Pansy placed her finger on the plastic bottle and felt a tug at the back of her navel. The sensation well familiar by now. It was no longer unsettling, or even a harbinger of trouble. She cherished it for it meant she was travelling, taking time off for herself and her friends. It felt right.

She let go of the portkey as the walls of Granger House appeared around her and soon, her feet touched the ground at last. She soon recognised the faded decoration of Hermione's sitting room.

The wallpaper was old-fashioned and badly laid in places, the sofas were damaged and looked as if they could swallow you up between the cushions, and the wooden floor creaked. Pansy couldn't pinpoint the style of decoration; it looked like a mixture of different eras from a less-than-reputable antique shop. But she liked it. She much preferred this kind of living space to the perfect replicas of wizarding furniture shops that exuded cleanliness and perfection. She liked perfection, but not to that extent.

She stood in front of the telly and it made her want to watch Mary Poppins for the umpteenth time. She never wanted to see another film. It was the best, she was sure of it. And Pansy only wanted the best.

She took off her coat, unsurprised of not being greeted by anyone. She hadn't told them she was coming, something she wouldn't have dared do if Draco hadn't promised she could. In his opinion, they had to get used to having guests in their homes, friends or not. A great step forward for him. She had felt so proud to hear him say that. She wasn't as scared for him as she used to be. He was doing better. So much better.

She hadn't made any comment about him referring to the house as their home. That was another new thing. His willingness to open up, the way he spoke for Hermione and himself—and vice versa—or the fact that he talked about her every chance he got. Pansy was pleased. They were happy, and that was all that mattered.

The only thing that tarnished all this good news was the distance her husband had taken from their friends. Blaise had withdrawn into himself since Christmas. Unlike her, he hadn't sunk, but isolated himself from everyone else. Although he had initially claimed that this was just a way of giving Draco and Hermione time, Pansy realised that it was much more than that now. The only person he spoke to regularly was Harry, who helped him on most of his professional missions.

Otherwise, Blaise no longer sent letters to Draco or Theo, nor did he visit them. It wasn't for lack of urging, though. Every week, Pansy tried to get him to go with her to France, whether to the Dordogne or the Pyrenees. He refused every time, claiming that he had to go to work or that he was tired. Pansy was well aware that, despite the time he spent at work, it was all just an excuse.

He was scared. Just as she had been afraid of losing her friends. He was afraid of how his return would be taken, at least that had been the case for the first few months. Now Pansy suspected that he thought it was too late. He didn't want to risk anything any more, he preferred to supervise things from a distance, to help them however he could, without their relationship suffering any further.

He didn't realise that it was by remaining so silent that things were getting worse.

She tried to support him as much as she could, and he did the same for her, but she couldn't help him with that matter. She doubted she could do anything anyway.

So she contented herself with being as present as possible for him, listening to him when he opened up to her to talk about it, and acting like the wife she was: a loving one. She loved him so much.

She sometimes wondered what she would be like without him, what she would do if he wasn't there for her every day. She couldn't remember a single day in ten years when he hadn't been there for her in some way.

That very morning he had taken time off work to attend her first charity sale on Diagon Alley.

It was an event that she and her assistant, Pia, had been preparing for weeks. They had contacted lots of wizarding families to recruit them as members of the foundation and to invite them to a sort of flea market on Britain's best-known wizarding street.

Pansy had got the idea from Hermione, who had once told her about her love of car boot sales as a child.

She and Pia had needed to obtain a multitude of permits from the Ministry in order to commandeer Diagon Alley for a whole morning. As their foundation was not directly profit-making, they had been able to assert their rights to avoid the slightest refusal from members of the Ministry keen to sabotage them. Blaise had been a great help with all the legal aspects.

After that, they contacted all the adherents to explain the principle. Then word of mouth did the rest. Each family, whether witch, wizard, squib or even creature, could settle that day at a stand provided by the foundation and sell their goods and old possessions at whatever price they wished. All for the modest sum of two Gallions.

Pansy and Blaise had reserved their own stand and donated all the money raised to the foundation. Pia had also set up an ice-cream stand with Florean Fortescue, with all proceeds going to the foundation.

Some members had also donated part of their income to the foundation's funds, which had greatly encouraged Pansy to repeat this type of event. She considered them just as important as the high society receptions. It made their project just as popular, and it gave them the chance to meet people who were willing to commit themselves to their cause.

Although the richest wizards were keen to donate hundreds of gallons to the foundation—or to their image—none of them had ever wanted to take an active part in the projects. Fundraising was certainly essential, but not central.

During the morning, several people had come to see Pansy to offer their help, or to ask how best to support the cause. This one thing had given the young woman renewed hope. She felt less and less alone in this project.

Things were moving forward.

"Draco? Hermione?" she called after hanging up her coat in the hall.

"Out!" They replied in one voice.

Pansy smiled and crossed the kitchen towards the outside. She found them crouching in the vegetable patch, their hands protected by green gardening gloves and wearing knee-high rubber boots.

"No, I think we'd better plant it two inches below the ground," Hermione said, grabbing the spade Draco was holding.

"I can assure you, it was written not to cover the seed," he replied, frowning.

"Draco, I've been planting carrots for years, I assure you–"

"So the book is wrong?" he interrupted with an amused smile.

"No! I'm just saying it works too!" she replied, nudging him with her elbow.

"Let's try both and see which carrot grows better," he said with a look of defiance.

She looked at him with squinted eyes before accepting.

"May the best one win," Draco said, holding out his hand.

"Promise not to cry if you lose," she said, grabbing his hand to shake.

Pansy eventually cleared her throat to signal her presence. She was still standing in the frame of the bay window, watching them with amusement. They both looked up at her and smiled.

"I didn't know you were coming," Hermione said as she stood up.

She took off her gloves and dropped them next to the gardening things.

"The flea market finished earlier than I expected," she explained. "I thought I'd pop in and use the time, I had one portkey left."

"How did it go?" Draco asked as he too stood up.

"It was great," Pansy smiled, stars in her eyes. "We registered around fifty stands and Pia's till topped three hundred Gallons!"

Drago smiled gently. A proud smile that she hadn't seen in years. It warmed her heart far more than the morning she'd just had.

Strangely enough, impressing Draco had always been important to Pansy. Whether it was when they were still at Hogwarts or now that they were adults, she always felt that pleasant sensation of seeing him proud of her. It had a special flavour.

Draco was not easily impressed, he never had been. He was hard on others and hard on himself, he didn't let mistakes go and wasn't the type to forgive immediately. He made those around him row, not letting them win or think they could easily have his trust. And time and its vices had done nothing to change that. The fact that he had lost many of his social skills and was still suffering from his past had not changed his standards.

But with her, things were different, they always had been. He had always had that proud look in his eyes, that special attention for her that made him think she had a special place in his heart, in his life. It was a satisfying feeling.

So she always made it her mission to make him proud. Her parents, her husband, her other friends? She didn't care much, or much less. Draco's pride was different, precious.

"Tea?" he offered as he walked past her into the kitchen. "There's some leftover financiers I made yesterday."

"I'd love some," she replied, following him inside. "I've hardly eaten."

"There's some leftover lasagna in the fridge, if you prefer," Hermione said. "Draco made some for five people."

"I got the recipe wrong," he grunted as he put the water on to boil.

"Still, there's a big difference between a dish for two and one for five," she giggled before turning to Pansy. "Would you like some?

"Why not," she agreed with an amused smile.

Draco mumbled behind his pan of hot water as Hermione took the dish out of the fridge. Hermione walked behind him and stealthily kissed him on the cheek, laughing all the while.

Pansy froze as she watched. When had things changed so much between them? She had never witnessed such closeness. She knew they were friends, she'd seen them interact and talk to each other naturally many times. But she had never, ever seen them touch each other.

The look Draco gave Hermione was soft and he smiled with tenderness. She had never noticed that between them. Never.

It felt so peaceful, so casual. They were comfortable in an environment that they had made their own. Pansy had never seen Draco act so carefree in this house. He was finally living here. With Hermione.

She felt a weight fall from her shoulders. A weight she'd never been aware she was carrying. They weren't alone in a big house. They were together, supporting each other. And from what Pansy could see, it was even more than that.

For a long time, she had had this unconscious fear that this foul and dehumanising law would deprive them of life's pleasures. She had feared that they would never discover love, intimacy, the pleasure of surrendering themselves to another person and being willing to entrust their lives to them.

She had often felt sorry for them, imagining that they would end their life alone, even though they shared it. She had even wondered if Hermione had been with someone before accepting to help them, without ever daring to ask her the question. Now she realised that it would have been impossible. Hermione had been in a deplorable state when she had welcomed Draco. And she was still far from well.

As for Draco, she had felt very guilty for forbidding him to discover the pleasures of love, of short-lived or long-lasting relationships. He had never experienced any of that, he had never given in to anyone's advances during their years at Hogwarts. He was content to let the young girls around him believe that he was interested in them. He knew nothing of love, the kind that takes you by the gut and forces you to shake off all your habits. And Pansy had racked her brains with guilt.

But things seemed very different from what she had imagined. This need for protection, for regular checks that everything was fine and that Hermione was still there... She could see it in Draco's eyes. He was glancing at Hermione quickly, as if to make sure she wasn't in the slightest trouble, that she was feeling well. A kind of hyper-vigilance that, for once, wasn't focused on himself.

It was singular, pure. They had discovered alone what they were capable of sharing together.

"So, tell me all about it! I want to know everything," Hermione said, placing a plate of reheated lasagne in front of her.

Pansy blinked several times, snapping out of her thoughts, and smiled. Draco and Hermione were watching her intently, waiting on her lips. She couldn't have wished for better.

oOo

I attended my father's trial in a closed courtroom at the end of my fifth year. He'd been temporarily locked up in Azkaban for a month after the Ministry incidents and they waited until July to bring him before the Wizengamot. I already knew it was over. I'd kind of hoped so, actually. All year long, I'd suffered so much from his pressure that I only hoped for one thing: to be left alone. I didn't realise that things would only get worse after that.

That day, in the audience, it was just me, my mum and Albus Dumbledore. I never really understood why he came. He spent most of the trial glancing at me. I remember keeping my head down most of the time.

The hearing didn't last long, barely thirty minutes. They listed all his crimes one by one, they cast spells on his wand to prove that he had cast Unforgivables, and then the witnesses and victims quickly took the stand. There wasn't much to say. He was guilty, he was going to be locked up and my mother and I would be dragged through the mud by the press.

I remember being photographed by dozens of photographers for long minutes after the trial. It was the first time in my life that I'd had a hard time because of it.

The summer that followed was one of the worst of my life. In fact, all the summers that followed were awful. It was the beginning of my personal hell. Everything I'd been through up to that point, which I already thought was awful, was nothing.

Draco put down his pen and ran a hand over his face.

He didn't feel like continuing for now. He was following Hermione's advice: write step by step, so as not to be overwhelmed. It was for the best.

The first time, his nightmares had been much longer, much more painful. He had written the whole first part of his story in one go. He'd spent hours on it and going back into such memories, knowing the consequences of it all, hadn't been good. Not good at all.

Today, it was easier. He was sleeping better and better. His nightmares sometimes came back to haunt him, once or twice a week, but there was no comparison. And then there was Hermione. Every time he woke up, she was at his bedside. She hugged him, she smiled at him. She even took his mind off things sometimes by talking about literature, teasing him just enough about his literary opinions that they got into a debate that lasted until breakfast. It felt right.

Draco got up from the library desk and closed his notebook. He would resume writing later, or not. That was one of the simple things he enjoyed: his freedom. He had no obligations, he could do what he wanted with his days. He didn't impose anything on himself.

If he didn't feel like writing, or if he wasn't inspired, he just didn't do it. If he didn't feel like cooking, or at least spending too much time on meals, he'd just reheat leftovers or prepare something simple. Simple, yes, it was simple.

No one was after him, Theo didn't have a deadline for receiving the texts, Hermione wasn't pushing him to do anything and no one was asking him to do anything. He was free. And that felt so good.

He left the library and went to the entrance of the house to get his walking shoes. He had taken great care of them since Hermione had given them to him. He didn't want to risk any damage and cleaned them after every outing in the forest.

Hermione was often amused to see him do this. She kept saying that walking shoes were bound to get full of dirt and get damaged over time, but he didn't care. They were precious to him.

He put them on and laced them up carefully. He then put on his coat and a long scarf, before pulling his hood down over his head. It had been raining for about an hour, but that wouldn't stop him going out for a walk.

He went outside through the kitchen. It was the closest door to the stable and he always visited the horses on the way to the forest. It was his own little ritual.

Hermione had already suggested that he ride them for a promenade, but he always replied that he wasn't ready. He was afraid, really. This was a new step, again. And for the moment, his mind was elsewhere. There was so much to think about...

On leaving the stables, Draco decided to take a different route from the other days. He was used to heading towards the forest but, seeing that a small path hidden behind tall grass led towards the rest of the valley, he opted for a change. A change.

He had not walked far before he came upon a small river, just a few metres below. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, pleased to find such a lovely spot near the house. Despite the foul weather, he approached the water until he could dip the tips of his fingers into it. Crouching beside a rock, he watched the water flow between the banks and over some algae that had formed over time.

He wondered if there were fish somewhere in the vicinity. Where he stood, the space was too narrow for any creatures to live, but he suspected the river widened somewhere upstream. He hoped there were lakes in the region. He promised himself to ask Hermione about it later.

A few dozen minutes later, he straightened up and continued his exploration. The river prevented him from venturing further into the valley and seemed to join the road leading to the village a few hundred metres away. There was not much left to see here, and it was far too cold to attempt crossing the water. He would return on a fair-weather day and find a way to continue his stroll beyond.

As he turned around, he noticed a large tree bent over the side of the path a few metres away. Approaching from the other direction, he hadn't seen it before. He carefully got closer, taking care not to plunge a foot into a mud puddle—it would be a shame to ruin his efforts to keep his shoes as clean as possible—and removed his hood once sheltered by the tree's numerous leaves.

At first glance, it appeared to be a large oak. It stood about four metres tall, but seemed to have lost its former height due to a storm that had broken its trunk. Yet, over the years, it had learned to grow back in this unusual shape, creating a small shelter and an funny shape to its bark.

The most fascinating discovery Draco had made came next. Circling the trunk, he marvelled at finding a swing attached with a red rope and a car tire. He was transported several years back, to when he was just five, and his parents were still accustomed to taking him everywhere. His father had once conjured a swing—much more elegant than this one, of course—on the branch of a large apple tree on the Malfoy estate. It was his way of showing a minimum of love to his son. He seldom spoke, relying on glances and a few acts of kindness.

Draco remembered playing on it for years, despite his father's reprimands when he considered Draco too old for such activities. He had finally stopped going there after one of Lucius's fits of anger when he was nine.

He approached the makeshift swing and emptied the water that had accumulated in it. Then he wiped off the remaining drops with the edge of his sleeve before finally sitting down. He swung back and forth for a few minutes, a gentle smile on his lips.

He allowed himself to look up at the sky, cloudy that day. His eyes filled with tears, beyond his control.

"I'm doing well, Mum. Can you believe it?" he murmured amidst the April winds and the rain.

In the distance, a lightning bolt streaked across the grey sky.