epilogue

The only thing that's left is the manuscript
One last souvenir from my trip to your shores
Now and then I reread the manuscript
But the story isn't mine anymore

The Manuscript, Taylor Swift

Hermione jolted upright, pulse hammering and breath ragged.

She didn't know where she was.

Her eyes darted around the shadowed room, her muscles tightening as though readying her to spring, her breath caught between a decision to run or defend.

Her hand gripped her wand, reflexive, until recognition settled.

Hermione's gaze darted to the bedroom window, drawn by the rustle of wind through the trees. The faint glow of moonlight illuminated the room, grounding her. She rubbed her hands over her arms, as if wiping away the spectral blood her nightmares often left behind.

She was safe—home, in the cottage with Draco.

Sweat slicked her skin as she clutched at the blanket, her hands trembling with the echoes of her dreams.

Her arms hugged her knees, and her body swayed as if seeking balance. The movement felt instinctive, a tether to something tangible amidst the storm of her thoughts.

Draco shifted across the bed, his silver-blonde hair glinting faintly in the soft light. Even in sleep, the tension etched into his face betrayed the weight he carried. She studied him, her heart tightening with the undeniable knowledge: his rest was as fleeting and fractured as her own.

Despite it being over, the war still haunted them.

Hermione shifted carefully, sliding her legs over the side of the bed with deliberate quiet. The mattress dipped under her weight, and she froze, glancing over her shoulder at Draco. His body tensed, and before she could step away, he jolted upright, wand in hand, his sharp gaze scanning the room for threats.

His whole frame relaxed as his eyes found her. Lowering his wand, he let out a shaky exhale.

"It's just you," he said, his voice hoarse from sleep but tense.

"Sorry," Hermione whispered, her steps faltering. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was going to make tea."

Draco ran a hand through his hair, adjusting to the moment.

"It's fine." He placed his wand on the nightstand, his movements slow, deliberate. "I'm a light sleeper these days. I'll join you. Tea sounds like a good idea."

They both knew, as surely as they knew the patterns of their nightmares, that sleep wouldn't come again that night.

Draco followed her to the kitchen, stopping by the counter as she lit the lamps with wandless magic. Their movements aligned—practiced and familiar, a rhythm born of sleepless nights. The teapot's soft clink and the tea leaves rustle from the tin can filled the space.

It was a ritual they had perfected—the heat of the brewing tea offering a fragile comfort, a reminder that they were not alone. That, in this, at least they were still together.

"Will the nightmares ever stop?" Draco's voice broke the quiet, heavy with weariness.

Hermione's hand stilled over the cups, the question rooting her in place. Her eyes lingered on the curling steam as she wrestled for an answer that felt honest.

"I don't know," she finally admitted, her uncertainty mirroring his.

Draco braced his hands on the scarf counter, the tension draining from his shoulders. His eyes darted briefly toward the doorway, as if half-expecting a shadow to move.

Hermione poured the tea with deliberate care, grounding herself in the ritual. Sliding a cup to Draco, she watched the steam curl between them like a fragile bridge. Without a word, they moved to the living room, their steps synchronized in a dance perfected by countless sleepless nights. Settling onto the worn couch, their silence felt less like a void and more like an understanding.

Hermione tucked herself against Draco, her head settling on his shoulder. His arm came around her, the motion as natural as breathing. Yet, his muscles remained taut, a faint tremor betraying the storm he carried within.

She glanced at him, her voice soft. "What's wrong?"

Draco hesitated, his gaze on the steam rising from his tea. "I just… sometimes it feels like this won't last. Like we're waiting for something to go wrong."

Hermione leaned into him, grounding them both. "It's normal to feel that way, but we've fought too hard to let fear win," Hermione smirked over the teacup rim. "You know, you could actually try making the tea next time."

Draco raised a brow, feigning offence. "And risk ruining this perfect brew? I wouldn't dare."

The corner of her mouth lifted, a flicker of warmth piercing the lingering shadows of her thoughts but not banishing them entirely. Hermione's fingers moved absently over the blanket. "Do you think it ever gets better?"

"I think it has to." Draco considered the question, his grey eyes distant. "But maybe we need help to get there."

She looked at him, surprised by his candour.

"I've been thinking," he continued. "We can't do this alone. The war might be over, but we're still fighting. Against ourselves, against everything we've done and seen. Maybe it's time to let someone else help us fight."

"I never expected a suggestion like that from you." Hermione smiled at him over her cup.

"People change, evolve," Draco said, arching a teasing eyebrow. "Isn't that what you're always saying?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, the familiar gesture easing some of the residual tension in her body. A faint smile, tentative but real, broke through her exhaustion—a glimmer of something lighter breaking through the remnants of her nightmare.

"We need help," Draco said, his voice steadier than she expected. Setting down his empty cup, he glanced toward her, his expression cautious. "Someone who knows how to deal with… people like us."

Hermione nodded slowly, the suggestion resonating with a truth she had tried to avoid. They couldn't keep running from the ghosts of the war, no matter how tempting it was to bury themselves in their fragile sanctuary.

"I've read about Mind Healers," she began, her voice thoughtful. "Muggles have healers, too, specifically for the mind. Different methods. We could try both."

Draco's brows furrowed, his initial reaction tempered by exhaustion and desperation. He wasn't used to the idea of looking outside their world for answers, but Hermione's words—her hope—nudged him past his resistance.

What had this world provided him, anyway? Other than years of heartbreak and a deep mistrust of the system.

"Both," he echoed, his voice cautious but open. "Two perspectives. Couldn't hurt, I suppose."

Hermione sat up straighter. A tentative hope blossomed within her. "You mean it? Will you actually try a psychologist, too? I mean, we couldn't tell them about all the magic stuff—the Statute of Secrecy prevents that—but we could find a way around it. Maybe a squib, or another Muggleborn or-"

Draco leaned down and kissed her, cutting off her. "We can sort all of that out tomorrow. One step at a time, yes?"

"One step at a time," she repeated, sighing and leaning back into his chest.

Hermione closed her eyes, the warmth of Draco's presence anchoring her. The nightmares and scars would linger, but with a plan in place, she felt the stirrings of something brighter.

Healing wouldn't come quickly, but it was within reach

Hermione lingered at the kitchen table after Draco excused himself for bed, her gaze drifting to the darkened window.

The manor loomed just beyond. Though their relationship was steady, they were still building and repairing the ones with Draco's parents. Unspoken apologies lingered, fragile bridges waiting to be crossed. There was more to their life than the bubble they'd built within the cottage, and a big part of that was the family they were all trying to rebuild.

Later that week, Hermione was seated opposite Narcissa in her favourite sitting room. Afternoon sunlight cast golden streaks across the drawing room, illuminating the polished wood floors and delicate patterns of the fine china on the tea tray Narcissa had prepared. The conversation began stiffly, each word measured, a dance of cautious pleasantries.

"The gardens look beautiful," Hermione offered, gesturing toward the blooming roses visible through the window. "I can tell how much care you've put into them."

Narcissa's lips curved in a subtle smile, pride glinting through her reserved demeanour. "It's a small solace. After the war, tending to the estate has been… grounding."

Hermione reached for a small biscuit from the tray, her fingers brushing the delicate porcelain plate. "These remind me of the ones my mum used to make," she said, her voice softer now.

Narcissa paused, her gaze flicking to the biscuit before meeting Hermione's. "Did she bake often?"

Hermione nodded. "Every Sunday. It was… normal. Safe."

A faint smile touched Narcissa's lips. "Small comforts can hold us together, even when everything else falls apart."

"They do." Narcissa's gaze softened, and for a moment, the mask of propriety slipped. "I've often wondered how you find the strength to endure everything you've faced."

Hermione hesitated, startled by the admission.

"I'm not sure it's strength," she said quietly. "It's more… stubbornness, I think. A refusal to let everything I've fought for be undone."

Narcissa's expression turned thoughtful. "Perhaps that's where we're alike, then. Stubbornness runs strong in this family."

Hermione blinked, surprised by the warmth threading through Narcissa's words. Her compliments always caught her off-guard, but their rarity made them all the more precious.

Narcissa's gaze lingered on the roses outside, her expression distant. "I failed him, you know. As a mother. I see it now."

"You're trying." Hermione hesitated, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. "Draco notices, you know. The changes you've made. Not just with the manor. He might not say it, but he does."

Narcissa's hand paused mid-motion, her eyes flicking to Hermione's. Her fingers brushed the polished handle of the teapot as though seeking comfort. "It will never be enough."

The silence that followed felt contemplative, not uncomfortable.

Hermione set her cup down with deliberate care, meeting Narcissa's gaze. "We've all made choices we wish we could change, but trying is what counts."

The space between them felt less like a gulf and more like common ground, fragile but promising. Hermione realized that healing, like the roses outside, required patience, care, and time. Together, they were planting something new.

Hermione moved through the manor's grand halls with a stack of books in her arms, her fingertips brushing the cool banister of the sweeping staircase. The house still felt cavernous and cold, but brightness had started to creep in—Narcissa's peaceful smiles at breakfast, Lucius offering her a rare but genuine compliment on her research, and a hundred other small gestures, but they held significance.

Approaching Draco's study, Hermione heard his and Lucius' restrained voices—clipped and sharp, barely holding back a shout."

Lucius tapped the head of his cane against the floor, his lips thinning. "I didn't make those choices lightly, Draco. I acted for this family's survival."

"And what a stellar job you did," Draco shot back, his tone sharp enough to cut.

Hermione hesitated in the doorway. This argument had played out in various forms for months, the two of them circling the same unresolved matters that had nearly torn apart their lives and their entire family.

She stepped into the room then, her presence halting the exchange.

Both men glanced her way, their postures tense.

Lucius sighed and turned to leave, the click of his cane echoing in the silence.

It would take a long time for these particular wounds to heal. Each man understood the other's reasoning, but was too stubborn to come to a heel. Lucius's steadfast commitment seemed to be not to apologize for any wrongdoing, but to explain his actions. And although that was enough for Hermione to give him a tentative trust, Draco refused. She couldn't fault him for that, not after everything.

And she and Narcissa had long since learned not to try to mediate between the two. It was best just to let them get it out.

Steeling herself, Hermione stepped into the room. The two Malfoy men, reflections of one another in both posture and pride, stood opposite each other by the fireplace. Draco's hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles paling, and Lucius leaned more heavily on his cane than usual, the tension in his stance betraying discomfort. Hermione's frown deepened as she wondered if he had taken his pain potion.

Her relationship with Lucius had changed in ways she had never imagined. His cold indifference had marked their early encounters, yet something had shifted since the trial and since she'd removed his and Draco's Dark Mark.

Slowly, as promised, he had begun to share his knowledge of ancient magic and the traditional rituals that once defined pureblood life. Hermione was captivated by the intricacies of the old customs, from seasonal celebrations to obscure magical practices. To her surprise, Lucius seemed pleased by her enthusiasm and impressed by her quick understanding. These shared moments had become something she looked forward to, a bridge between their vastly different worlds that she had come to value.

Draco's stormy grey eyes met hers, his expression easing as if her presence alone was enough to temper some of his frustration.

"I'll be in my study," Lucius said, offering Hermione a faint smile, his regard for her evident even as he moved to leave the room.

He left without another word, his movements brisk though not devoid of purpose.

The discussion would eventually reach a breaking point, but not today. Healing, she had learned, was rarely linear.

Draco exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "I can't… I just can't with him today."

Hermione set the books down on a nearby table and crossed the room. "He's trying, in his way."

Draco shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Trying doesn't undo years of—" He cut himself off with a sharp wince, his hand shooting to his forearm.

"Draco?" Hermione's voice took on the edge of concern as she guided him to the couch. "What's wrong?"

"It's just… a flare-up," he said through gritted teeth, his skin growing pale and clammy. The lingering effects of the Dark Mark removal still plagued him, his magical core rebelling unpredictably. When these episodes struck, the magical imbalance mimicked the symptoms of an autoimmune disorder—fevers, joint pain, and waves of magical instability that left him drained.

Hermione knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the runic mark she etched into his skin during the Dark Mark removal process. Most had faded to nothing; only two glowed faintly under her touch, a living testament to the power of transformation. All but one of the marks would fade with time; the final rune, directly over the site of the Dark Mark, had been designed to endure as a seal against its return and a symbol of his freedom.

"I'll get the salve," she said softly, rising.

With Lucius' guidance, the balm had been developed from the potion he'd created. A small victory in their tentative collaboration.

She returned moments later with the jar, the minty scent of the potion-infused balm filling the room as she worked it into his skin. Draco sighed, his shoulders relaxing as the pain gradually subsided and his breathing evened.

"Better?" she asked, her tone gentle.

"Yeah." He took her hand in his, the touch steady and reassuring, his fingers curling around hers with tenderness. "I hate that you have to keep doing this."

"You'd do the same for me," she replied, matter-of-fact.

He didn't argue. Instead, he tugged her beside him, leaning his forehead against hers. The quiet between them was thick with meaning—a shared solace carried in the warmth of their joined hands and the unhurried rhythm of their breaths.

"Some scars never leave." Draco lowered his gaze to their joined hands.

"It's not about erasing them," Hermione said, cupping his cheek. "It's about living beyond them."

Draco's eyes closed as he pressed his cheek into her palm. The vulnerability in his expression wasn't something he let surface often, but in this moment, he let her see it all—the regret, the shame, the tentative hope.

"You give me too much credit."

"Maybe," Hermione replied with a soft smile, "but I'd rather give you too much than not enough."

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly, the ghost of a smile breaking through the storm. He tightened his hold on her hand, his voice steadier now. "I'll keep trying—for you, for us."

"For yourself," she corrected. "That's where it starts."

They sat there, the war's consequences still lingering. Maybe they always would.

Sometimes, you just had to learn how to live with the scars.

Later, as the sunlight streamed lower through the windows, Narcissa appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"I thought you might like a little something," she said, her tone carefully light.

Hermione noticed Narcissa's habit of appearing after Draco and Lucius clashed as if offering tea could somehow bridge the widening rift.

"Thanks, Mother."

Narcissa crossed the room, setting the tray on the table near the couch. Hermione observed the careful precision in her movements as she poured the tea, each action deliberate, almost ceremonial. This was Narcissa's way of reaching out, not in words but in gestures that carried their meaning.

Narcissa initially said nothing, her gaze flickering to Hermione before returning to the tray. She carefully placed a steaming cup before her son and another before Hermione. Narcissa reached for the delicate sugar bowl and put two cubes in Hermione's cup without asking.

She passed Draco the plate of biscuits next, her expression carrying a warmth reserved solely for him.

Hermione recognized these gestures for what they were. Narcissa's restrained but deeply felt love rarely came in the form of spoken words. Instead, it revealed itself in these quiet acts of care—a cup of perfectly prepared tea, a soft blanket draped over a weary shoulder, the effort she put into maintaining small traditions that tethered their fractured family together. She loved them both fiercely in those ways, even if the words never came.

Draco accepted the biscuit from his mother. "Will you join us?"

"Yes, of course, darling." Narcissa's faint smile deepened as she moved to sit beside Hermione.

Narcissa's hands moved with deliberate grace, filling her cup. She settled beside Hermione, her gaze briefly meeting each of them.

Here, in this small circle, her love for them both shone in the simplicity of her presence. Hermione met the look and returned a small smile of her own. This was how Narcissa showed she cared; Hermione had come to cherish it.

She thought of the countless tiny moments they had shared—discussions over tea, working with Narcissa on Draco's case, the tentative trust that had grown between them. These moments had stitched together a bond Hermione hadn't expected to find.

Draco reached for one of the biscuits, his expression relaxing into something close to contentment.

It wasn't perfect, and it never would be. It didn't have to be. It was family.

The village of Hogsmeade rested under a crisp blanket of winter snow, which made the air feel clean and sharp in the lungs. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional crunch of boots on the frosted cobblestones or the distant laughter of children throwing snowballs. This time of year always brought a peculiar peace to the village, as though the land had exhaled a long-held breath.

Draco pulled his scarf tighter against the cold. Hogsmeade's quiet suited him, a welcome escape from the prying eyes and endless questions of Diagon Alley.

His house arrest was lifted a few months ago, granting him more freedom than he had dared hope for. Adjusting to life beyond those constraints was another layer to his ongoing journey.

The past few years had been a slow, uneven journey. After the war, Draco had faced his fair share of trials—both literal and metaphorical. Once synonymous with wealth and power, the Malfoy name now casts only a shadow. It carried a new connotation; one Draco had learned to bear with humility. He had no illusions about forgiveness or acceptance; those things weren't owed to him, and he wasn't sure he'd ever deserve them. What mattered now was how he chose to live.

Draco assisted Theo and Hermione in removing curses at Nott Manor, which sparked an interest he hadn't anticipated. The satisfaction of solving intricate magical puzzles and contributing positively to others' lives had been unexpected but rewarding. He realized that this work wasn't just about passing the time; it was about rebuilding a sense of purpose and proving to himself and the world that he could still make a meaningful difference.

Maybe his wife wasn't the only one who could change the world positively.

Curse-breaking.

Curse-breaking offered purpose. It felt almost poetic—undoing the damage of dark magic, repairing what others had broken. It reminded Draco of Hermione during the war, tirelessly working to undo Voldemort's unleashed chaos—undoing the Dark Mark. He wanted to do the same in his own way.

He was beginning to consider pursuing it professionally, though he was hesitant to commit fully.

Perhaps he would set up a private practice.

For now, he was content to steer clear of anything tied to the Ministry or its politics.

Regardless, he had time. That was a thing that the Malfoy name, the Malfoy fortune, could still grant him.

He didn't have to decide at all. He could spend the rest of his days supporting his beautiful, gifted, talented wife and everything she chose to do to make the world better.

"Imagine it." He'd smirk over dinner with Hermione, his lips quirking into a half-smile. "Draco Malfoy, house-husband to the brightest witch of her age. The papers would have a field day."

She'd laugh, shaking her head, and they'd share a look. A soft understanding that she would support him regardless of if that's what he chose to do.

He could still picture her smile from the night he had stayed up late in the study, poring over texts about magical wards to solve another puzzle of the Nott Manor. Hermione had found him there, a mug of tea in hand, and quietly sat beside him.

It wasn't just her words but the unwavering faith in her gaze that had stayed with him, pushing him to keep trying.

Fuck, he loved her more than anything else in this realm.

Though, she admitted on more than one occasion that he at least needed a hobby.

"Maybe a hobby could help. It might give you something to focus on outside of following me around."

He did tend to follow her around like they'd been stuck together by a famous Black Family sticking charm.

Today, he'd given Hermione a break from having him as a shadow by wandering through the village. The brisk air cleared his head as he approached the Three Broomsticks, his boots leaving neat imprints in the snow.

When he arrived, the pub was warm and bustling, the golden glow of the hearth spilling over wooden tables laden with tankards of butterbeer and platters of steaming pies. Madam Rosmerta greeted him with a nod, her eyes kind but cautious—a look he'd grown used to.

She raised a brow as she set a butterbeer in front of him. "If you're trying to brood quietly, Mr. Malfoy, you'll have to pick a darker corner."

Draco blinked, caught off-guard before a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Noted."

"Good. Now, try not to scare off the regulars." She winked, moving on to another customer. For the first time that day, Draco's smirk softened into something closer than a smile.

He recalled the day he had walked into the Three Broomsticks after his house arrest had ended, nervous but determined. Apologizing to her had been one of the first steps in his attempt to make amends.

"Madam Rosmerta," he had said quietly, standing awkwardly at the bar. "I owe you an apology. For what I did… for dragging you into it all."

She had studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, her shoulders had relaxed.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy," she'd replied, her voice firm but not unkind. "It's not something I'll forget. But if you're truly sorry, show it in how you live your life now. Words are one thing, but actions… those carry weight. Show me, show the world, that you mean it and maybe others will start to believe it too."

Her response had struck him deeply. From that day on, their interactions had carried a tentative civility—a fragile bridge of mutual understanding.

As he made his way to the aforementioned dark corner, the wizard at the bar hesitated, then nodded stiffly in Draco's direction. Draco inclined his head in return, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. It wasn't trust, but it wasn't hostility either.

With an inward sigh, he pressed on, offering a brief nod to a young witch who hesitantly returned the gesture. These interactions had become part of his reality now.

Shrugging off his coat, Draco settled into his usual seat by the window, letting the warmth seep into his bones. The window framed a view of the high street, where villagers went about their errands, their breath visible in the frosty air. He simply sat there for a while, watching the world move on without him.

Though Draco valued his quiet life, he hadn't entirely withdrawn. As he sat by the window, his thoughts wandered to his legacy.

Could he ever truly repair what had been broken? The Wizarding World might never forget his past sins, but could he forge something meaningful in its shadow? The question lingered like an ache he couldn't quite soothe.

Madam Rosmerta set a butterbeer before him.

"Nice to see you out more these days," she said, half-smiling. He nodded, unsure how to respond, but the warmth in her tone felt like a small step forward.

Hermione often urged him to reconnect, to find his place in a world that still viewed him with suspicion.

"You're not the same man you were," she'd remind him gently. "And the world needs to see that."

He'd nod, not disagreeing but hesitant all the same.

Still, there were moments—moments like this, where the pub's hum and its patrons' muted chatter felt distant—that he allowed himself to hope. The snow continued to fall outside, muffling the world in its quiet embrace.

The Malfoy name carried its weight, but redemption was in his hands—an ongoing effort to build something meaningful amid the ruins. He thought of the values he wanted to embody—integrity, perseverance, and accountability.

If he had children someday, he wanted them to grow up with a name that meant something more than old money and mistakes. Perhaps they would learn that a person could choose to do better, even in condemnation.

He'd do all he could in this lifetime to leave a better legacy for his future children, if any. And if not, he'd leave one for the Wizarding World.

The focus curse-breaking required was a balm for his mind, a way to quiet the nagging guilt of his past. But as he watched the snow fall outside the pub, he wondered if it was enough to truly leave something meaningful behind.

Redemption wasn't an endpoint.

It unfolded in the quiet decisions and the steady commitment to live differently each day.

The afternoon sun hung low, casting a golden hue across the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Hermione walked along the winding gravel paths of the estate, her hands loosely clasped before her as she took in the mingling scents of blooming roses and fresh earth. The air was cool, but the sun's warmth lingered on her skin, a gentle reminder of the changing seasons. This place—once dead and overrun—now brimmed with life.

Draco emerged from the well-worn pathway towards their cottage and paused when he saw her. "Thinking again?"

She turned, meeting his gaze. "Always." A faint smile curved her lips, but her thoughts remained distant. She gestured to the garden. "This place feels… different now. Alive."

"Yes, my mother got the urge to revitalize the gardens recently. They were magnificent… before. I can't wait for you to experience them when they are restored." He stepped closer, his posture unguarded. "Have you decided?"

The Ministry of Magic had extended her a formal job offer, its deadline looming like an unanswered question. Ron and Harry had already taken their roles as Aurors, with Ron thriving in the chaos and Harry, surprisingly, settling into the structure. She had always imagined Harry back at Hogwarts, perhaps as a professor, guiding the next generation. Maybe he still would. They were young, after all.

The image warmed her, but it also left her uneasy.

They seemed sure of their paths. Why didn't she?

The question pressed against her mind like a stone in her shoe.

She traced the edge of a lavender sprig, the scent grounding her. Joining the Ministry meant diving headfirst into politics and bureaucracy—a battlefield of a different kind.

Could she stomach it? Could she fight for change within a system she so deeply distrusted?

Yet, walking away felt like abandoning the fight entirely. What if no one else challenged the Ministry's outdated policies? What if the minor reforms she could push through were the difference between progress and stagnation?

Her other option, to walk away entirely, tantalized her with its freedom. She could carve a path untethered from expectations, allowing her to explore what mattered.

But would that be running from responsibility or redefining it? The uncertainty clawed at her, leaving her both restless and hopeful as the possibility of choice settled over her like an uncharted map.

Hermione traced the winding paths Narcissa had painstakingly restored.

The Ministry would be a battle." Hermione plucked a sprig of lavender, twirling it between her fingers as its delicate scent mingled with the cool air. "But maybe I'm tired of wars."

"Then build something new instead. Heal something." Draco stepped closer, brushing a stray leaf from her hair. "You don't always have to fight. There's more to life than the next battle."

His words lingered between them, heavy and true.

"Maybe I don't know how to stop," Hermione admitted, turning to face him. Her frown deepened as sunlight played across the strands of her hair. "What would you do if you were me?"

"I'm not you," Draco said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But if I were, I'd start by not saving the entire world for once. Maybe bake some cookies, knit a scarf, or spend a week in bed with your ridiculously handsome husband."

Hermione's frown dissolved into laughter. "Baking cookies? Really?"

"That's not the part I hoped you'd latch on to," Draco replied, his tone mock-serious. "Though I hear it's therapeutic."

"Baking cookies or spending a week in bed with you?" she teased, a playful spark lighting her eyes.

"Why not both?" His grin was wicked, sending a shiver down her spine.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, her gaze drifting down his body. "Fine. But only if you promise to wash the dishes."

"Deal." He reached for her hand, the teasing warmth in his expression softening. Pulling her closer, his face turned serious, his tone dropping to a low murmur. "Start with what makes you happy, Hermione."

His simple answer struck her, cutting through the noise of doubt. What made her happy?

Hermione didn't have an answer—not yet. But she wanted to find out.

She stepped toward him, her voice quieter now. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not telling me what to do. For believing I can figure it out myself."

Draco's laugh was rich and unguarded. "Love, if I tried to tell you what to do, you'd hex me six ways to next Sunday."

Her laughter joined his, soft and light, wrapping around them like a gentle breeze. They stood there, silent yet connected, as the garden seemed to hum with life around them.

The path ahead, unknown as it was, felt ripe with possibilities. Hermione felt untethered—not adrift but free for the first time in years. Her choices no longer felt like a shackle, like life or death. Instead, the ability to choose became a gift.

The future stretched before her, undefined yet brimming with possibilities. For once, she felt the quiet power of shaping it on her terms, replacing the usual overpowering anxiety of not knowing what came next.

"I think I'll take some time. There are so many possibilities that I didn't even know existed. I could even get a Mastery. The Ministry will still be there, with or without this job offer."

Draco's smile spread wide, unguarded and genuine. He stepped closer, closing the space between them, his voice dropping to a warm murmur. "That might just be your most brilliant plan yet."

Hermione stood by the open window, cradling a steaming cup of tea, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the roof of their cottage. The earthy scent of rain mingled with the sweetness of blooming lilacs from the garden bed beneath the window. A light mist curled over the ground, softening the edges of the world outside. Droplets clung to leaves and petals, trembling as if reluctant to fall. Beyond the garden's hedgerows, the horizon stretched wide and quiet, the world stirring with the first signs of day.

Behind her, Draco's arms slid around her waist, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder.
"You're up early," he murmured.

She leaned back into him, a smile tugging at her lips. "Couldn't sleep."

"Come back to bed." The words were hot breath down her neck as Draco moved her hair to the side.

She moaned, allowing him to guide her back to their bedroom, their fingers intertwining. Her thumb brushed over his wedding ring—a simple design, an important reminder. Their bond felt like an anchor, steadfast and enduring—a remarkable transformation from the fragile uncertainty that had once overshadowed their lives.

Pulling back the covers, he climbed in beside her, pulling her to his chest and letting out a deep, satisfied hum.

"I get nervous when I wake up, and you're not here." He confessed after a few heartbeats. A shadow flickered across his expression, a remnant of old fears. "Still feels like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Then I'll catch it before it does," she said softly, her voice growing stronger with each word. "I'll stop it from ever hitting the ground."

A faint laugh escaped him, though it carried no humour. "You can't fight fate, love."

"Haven't we already?" Her gaze locked with his, unwavering. "Or did you forget? Malfoys always come out on top."

Her certainty settled into him, grounding him. Security, love, fulfilment.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich with affection. "My vicious, brilliant wife."

Draco shifted, pulling her down beside him. His arms encircled her as he rolled, bracing himself above her. His gaze traced the features of her face: the way her curls framed her cheeks, the freckles scattered like constellations across her nose, the lingering blush of their shared intimacy. Every detail felt etched into his soul. Hermione Malfoy was burned into his being, a brand he readily accepted this time. One without a cure.

"What do you think the future looks like for us, Mrs. Malfoy?" He shifted, caressing her cheek. She leaned into his warmth, eyes closing and shoulders dropping as she sighed.

"I think it looks like freedom," Hermione said, her eyes meeting his.

His fingers brushed a stray curl from her face, his touch reverent. "A life where a stubborn Muggleborn and a reformed Pureblood live a life together. We can be in love together, and no one can stop us. We'll be happy despite them."

Her laugh was warm and soft. "Exactly."

He leaned closer, their foreheads meeting, their breaths mingling. Hermione's hand rose to rest over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. They had survived battles—some external, many internal—to find this peace.

They had dismantled old legacies, standing against forces that sought to tear them apart. Together, they'd proven that scars could heal, that broken systems could be defied. Every choice, every moment of resilience, had brought them here—to this sanctuary. Here, they had forged a love that demanded no apologies, a life that was their own.

Hermione had shown him what courage looked like and what hope could build when given room to grow.

Draco kissed her, slow and deliberate.

When he drew back, his fingers traced the line of her jaw. The room fell into a gentle stillness, the patter of rain giving way to the first streaks of sunlight piercing through the clouds. Golden light spilled across the fields, painting the horizon with a palette of pinks and violets—a quiet promise of new beginnings.

The rain stopped, leaving the world fresh and unburdened, ready for the life they would create together—a life unbound by expectations or destiny, shaped only by their choice.

They would write their own story. Their own prophecy.