Forty-Five

Epilogue

They don't get enough time alone in the days afterwards. A lot happens in the aftermath of a war, it seems.

They spend their days apart, falling into bed late at night, too exhausted to do more than kiss and fall asleep holding each other. They still have nightmares, but that's okay.

With Voldemort's death, his chokehold over the wizarding world crumbles, but there are still loyal followers at the Ministry to put down, Hogwarts to liberate, and St. Mungo's to take control of. And so, Draco goes on more missions. He wants Hermione to stay out of combat and safe, and in the end, she agrees – she has enough to keep her busy, managing the flood of traumatised Muggle and wizarding prisoners. For some reason, the Order has put her in partial charge of that, as liaison and coordinator. She's not a Healer. She's traumatised herself, and she's not sure she's at all capable. And yet, by the end of the first week, she somehow has her part of it all in hand.

All rescued prisoners are offered obliviation and false memories that explain their long absence – and thanks to the International Statute of Secrecy, the Muggles who do not wish to be obliviated are told their memories will remain mostly intact, but be altered to remove any trace of the wizarding world. Only two of the Muggles choose to remember, and nearly half of the witches, wizards, and squibs choose to forget. It's an interesting disparity. She supposes the Muggles don't see much point in remembering if what they remember won't even be true.

It's horrible.

Draco asks Hermione one night as they're drifting off to sleep if she wants to forget, and she shakes her head. "I don't want to live a lie, Draco," she says, and she thinks that she doesn't want to risk what they have between them, either. Their love was born in that horror, and to erase the bad might affect the good. No. She will live with the memories.

"Would you want to forget," she asks him in return, drowsily now, as sleep begins to win, her eyelids growing heavy. "What you did, as the Order's spy?"

"I don't deserve to," he says. Then he adds, circumspectly: "And it made me who I am. And I'd rather be who I am than who I was."

She kisses him and tells him she loves who he is, and then falls asleep just minutes later.

In the immediate wake of the battle, Draco spends what free time he has looking for his mother. He believes she is alive. He knows it. But she won't last long if she's imprisoned and has no one to bring her food or water. He asks around amongst the Order, desperate for any leads. He interrogates the few Death Eaters and Snatchers they capture alive, with methods he knows Hermione would cringe from. He comes up empty, every time. His dear Aunt Bellatrix would know, but somehow, she escaped, gone without a trace.

He adds her to the list he has in his mind, alongside the four American wizards who fled the battle alive. He's assigned himself the task of hunting them to death or capture, once all this madness has died down.

But in the meantime, with every day that passes, Draco becomes more frantic to find his mother.

It's Hermione who finds him the lead in the end. She's been asking the freed prisoners about his mother, without telling him. She didn't want to get his hopes up. But four days after the war ends, she comes to him with a location. He wants to cry with hope and anticipatory relief, all tangled up with dread. There's no knowing what they'll find.

Hermione insists on coming.

Potter and Weasley accompany them – Potter's been on nearly every mission going, and always the most dangerous one. "I'm expendable now," he says one afternoon, beaming, ridiculously happy about it. "It doesn't matter if I die." And then Ginevra slaps him across the back of the head, and he apologises profusely.

They disapparate to a farmhouse in the Scottish Highlands, and tears sting Draco's eyes when they find his mother, bruised, battered, but alive, tended by a house elf.

Thank Merlin, she's not pregnant.

She's weak and dazed, has difficulty walking, and flinches away from everyone but Hermione when they first find her in the basement, and that makes Draco's tears well over briefly, horror churning in his stomach, because he knows what that means. But then, when they're out in the light and the spring air and she's settled on a chair in front of the farmhouse to acclimate to the sudden change, she looks at him and recognises him. She cries then, and she doesn't flinch from him – she reaches for him. Shame crosses her face, though, a flicker of it, and he hates it.

"It's okay, Mother," Draco says, and he sits at her feet and rests his temple against her knee, like he used to sit at her feet as a little boy, looking up at Hermione standing a few metres away, her eyes teary, hugging herself. Potter and Weasley say they're going to check the rest of the house and vanish, and his mother lays her hand on top of his head. Her touch feels frail and uncertain.

"They told me you were dead," she says, as if she thinks she's dreaming.

"I'm not," he says, his eyes on Hermione. "We're all fine. The war is over, Mother. Voldemort is dead."

"Y-your father?" she asks then, small and fragile, and he can't answer that.

At Hermione's suggestion, Draco puts an ad in the Daily Prophet's fifth edition since the war's end, stating that Narcissa Malfoy is alive, and can Lucius Malfoy please present himself at the Ministry of Magic for surrender.

He's there only two hours after the paper's release.

The Order takes him into custody but lets him see Draco and his mother first. It's the first time Draco has ever seen his father cry.

His father is imprisoned at the Order estate, not Azkaban. Thirteen days later, he's placed under house arrest and stripped of his magic, having willingly divulged all the information he had to the Order, some of which led to the immediate capture of two more Death Eaters. Being that the Ministry, now headed by Kingsley Shacklebolt, has confiscated the Manor and half of the Malfoy wealth, house arrest takes time to arrange.

Draco's parents do what he had wished he could do with Hermione when they'd first escaped to the Order, and live together in one of the tiny cells for nearly a month before the remaining Malfoy money is freed up, and his parents purchase a small but well-appointed home. They give him half of what remains of the money; it's still a fortune. Hermione thinks they may have to start several charities to assuage her guilt over the sheer amount.

Eventually, the frantic chaos post-war settles down.

The ex-prisoners are reintegrated, and Hermione finds herself moving on to other, less urgent initiatives in the Ministry. There are war orphans to be provided for, victims to be supported, and policies to be altered. She keeps herself as busy as she wants to be, and there's only a slight bitterness to the fact that she's working for Kingsley Shacklebolt. Draco's missions are no longer as time-critical, and most days he's home by dinner; he's involved in the formation of the Special Aurors Squad, which is focused on hunting high-level targets.

She knows he particularly wants Bellatrix – who would have given birth by now – and the American wizards. The thought of them still sends a pain through her chest. It still makes her sick to her stomach. She is not fixed. There are still nights where sex ends halfway through, with Hermione in tears or trapped in an awful memory. And Draco still bears the guilt of what he's done; she sees it in his eyes, haunting him. An ever-present ghost.

The war may be over, but their trauma has not ended with Voldemort's death. That scar tissue will remain, forever.

They get sick of living at the safe house as soon as the pace of life settles into something measured and a routine is established. They want their own kitchen. Their own sitting room. They want to be able to be away from other people in a room other than just their small bedroom. And so, they begin looking at houses.

The house they buy is in a tiny wizarding village that has one small shop and nearly two dozen houses and farms. It's in Wales, near the Muggle village of Rhossili, and close to the sea. It's beautiful. The house, and the countryside. The house itself is stone, and slightly higgledy-piggledy. A tiny little two up, two down, the bathroom and toilet a later addition, accessible through what was once the kitchen's back door.

There's a tiny, low-walled front garden, with a cobbled path leading from the dirt road to the sky-blue front door, and a large back garden, half shaded by a beautiful, ancient ash tree.

The house itself is in disrepair, but they work on it in the evenings and at the weekends, with magic and elbow grease. Putting slate tiles on the roof and plastering the internal walls. Cleaning out the fireplace and chimney. Painting everything white, covering the stone floors in rugs, and hanging curtains at the windows. Waxing the upstairs wooden floors and making them glow with warmth. Sometimes Potter and Weasley help out, and Creevey stops by occasionally, but usually, it is just Draco and Hermione, and he prefers it that way. They furnish it simply, and make the extra bedroom a little library and office.

It's cosy and welcoming when they're done several weeks later; a small safe haven, waiting for just the two of them.

Draco carries Hermione over the threshold on a late-summer evening. He kisses her when he puts her down, her lips soft and smiling against his. Her eyes shine like firewhisky, lit from within, her hair curling with the humidity, her arms looped warm around his neck. The last glow of the sun shines through the open sitting room windows, the breeze sharp and cooling. Their home lies quiet and safe; there are no ghosts here.

This is their life, stretching out forever. The future, boundless with promise.

Two Years Post-War

It's a Saturday morning. They're going to her parents' house for lunch, but that isn't for hours yet, and right now, Hermione is standing naked in front of him, fresh out of the shower, as he sits on the edge of the bed still half asleep and unshaven, in nothing but boxers. Her towel has been dropped carelessly on the floor, and her expression is an invitation. And Salazar's sake, she's so beautiful, limned in the morning sun in their small bedroom. Draco is hard immediately, even though he hadn't even been thinking about sex before she walked in, but rather the small, delicate ring waiting in his bedside drawer.

"Come here," he says, his voice still raspy with sleep, and she takes a step closer, a smile on her lips. Her skin is soft under his hands as he slides them around her waist and down over her hips before gripping the curves of her arse. She's glorious. He kisses her stomach and rubs his face against it, and she squeaks at the tickling, scratching prickles. Her hands settle on his shoulders and then she bends to kiss him, hands sliding to frame his neck. Her lips are soft and her tongue is sweet, and the slide of it over his sends want slamming through him. She tastes of mint, and perfection.

But eventually, he wants to kiss her elsewhere. He pulls away from the kiss with a soft, wet sound as their mouths part, and then tips back onto the bed with a thump, shifting so that he lies back against the pillows.

"Come here," he says once more, and Hermione smiles knowingly, her mouth reddened by kissing, and then climbs up and over him, pausing to lay a kiss on his hard dick through his boxers, and then his stomach, and his chest, and then she's settling over him on her knees, and he grips her hips, and licks pleasure into her as she leans forward against the wall. She squirms and moans and her face flushes, the pink spreading down over her chest, heat radiating off her.

She's beautiful. And so sweet as Draco swirls his tongue over her clit and then down further, dipping between her folds and teasing out her wetness, making her shiver and twitch. Her moans are small and strangled, and her breath comes fast as tension begins to thrum through her, and he can tell her pleasure is building fast as he worships her. She's slick, and precious in his hands and beneath his mouth, one slim hand clutching a fistful of his hair, the other braced against the wall, and when he looks up, he can see her face, past her breasts, which rise and fall with her ragged breaths.

Cheek pressed to the wall, her mouth open as she gasps and moans, her face flushed pink and sweat a dew over her skin, her hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes screwed shut. He wonders what Hermione is thinking as he holds her hips and swirls his tongue around her clit until she's nearly wriggling and moaning, her breath coming in little uh, uh, uh sounds. And then, just as he carefully begins to press two fingers into her wet pussy, she comes, her whole body seizing with a sudden, rippling tension.

Draco slides his fingers into her as she moans with the climax – an unselfconscious "hnnngh," – and her cunt clamps down on them, and he groans too, as he feels it. He watches her; forehead all furrowed and brows scrunched down, and mouth wide, an almost pained bliss etched into every line of her.

"Oh – oh god," she gasps as his tongue prolongs it and then slowly teases her back down to earth, sliding along her pussy, his fingers slipping out and replaced by the dip of his tongue.

"Oh," she says again, like a punctuation mark, and then she opens her eyes and looks down at him. He places a kiss on the inside of her thigh and smiles up at her. Her eyes are pupil-swamped and glassy bright, like a baby mooncalf, and her cheeks are practically glowing.

"I love you so much," she tells him as she slides off him and tips clumsily to the bed. "You're perfect."

"I love y–" he gets out in return before she kisses his mouth, silencing him enthusiastically. And then she shimmies down the bed and hooks his boxers down over his dick, and he bites his lip, breath jerking in and heartbeat quickening. She doesn't often do this, and it's always something special. Something he treasures and commits to memory until the next time, in another few weeks.

She kneels astride his left leg, her wetness slick against his skin, and fuck, she's intoxicating. Her eyes meet his as she sinks her mouth over his dick, her hand gripping it, and then his eyes flutter shut and a strangled groan escapes him. Her mouth is hot, and wet, and so velvety soft, her tongue swirling around the head of his dick, and he feels pleasure burn hot and bright through him.

Perfection. She makes a hum of satisfaction. His fingers flex against the sheets. He's biting his lip as she slides her mouth up and down in lockstep with her hand, and it's sheer bliss.

"Oh fuck," he breathes. And then she takes in more, her mouth enveloping nearly all of it and swamping him in a sensation so intense it makes him want to come already. "Nngh." He holds off with an effort as she sucks it, firm and luscious, and the pleasure escalates exponentially until an embarrassingly short time later, he gasps, "Stop. Hermione, stop, or I'll come."

She smirks at him as she pops her mouth off his dick, looking extremely pleased with herself, and he shoves himself upright and kisses the smirk off her mouth, hand cradling the back of her head, fingers buried in her hair. Leaning her over and back, until she's sprawled on the bed and he's over her, and her hands cling to his shoulders as they kiss, his body fitting between her legs. Her trust never ceases to astound him. Her desire is precious, and endlessly amazing.

"Draco, please," she murmurs against his lips, arching her hips up, and then he's fumbling desperately. And he pushes slowly into her, and she's slick and hot, and she makes a soft sound of pleasure that echoes in his head as he slides home fully. His world becomes her body. Her fingers twining in his hair and clutching at his back. The clamp of her legs, and the press of her breasts against his chest as he thrusts, and she moans. He loses himself in her. He always has.

Hermione sets a mug of tea down on the bench beside Draco's hand, kissing his upper arm, and he spares her a smile and kisses her left eyebrow in return. She retreats, feeling warm inside, and perches on the kitchen bench beside the sink in leggings and one of his t-shirts, watching as he cooks their breakfast in nothing but pyjama trousers. The scars on his back are just faint traces now, although he's kept the one on his face. It doesn't bother her anymore. It's just part of him now, like everything else. And she loves all of him, more deeply than she can express. He gulps his tea absently, and then slides a nearly crepe-thin pancake out of the pan and onto a slowly growing stack, ready to be eaten rolled up with lemon juice and sugar.

She smiles at him over her own mug of tea, watching as he ladles pancake batter into the pan and then yawns and scrubs at his head idly, so all his hair sticks up funny. And then he turns to her for the few moments it takes before the pancake requires flipping. His tea in one hand, the other arm sliding around her as he slots between her legs. She kisses his chin. He kisses her nose. The sun is shining, and happiness swells between them. They stand pressed together for a long moment, her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm around her still, both of them sleepy and content. And then she sniffs.

"Pancake!" she says urgently, and he says, "Oh shit," and they disentangle in a rush. Hermione watches him as he hurries to save it, laughing quietly to herself, the feeling of peaceful warmth lingering as the sun spills through the window behind her. They both had nightmares last night, but the dreams always fade with the dawn, and then there is a life to live. Together.

She can't imagine ever being without him, as she watches him swear quietly over the half-burnt pancake before he starts on another. She doesn't take any of this for granted. Moments like this are precious. He shoots her a rueful smile over his shoulder, his eyes and his scars catching the light, both shining silver.

She still doesn't think anyone else truly understands it, even now – how she can love him, after everything they went through. She wonders how she could not. But then, they weren't there. Only Hermione and Draco can understand what happened during those long months of her captivity. The irreversible changes they both underwent. He is as much a part of her as her own heart. Inextricably melded, and where she begins and he ends, Hermione sometimes doesn't know.

He risks the next pancake by coming back and kissing her, quickly and sweetly, and she thinks that she doesn't need to know.

Dreams wake her. Not nightmares exactly.

Hermione lies cocooned in their cosy bed and stares at the ring on her finger. The slim band and the dainty diamond, shining in the moonlight. She looks across at Draco and smiles, her heart feeling too full and buoyant, as though it's trying to float out of her chest. He's peaceful in sleep, his fringe white in the pale light and falling over his forehead, his lashes throwing curling shadows over his cheeks, his mouth relaxed and sweet. Aside from the scar etched across his face, he looks untouched by war right now. Young, and nearly innocent. Happy.

She thinks of how he had looked earlier. After dinner, settling outside on a blanket under the ash tree as the sun had set, waiting to see the stars after the fire of the last light had faded. Enjoying the peacefulness of being alone together, after their long afternoon at her parents' house. They are not built to spend time with others now; they are happiest when they are two. Hermione has made her peace with that.

She had been still standing when he had knelt before her, love written starkly on his face and his expression painted in vulnerability, and asked her to marry him. No one deserves you less than I do. But no one could want you more, he had said with his heart in his voice, and she had cried. Cried, and climbed on his lap, and said yes, over and over, clinging to him, joy and a bittersweetness wrenching through her.

Because he does deserve her, and she wishes he could see that as clearly as she does.

Lying in bed beside him, Hermione remembers vividly the first time he'd ever gone to his knees before her – the morning after the first revel. Kneeling before her on the wooden floor of his room like a supplicant, his features unreadable as she stood there holding his wand.

What had culminated in this ring on her finger and this sweet, aching happiness in her chest had somehow, however impossibly, begun right then. When he'd broken her and saved her at once. When he'd given her control. When he'd knelt at her feet and told her it was okay to hurt him, because he had hurt her.

He'd always known what she needed. She swallows hard and blinks back tears.

Their love was birthed in blood and violence. It was formed under vast pressure – crushing them, forcing them to be what they never would have chosen to be. To do unimaginable things. To endure. They broke, but they broke together, and they were forged into something new, together. They are carbon subjected to immense forces; a raw, uncut diamond – rough and unassuming from the outside, but within, there is something so beautiful. Something so precious. Unbreakable.

She looks at him now, sleeping beside her, and she wouldn't change a thing.

– Fin. –

Thank you for reading ❤

This story was about acceptance, healing, and ultimately, devotion. I hope that this final chapter encompasses that, and gives Hermione and Draco a happy ever after that feels authentic, and deserved.