Author's Note: thanks and praise to my beta Grace_Clarke.

ONWARDS!

January 7, 2003 - Morning

Christmas break was over and the chamber was filled with murmurs as members of the Wizengamot gathered. Hermione stood at the center, ready to defend her Muggle Integration Act becoming Clause 103 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. When she'd delivered her opening address, she'd been hopeful. Determined, of course, but, also, hopeful, because surely the wizarding community had moved past its former bigoted ways. As the members took their seats, however, and a hush fell over the room, Hermione felt a sense of dread begin to swirl in her stomach.

Kingsley Shacklebolt struck the gavel and opened the floor for comments, but not before sending her a look. One that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her breath to quicken.

"This amendment threatens the very fabric of our society," the first comment was from a conservative member of the Wizengamot, Archibald Firewell. "The Statute of Secrecy exists for a reason. To integrate so openly with Muggles is to invite chaos." He declared, his face darkened by anger and facial hair.

"The world has changed. It's time our laws reflect that change. This act isn't about exposing us; it's about allowing magical families to be whole." Hermione's fingers tightened around themselves, as she tried not to let her frustration show.

"Ms Granger makes a valid point. The secrecy we cling to often causes more harm than good, especially to those of Muggle descent." Member Euphemia Jenkins added, sending a powerful scowl towards her fellow member on the bench. "It's that kind of thinking that got us into the War in the first place, Firewell, or perhaps you've forgotten?"

"And what of the risks?" Member Horatio Redwood disagreed. "The potential for exposure is too great. We cannot support this."

Hermione felt all hope within her die - if more than one member was already against it, her amendment stood no chance.

"With proper guidelines and education, we can minimize those risks," Hermione pleaded. "Imagine a world where a young witch or wizard doesn't have to lie to their Muggle grandparents, aunts, or uncles. Where families aren't torn apart by secrets."

The debate raged on, with arguments about safety, tradition and progress clashing in the historic chamber. As member after member continued to talk over her and dismiss her ideas as foolhardy and unsafe, she felt her shoulders slump and defeat sink in. Empathy meant nothing to these people. Human kindness, decency, even, meant nothing to them. As she sat there for hours, hearing reason after reason to keep a part of society completely segregated from their own family, all she wanted was to scream, and, perhaps, throw something. It felt as though her statements were landing on completely deaf ears.

When at last Kingsley struck his gavel to call an end to comments, he sent Hermione another look and she had to bite her tongue - again - to stop a shriek from escaping.

"I don't believe this debate will be concluded by the end of this session," he said, and by the murmurs surrounding her, there was general agreement. "And I also imagine Miss Granger will, at this point, be making some clarifications to her proposed Amendment."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond. The obvious answer was yes, of course she would. But she had already spent months, close to a year, perfecting this already.

What more could she possibly do? What else could she say? What else would persuade them if they weren't already?

What did these people want from her?

"As such, I move that this matter is adjourned," Kingsley droned on. "To allow time for all parties to pause, reflect and clarify their position, for healthier debate at a later time. I also move that this Amendment is revised and resubmitted before the Wizengamot, before the next hearing. Do I have a second?"

Before Hermione had time to object, a second member signed onto the motion, then a third, and Kingsley banged his bloody gavel again.

"Motion so moved - this case is adjourned until July 2004, with a Revised Muggle Integration Act due for viewing by the Wizengamot no later than June 23, 2004."

Hermione wasn't sure if the tears in her eyes were due to frustration or betrayal as Kingsley barely flinched.

That was eighteen months away. More than a year. Another eighteen months of families being kept apart, and Kingsley announced those dates as if he was merely decreeing for the next train to leave the station.

He stood, his voice echoing through the hollowed chamber, "This session of the Wizengamot is now concluded. I thank all members for their contributions today. We shall reconvene on this matter. Until then, I urge each of you to consider the implications of the Muggle Integration Act deeply."

With a final, authoritative strike of the gavel, the room began to empty, the members' robes whispering against the ancient stone floor as they departed. Hermione remained seated, her mind a whirlwind of frustration and disbelief. The parchment containing her meticulously crafted amendment lay before her, the ink now seeming to mock her efforts.

She had believed in the power of her words, in the righteousness of her cause. Yet, the faces of the Wizengamot, impassive and unyielding, haunted her. Their murmurs of assent to the adjournment felt like a chorus of disapproval, a collective dismissal of her year-long endeavor.

As the chamber's great doors closed with a resounding thud, Hermione was left in the growing silence, the weight of the task ahead pressing down upon her.

January 14, 2003, Late Evening

Draco stood in the dimly lit library of St Mungo's Hospital. His silver eyes scanned ancient tomes, their pages yellowed with age. He needed a solution - a way to awaken Hermione's parents from their vegetative slumber, a way to counter whatever held their consciousness in limbo.

He needed to get Hermione her parents back.

He'd been down here for far too long, searching aimlessly through the stacks in the basement, assuming that this search would prove just as fruitless as all the others. Most of these scrolls hadn't been touched in decades, the dust making him sneeze every time he reached for a new book.

And then he found it - a faded parchment tucked between the pages of an obscure grimoire. The title read: Nightmare's Lullaby.

The description was cryptic, written in elegant script:

When memories fade like mist at dawn, and consciousness drifts into the abyss, seek the bridge - the elixir that binds forgotten fragments to waking reality.

Draco's heart raced. Could this be the answer? According to the parchment, the potion required only three ingredients.

Moonflower Petals: Gathered under the full moon, these delicate blooms hold the essence of dreams. They whisper secrets to the night, promising to unlock hidden memories.

Silver Mist: A rare substance found in the heart of enchanted forests, hiding and safeguarding forgotten promises.

Unicorn Hair: A single strand, for peace and resilience - to bridge the gap between oblivion and awakening.

But there was more - the incantation. Draco traced the faded letters.

Somnium revocare, memoriae redire, anima resurgere.

He whispered the words, feeling their magic resonate through his veins. The library seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the stakes. Draco hesitated. Should he tell Hermione? She deserved to know, yet, he feared raising false hope.

He retreated from the library and clocked off for the day, keeping the parchment in his pocket. He felt it burning a hole there as he walked out of St Mungo's through the staff's exit, saying goodbye to a few colleagues on the way, and straight into his flat from the hallway closet. He left his coat there and headed to the kitchen, swiping two bottles of water from the fridge before pouring himself two fingers of Firewhisky into a crystal glass. He held the two bottles between his fingers, the glass in the other, and headed for the couch.

Placing his drinks on the coffee table, he sat down hard and used his new chair, a brown leather recliner, for the very purposes for which it was intended, letting out a deep, satisfied groan as he did so. He laid there for a few moments, stretching his back out and soaking in the luxury of his calf muscles being hugged by padded leather.

Before long, the parchment in his pocket burned too hot to ignore anymore, and he pulled it from his pocket while reaching for the Firewhisky. He took a sip as he read the script again. While the ingredients and the incantation for the potion were simple enough, the Nightmare's Lullaby needed an entire Lunar cycle to complete brewing.

As he read over the brewing instructions, he finished his Firewhisky and moved onto one of the bottles of water. When he'd read the parchment to the point that he'd completely memorized it, he finally placed it on the coffee table and once more leant back in his chair.

He wasn't sure what to do with the mix of emotions playing havoc within his mind. His instinct was to block it out, if not, occlude. There was, of course, a certain amount of pride and relief, but then when he thought of telling Hermione, that pleasant feeling seemed to darken.

It felt wrong to tell her this now, when she could do nothing, when all there was to do was wait. She was already so worked up.

She'd visited her parents three times since Christmas. The first time, had been a fairly quiet one. The second, she'd been full of nerves, a bundle of excitement, trembling with anticipation at the prospect of her upcoming hearing in front of the Wizengamot. She'd rattled on to her parents about what she expected and how she'd been preparing. She had been almost gleeful at the prospect of having a front row seat on this historic day of change.

As she had rushed to grab her bag in a swirl of curls and scarves, he'd called from his point at the table with her father.

"Granger?"

Hermione had turned and looked at him, that confident gleam finally back in her eyes. When she'd smiled at him, as though she had thought nothing of it, with the sun filtering in through the windows, she was ethereal.

"You're the Brightest Witch of the Age," he'd told her, giving her the reassurance she had seemed to need. "You're more than capable of changing the world. It's an absolute fool who stands in the way of Hermione Granger."

The third visit, she'd arrived on a Friday evening. She'd looked like a drowned rat, no coat on after obviously having walked in the sleeting rain. It was twenty minutes before the end of visiting hours, her lips were blue and trembling and she'd fallen to the floor at her mother's feet, breaking into audible, angry sobs.

She hadn't even noticed Draco in the corner of the room, doing his last rounds and filling in her father's chart before handover. He hadn't been sure whether to speak or not - it was only when she began to whimper into her mother's knees that he decided to make his presence known.

"I can't fight anymore, Mum!" she'd moaned. "I've been fighting their bigotry for years and I just can't, Mum."

"Granger."

She had sprung up from her position and whipped around, her hands going to her face to swipe furiously at her tears.

"Dammit, Malfoy!" she had forced a giggle. "Why do you always catch me when I'm crying?"

She had stayed until visiting hours were over, and lingered in the doorway when the bell rang. All they'd done was sit in silence, yet, she'd thanked him, and then bizarrely apologized.

"I'm sorry I've been such a mess, Malfoy," she'd blushed and pushed her hair behind her ears.

"Granger, think nothing of it," he'd dismissed. "I would be too, if I was dealing with everything you have on your shoulders. The Wizengamot is made up of a bunch of ignorant, old fools, clinging to ignorant, old, foolish ways."

Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, she'd laughed too brightly. "I really should be used to the weight by now, though."

Unable to bear her despondency any longer, he'd crossed the distance between them and taken her spare hand in his. The sound she made was between a gasp and a shudder, almost a sob but contained now.

"Granger, their ignorance, their bigotry, is not a reflection on your brilliance," he'd squeezed both her hands then, holding them clasped between both of his. "Sometimes people just need to hug their mum. To talk to their mum. I'm so sorry you can't do that, Hermione."

She'd left not long after, but her touch lingered. She hadn't pulled away from him at the time, not at first. The look in her enormous chocolate eyes as she had gazed at him stayed with him - a mixture of sadness, and terrified hope.

Remembering that look as he sat in his recliner settled it for him - he would brew the Nightmare's Lullaby and administer the first batch to Mr and Mrs Granger.

But Hermione didn't need to know that until some positive results were in. He wouldn't get her hopes up prematurely. His determination grew, as he drifted off to an exhausted sleep.

As he had promised her, he would bring her parents back to her.

She would get to hug her mum again.

January 23, 2002 - Pre-evening

Hermione was working overtime for the fourth day running. She made another note and went searching for her previous one, which was buried under three scrolls and a first edition copy of Muggle and Wizarding Relations - 1530-1729. Realising her new findings had completely negated her old ones, she scratched out an entire paragraph and four sentences. Groaning from the pit of her stomach as she dropped her quill, she threw her head in her hands and pulled at the roots of her hair.

She didn't know how she'd make her case any more solid in the time she had left. After writing to every member who had expressed concerns, she'd received only the most predictable of responses.

The Wizarding World was steeped in tradition. To go against it was to attempt to tear apart the very fabric of society. To do so without further information would, surely, only lead to disastrous, unseen consequences.

"More information?" She muttered, rocking her head back to stare at the ceiling. "How much more do they need to understand that this is about basic rights? About families being together?"

"Many of those on the Wizengamot have no friends in the Muggle world, my friend," came a soulful voice from Hermione's doorway, who almost fell out of her chair in shock. "Let alone family."

"Luna!" Hermione cried, her hand clasping over her chest where her heart beat. "You scared the life out of me!"

"That would have been unfortunate," Luna agreed. "It's amazing what can scare people when they haven't been paying attention to the world around them."

Hermione sighed and rose, seizing her bag and coat and forcing them over her shoulders. She joined her friend at the threshold, pausing to stare briefly, despairingly, at her desk littered with notes, scrolls and useless old tomes.

"Sometimes people need to see things with their eyes closed, Hermione," Luna told her comfortingly, wrapping her arm through Hermione's and leading her towards the Ministry's exit. "They'll see the truth eventually."

January 23, 2002 - Early Evening

Diagon Alley was beginning to wind down at this time of day, as it always did. Hermione was glad the Magical Menagerie had extended their opening hours, or she'd never be able to get Kneazle food for Crookshanks.

She and Luna had started coming here every Thursday, after Luna had come to interview her on her amendment for The Quibbler in August. Initially, it had been awkward - the two women had always seemed so contradictory to each other. One with her head in the clouds, the other with her head in a book. As the months went on, though, Hermione began to look forward to the weekly catch-up with her friend. Luna had a way of calming her mind, in a way that no other human on earth ever had.

As she walked up and down the aisles of the shop with Luna, she was glad also that it was so quiet, having no other customers in the store. She'd not been able to stop her frustrated diatribe against the Wizengamot since they'd left her office.

The way the owls and Puffskeins stared at her, made her believe she looked and sounded as manic as she felt.

"I just don't understand how they can be so blind to what's right in front of them," she decreed, browsing a higher shelf for Crookshanks' favourite treats.

"Sometimes the answer isn't in front of us, but within us," Luna responded from an aisle over. "Have you tried Wrackspurt repellant? It clears the mind wonderfully."

Hermione giggled at Luna's simplistic world view.

"I think it'll take more than that to clear the minds of the Wizengamot."

"Perhaps. But remember, Hermione, the Nargles were once thought to be mere figments of a person's imagination, until someone chose to see beyond the surface."

Hermione could only smile as she found her friend and they began to walk together to the register. Luna had not shut up since the confirmation of Nargles' existence eighteen months prior. While she wasn't unsportsmanlike, that didn't stop her from bragging about being right the entire time.

"Maybe you need to present your case in a way that lets them see beyond their own Nargles."

Hermione looked at Luna, her expression softening as she considered the advice. She paid for her Kneazle's food and treats, and Luna did the same, chatting amicably with the register attendant.

"You know, Luna," Hermione said as they left the store, redoing her coat buttons as the wind picked up. "Sometimes I think you're the wisest person I know."

"Wisdom often hides where others forget to look. Besides, I've always believed that the impossible tends to be possible, especially with a friend like you."

They continued their stroll arm in arm, Hermione feeling a bit lighter, her resolve strengthened by Luna's words.

January 27, 2003 - Afternoon

Ameira Brinchett was the youngest inpatient in the Janus Thickey Ward at just thirteen years old. Despite being an orphan of the War, and unable to walk, she was one of Draco's most promising patients. He was treating her for recurrent short-term amnesia and extreme mood fluctuations. When her accidental magic started making itself known, the destruction it caused in her confusion, sadness and anger was not sustainable while remaining with her new guardians, who had brought her in, mere months after the Battle of Hogwarts.

When Draco had met her, she'd been isolated in a private room and barely acknowledged by the staff - a sign on her door labeling her as 'unpredictable, often hostile'. Within a month of Draco joining her treatment team, the sign was off her door and she was allowed back in patient common areas.

Draco sat on the edge of Ameira's bed, the sterile hospital room bathed in soft afternoon light. The Janus Thickey Ward was a peculiar place - a mix of magic and medicine, where witches and wizards, and children like Ameira, grappled with their unique conditions. Ameira, with her unruly curls and wide, curious eyes, was one of the brightest stars in this otherwise somber sky.

"Ready for our rematch, Ameira?" Draco asked, holding up the worn checkerboard. The pieces were chipped, but their magic remained intact. He'd lost to her twice already, and he suspected she'd let him win the third time, just to boost his ego.

Ameira grinned, her fingers brushing over the wooden squares. "You bet! But only if you promise not to hex the pieces this time."

Draco feigned offense. "Me? Hexing innocent checkers? Never." He set up the board, arranging the red and black pieces. "You know, Ameira, I've played against some formidable opponents - Death Eaters, dark creatures - but none as challenging as you."

She giggled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not that scary."

"No, you're not," Draco agreed. "But you're clever. And that's more dangerous than any curse."

As they played, the room filled with the rhythmic clatter of pieces. Ameira's moves were deliberate, her brow furrowing in concentration. Draco watched her, marveling at the resilience of children. She'd forget her victories by tomorrow, but in this moment, she was a strategist, a warrior of the checkered battlefield.

"Why do you come here, Mr Malfoy?" Ameira asked suddenly, her gaze unwavering. "Most Healers just administer potions and then leave."

Draco hesitated, before leaning back. "Because sometimes, Ameira, healing isn't just about potions. It's about connection. About making sure you're not alone in this maze of memories and magic."

"But I forget things," Ameira whispered. "My own name, sometimes. And then… bad things happen. Things I don't mean."

Draco reached across the board, covering her small hand with his. "You're Ameira," he said gently. "And you're brave. You play checkers like a champion, even when your mind tries to trick you."

She blinked, her eyes shimmering. "Do you think I'll ever get better?"

He didn't promise false hope. "I don't know, Ameira. But I do know this: you're stronger than you realize. And even if your memory falters, your heart remembers."

They played in silence after that, the sun inching toward the horizon. Ameira won again, and Draco applauded her victory. As he left, he closed the door and turned - only to run slap-bang into Neville Longbottom.

The two of them had been entirely cordial since they were reacquainted through their connection in the ward. He didn't know how to bring up the past he shared with the Gryffindor, but both seemed perfectly willing to leave the past where it was.

"I never would have taken you for someone who enjoyed bringing joy, Malfoy," It was clear the brunet still had some hesitations though. "Especially to a child like Ameira."

"There's a lot you don't know about me. I'm full of surprises." He responded easily.

Draco's gaze met Neville's, and for a moment, they stood there - two former enemies turned reluctant allies. The hospital corridor stretched before them, its walls echoing with the laughter of children and the hushed whispers of Healers.

Neville's eyes softened. "You've changed, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged, his fingers brushing against the origami swan in his pocket - the one he'd meant for Ameira but swans aren't blue, Mr Malfoy.

"Life has a way of doing that to people."

"True," Neville agreed. "But not everyone chooses kindness."

Draco glanced back at Ameira's door. "She deserves it. They all do."

Neville's expression shifted, a hint of vulnerability slipping through. "You know, I used to hate you."

"And I used to despise your Herbology lectures," Draco quipped. "But here we are."

They shared a half-smile, the weight of their shared history hanging between them, like a forgotten spell. Neville cleared his throat.

"If you ever need backup in the Janus Thickey Ward, I'm here."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Backup? From the Herbology Hero?"

Neville chuckled. "Hey, I've faced worse than Mandrakes."

As they parted ways - one heading toward the sunlight, the other back into the ward - Draco felt a strange warmth settle in his chest. Maybe healing wasn't just about potions and spells. Maybe it was about unexpected alliances, about checkers and origami swans.

February 9, 2003 - Midday

Draco stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. The Janus Thickey Ward was a place of quiet desperation - a realm where time seemed to stretch infinitely, and hope was a fragile thread.

He had been their treatment team leader for four months now. Hermione Granger's parents - once vibrant, intelligent individuals if their daughter was any indication - now sat side by side on the narrow bed, their eyes vacant, lost in some distant abyss. He had seen many cases in his career, but this one was different. Hermione's unwavering determination had drawn him in, even against his better judgment.

The experimental potion he held in his hand was a last resort. A concoction of rare herbs, whispered incantations, and desperate hope. It was like trying to mend a shattered mirror with spider silk.

But it was working.

Hermione's footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Draco turned to face her. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of fear and anticipation. She was a brilliant witch, fierce and unyielding. And yet, in this sterile ward, she was vulnerable.

"What's happening?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"They're responding," Draco replied, his voice a mere breath. "In the tiniest of ways."

Her gaze shifted to her parents. Their hands were clasped, weathered skin against weathered skin. Her mother's eyes held a faint spark, and her father's lips twitched, as if trying to form words. Draco had watched them for days, memorizing every nuance, every flicker of life.

"What did you do?" Hermione stepped closer, her fingers brushing against his.

He held up the vial. "A whisper to their minds," he explained. "A coaxing back from oblivion."

"And it's working?"

"Not enough," he admitted. "But they recognize each other now. Sometimes they respond."

Tears welled in Hermione's eyes. She reached for her mother's hand. "Mum," she whispered. "Can you hear me?"

Her mother blinked, and for a moment, Draco saw recognition. "My…" she murmured.

Hermione turned to her father. "Dad?"

He blinked too, lips moving. "Squig…"

When Hermione let out an audible sob, Draco stepped closer, watching them closely. "It's as if they're waking from a long dream," he said. "But we have to be cautious. Any shock could send them back into oblivion."

"Where– where did–"

"You're not the only bookworm here, Granger," he teased, taking a seat on a spare chair, while Hermione stayed close to her parents. "I did some light reading for a few months and found an obscure bit of magic known as a Nightmare's Lullaby."

Hermione's expression was all too familiar to him - fascinated, excited, exhilarated at the prospect of new knowledge.

Hermione's gaze lingered on the small vial in Draco's hand. The name alone sent shivers down his spine, a paradox of hope and dread.

"It's a delicate brew," Draco began, his voice hushed. "A blend of moonflower petals, silver mist, and a single strand of unicorn hair. But its true magic lies in the incantations whispered over it, during the waxing crescent moon."

Hermione leaned closer, her breath catching. "What does it do?"

"It's a bridge," Draco explained. "A fragile bridge between consciousness and oblivion. When administered, it weaves tendrils of memory, like silken threads, back into their minds. Not enough to fully awaken them, but enough to stir the embers of recognition."

"But why Nightmare's Lullaby?" Hermione asked, her fingers tracing the vial's smooth surface.

"Because it dances on the edge," Draco said. "It sings to the nightmares that haunt their minds - the forgotten faces, the lost years. And, yet, it lulls them, cradles them in a half-slumber where they can almost touch reality."

During the month of brewing, he'd done what research he could on Nightmare's Lullaby. A rare and isolated recipe, there wasn't much of actual substance he could find on it. Everything was in riddles and half-thoughts. What he could translate was promising, but also foretold a long period of waiting and delicacy.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. "And my parents? How long can we keep them on this fragile bridge?"

Draco's gaze softened. "As long as we can," he said. "Until the threads fray, until the moon wanes. We tread carefully, Hermione. One wrong step, and the bridge collapses." His shoulders slumped. "I– I'm sorry I can't give you more than that, Hermione."

She nodded, accepting his words, yet, guilt clawed at his insides. He felt like he was providing false hope. Yes, she had them back - but in such a small way. And who knew for how long? Maybe he should have continued treatment without updating her, until they were further recovered, or they had a more concrete timeline.

"Thank you, Draco," she whispered, interrupting his self-berating. "For this chance. I never thought–"

She cut herself off and stood, pacing over to him before pulling him down by the lapels of his Healer's robes. She placed a sweet, chaste kiss on his cheek, and her hair smelled of vanilla and strawberries. She withdrew just as quickly, and clasped her parents' hands again, leaving him flustered and pink-cheeked.

"Just thank you." She said once more, and the awkwardness bled away into easy silence.

He met her gaze, and for a moment, they stayed there, two souls bound by a fragile spell. In the quiet of the Janus Thickey Ward, hope bloomed like a moonflower, fragile, yet, tenacious.

February 9, 2003 - Late Afternoon

Pansy Parkinson had always been a perfectionist. She liked things a particular way, at specific times, for deliberate reasons. In the pureblood world, where nothing was a woman's choice, Pansy had found control where she could - in her attire and presentation, in her inflection, in her studies.

Her academic results were perfect for a pureblood wife - neither too low nor too high. Not stupid enough to be a bore, not clever enough to be a threat. Her speaking voice was demanding of authority, but not as grating as it was in her youth - the perfect timbre for announcing the beginning of a gala. She carried herself with the grace and ease that was expected of a woman of her station.

Despite all of this, however, Pansy had realized that her quest for perfection was essentially meaningless. Marked as she was, tainted as she was, she could never claim perfection again. Poise, elegance, wit, charm, effortless beauty - none of it mattered.

Not anymore.

Not since that day.

'Shame!' They all hissed.

'Shame on you!' People screamed in the street.

'How dare you show your face here!' Some would screech.

'You don't belong here. Please leave.' Many establishments insisted.

It was sheer desperation that had driven her back home to England. She thought, at the time, that perhaps enough time had passed, enough sadness had occurred. That her countrymen would have allowed the scars to heal, and be on the way to forgiveness by now.

How wrong she was.

The only place her money was willingly accepted was at Gringotts - the goblins didn't care for any witch or wizard, so her identity was of little concern to them, apart from her vault number - and the St Mungo's cafeteria. Even her local grocer gave her a dirty look as she handed over her Galleons for her weekly shopping.

When Draco had told her about working at St Mungo's, she assumed something bizarre had happened to him on his travels. She had come by since then to drop in on him after a shift and found that the St Mungo's cafeteria was quite possibly the most comforting place in London.

All thanks to its absolute angel behind the counter.

Her name was Marilyn. She was probably in her late forties, with salt-and-pepper pigtails that fell to her waist, and a large green apron tied across her impressive front. The instant Pansy had looked even vaguely interested in her wares, the woman had smiled with her entire face, as though it was her greatest dream realized to see Pansy there.

'Well, hello there, love,' she'd said kindly. 'Fancy a cuppa?'

The third time Pansy had arrived to see Draco, Marilyn had greeted her with joy once more, only this time, she was prepared.

'Pansy, my flower, take a seat! I'll be with you in a moment!' She'd promised. 'Devonshire tea, with lemon, my love?'

And it wasn't just Pansy.

If you entered Marilyn's cafeteria more than once, you were family. Your name was a blessing, and your food was already on the way - especially if you visited on time regularly. More to the point, particularly in St Mungo's; if you were visiting family, she always knew who, and wanted an update.

'Frida, here's your cappuccino - I already added the sugar, love. How's Owen?'

'Egg and bacon or egg and sausage, Larry? Here's your coffee, pet - how did Tony's test go yesterday?'

'Oh my, dear Merlin, Saoirse - little Lachlan walked?! I could cry, my girl! Oh, have an extra cookie, my love! And another for the tiny warrior!'

Pansy had watched her for an amount of time that night and would have been considered strange if she didn't have the excuse of waiting for Draco - his habit of working past his shift's end was already notorious. There was a strange bubble of serenity that existed here, beyond the threshold of Marilyn's cafeteria. The moment you stepped over, peace reigned. A sigh of relief was allowed, a breath finally permissible. Shoulders untensed, jaws unclenched, and people were able to relax.

This place was an oasis. A calm reprieve, to rest and revitalize, before returning once more into the fray.

Pansy swirled her spoon through her tea, gazing absentmindedly in front of her as she waited for Draco to finish his shift. The scones that came with the tea were light and fluffy, smothered in jam and whipped cream, she'd already devoured the first one. She was working on the second when she heard Marilyn greet someone, almost causing her to choke.

"Neville, I was worried I wouldn't see you today! How are your parents?"

Pansy hacked violently at the crumbs in her throat, slurping down a gulp of tea and trying valiantly to stifle her near-death experience.

It didn't work though, his brown eyes locked on hers as he finished his conversation with Marilyn.

He was bigger - taller, broader, somehow. Yet, he didn't take up space. Just like when he was in Hogwarts, Neville Longbottom drew you in, he didn't scare you away. His eyes were still gentle pools of tree-bark brown, his hair still a flop on top of his head. He still wore cardigans, every button done up. And that smile of his - higher on the left, dimpled on the right, tweaking crow's feet around his eyes - was still exactly the same.

He walked towards her, as she knew he would, and stopped at her table, as she knew he would. He stopped and stood there for a few seconds, his hands flapping awkwardly. He didn't know where to look, and neither did she, but then his eyes found hers, green found brown, and all the years between them fell away.

He smiled, and so did she.

Neither mentioned the missing grin, but he was there - as he always was.

"Pansy," Neville greeted. "It's good to see you."

"Neville…"

She didn't know what to say, and he seemed to understand. He just gestured at the chair opposite her, waiting for her eager nod before he sat down. He took a moment to adjust in his seat, his bulk exceeding its limits, before he smiled at her again.

Against her will, she felt blood rush to her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to her teacup, using the excuse to take a sip.

"It's been a long time," Neville stated, leaning back in his chair. "When I didn't hear from you, I thought…"

"You thought?"

"That maybe you didn't want to hear from me," he mumbled, staring down at the table himself. "That maybe, after everything, you wouldn't–"

"I went to Helsinki," she interrupted him before he could finish, unable to hear his self-doubt. "I was there until November."

She wished, almost, that she hadn't told him when he looked at her like that. Like he understood. Like he knew what that meant. Like he was in awe of her.

"You actually went there, Pans?" He breathed.

"I promised him," she replied, as simply as the matter itself. "I promised him I would go. So I went. And now I'm back."

"Pansy…"

"Devonshire tea with milk, for my knight in shining armor!" Marilyn trilled, arriving with a tray, holding a teacup, saucer and plate.

She noticed absolutely nothing as she left Neville's order, and Pansy couldn't help but smile at the older woman's constant warmth. She chatted, almost to herself, entertaining herself with tales of 'beautiful young people' and 'finding love in halls of woe'. Pansy didn't have the heart to dispute with her, to burst such a happy bubble.

When Marilyn left, Neville took a bite of his scone, grinning as he swiped cream off his lip.

"I like Marilyn." He said.

"She's a breath of fresh air, isn't she?" Pansy agreed, finishing off her last scone, and slurping the final vestiges of her tea.

They sat as Neville ate, enjoying the companionable ease that existed between them, even after so much time had passed.

"I'm proud of you," Neville decreed suddenly and his teacup found his saucer, as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. "For going to Helsinki. For doing the brave thing."

She stared at him for a few moments, her mind whirring. Of all the words he could have used, that one had never come to mind.

Disappointed, disgusted, ashamed - all of those, she had prepared herself for. Been waiting for...

But proud… no. She'd never prepared for that.

"It didn't feel brave," she admitted in a hoarse whisper. "I felt like the vilest coward in the world."

"Never." He growled.

Neville took her hand then, and his palm was rough and calloused, just as she remembered. She could feel how dry his hands were, and knew it was from turpentine - the easiest way to get layers of soil off quickly, or so he said.

"Pansy, you are, just as you always were, the bravest person I've ever met," he continued, staring into her eyes in a way that had her captivated. "And what happened never should have happened. We were children, Pansy. You felt trapped in an impossible choice, and after what happened to Theo–"

Pansy squeezed his fingers as her head bowed, her eyes closing against the all too familiar snap of pain in her heart. He stopped talking immediately, letting her breathe.

When she met his eyes again, his own were swimming with tears as well. He returned the pressure, his fingers threading naturally through hers.

"I never judged you for that day, Pansy." Neville swore.

Pansy's other hand wrapped around his, then his came around hers, like the layered petals of a rose.

"You're in small company, Longbottom," she teased, her tone as light as she suddenly felt. "Literally everyone else in this country disagrees with you."

"Literally everyone else in this country can fuck right off, Parkinson," he rebutted, his tone still half-serious. "I know who you are. I know why you made the choices you did, and none of them can say the same."

Pansy closed her eyes and smiled, allowing the tears to flow freely down her cheeks. She chafed their hands together, reveling in his sudden, accidental, wonderful appearance.

"Marilyn!" She called to the angel who had provided this gift. "Can I have more tea, please?"

"Of course, love! A hedgehog slice for you, my flower, or are we finally going crazy and trying that brownie?"

Pansy almost giggled - in this oasis she'd found, this sanctuary she'd craved, she'd finally found it.

Absolute perfection.

February 9, 2003 - Pre-evening

Hermione was walking on a cloud.

Her mother had almost said her name. Her father had almost remembered his pet-name for her. She was overwhelmed with emotions - relief, anticipation, confusion, awe, joy, elation. And gratitude.

So much gratitude.

She hadn't known what to do with it all at the moment - she still didn't - but when she'd kissed Draco's cheek and said the words alone, that seemed to settle the matter. She'd felt the energy in the room change at that moment, as if the room had sighed then shifted, before settling back into place, much better than before. As though they'd each had a hand pinned under something for too long, the pressure had finally released and the tension was eased. As if they could both suddenly move, speak, breathe, without restriction, without worry.

It had started on Christmas Eve, she realized, at that bar in Muggle London, and had only continued. With every touch, every glance, every conversation that didn't end in screaming matches, something had grown between them. To the point where Hermione wasn't even conflicted about her feelings of thankfulness and wonder at Draco's work - she was only worried that no matter how hard she tried, she could never show it enough.

Draco had stayed in her parents' room with her till the end of his shift - and a little beyond, according to the ward receptionist. They caught the lift together, Hermione fiddling with her cardigan buttons the whole time, while Draco stared into the space in front of him.

"Are you okay?" She finally inquired as the lift door opened and they walked out onto the ground floor. "You look tired."

The bark of laughter he let out was exhausted but real, and his silver eyes sparkled when he looked down at her. A few pale wisps of hair had escaped the confines of his hair tie, and he blew a puff of air to move them out of his eyes.

"That's probably because I haven't slept in a month, Granger," he confirmed. "Nightmare's Lullaby required four counter-clockwise turns every forty five minutes while the moon was risen for the first two weeks, then two clockwise rotations every two hours the two weeks after that."

Hermione froze in her tracks and gawked at him. He grinned at her as she stood there, his hands in his pockets.

"But… St Mungo's has a Brewing Department?"

"Not for experimental potions."

"But…" Hermione continued. "But you're still… you're still here when the moon is up?"

"The staff room broom closet connects to my hallway cupboard," he explained - only a little bit smug. "So, I'd just pop home, give it a bit of a stirry-stir and come back to do my rounds."

"But that's–"

"That's my job, Granger," he stated, causing Hermione to pause, and assess him carefully as he continued, "I'm your parents' Healer, Granger, not their nursemaid. It's not my job to make them comfortable - it's my job to heal them."

Hermione had never understood the phrase ringing silence until that very moment. Her ears rang in the silence that followed, like someone had struck a gong inside her skull.

How many times had she heard those words?

'We can't grant miracles, Hermione. Healing doesn't work like that. All we can do is make sure they're comfortable.'

She gaped at him, taking his words in as tears once more sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away, embarrassed at her emotion.

"I'll never be able to repay you, Draco-" she babbled, before he cut her off.

"You owe me nothing."

His tone was harsh, but his hand was gentle when it found her arm. His fingers traced her inner forearm, a ghost's breath over the wool of her sleeve. Cautiously, he raised his eyes to hers. She could see the remorse as clear as day in the mercury of his gaze, the intensity leaving her winded.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice still stoic but gentle - almost tender. "You owe me nothing. I know you've been alone in this. Carmichael was… he should have probably retired a few years ago, to be honest with you. And Bennet isn't up for the brewing. And… look, I'm not even going to go into the whole Weasley thing but leaving that aside…"

As he spoke, his voice got louder in his passion. He withdrew his hand and stepped back slightly. Hermione realized that he did that a lot - he didn't get closer when his tone increased, instead, he drew back.

"My point being, we're in this together, Hermione. Alright?"

She didn't speak immediately, looking down at those covered, hateful letters on her arm. She was so used to keeping it covered, so accustomed to making sure it was kept secret. Ron had winced every time he'd seen it, had avoided her arm, as though the scar would brand him. Most people had similar reactions, if they knew it was there at all.

Hermione had learnt to appreciate it. After a few years, the smallest amount of pressure on it would cause severe pain, triggering painful seizures in extreme cases.

Malfoy's touch had stirred no such discomfort, however. Instead, her arm tingled pleasantly where his fingers had trailed, as if they'd been coated in a healing salve.

She wasn't sure where her mind was today - all over the place it seemed. Jumping from thought to thought like a frog in a pond. She was calm but frantic, serene but unsettled. As her eyes rose to his face again, his own shone, as if he could read her mind and was vaguely amused by the mess.

"Right," she responded, blushing as she pulled away. "Together."

The blond smiled, almost iridescent in his white Healer's robes, with his pale skin and pearly white teeth. She used to think of him as rather sickly looking, sharp and angled as if he didn't get enough sunlight and iron. Now, though, it suited him. He'd grown into his family traits, certainly, but when he smiled, when he really meant it, he seemed to glow. As if, in an instant, he became platinum, silver, and gold.

He turned on his heel and strode off, calling over his shoulder for her to follow. She grinned at his back and did so, catching up in a moment and turning the corner with him.

She had expected a quiet exit, perhaps a few whispered words between them, but fate had other plans.

As they rounded the corner, Hermione's eyes widened.

There, in the cozy corner of the cafeteria, sat Neville Longbottom and Pansy Parkinson. They were huddled over a small table, mismatched teacups in hand, engaged in what seemed like an animated conversation. The sight was both surprising and heartwarming.

Draco halted abruptly, his flint eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Hermione followed his gaze, her curiosity piqued. Neville, the once-awkward Gryffindor, and Pansy, the cunning Slytherin, sharing tea? It was an unexpected tableau.

Without missing a beat, Draco leaned in and whispered to Hermione, "Well, this is a twist, isn't it?" His tone held a mix of amusement and intrigue.

Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"Perhaps they've discovered a shared love for chamomile." She quipped back, her mind racing with questions.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You haven't asked Longbottom about that last year at Hogwarts, have you?"

She frowned, shaking her head slowly. He hummed thoughtfully.

"You might want to." Was all he said.

And then he walked right up to them and plonked himself down at the table to their left, leaning over with a smug expression on his face. Hermione, trailing awkwardly behind, could do nothing but stand uselessly off to the side, as Pansy gave Draco an exasperated look and Neville sent her a sheepish one.

"Draco." Pansy warned.

"Pansy." Draco teased.

"Hermione." Neville pleaded.

"Neville." Hermione reassured.

"Malfoy?" Neville questioned.

"Longbottom." Draco congratulated.

"Granger." Pansy acknowledged.

"Parkinson." Hermione greeted.

Silence.

It must have been seconds. And yet, it felt like hours. Hermione wriggled her hands, played with her buttons again, and then her fingers began winding the rails on the back of the chair in front of her.

The air thickened with unspoken tension. Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her mind racing. What was the protocol for such an unexpected encounter? Should she say something? Or, perhaps, she should just turn around and pretend she hadn't seen them?

Draco leaned back in his chair, studying Neville and Pansy with a calculating expression.

Neville's ears turned a shade of crimson that rivaled Gryffindor scarlet. "We were just... catching up."

Hermione's eyes widened when Pansy reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

"I was waiting for you, you dilly-dallying prick," she explained to Draco. "And Neville came by to visit the family. You too, Granger?"

"Pansy." Draco warned this time, and Hermione felt the need to chime in.

"Yes, that's right," Hermione confirmed, smiling politely at Pansy, stepping forward.

Pansy was no longer looking at her - instead, she was watching Draco's left shoulder. When Hermione followed her gaze, she saw her own hand, sitting naturally on his shoulder, as though it belonged there. Realizing she must have placed it there when she came closer, she drew it away - carefully, nonchalantly.

Even so - when Pansy looked at her again, she winked.

"Draco is my parents' Healer now. He… they…" Hermione trailed off as she tried to explain, lost for words.

"Hermione, are they…?" Neville started, sounding concerned.

"Neville," she interrupted, her grin cracking her face in half. "They spoke."

Neville's jaw dropped as he took her words in. Pansy was clearly confused, scanning between their faces with a look of intrigue on her own.

"You're serious?" Neville probed, sounding short of breath.

"Would I lie to you about this?"

With a jubilant shout, Neville rose from his seat and enveloped her in a bear hug, screaming her name to all and sundry.

"I can't believe it! I'm so happy for you, Hermione!"

She laughed with her friend, allowing the fact to become real in her head. After so many years, she actually had hope again.

"I'm so happy for me too."

February 26, 2003 - Late Evening

The dimly lit pub was a refuge from the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. The air smelled of aged oak and Firewhisky, and the low hum of conversation provided a comforting backdrop. Draco sat at a corner table, nursing his drink, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of Blaise Zabini.

And there he was - Blaise, leaning against the bar, his dark eyes sharp and calculating. Draco had always admired Blaise's ability to blend into any crowd, to be both charming and enigmatic. But tonight, Draco needed more than charm; he needed answers.

"Blaise," Draco called out, gesturing for him to join. "I need your expertise."

Blaise sauntered over, his expression curious. "Draco, my old friend," he drawled. "What brings you to this dingy establishment?"

"Politics," Draco replied, lowering his voice. "Wizengamot politics, to be precise."

Blaise arched an eyebrow. "I'd heard there was a ruckus - something about the Statute. Helping a Gryffindor with her legislation? That's not the Draco I remember."

"People change, Blaise," Draco said, leaning in. "And sometimes, they find causes worth changing for."

Blaise's gaze lingered on Draco's face, searching for any hint of deception. "Hermione Granger," he stated, more than asked.

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "She's pushing for an amendment - a radical one. She wants non-magical family members to know about our world, to bridge the gap that secrecy has created. Families torn apart by lies and secrets."

Blaise swirled his drink, lost in thought.

"And she's coming at that from a completely unbiased, Muggle-born perspective, yeah?"

When Draco didn't respond, Blaise smirked.

"And what do you want from me?"

"Insight," Draco said. "The Wizengamot is a labyrinth of alliances, power plays, and hidden agendas. I need to navigate it, convince them that Hermione's cause is just."

Blaise chuckled. "You've come a long way from your pureblood ideals, Draco."

"Perhaps," Draco conceded. "But this isn't about blood status anymore. It's about humanity, compassion. And if I can help Hermione, I will."

Blaise leaned back, studying Draco.

"You've changed, my friend. But remember, the Wizengamot isn't forgiving. It's a viper's nest. Be careful where you step."

Draco nodded, his resolve hardening. "I'll tread carefully, Blaise. For Hermione. For families torn apart."

And as the pub's shadows deepened, Blaise considered his old friend.

"Does she have any support?"

Draco leant forward in his chair, speaking in a low, urgent voice.

"On the front bench, Jenkins and Grubbly-Plank spoke at the hearing. On the back bench, maybe eight."

"So ten. Out of twenty-seven - not bad. Not great but… what?"

Draco flinched, he had been wincing while Blaise spoke, so wasn't surprised when the dark man noticed.

"It's not out of twenty-seven."

"What?"

"This is about a new Clause in the International Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, Blaise. She's up against the full Wizengamot."

Blaise blinked, slowly. Glancing over Draco's shoulder, he raised a finger and subtly called for a glass of Firewhisky.

"The full Wizengamot currently stands at fifty-seven." He stated, his hazel eyes shrewd. "Ten out of fifty-seven are not good numbers, Draco."

"That's why I came to you."

Blaise's drink was delivered to the table, and Draco agreed to his own glass being filled once more before the waitress left.

"What's your opposition?"

"Four on the back-bench."

"You know that's not what I'm asking." Blaise taunted.

Draco shifted uncomfortably as his own beverage was placed in front of him. He picked up his glass and held it in front of his mouth.

"Dowling, Redwood," he mumbled. "And Firewell."

Blaise hissed through his teeth before letting out a dark chuckle.

"You always bring me such fun quests, Draco," he surmised. "Archibald Firewell is quite possibly the most influential on the bench."

"Loudest doesn't always mean most influential, Blaise, as you know very well." Draco raised his brow challengingly at his former housemate.

Blaise raised his glass to his lips, his grin dominating his face as he downed his drink.

"I'll see what I can dig up then, shall I?"

So, thoughts? Please do let me know!

Till next time, my precious cucumbers!

Dark Lady xx