be kind to those perceived to be lesser. You treat Vasades with respect. What is the difference between her and Winky? Or rather, what is the difference between them and you?"
"We—" Pansy pauses. "I am a noble."
"And I am a queen. Our station in life is not always within our control, but our actions are. We can treat those believed to be beneath us better. Duty and fear are not the only ways to inspire loyalty. Kindness can, too."
"Perhaps you are right," Pansy says. "I do hate the way they flinch, but balance is good in all regards. Cruelty can be a deterrent for your enemies, while kindness can be inspiration. Your constitution is why Astoria does not find you fit to rule at Draco's side."
Hermione does not allow anger to get the better of her tongue. "It is the king's place—not hers—to determine my worth."
Why Astoria is set against her becomes more clear with each passing day. She cares for Draco, pushes him, and they are more alike than not. As for Hermione's reign as queen, most of it has been dreadful. Hermione is an outsider who does not know enough to protect the king or even herself.
She and Draco share fault in their missteps, but in the weeks since their talk, they have sought common ground. Sometimes getting Draco to speak is as fruitless as bottling a beam of sunlight; other times his honesty is ugly.
Brutal.
Painful.
It is clear Draco keeps this new depth between them private, even from those he trusts. So she will as well.
"You must have more to say." Ginny shields her face from the sun with her hand.
"I am not beyond adjustment and I am capable of learning, but I intend to remain true to myself." Hermione takes one step towards temperance, but cannot leave it there. "That my soul has yet to be sucked from my body and my head remains on my shoulders means that, as of now, the king finds me fit to rule."
Ginny coughs.
Vasades scolds her, suppressing her amusement.
"So he does." Pansy's flash of humour fades. "Astoria is… difficult. She has been through much, and it has made her practical to the point of brutality. She sees the world much like Draco, but she means well. I trust her with my life, as does my brother."
"Perhaps you two might one day become tolerant of the other." Vasades gives her a long, chastening look. "Or at least seek compromise."
"There are some convictions that are too deeply held." Hermione drinks a bit of water. "If common ground cannot be found, this in itself can be an ideal result."
"You are right," Pansy muses. "If you befriend everyone, the position holds no meaning. To be a great ruler, you must not have friends. You require allies, subjects, and enemies. History will decide how you are remembered anyway."
"That is true. I have no control over this. All I can do is my best. I know who I am, where I come from, and what I have endured, so I will decide how I rule. I nearly limited myself to an early grave. Now, I am choosing a different path."
"And what path might that be?" Vasades asks.
To grow. To give.
To give this life she did not choose a chance.
Perhaps one day, Hermione will show her children how far they have come, and how much further they will take them.
"I will take many paths, but I choose to take them with my friends."
A reluctant fondness spreads across Pansy's cheeks. "You truly are too nice for your own good."
Vasades chuckles. "You have not yet seen Hermione at her most vengeful. It is quite the sight."
Pansy looks curious. "I cannot wait—"
Horns blare above them, carrying their eyes to the skies.
Dozens of manned Thestrals fly overhead. They split in all directions. Hermione hears Pansy's exhale, sees the nervous energy she suppresses when they are near each other.
Hermione finally has her wits about her and asks, "What is happening? Draco does not speak much of it."
"Troops being stationed near the borders of the Lost Kingdom. Beyond that, Draco has requested silence."
Instinct drives her to ask questions—were there sightings?—but she knows why he forbids it.
Her focus has to remain where it is most needed: recovery.
Hermione answers exhaustion's call, resting on a blanket and dozing until all goes dark and silent.
The sun has dipped below the trees when Hermione wakes.
She is not alone.
Luna, Cho, and Daphne have joined the impromptu meal in the sun, and another addition has returned from the north.
Sitting behind her, casting a shadow Hermione does not want to escape, is Kaida.
Above them on the veranda, an equally watchful Draco stands. He is dressed in riding gear. They must have just returned. Harry and Goyle are on either side. Goyle whispers something that he nods to, then they both leave.
Draco remains.
Protective, however frustrating.
In some ways, he has relaxed, but not entirely. During his birthday celebration last week, Draco was tense, hand on his wand as if waiting for something to happen. When an actor got too close, he nearly cursed the man.
He only relaxed behind closed doors, surrounded by those closest to him, smiling once during Theo and Goyle's amusing, offkey rendition of a few of his favourite songs. Then again when they were alone and Kaida spoke to him through their bond.
Hermione sits up and Kaida looms closer.
Standing on her own is a slow process, but she does it with a new goal in mind. Stumbling on her first steps, she holds up a hand at the nearby trio ready to come to her aid.
But Hermione does not need it.
Kaida dips her head to shorten the distance.
Her nightmares are of fire and blood. Smoke and magic. The smell of burning flesh. Lakes of blood. An eerily open black sky.
Just as she fears what torture has borne in herself, Hermione should fear Kaida's nature—what she can destroy when provoked, when she cares, when she loves. She is destruction, chaotic and dangerous, yet the memory of beating wings is as much a comfort as the same wings are a refuge.
A haven of peace.
Safety.
"I have missed you," Hermione whispers.
Kaida shifts closer, restless yet patient, head bowed lower. She wants the comfort of touch.
A hand above the dragon's jaw settles her instantly; one exhale blows Hermione's hair out of place. She smiles and brings her other hand up, lowering her head, too.
She does not know what it means for a living dragon to give up a heartstring, but she is humbled by Kaida's sacrifice.
"Thank you, friend."
Red eyes. Maniacal laughter.
Darkness.
Blood.
Blue flames. Hooded faces.
They twist and terrorise her, dragging her back into memories while she claws and fights, kicks and screams.
She falls in every possible direction—up, down, spinning around an unknown axis.
Nauseating. Terrifying.
Hermione resurfaces with a stinging gasp that tingles to the tips of her fingers. She coughs and sputters, touching where Bellatrix's dagger was buried. She is dry where she should be wet with blood, fighting the panic until—
"This is real."
She is not alone.
Draco is still a lingering shadow during her days, but a firm presence through her nights.
The most drastic change of all.
How they are here began when they accidentally fell asleep the night Hermione asked for more. They woke in shock, limbs tangled, both ready to pull away. But neither did. At least not until Winky arrived.
She thought it was a fluke, but Draco returned that night. Falling asleep beside him has become a rule rather than an exception.
Vasades was right.
Trauma is complicated. Individualised. It never fully leaves.
Hermione is still learning to adjust.
She will never be the same.
The nightmares do not stop, but the idea of suffering them alone does; she is grateful that she is not. She wonders if she will sleep when he leaves. Inevitably, he will.
"Did I wake you again?" she whispers.
"Yes."
Guilt climbs her throat as Draco shifts behind her, his hands tangling with hers on her belly.
The phantom pains fade. Her heartbeat slows. "Is it selfish to want you here?"
"No. We share a vice in our self-interests. Since we are being honest with one another… I sleep better here."
Hermione closes her eyes, but she cannot fall asleep. "You never told me how you first saw your grim."
Draco is quiet for several moments before he shifts to mould himself to her back.
"It appeared the day my father died."
She says nothing, knowing this cannot be an easy topic for him. No explanation is what Hermione expects, but it is not what she gets.
Tonight, Draco chooses to speak.
"Not long after he cut my face, he tried to kill me during a fit. He thought I was trying to overthrow him when he burst into my chambers. Potter tried to defend me, but he was not strong enough and earned himself scars for his trouble."
He pauses, lost in a place she cannot go. The past.
"We do not have to speak on—"
"Mania made my father strong, but his magic was erratic. I thought I was going to die by his hand. The sudden appearance of the grim terrified him. He fell back and hit his head on a chair. Firenze and Snape tried to save him but… I became king the next day."
Hermione is too stunned to speak. She can only squeeze his hand a little tighter as he traverses the course through his memories.
"It took hours for him to draw his last breath. He was lucid, remembering everything he had done in his madness. To me, to his people, to everyone. He wept and asked for forgiveness. I granted his dying wish, yet I found no peace when he did."
"Did you stay with him?" Hermione asks.
"Until the end." He sounds hollow, detached. "Alone."
She faces him, bringing her fingertip to trace his lips, his set jaw, the curve of an ear. Emboldened by the intensity in his eyes, she maps the scar from his hairline to his lips. Her touch is light, delicate.
Draco's breathing deepens.
It is an exercise of trust when, slow and sure, Hermione kisses him.
She provides a comfort words cannot. They lay chest to chest, her fingers drifting through his hair.
To herself, she can admit that she likes Draco like this: pliant and agreeable. Although, she cannot deny the tingle when he is assertive and hungry. The rush in moments just before he stops himself in a show of restraint she does not possess.
They take it slow.
Talking and touching is a mutual exchange of honesty, of intimacy. They take ownership of their marriage without the influence of others. The ease found in moments like this mark progress.
During the day, there is little change from how things were before. When she rises, he is already gone, away with Kaida in what she can only assume is his search for his uncle and the Death Eaters who escaped. The knights search the forests and skies and scour nearby villages.
When Draco returns, he keeps to his routines, meetings with advisors and fulfilling his duties. He walks with Astoria, but no longer with attendants. Pansy and Harry are with them. Hermione speaks nothing of this change, because they quietly agree to not waste their time with talk of others.
Their struggles do not resolve instantly, but Hermione is honest with her needs and emotions. Draco continues to present pieces of himself.
"Perhaps I should share something with you. What do you want to know?"
Draco stares at her lips. "What is it like to dream?"
"Do you not?"
"Not like you." He searches her face. "You remember each dream."
"I wish I did not." Hermione exhales. "Sometimes I worry these nightmares will end."
"Maybe not, but you will endure."
"You speak as if you know."
"I do."
Talking calms her, lulls her. Draco rarely speaks of his dreams, but tonight Hermione wants more.
"What would you dream of if you could?" she asks.
"Nothing."
He falls into a thoughtful silence. This, she is learning, is his way. Blunt truth followed by reflection.
Maybe he will change his mind, maybe he will not. Draco has many moments in the darkness when she cannot see his vulnerability, but still, she feels it—deeply.
Draco takes a sharp breath. "My nightmares are of reality."
Hermione knows what he does not say.
A mother's descent and death. A father's madness. Abuse. Years as a tool sharpened for war and fighting for his own life.
Hermione matches his breaths; the act grows easier. "What are you thinking about?"
"Your thoughts." The tinge of humour is but a whisper between them. "I can hear them."
"I cannot help this."
"Think of a sound that is eternal."
Hermione thinks of waves, of the sea behind the palace. It fills her with a calm that cannot be replicated. "Like this?"
"Yes, but let it grow, as if you are standing on the shore, listening to the call of the ocean."
With little effort, the sound of lapping waves multiples and disperses. It fades to a thick hum, but it does not stop.
"Is that better?"
"Yes." Draco shifts. "It will be easier to teach when you are ready."
"I am an excellent student. Mother used to say—"
The sentiment steals her air.
Hermione has not spoken to her parents since waking with their family's secret truths intact.
Harry was right. She does understand.
The shock lessens each day, leaving Hermione raw with missing them.
"I should write in the morning."
"You should." Draco pulls away, lying on his back, staring at the canopy overhead. "Parents do not live forever."
Moonlight breaks from the clouds, filtering through the window, giving the room a soft glow. She rests her head on his chest, the strong beat of his heart beneath her hand.
"Tell me your mother's story."
"Tomorrow."
To Hermione's surprise, Draco honours her request after they dine alone.
Sore and agitated from a fall that leaves her limping and bound to chairs and hovering charms, Hermione is grateful for the escape.
Draco lets her walk, however slowly, the entire way to their destination.
She appreciates not being treated delicately, but is still gracious for the steadying hands at her waist. The night guards do not look up as they pass, nor do they follow.
Draco stops in front of his mother's favourite place.
The aviary.
There are blankets laid out for them. Nocturnal birds chirp their melody. The moon is out. Draco shields her from a crisp breeze with a warming charm. Hermione sits on a blanket and watches as he takes care of the birds, filling their feeders with seeds, replenishing the bird baths with water from his wand.
Menial tasks he has obviously done before.
A phoenix flies down, landing on a branch. Draco scowls at it. "Come back tomorrow, old man."
It takes off into the night as a splash of colour against the backdrop of darkness.
"What was that?" she asks.
"Dumbledore's familiar, Fawkes."
Hermione has many questions, they stack one on top of the other, but Draco looks irritated and tired. Instead, she waits in silence until he returns to her side with a transfigured blanket to cover them.
They lay back and look up at the stars.
"I used to tend to this place for my mother because she could not. I have not been here since I was a boy, yet I can name every bird present."
"Do you like birds?"
"No." He scoffs. "They are nothing but rats with wings. Loud and annoying, they foul everything."
"In the forests, the birds are not so close together. They sing for many reasons, in warning or happiness or to mate."
She looks over to find him watching her.
"I know about them because of my mother."
"And you keep this place in her memory?"
"Death is inevitable," he says coldly. "Mourning is useless."
"But that does not mean you are incapable of mourning what you have lost, Draco. You are not as detached as you think. There are flaws in your armour—be it from battle or design. This war is a vengeance you seek. Fighting may be how you grieve, but acknowledging the truth is how you heal."
"I am not broken."
"No, but you are wounded."
Draco says nothing.
She wonders if he cannot see the wounds because he is blind to them. Like the scars that cross his chest, they identify him. They are all he knows.
"How can you not be?" She grazes his fingers with her own. "I was changed after one night, but you—the more I learn, the more I realise life has neither been kind nor merciful to you. How old were you when she died?"
"Twelve. My father's grief and madness made life… Difficult would be an understatement."
The scar on his face makes her believe him. "Will you tell me her story?"
"It is long and complicated."
"I am in no rush."
Hermione alternates between watching him, the birds, and the sky in growing anticipation.
"Her favourite great aunt was a Potter by blood." Draco is slow and deliberate in his delivery. "She told my mother and Andromeda about the Peverells, how they were the first non-Sacred family to rule and later how they survived the genocide. She never told Bellatrix because she did not trust her."
"For good reason."
Draco hums in agreement. "When Voldemort heard rumours of your brother's birth, my family's loyalty was wavering. My grandfather was king. He was ready to pull away for his own selfish reasons as he did not want to give up land and power to Voldemort."
"And then what?"
"Voldemort came to my mother to ask if she knew of any survivors of the Lost Kingdom. She lied, but there was no reason not to believe her until he found proof of her deception and returned."
"What happened?"
"I was too young to remember Voldemort cursing my mother. I was found with her. He left knowing that your brother was out there and went on to attack the Longbottoms, who were the last family that bore the cursed mark."
"And after that he planned to find Harry?"
"Yes."
History does not reflect this.
History tells stories of Princess Alice's love saving her unborn child and vanquishing evil, but not of a different mother whose lie cost her everything and saved Harry.
"How did he curse your mother?" Hermione asks softly, laying a careful hand on Draco.
"She grew ill over time, as if each day drained the life from her. After two years of failures, my father became desperate to return her to good health. After five years, he began to turn on allies—even me. When he became king, his mind was already poisoned. He'd forgotten himself."
Hermione sees Draco staring at the sky, visibly struggling to continue. "You do not have to—"
"I do." His laugh is dry, lacking humour. "There are parts that involve Potter's prophesy. Like the diary. My father turned his ire on Voldemort early on, kept the diary on him to destroy it. They say the horcrux drove him mad, but my mother's illness was part of his descent. He slaughtered countless Healers and centaurs and Potions Masters whose treatments did not work. He attacked kingdoms who tried to assist and failed, which started a war between us and the Shafiq Kingdom. And it was all for naught."
"What do you mean?"
"My mother told me so." Draco exhales slowly. "She knew all along what was killing her and how to stop it. Vasades told her."
"What was it and why—"
"Me," Draco snaps. "I was killing her."
"No." Hermione shakes her head. "How is that possible?"
"Voldemort's curse was dark magic that could not be undone." A pause stretches as conflict streaks across his face. He does not conceal it. "He bound her life line to mine. She had to choose to save herself by sacrificing me or allowing the curse to take its course."
"She chose you."
A choice so complex in its simplicity.
"She sealed her fate." He looks away for a long moment. "If my father knew the true source of her illness, he would have chosen differently."
"But your mother loved you." Hermione's hand is gentle on top of his. "You were worth her life."
"And she was the only person keeping my father together. Sometimes I question her sacrifice."
"A mother's love is not earned. It is endless."
Draco extracts his hand in a way that once felt like rejection, but she now understands is a defence mechanism. "I have been fighting a thankless war by force. To atone, to avenge. Tasked to restore a balance I do not know. I make more mistakes than not. There are more plots to kill me than I can count. The realm believes I am a tyrant. Even you thought this—"
"I am quick to judge. It is a flaw," Hermione admits humbly. "I did not know you then as I am learning you now."
Draco scoffs. "Your mind should be so easily swayed."
"No, but what I do know is that tyrants mirror their predecessors, they do not form alliances with those oppressed by past rulers. This is just one way you are not your forefathers, nor are you mad like your father."
"I—sometimes I fear fragments of his madness live within me. I fear one day I will pass it on."
What Draco fears most of all is heart-breaking.
Himself.
Cho is a most welcome sight.
Much recovered after the stunning spell, she has returned to her normal spirits, albeit quieter. She and Hermione lean on each other while sitting under heavy guard in the orchard.
The sun is rising.
They have just finished breakfast outdoors.
Daphne picks peaches with the bowtruckles that were rehomed from the forest. Elm stands on her shoulder while the others shake branches. Luna is at the bottom, twirling as she catches falling fruit.
It is a humorous sight, but Hermione can only muster slight amusement. Her mind is rubbed raw from the lack of sleep last night.
"The king's dragon watches," Cho whispers. "It is unnerving."
Hermione looks over. Kaida has not moved since landing near where they are seated.
She cannot see him, but she has a feeling Draco is not far.
"How are you, Hermione?" Cho's informality is a relief. "You have not spoken much today."
"I continuously improve."
"Lady Lavender and the others whisper that you and the king continue to struggle in matrimony following the attack. When you left before your private dinner yesterday with the king, she called you frigid. Daphne defended you, but I am still most aggravated. How dare she speak about you when you nearly died. You showed her such kindness after her Dementor attack. I wish she would—"
"Let her whisper. Let her speak ill of me. Every Lady serves a purpose, and she is serving hers."
"I do not understand."
"Do not fret. Her words may reach the ears of the court but they are empty." She looks at her friend, not speaking of Pansy's use of Lavender to figure out how information travels within the palace walls. "How are you? I feel as though we have not really spoken since that night."
"I am well. I find that, like you, sleep comes harder than before." Cho's smile is sad. "I am afraid it is only you and I who bear new scars. I was not here during the coup, so I am not like battle-worn Daphne. Even Luna has seen war."
"I did not know this."
"The Lestranges invaded the Abbott kingdom during their campaign when Luna was nine. Her father was tortured and her mother died in an explosion. Luna hid behind in the grass for days before they found her wandering."
Hermione closes her eyes from the horror her friend endured as a child. She does not remember her own, and cannot imagine if she did. It is a credit to her character that Luna has turned into the woman she is now.
"Luna said she regretted not fighting back, just hiding," Cho says. Together they watch Luna twirl and smile, picking apples for the baby winged horses she will likely sneak off to play with later. "She feels vindicated now, relieved knowing that she can fight, that she is not afraid."
"She came right on time."
"You must know Luna credits you for not getting lost in the woods. Your directions led them back to me. How did you know? Daphne said you were not awake when they tied you up."
"I used the stars to guide my way."
"Perhaps when you are well, you can teach me."
Hermione nods. "I would love to."
"Everyone heard what happened after you parted ways." Cho looks at Kaida. "That she rescued you is most unusual."
Kaida's huff blows the leaves of the nearby fruit trees like a strong wind. She turns around, facing away from them. Hermione thinks she is sulking and smiles when she takes flight in dramatic fashion.
She does not go far.
"Dragons are also prideful and have excellent hearing."
"I mean no offence." Cho blushes. "How is it—oh, the king is here."
Draco approaches, flanked by two advisors, Nott and Percy, who pause upon seeing them, staying back while the king continues alone. Cho is already standing as Luna and Daphne approach. By the time the king stands before them, Hermione is on her feet. Her Ladies bow low and line up behind her. She inclines her head to her husband but notes his discomfort.
"Are you enjoying your walk?" Hermione asks carefully.
"No." Draco looks as tired as she feels. They barely slept due to her nightmares and the mood he carried from the aviary to her chambers. "I do not walk for pleasure, only in search of you."
"Oh? I did not know you would be in need of me."
To no surprise of her own, Draco was gone before Hermione woke that morning. Today is the day he settles disputes in the presence of the Court. It is an event that takes place once a week and lasts all day. Usually, it is nobles arguing over lands and money, friction between conquered lords and those who are Malfoy Kingdom nobility by blood. Sometimes, the king even hears peasant disputes that cannot be solved by the nobles whose lands they live on.
Hermione has never attended.
Draco usually makes his decisions alone, or during breaks when he consults Pansy and Astoria.
She feels the change before he confirms it.
"Your presence is required today." He extends his hand. "By me."
Settling disputes is far more tedious than Hermione expects.
The entire Court sits in one room. She and Draco, dressed in their finest with crowns upon their heads, are situated on thrones just above everyone. Draco is in the centre, Hermione is at his right, and Pansy—as crowned Princess—sits on his left. Those who seek the king's judgement wait in a queue. Guards remain stationed at the door, letting each in one at a time.
By the tenth dispute over a newly discovered copper mine that straddles the land of what used to be two kingdoms, Hermione realises the king has a warrior-like concept of problem solving.
He rules to split everything: land, crops, and monetary disputes alike.
He awards each person half, even when Hermione would argue a more fair, albeit complicated, split.
Another two pass, and she is under the impression King Draco cares little for the conflicts of his people. Does he truly listen? When she shifts in her seat after another ruling, this time over sheep that frequent two farmlands, Draco calls for a break and gestures to an adjoining room.
Pansy's muttered relief as she escapes in the opposite direction makes Hermione chuckle, but only when they are alone. The room contains enough food for the morning's claimants.
"You have opinions." Draco circles the table, eyeing the choices laid out before them.
"I do, but you might not invite me to another session should I voice them."
"Out of sheer annoyance from your aggravating thoughts, I may not."
"I keep the ocean on my mind. Does that not work?"
"Not when your focus slips."
"You should block me out."
"I do, but it is increasingly harder. Ever since your memories were restored, your thoughts bleed into my subconscious. I sometimes hear you when we are not in the same room. Firenze is quiet on the reasons why this may be, but he says your mind is not yet ready to teach."
Hermione has several questions better suited for a different time and place, mainly about his alliance with the centaurs, which Vasades will not discuss with her. For now, she stays the course of this argument. "If I am allowed to speak freely—"
"Even if I forbade it, you would find a loophole."
Hermione ignores his comment. "I do wonder why anyone attends if they know you will rule the same way each time."
"My rulings are fair."
"Only at a bare minimum."
"Equality means none can argue favour."
"True, but neither can they argue for a sincere, diversified response. What would you have done if the farmers presented an odd number of sheep? Would you have sliced the unfortunate sheep in half? The copper mine, from the maps provided, does not sit halfway between their lands but at a percentage, yet you grant both the same portion out of fairness? I could go on."
"Then why have you not spoken up?"
"I—it is not my place."
Draco picks up a bottle of wine and uses magic to uncork it. "Are you not queen?"
"You have never consulted me on any matters. It would be impertinent to go against your ruling in public."
"Then perhaps you should speak first. Ask your questions, then I will follow."
When he pours himself a glass, Hermione turns her nose up at the new scent of—
She knocks over the goblet before Draco can pick it up.
He looks at her in shock. "Why did you—"
"It is poison."
The red liquid bubbles, corroding the food and eating through the wood. The same happens where Draco's chestplate caught a few drops. He rips it off and throws it on the ground.
They both look down, then at one another.
Draco calls for his knights, but before they storm in, he stares at her. "You could have easily let me drink it, but—"
"No, I could not." Hurt stabs like a physical wound. "Do you still think so little of me?"
"No—I… You meant it." He looks stunned by this. "Three queens and for the first time—"
"I am not them."
"I… I know." Draco's wonder cools her ire. He looks relieved. "I did not doubt you. Not once."
Grey eyes never leave hers as he circles the table to close the distance between them.
He takes her hand. Though poison continues to corrode everything it touches, and the heavy wooden table cracks in half while glasses shatter and platters crash to the floor, he does not let go
Their focus is not on the wreckage.
Draco does not wear armour, ready for war—he wears happiness that lasts until it is broken by the guards delivering his knights.
In this moment, Hermione discovers a new truth.
Trust is built, constructed stone by stone, in the gaps of silence shared in small moments.
Slow and continuous, their journey is far from over, but Draco displays his growing faith with a short kiss to her wedding ring.
Then a much longer one to her lips.
Happy New Year! Plot's moving right along. Welcome back, Sky Chicken and continued communication. Will note I def used the Black family tree to tie Malfoys and Potters.
Also a reminder, Draco and Hermione are pretty young here.
*Draco turns 23 in this chapter.
*Hermione's 23rd birthday was mentioned back in chapter 3.
*Up until chapter 11, they'd been married roughly two months, after knowing each other two weeks.
*Currently, we're 3-ish months in to them meeting officially in the throne room.
They're not going to have all the right answers about marriage, or even each other, immediately. I don't think it's realistic for Draco to be a great husband instantly when he's not had the healthiest of marriages that he even wanted (not to mention trauma), but he's giving this "trusting they won't start a damn coup and try to kill me" thing a shot. Just like Hermione's giving this "not gonna suffocate my emotions and accept help from people" thing a go as well. I don't ever write perfect characters. They'll have flaws and scars and they're real and human so sometimes they fuck up and have to fix their mistakes, sometimes as readers you won't like their choices or even the character despite their overall good intentions. It's intended as there are so many facets of human behavior that's interesting to explore. Tbh, it's always about the growth with me-sometimes they own their shit, sometimes they'll be unapologetic, but all the time they'll be human.
Anywho, til next time xoxo