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Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy had many admirable qualities. He was canny, intelligent, and remarkable with spellwork. He was also incredibly insightful in all matters political, able to read and manipulate others with ease. But of his many admirable qualities, loyalty was not among them. He had no particular affinity to any political leader or movement and would happily defect or abandon any cause the moment it no longer benefited him.

His father, Abraxas Malfoy, had drilled into him that the only thing that mattered was the Malfoy family. That his only responsibility as a man was to protect the family.

“You will grow to be a man,” Abraxas had said, “and you will have a wife and children. Your only responsibility is to protect them. Whatever it takes.”

So, when the Dark Lord first rose to power, Lucius Malfoy saw the political tides shifting, and he aligned himself with the cause. When the Dark Lord fell, he used his wits to remain in good standing in society, and then, when the Dark Lord rose again, he sniffed the change in the wind and aligned himself and his family with the cause once more.

After Harry Potter’s death, Lucius was in position to become the Dark Lord’s top advisor, his right-hand wizard.

But things were changing. Ten years had passed, and Lucius could smell it in the air. There was unrest at the top, and his position seemed precarious.

It was time for a shift in loyalty.

~

Hermione Granger sometimes found it incredibly odd that she simply woke up, got dressed, went to work, and sat behind a counter all day long. How could it be that there were books to be sold and ledgers to be balanced when the world had crumbled around them? And yet, for ten years, she had been working at her job at Flourish & Blotts, one of the few places that would hire a Muggleborn under Voldemort’s regime.

The thing that astounded her most was how boring and typical her days were. After Harry died, she would have expected a sudden and dramatic collapse of society, with constant violence in the streets, but the Ministry of Magic had died with a whimper, not a bang. Voldemort’s allies had positioned themselves cleverly, and they had simply slipped into positions of power.

Once Lucius Malfoy was made the Chancellor for Magic, he appointed Lord Voldemort as Supreme Leader (a figurehead position more than anything), and Hermione had expected that the world would completely shatter, but it did not. The Floo network still functioned, Quidditch matches were played, Hogwarts took students, and Diagon Alley was as busy and bustling as ever.

It shocked her just how normal life was.

But of course, that didn’t mean that there weren’t any reminders of who was in charge. Protests were put down swiftly, with the grown-up version of the Inquisitorial Squad at the ready to arrest anyone heard criticizing Voldemort’s government. Muggleborns were required to register with the New Ministry annually, and she carried a card that would tell any Inquisitor who asked where she lived, worked, and was allowed to travel. Insurrection was put down immediately and violently.

The insurrection they could find, that is.

“Hello, Remus,” said Hermione with a forced casualness in her voice.

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” he replied. “I’ve heard it’s going to rain tonight.”

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment before turning to the cash register, busying herself with galleons and sickles.

“What a shame,” she tutted.

“Indeed,” said Remus, pulling on his coat and hat. “Have a nice shift.”

He clasped her hand, and she felt a small bit of parchment pressed into it. Hermione met Remus’s gaze and nodded slightly, palming the paper and shoving it into her pocket. She wanted to rip it open and read it, but Hermione was well-practiced at patience, at looking over her shoulder not once or twice but three times before taking any risk.

Once Remus left, Hermione walked through the bookstore, confirming it was empty. She looked out the front door, watching for Inquisitors or Death Eaters. She looked around the store again, and when she was satisfied, she pulled the folded piece of paper from her pocket, holding it low behind the counter as she read it.

East Finchley at nine o’clock. Someone new will be there. It’s important that you not panic.

Hermione crumpled the paper. She used her wand to conjure water in a glass, dropping the crumpled parchment inside of it and watching it dissolve. They did not risk lighting their messages on fire or vanishing them anymore, not when their wands could be subject to inspection at any time. No one would bat an eye at an Aguamenti, but a spell that incinerated a piece of paper could land her in questioning at the New Ministry.

Someone new would be there. Don’t panic. The words rattled in her brain.

She had no idea what to expect. The Order of the Phoenix was in dire straits, and they’d been hearing disturbing rumblings of late. There were whispers about a new law written by none other than Antonin Dolohov, one of Voldemort’s highest ranking Death Eaters, and though they were not certain what the law would entail, their sources confirmed it was something to do with subjugation.

Subjugation of whom was yet to be discovered.

Hermione vaguely wondered if the new contact for the Order would have more to tell them.

As it was, Hermione spent her day in blissful, boring normality, shelving new inventory, guiding customers to book recommendations, and preparing coffees with the tiny espresso machine that had been installed behind the counter. It wasn’t a very noble job, certainly not one she had aspired to during her Hogwarts days. She sometimes smiled wistfully to remember herself from Fifth year, poring over pamphlets on Healing or Magic Law Enforcement, both positions that were no longer available to Muggleborn witches.

The espresso machine was her nemesis, but she only sprayed steamed milk on herself once that day, so she considered it a victory. The sun had set by the time the last customer left the shop, and Hermione set about to her usual closing tasks: balancing the register, cleaning the counters, and reshelving the books that had meandered throughout the store.

The streets were rather subdued after nightfall. Stores had stopped staying open late, and the only witches and wizards bold enough to be out at the restaurants and bars in the evenings were those aligned either directly or tangentially with Voldemort and the New Ministry.

Hermione thought of Remus’s words, and of the note he had passed her, and Apparated home.

The East Finchley meeting point was little more than a closet behind the tube station enchanted to be large enough to fit their dwindling numbers. There were three waypoints from which a member of the Order could Apparate to the meeting room at East Finchley, and one of them was in Hermione’s flat. Several Weasleys arrived at her front door at staggered intervals: first, George, then Molly and Arthur, then finally, Fred. There was a series of cracks as they Apparated to the East Finchley meeting room.

The mood in the room was quiet and dark, and though that was not uncommon, Hermione noted that it seemed even more dismal than usual. She caught sight of Ginny in the corner, resting her head against Ernie’s with a worried look on her face.

Any time Ginny looked worried, it meant trouble. She and Ernie were their only window into the New Ministry anymore.

“Hey, Hermione,” said Ginny, lifting her head from Ernie’s shoulder with a resigned sort of smile on her face.

There were murmurs of greetings in the room, all subdued, but it was so infrequent that they all saw each other, it was good to have visual proof that the people she cared about were still alive. She glanced around and noticed, however, that Remus was missing.

“Where’s Remus?” she asked worriedly.

“He’ll be along,” said Tonks with a tight smile.

Tonks and Ginny shared a dark look, and Hermione glanced between them worriedly. She took a seat at the end of the table.

There were three soft cracks, and in a moment, Remus appeared, standing at the end of the table. He leaned forward, resting his fingertips on it, and Hermione noticed that behind Remus stood two tall, familiar, and terrifying figures. Gazing around the room with an air of superiority, Lucius Malfoy offered a feline smile.

“Good evening,” he crooned.

There was a flurry of movement in the room as wands were drawn and leveled at Lucius, but before anyone could even get a spell out, the second figure had drawn his wand, and in a competent, practiced movement, cast a protection charm, the shimmering shield appearing in an instant.

“Thank you, Draco,” Lucius said coolly.

“Put your wands away,” snapped Remus. “I told all of you to expect someone and not to panic.”

“You’ve invited the Chancellor for Magic?! You may as well hand us all over to Voldemort right now!” roared Molly. “Oh, I could just hex you!”

“Expelliarmus,” said a cool voice behind Lucius, and Molly’s wand soared out of her hand and into Draco Malfoy’s.

At this, Arthur started forward, brandishing his wand, but Draco did not look perturbed. He had an eyebrow raised as though to say, go ahead and try it.

“Arthur, stop,” hissed Tonks, grabbing Arthur by the arm and pulling him back toward the table.

“You knew about this?” asked George, horrified.

“I knew about it, too,” admitted Ginny.

So that explained her worried expression. Hermione was glancing among the faces in the room, each more horror-struck than the last.

“What do you mean?!” hissed Molly.

“This is my doing, not Remus’s,” said Ginny. “You have no idea what’s coming, and when Malfoy approached me-”

“Approached you?!” said Arthur in a scandalized voice.

“You led this filth right to our best hideout?” roared Fred angrily, and Hermione noted that Draco stiffened slightly, his knuckles tight on his wand.

“This could be the end of the Order!” George hissed.

“Look around, George! We’re already at the end of the Order!” said Ginny, gesturing at the tiny room with barely a dozen people in it. “This is all that’s left. Everyone else is dead or in Azkaban. We can’t just keep going on like we have been.”

“It’s a huge risk!”

“Yea, well, go big or go home,” said Ginny, crossing her arms in front of her.

Lucius was watching the back and forth with amusement.

“Hear us out,” said Remus calmly, and he shared a pleading glance with his wife.

“The intel is good,” said Tonks with a shrug, and the room turned to her. “Like Ginny said, we can’t keep going like this. If this is our end, it’s our end, but it’s worth the risk.”

Remus gave his wife a thankful look. He took a deep breath. He had taken up his position as leader of the Order of the Phoenix because there simply hadn’t been anyone else who was left to do it. Sirius dead, Dumbledore dead, Harry dead, Moody dead, and more than anyone could count locked up in Azkaban. He had always had a tired, lined face, but now, after ten years of leading the scraggly band of Order members, he looked ancient.

Remus ran a hand down his exhausted face.

“Go ahead, Malfoy,” he said.

Lucius Malfoy took a step forward, his son scanning the group with his eyes in a practiced way that showed he was used to acting as his father’s bodyguard.  There was no official army of the New Ministry, but had there been, Draco Malfoy would be its top ranking general. His skills, and his cruelty, were legendary.

A plain brown folder with a small stack of parchment inside dropped out of Lucius’s hand onto the table, startling Hermione with the loud smacking sound.

“This will be announced tomorrow,” said Lucius in a voice so calm it was hard to believe he was standing in the middle of a meeting of his sworn enemies. “Antonin Dolohov’s work.”

George reached out and pulled the folder open, and Hermione watched his jaw drop as he scanned its contents.

“They can’t be serious,” he said.

“It’s beastly,” said Arthur, peering over George’s shoulder. “They can’t pass a law like this.”

“They have,” said Lucius calmly. “It’s done.”

Fred’s expression was horror-struck as well, but his gaze snapped up to Lucius in fury.

“What’s your angle, Malfoy? Why are you here?” asked Fred, arms crossed in front of him.

Lucius rapped his knuckles on the table, then, he pulled out the chair next to Hermione and sank into it, his son positioning himself just behind the chair. She did not enjoy being this close to either of them. He paid her no mind, smiling as though he had been waiting for this question.

“The Dark Lord is dying,” he said.

A hush fell over the room.

“Bollocks,” hissed George.

Lucius leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

“How much do you know about the Dark Lord’s soul?” asked Lucius calmly.

They all glanced at each other nervously. They had not thought of the Horcruxes and pieces of Voldemort’s soul in years. It had been deemed a lost pursuit, but still, they knew that Voldemort’s soul was not whole. Lucius read the room correctly, and he sat back in his chair.

“I thought so,” he said smugly. “The Dark Lord believed that by segmenting his soul into pieces, he would be invincible, immortal, but a human body, even a wizard’s body, is not meant to survive with only a small shard of a soul within it.”

“How small?” asked Hermione.

“One thirteenth,” he said.

“Not one seventh?” she pressed.

“Not anymore,” said Lucius, meeting her gaze. “He has grown more paranoid over the years, and it has taken its toll. He is dying. Perhaps within the year.”

George was not impressed by Lucius’s revelation.

“So what if he dies? You’ll just take over for him. You’re the Chancellor. Why do you care?” asked George in a surly voice.

“I’m not the only one interested in taking over,” said Lucius with a challengingly raised eyebrow.

There was a beat of silence in the room.

“Dolohov,” said Arthur quietly.

“What would it matter if Dolohov took over?” George asked.

“He has a vendetta against my family,” said Lucius. “I worry about my wife, you see. And my son.”

Draco Malfoy was glowering at them from behind his father. He did not look like someone that anyone needed to worry about.

“You’re worried that Dolohov will get the job instead of you and make life harder for your family? Just going to throw your lot in with us so you can take him down?” said George with a snarl.

Lucius slid his gaze to George, letting his feline smile stretch across his face again.

“Precisely,” said Lucius.

“And what stops you from locking us all up after your civil war is over? From turning your wands on the Order when this is done?” asked Arthur.

“I have no interest in anything of the sort. I care very little about the Dark Lord’s agenda or his regime. I seek only to protect my family. In truth, I worry more that you will lock us up if our coup is successful,” said Lucius, and there was a murmur of disbelief in the room. “But I understand that you will not believe this, and as such, you’ll have some assurances. A legally guaranteed position of power for one of your leaders.”

“Legally guaranteed,” said Arthur, and his face fell slightly as he seemed to take Lucius’s meaning, though Hermione was not sure what he had meant. “Oh, dear Merlin.”

The room was quiet, everyone lost in thought, but Hermione had still not seen the contents of the folder. She chewed at her lip for a moment. A legally guaranteed position of power for one of your leaders.

“What’s the law?” she asked quietly.

No one in the room seemed to want to look at her. No one except Lucius Malfoy, who was watching her with a smile that made her shiver all the way down to her toes.

“It’s a marriage law,” he said in a vicious voice. “It requires all unmarried women between the ages of 18 and 30 to wed immediately.”

Her heart felt like it had stopped beating.

“To wed?” she asked, her mind flitting to Ron, who was currently in Azkaban awaiting a trial that would most certainly never come. “Wed whom?”

“Whomever the New Ministry is willing to approve,” said Lucius cruelly.

Everyone in the room was staring at her now, and Hermione knew exactly why. She was the only unmarried witch aged 18 to 30 in the Order. She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes, her heart racing furiously as her extremities began to tremble.

“I can marry her,” said Fred.

“They will not approve you,” said Lucius.

“What do you mean ‘they’? You’re the New Ministry. You could approve it,” said Fred angrily.

“I was not invited to serve on this Commission. It seems Dolohov would like to keep me out of positions of influence on this, and he’s already decided who he would like to have as his wife,” said Lucius, and he turned to look at her, raking his eyes up and down her form in a way that made her feel naked. “He believes that taking Miss Granger as his bride will cement his position as the next Supreme Leader and Chancellor.”

Remus had his face in his hands.

“Dolohov wants to marry me,” said Hermione, feeling like she was living in a dream.

So much for normalcy.

“Yes, and he will succeed, unless a suitable alternative is put before the Commission,” said Lucius.

“A suitable alternative,” she repeated.

Hermione turned to look at Ginny and saw anguish in her face. She knew. If Hermione was honest, she knew, too. She knew exactly what Lucius Malfoy was offering, what his end of the bargain would be in exchange for their support.

“In exchange for the Order’s help in taking down Dolohov, I’m willing to offer my son as Miss Granger’s husband,” said Lucius, gesturing to Draco behind him. “The Dark Lord will not permit the Commission to deny it, and as my son’s wife, Miss Granger will have legal status that is unprecedented for a Mudbl-“

Lucius paused, catching himself and locking eyes with her.

“A Muggleborn,” he said, correcting himself as he inclined his head in her direction.

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, icy grey eyes that seemed cold, but then, she lifted her gaze to the man standing behind Lucius.

Draco Malfoy. His arms were folded across his chest, his grey eyes still watching the room for threats. Cruel, distant. Responsible for death, torture, destruction, subjugation. She could not marry this man.

“If anyone has any better ideas for what to do with Hermione, I’m all ears,” said Remus quietly.

“We could send her to Australia,” said Molly.

“They will find her anywhere she goes,” countered Lucius. “Their resources are practically limitless.”

“What if we wipe her memories?” asked Fred.

Hermione felt like something cold had just dropped into her stomach.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want anyone tampering with my memory.”

“If Hermione is to stay in Britain, she has to marry someone the Commission will approve, and that leaves us with Dolohov or Malfoy,” said Ginny plainly. “Dolohov is planning to overthrow the New Ministry and take over after Voldemort’s death. Malfoy is offering us a chance. Maybe it’s not a good one. Maybe it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but it’s better than any chance we’ve had since Harry.”

Ginny’s voice nearly broke when she spoke Harry’s name. The room became a bit gloomier as they all sat in memories. Hermione’s heart ached.

“We’ve heard a lot from you, Lucius,” said Arthur, interrupting the gloom with a paternal note in his voice. “But we have yet to hear how your son feels about this arrangement.”

They all looked at Draco. He was still standing, feet planted firmly on the ground shoulder-width apart. Hermione took a moment to really look at him, her potential future husband. He looked in many ways like he did at Hogwarts: tall, pale blond hair, fair skin, a sharp chin, and a cool, grey stare. In other ways, like all of them, he had grown up: a squarer jaw and broader shoulders.

Most of all, the teasing sneer that he’d had on his face for most of Hogwarts had changed to an impassive glower. There was no emotion on his face.

But he shifted slightly, letting his arms fall to his side and his eyes find Hermione’s face. Without any change in his expression, he spoke.

“I’m happy to do as my father instructs,” said Draco Malfoy in a flat voice. There was no longer any teasing cruelty in it. There was… nothing.

Whatever his feelings were on the subject, they had been buried deeply. Lucius gave a slight smile as though to say, there you have it.

Hermione felt all the breath rush out of her in a whoosh as the reality of the situation sank in, and even though she was sitting, she found herself swaying, her vision fuzzing out at the corners. Her skin was clammy, and she could feel herself hyperventilating.

The room went black.

Chapter Text

Ginny MacMillan was not living a life she had expected, but then again, she supposed that no one really was anymore. When she was eleven years old, Harry Potter had saved her from a horrible death in the Chamber of Secrets, and from that moment on, she had always sort of assumed that she would marry him.

She had always assumed that she would have six older brothers alive and well to dance with her at her wedding.

She had assumed she would play Quidditch for the Holyhead Harpies and travel the world.

Her assumptions had been proven wrong.

Sometimes, Ginny felt a bit guilty about marrying Ernie MacMillan. Harry had not particularly liked him much, and truth be told, at Hogwarts, Ernie had been a bit pompous and annoying, but in the years after Harry’s death, Ginny had seen the advantages of the match. He was in the Order, one of the few left, and as a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he afforded her a measure of trust and protection she would not otherwise have had.

She and Ernie both worked at the New Ministry. He had been offered a job, and he had taken it on condition that his new wife be given a position as well. His job was in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Hers was in the Muggle Avoidance Division.

It was not a glamorous position, but between the two of them, they could provide intelligence and insight into the New Ministry’s workings that was useful for the Order. But intelligence or not, the Order was struggling to survive. Members dropped liked flies, thrown into Azkaban for one reason or another, killed on occasion. There was no meaningful resistance left in the Order, nothing that could truly present a challenge to Lord Voldemort.

So, when Lucius Malfoy of all people, the Chancellor of Magic at the New Ministry, approached her basement office one day early in the morning, Ginny had decided to take a chance.

“I’ve heard it’s going to rain tonight,” Lucius had said coolly.

Ginny’s eyes had snapped up. This was an Order of the Phoenix code phrase. Had they been discovered? Was it all over? Or was he simply commenting on the weather?

“That’s… interesting,” she had replied.

He had given her a smile that was not quite a sneer, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to smile any other way.

“I’d like to know where it’s likely to rain,” he had said.

Ginny had snorted royally through her nose. If the Order was through, if they were revealed, she would not be the one to lead him to them.

“Good luck, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I have information for you.”

She’d snorted again, but this time, she’d looked up at his face. He spread his hands wide.

“You know of Dolohov’s sudden rise through the ranks,” said Lucius. “You know that I, of all wizards, need to keep Dolohov from taking power. I’m happy to help you and your organization keep it from happening.”

“How do you know it’s going to rain?”

“Your brother in Azkaban,” he’d said simply.

Ginny felt that her breath had been stolen away from her, and her face drew up in a disgusted sneer. He’d tortured her brother to get information about the Order. He was a vile, disgusting-

“One of yours is going to need my protection,” said Lucius, and he tossed a folder on her desk.

When she’d lifted the cover of the folder, experimentally and with two cautious fingers, as though it might attack her, she saw the Marriage Law. Signed by Dolohov and Voldemort. Ginny’s thoughts raced wildly and then settled on Hermione.

“Merlin,” she breathed.

“Indeed,” he’d said.

She had looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a long moment. They were not friends or allies. They were closer to sworn enemies. And yet, what could be done about this if he already knew their pass phrase? Was there any point in denying the existence of the Order?

“I’ll have to talk to another weather enthusiast,” she had said.

“Of course,” Lucius had replied, inclining his head. “I’ll return later today.”

Ginny had talked to Ernie about it later that morning, and they had presented it to Tonks at lunch over a stiff drink. They had all agreed that there was no real choice. If there had been more time… but there was not. Remus had spread the word to the rest of the Order, and that was how Ginny MacMillan had ended up at this moment, a moment in which Hermione Granger had fallen out of her chair in a dead faint, saved from hitting her head on the floor only by the grace of Draco Malfoy’s lightning-fast reflexes.

They were all staring at him.

His face was still expressionless as he held her, six inches from the floor, and in a trice, he had lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all, though Ginny very well knew that a lifeless body was one of the heaviest and most difficult things to carry. Hermione’s head lolled dangerously.

“Can one of you please transfigure a cot for her? I’m afraid if I pull my wand, you’ll curse me, and my bodyguard is erstwhile occupied,” said Lucius coolly.

Draco’s expression looked like he thought he could take the lot of them, with or without his hands.

The room flurried with activity as Remus transfigured Hermione’s chair into a cot. Ginny’s mother tutted as Draco Malfoy lowered Hermione onto the surface, and then, he stepped back, folding his arms in front of him again as he watched the activity.

It was a moment before Hermione’s eyes fluttered open again, and Remus helped her sit up slowly. Juice was summoned, but Hermione waved it away.

“I’m alright,” she said quietly.

Hermione rubbed her fingers down her face, her expression carefully neutral, avoiding looking at the Malfoys. If there were another way, they would do it.

“She will need to be in our custody tonight,” said Lucius. “We can’t risk her being unguarded when the law is announced. Dolohov will be ready.”

“I wouldn’t consent to a marriage to him,” said Hermione, her chin tilted up in defiance.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Lucius replied, and Ginny watched Hermione flinch.

The faces in the room were all drawn and worried, but it was Hermione who nodded reluctantly, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Very well,” she said.

“I won’t be able to outwardly show any support or favour for your cause,” said Lucius. “You will not see anything different from our family. It will appear to the outside world that, just as Dolohov would, we have sought Miss Granger to cement our position of power in the Dark Lord’s regime.”

“It’s the truth,” snapped George.

Lucius Malfoy inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“It is the truth,” he replied. “But the alternative is far worse, I can assure you of that.”

Ginny believed him.

~

Draco would have expected Hermione Granger to be skittish and nervous upon arriving at Malfoy Manor, but she was not. She merely walked behind him and his father at a measured pace, gazing around the rooms with mild interest, like she was watching someone else’s life.

His father had actually asked his opinion on the matter for once.

“Would you marry her if it meant keeping our family safe?” Lucius had asked.

There was no other answer he could give but, “Yes, of course.”

His mother had wrung her hands nervously as the plan was revealed to her. There seemed to be no other choice. The Dark Lord would die, leaving a desperate power vacuum behind, and the Malfoys had enjoyed their position for far too long. They had made too many enemies. If Dolohov tried to wrest control, they would be thrown in Azkaban in the best of circumstances. Draco did not like to think about the worst.

So, they’d taken a calculated risk, quietly defecting from the power structures that were in place at the New Ministry and throwing their lot in with a ragtag bunch of resistance fighters.

Hermione Granger among them.

Draco turned back to look at his bride-to-be but averted his eyes when she looked at him. He had not considered the idea of marriage since he was sixteen. There was too much to be done, no time for something as trivial as a relationship. Now, he would be thrust into one.  

It was not so surprising when it came down to it. The scions of the Great Houses were all thrust into marriage eventually, willingly or not. He rolled his neck, cracking it.

“Here are your quarters, Miss Granger,” said Lucius, pushing open the door to a room across from Draco’s suite. “We’ll have your things fetched after you are wed. We’ll go to the New Ministry at half eight in the morning, see that you’re ready.”

Granger nodded, one quick jerk of her head, brown curls bouncing slightly, and ducked into the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Should we have taken her wand?” asked Draco, his mind whirring through all the ways that Granger could attempt an assassination of the Chancellor of Magic and his family.

“No,” said his father dismissively. “The wards will do their job. No one in the family can be harmed here.”

“Can she harm herself?” asked Draco.

“She won’t,” said his father with a confidence that surprised him.

They wandered downstairs, his father’s footsteps echoing in the tall ceilings. Draco’s boots had rubber soles. It was important in his line of work to be able to move silently. His father, on the other hand, liked for everyone to know who was coming.

“She’s pretty, at least,” said his father, lips quirked to one side in a smirk. “You could have done worse in that department.”

Draco did not much care if Hermione Granger was pretty or not. She could have been a literal troll for all it mattered to him. This was yet another political ploy on his father’s part, and now he had yet another person that he had to keep alive.

His mother was sitting in the drawing room when they arrived, lips pursed.

“So, she’s here,” said his mother.

Draco and Lucius nodded.

“It’s a great risk we’re taking,” said his mother with a defeated sigh.

“True,” said his father.

There was nothing else worth saying.

A Patronus appeared, a misty, unformed thing that was common among the Death Eaters. Few of them had happy memories enough to cast a corporeal one. The silvery mist hovered before Draco’s face.

You are needed in Hogsmeade. We’ve tracked the location of The Network.

Theo’s voice. Draco took a deep breath, ignoring his mother’s pleading stare. He pulled his wand from his pocket and closed his eyes, Apparating in an instant to the streets of Hogsmeade.

It was impossible to come to Hogsmeade and not think of happier times when he and his friends had wandered the streets, haughty and confident without any real problems. He’d stopped going to Hogsmeade by his last year at school, and he had not been back since, but in the darkness, he saw where Theo and a handful of other Death Eaters, none even bothering to wear robes or masks, all gathered around one of the buildings, wands held aloft.

“We’ve got them trapped inside,” said Theo quietly. “Dolohov wants them executed now, but…”

Even in the darkness, Draco could see the hesitation written plainly on Theo’s face.

The Network was a resistance organization unaffiliated with the Order of the Phoenix, and its tactics were much different. The Network had a penchant for sowing chaos and being willing to do quite literally anything in the name of its cause, up to and including targeting civilians. Draco’s hand flexed around his wand. The Network had most recently taken two children hostage, Pansy’s young sons, and Draco could still hear her screams in his mind when she’d learned they’d been taken.

“It’s tempting,” said Draco.

“I know,” Theo replied.

“But I need to question them first,” said Draco, and his mind went completely blank, secluding itself behind walls of Occlumency as it always did before he had to commit some atrocity.

Draco had been serving for ten years as the weapon behind his father’s political power, and the four Death Eaters present parted for him to pass. With a quick flick of his wand, the door to the building slammed open. Draco could feel the hum of the Anti-Apparition spell that the Death Eaters were holding in place. He walked into the building and cast a spell, locating the two Network operatives immediately.

His boots made no sound as he walked, so he caught them by surprise. A man and a woman, neither familiar to him. Before they could cast anything, he had them bound hand and foot, gags in their mouths.

Draco crossed the room to them. It was dim, only a soft orange glow of a lamp in one corner. He knelt on one knee, looking into their faces from inches away and watching them blink furiously, cowering under his stare.

“You’ll tell us what we need to know, or I will pull your internal organs from your body with my bare hands,” he said.

Foolishly, the man narrowed his eyes in fiery protest.

When Draco emerged from the building one hour later, his hands and arms were coated with blood.

“Pansy’s boys are in Colchester. The Network has a base there,” said Draco, striding purposefully.

“Want me to cast a Tergeo for you?” asked Theo to his retreating back.

Draco waved him off and Apparated home. In the light of the Manor, the blood on his hands was more obvious, more red than black. He walked down the hallway to his bedroom, his boots silent on the carpeted floors, and just as he’d nearly reached his door, Granger opened hers.

He was still, quiet, and he watched her gently pull her door shut behind her, and when she turned and saw him standing behind her, she jumped and shrieked. Draco did not move. Granger was clutching her chest, breathing heavily, and then, he saw her notice the blood.

“Merlin!” she hissed. “Are you… is that…”

She gulped thickly and schooled her features.

“Is that your blood or someone else’s?” she asked with an even voice, and Draco wondered which she would rather it be.

“It’s someone else’s,” he answered simply.

She bit her lip. Draco stared at her face, trying to see what his father had said. She’s pretty, at least. She was perhaps average in height, olive skin with a dusting of freckles. The hair was a monstrosity, but her eyes were pretty, he supposed. Draco simply found that he could not summon thoughts of attraction or arousal anymore.

“Did you need something?” he asked.

“I thought a cup of tea might help me sleep,” she replied.

“Jinxy,” snapped Draco, and an elf appeared. “Please bring a tea service for our guest.”

Granger was staring at the elf with an expression of even worse horror than she’d had at the sight of his bloody hands. And at that moment, Jinxy had noticed his hands at well.

“Is Master needing Healing?” asked the elf.

“No,” said Draco firmly.

He waited for Granger to return to her room, and for a moment, he thought that she might refuse to do so, but eventually, she took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with it, and disappeared. Draco entered his room across the hall, opening the door with his wand so as not to get flecks of dried blood on the doorknob.

Though he could have cleaned his hands with a spell, he preferred a hot shower. The water beat down on his body, running red into the drain. He watched as blood disappeared from his arms, washed clean, ready to start fresh. He rested one hand on the wall of the shower.

He was exhausted.

Draco half-heartedly ran soap over his body, shampoo in his hair, standing under the water for a long time before finally turning it off, belatedly realizing he had not fetched a towel. His wand was, as always, within reach, but he did not bother to cast a drying spell. He marched, dripping wet, across the bathroom and fell into bed, vaguely noticing one of the House Elves appearing, the hum of House Elf magic surrounding him as the elf dried him and the sheets around him.

Draco slept.

A Patronus woke him before dawn. He was awake in an instant, blinking twice to clear the fog of sleep as he mentally tried to count how many hours he’d gotten. The Patronus began to speak in Goyle Sr.’s voice, another shimmering mass of silver with no form. Besides Theo, the Goyles were among the few that Draco was certain would align themselves with his father upon the Dark Lord’s death.

We cannot breach the safehouse, the children are still being held. You are needed.

You are needed. You are needed. You are needed. Like a drumbeat in his brain, never giving him a moment’s peace. He could not remember the last time he’d slept longer than five hours. He glanced at his watch. There were still three hours until his father wanted them to head to the New Ministry: enough time, he hoped, to breach a Network safehouse and get Pansy’s children out unharmed. Draco pulled his clothes and robes on his body, and then, he wrapped his fingers around his wand and Apparated. Long Apparitions took a toll on him: Wiltshire to Hogsmeade and back, Wiltshire to Colchester and back. He could feel the ache in his bones, but he shook it off.

Gregory Goyle Sr. and Jr. were both standing among a crew of six more Death Eaters, once again all with their wands trained on an unimpressive building. He approached Draco, a business-like quickness in his movements and his voice.

“We’ve broken through the outer wards, but The Network operatives have-”

At that moment, a shrill screaming voice interrupted him.

“We’ll kill them!” it shouted from an upstairs window. “We’ll rip their fucking heads off!”

He narrowed his eyes at the open window, seeing three adult bodies moving about inside it.

Like hell you will, thought Draco.

Ward breaking was one of his areas of expertise, and the wards on this building were not complex. He let tendrils of his magic reach out to the edges of the property, finding the apexes of the protection, the weak points. Most wizards considered a dome to be the safest form of warding, but Draco knew that only a hexagonal structure was unbreakable. He found the top of the parabola and prepared to cast a spell of his own invention.

“The wards are about to come down. Be ready to cast an Arrestus Momentum so they can’t hurt the kids,” said Draco.

Goyle Sr. nodded.

“Confractus,” said Draco calmly, waving his wand in six quick motions.

The wards crashed down, and the Death Eaters all immediately cast. There was no more movement, no more shouting, but Draco was not satisfied yet. He Apparated to the room with the open window with a crack, finding two Network members who were frozen solid, but the third was missing, and Pansy’s children were not there.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He moved through the building with a calm and practiced ease, his wand tracing the pathways of magic. It was strange. It was decorated like cosy cottage, chintz armchairs and kitschy décor, floral patterned wallpaper. It was so at odds with the knowledge that in this building, a Network member was planning to decapitate Pansy’s two sons.

But it was not long before Draco cornered the member, who had her wand trained on the terrified boys. Draco was not sure exactly how old they were, and he did not know children well enough to tell by looking at them. Younger than ten, older than three. They recognized him, and both of them let out pleading whimpers.

“QUIET,” hissed the Network member.

Draco thought he did recognize this young woman from Hogwarts, though he could not place her name. She was shouting at him, but he did not hear her words. A poorer wizard might have waited before casting, might have thought it too risky with the children’s lives at stake, but Draco did not.

He cast a nonverbal spell, and the woman dropped to the ground.

Another wizard might have taken the boys in his arms, reassured them they were safe, but Draco did not. He turned on his heel and walked out of the building just as the Death Eaters were entering it.

“The children are in the basement,” he said, and with a crack, he Apparated back to the Manor.

Judging by the time on his watch, he had thirty minutes. He needed different robes. He needed sleep. With sluggish hands, he found something resembling dress robes in his closet and pulled them on, and he exited his room just in time to see Granger walk into the hallway wearing a white dress.

Chapter Text

The House Elf had appeared in her room at half seven, nudging her awake.

“Sorry, Miss,” she had said. “I am to get you ready.”

Hermione nearly laughed at the dress laid out for her. A white dress. Almost like a wedding dress. It was cotton eyelet, knee-length, and not particularly formal. It was not anything like a dress she would have expected to wear to her wedding, but it was a white dress, nonetheless. The House Elf was waiting for her to pull it on, and once she had it over her shoulders, the elf stood on top of the bed to fasten the buttons.

It was rather tight, her breasts almost spilling out of the top. Hermione looked in the mirror. Any other day, she might have said she looked nice in the dress, but she would have almost preferred to wear black. Marching to her own funeral.

There was an assortment of trays and pots of makeup, but Hermione pushed them away. What was the point? She pulled her hair half up with a clip and sipped at the tea that had been brought, wishing it was coffee. She stared at her reflection sullenly until it was time to go downstairs and meet her… her husband.

He was in the hallway when she left her room. There was a faint metallic scent about him: residual Dark magic. She knew its smell, and it gave her an involuntary shudder of fear that she suppressed as quickly as it came. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before he jerked his head in a nod and turned to leave. Hermione followed him, noting that his steps made no sound as he walked, even after they reached the marble staircase. Her own footsteps felt heavy, echoing in the tall ceilings.

“Lovely, both of you,” said a female voice. Draco’s mother. “What a beautiful couple.”

This made Hermione’s stomach lurch.

“I thought this would fit you,” said Narcissa, tugging at the thin straps of Hermione’s white dress. “And Draco, how handsome you look.”

Lucius was waiting for them, watching impatiently from his place beside the fireplace as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

“The Marriage Law was just announced,” he said. “We must hurry.”

Narcissa had a forced smile on her face as though she were trying to convince herself that this was a proper wedding and that her son was happy to have a wife, but Hermione could see pain in Narcissa’s blue eyes. She wondered vaguely how Draco’s mother felt about the New Ministry, about Voldemort’s reign. Perhaps one day she’d be able to ask her mother-in-law about it.

Hermione’s heart stuttered as she thought of Narcissa as her mother-in-law.

Lucius threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and disappeared to the Ministry. Draco waited watchfully, gesturing to Hermione to go ahead, and soon, she felt herself spinning away into the Atrium.

She had always tried to avoid the New Ministry as much as possible. It looked nothing like it had before Voldemort. Where there was once a statue of a wizard surrounded by magical creatures, there now stood a monument to Voldemort himself, a carved sculpture with ornaments of magical significance around him: a ring on his finger, a trident in one hand and a goblet in the other. Where there once were bustling fireplaces full of witches and wizards arriving at work, happy to start their day, there now were Death Eaters, some in masks and robes and some without. The mood was sinister.

Draco appeared in the fireplace after her, and they all three strode across the Atrium toward the lift. Many Death Eaters nodded at the Malfoys, muttering, “Good morning, Chancellor” as they passed. They all seemed to avoid Draco’s gaze, though she saw that he was constantly scanning the crowd for potential threats.

The Clerk Recorder’s office was like any boring bureaucratic office: one small desk with a window through which forms and documents could be exchanged. Lucius walked to the desk with purpose.

“Good morning,” said Lucius. “My son is here to be wed.”

The wizard behind the counter looked up, startled.

“Chancellor!” he said.

His brown eyes flicked between the three of them with interest. Hermione could not read his expression, but there was definitely something nervous in his mannerisms. But then, the wizard looked her fully in the face, his jaw falling open.

“But this is Hermione Granger!”

“Indeed,” said Lucius.

“He’s marrying Hermione Granger?!”

“Romantic, isn’t it?” replied Lucius in a deadpan drawl.

“Are you aware that a Marriage Law was just announced ten minutes ago?” asked the clerk.

“How fortuitous,” said Lucius flatly.

The clerk was still staring at them in shock. Hermione had taken Lucius Malfoy at his word that the Commission would approve her marriage to his son, but looking at the clerk’s face, she suddenly felt more unsure. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, picturing Dolohov in her mind. She still bore a faint scar on her chest from his curse in her Fifth year at Hogwarts. Would she survive being married to him? Would the Order survive it?

“The marriage license forms?” Lucius asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Of course,” said the clerk, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

The forms were provided, and Draco set to filling them out. Hermione watched over his shoulder, noting with some disgust that the Marriage Law form treated her as something of an object.

“What’s your middle name?” asked Draco gruffly.

“Jean,” she said.

He wrote this on the form.

“Your birthdate?”

“The 19^th of September, 1979,” she supplied.

“Hm.”

“What?” she asked.

“I’m marrying an older woman,” said Draco, and for the first time, she thought she might have caught the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

There was a segment on the form that asked for her blood status, and he placed a checkmark next to “Mudblood” with some flourish.

At that moment, a wispy, silvery Patronus appeared in front of him.

There is a disciplinary hearing scheduled for ten o’ clock. You are needed.

She watched a muscle tick in Draco’s jaw. He checked his watch and returned to the form, scrawling quickly with a tiny portable quill. Finally, he finished, vanishing the quill and running a hand through his blond hair. He let out a sigh and handed the form to his father.

Lucius glanced over it quickly, nodding as though all was in order, and turned it over to the clerk.

“Wed them,” commanded Lucius. This was the voice of the Chancellor of Magic.

“Under the new law, the Commission would prefer to review the application before the wedding-”

“My son is eager to wed the girl he has adored since Hogwarts,” said Lucius, and Hermione felt her eyes widen, but she schooled her features to blankness. “Wed them now.”

The clerk took a deep breath, scanning over the form as though wishing he could find a fault with it.

“I’ll need her Mudblood Identification card,” said the clerk.

She produced it, and Lucius watched with narrowed eyes as the clerk checked over the card, turning it to one side and then the other.

“Wed them,” commanded Lucius.

The clerk pursed his lips, but he shrugged resignedly.

“Very well,” he said. “But if the Commission rejects the match, their marriage will be annulled.”

“Of course,” said Lucius, inclining his head.

The clerk stamped the form.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,” he said.

And that was that.

It wasn’t that Hermione had expected a grand wedding ceremony. This was a marriage of convenience, of requirement. A marriage that cemented a political alliance between the Malfoys and the Order of the Phoenix. And yet, she had thought perhaps they would say a vow, bind hands, exchange rings… something. Instead, the clerk simply handed back her Mudblood Identification card, and she saw that it now read, “Hermione Malfoy, spouse Draco Malfoy,” and below this, “No restrictions.”

Legal status unprecedented for a Muggleborn, Lucius had said. This was her contribution; this was how she could help the Order. In truth, it had been years since the Order had a meaningful step toward resistance. The Network was the only organization that had drawn the New Ministry’s attention of late, and the Order refused to participate in their efforts. This had meant the Order was largely ineffective.

But here it was. Hermione Malfoy, no restrictions. She glanced at Draco. His expression gave away nothing.

“Take your new bride home,” instructed Lucius.

Lucius spun on his heel and left the clerk’s office, his Oxford shoes echoing in the hallway. Draco extended an arm for her to take, ready to Apparate them both back to Malfoy Manor. She realized at that moment that she had never actually touched him, but the wards at Malfoy Manor were likely not keyed to allow her entry, and it would look quite strange to refuse to touch him in front of the clerk.

She lay her palm on his forearm, feeling the tight, corded muscle there and belatedly realizing it was his left arm. She knew a Dark Mark was under the thin sleeves of his shirt. Hermione had hardly touched him for a moment when she felt the pull of Apparition, arriving back at Malfoy Manor to find Narcissa waiting.

“No problems?” she asked, lines at the corners of her eyes.

“No problems. I’ll take her upstairs,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Hermione. “And then I’ve got to get up to the New Ministry. I’ve a disciplinary hearing to adjudicate.”

“We’ll see you both at dinner. Seven o’ clock,” said Narcissa.

It was not a question, and Hermione saw Draco’s long-suffering expression, but he nodded, and Hermione followed him toward the grand staircase.

Hermione was thankful that no one had mentioned consummation of her marriage up to this point; she did not think she could have handled the pitying looks from the Weasleys at the thought of her having sex with Draco Malfoy, but she assumed that this would be part of the arrangement, and she was prepared for it. Surely, the House Elf would not have chosen a short dress that showed her breasts if consummation was not intended.

She spent the walk through Malfoy Manor steeling herself for it. Hermione was not a virgin, but nor did she consider herself experienced. How did Draco Malfoy expect her to behave? Would it be vile, dark sex? Would he thrill in her humiliation, some penance she would endure for years of besting him at Hogwarts? The possibilities were frightening, but she summoned what Gryffindor courage she had left. She followed Draco down the hallway, and when he opened his bedroom door, she made to follow him. But when he turned and saw her waiting behind him, he froze.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry, did you want to do it in my room?” she asked.

“Do what?”

How could he possibly ask do what?

“Erm, you can let me know when you’re ready for me,” she said, trying to understand what he expected of her. “I’m available.”

He paused, his eyes sliding over her. They were dark in the shadows of the hallway; there was no warmth or welcome there.

“You think I’m going to fuck you?” he said, clearly not bothering to mince words.

Confusion washed over her, and she took one breath to calm her nerves.

“I just assumed that it being your wedding day, you would have… expectations,” said Hermione nervously.

He turned to face her fully, and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. His face was set in stone, something furious in his eyes.

“Granger, I may be a monster, but I have never taken a woman unwillingly,” he growled.

“I’m consenting to it,” said Hermione simply, not wanting there to be any excuse on his part to dissolve this marriage.

His eyes rolled.

“Yes, I can sense your enthusiasm,” he said sardonically. “Go to your room, Granger.”

And with that, he disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Hermione had just been rejected by Draco Malfoy. She almost laughed.

Hermione stepped into her room. It was nice, nicer than she had expected, and as she looked around, she saw that all the things from her flat had been summoned. There wasn’t much, but where the bookcase had been empty the night before, it was now full to bursting with books, and there were touches of her everywhere: photos, trinkets, souvenirs.

It hit her. She lived at Malfoy Manor. She would not be returning to her flat; this was home. She was married.

Before the end of the war, before Voldemort’s regime, Hermione had always imagined getting married and having children. She had wanted to be a mother so badly it ached, and she had pictured what her children would look like. For the first couple of years at Hogwarts, she envisioned them with messy brown hair and bright green eyes. After the Yule Ball, she had imagined them as reserved, exotic, growing up in Eastern Europe. Then, for years and years, she had pictured them with red curly hair, surrounded by dozens of cousins at the Burrow.

Hermione did not know why she felt now, of all times, that this dream had been snatched away from her. It had been quite some time since she actually thought she might be a mother someday. The world had simply not been a place for a Muggleborn witch to have children, and Ron had been imprisoned for years. And yet, she still couldn’t help but feel that something had ended, that some possibility in her life had closed off from her.

Hermione sighed.

That evening, the hallway was dark and empty when she left her room, following the sounds of clinking silverware to the dining room where Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sat. Lucius was reading the Daily Prophet, and Narcissa was sipping wine. When Narcissa saw her, she gave a small cough in her throat, and Lucius looked up. He sighed and folded his paper and stood from the table in a show of pureblood aristocratic manners, though Hermione did not miss the mildly annoyed look he had on his face as he stood. Narcissa was smiling proudly.

“Good evening,” said Hermione quietly.

She sank into a seat and watched a House Elf pour a deep purple wine into her glass. There were endless trays of food: a tray of pheasant, bowls of potatoes and vegetables, and a circular platter of fruit and cheese. It felt decadent to have such a spread on the table; it was more food than Hermione had seen in quite some time.

“Did Draco say when he would be home?” Narcissa asked.

“He’ll be here momentarily,” said Lucius.

Hermione was watching the two of them curiously. It had never really occurred to her that the Malfoys, the most powerful wizarding family in Voldemort’s regime, sat down at a dinner table and ate just like anyone else. They had seemed far too much like caricatures of evil up to that point. She’d somehow assumed that they survived on nothing but the blood and misery of their enemies, and yet, here was Narcissa Malfoy, sipping wine and eyeing a basket of bread hungrily.

A crack alerted them that Draco had arrived. His shoes were as silent as always as he strode into the room, leaning down to bestow a perfunctory kiss on his mother’s cheek. Hermione panicked for a moment, wondering if he would do the same to her, but he blessedly did not. He pulled out the chair next to her and sat, immediately beginning to take food off the trays. His parents did the same.

Hermione did not even know where to begin. She sat in silence, watching them all take slices of pheasant and scoops of potatoes.

“Is the food not to your liking, Miss Granger?” Lucius asked.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” corrected Narcissa.

Lucius let out a laugh.

“Indeed,” he said. “Is there anything else we can get for you, Mrs. Malfoy?”

Draco had turned his head in her direction, watching for her response.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

Hermione took a small scoop of vegetables onto her plate, and she pulled a piece of bread from the basket when Narcissa passed it. She glanced furtively from one face to the other. Were meals always this silent?

“Hermione, why don’t we go to Diagon Alley tomorrow? I’d love to visit some of my favourite fashion stores with you,” said Narcissa in a voice that strained to normalcy.

“Oh, erm, I have to work tomorrow,” said Hermione.

There was a clattering of a fork next to her. Draco.

“You don’t work anymore,” he said.

Hermione turned slowly to him, ignoring the amused stare from Lucius and the concerned one from Narcissa. Abandoning her job had not been mentioned up to this point.

“Why wouldn’t I work?”

“After we snatched you out from Dolohov’s nose? You think we’d let you out of our sight? If it were up to me, you’d never leave the Manor, but Mother seems to think that’s too cruel,” spat Draco.

“How will I earn a living?” asked Hermione.

“I can assure you that the Malfoy vaults are quite sufficient to pay our bills,” said Lucius with a smirk.

“But I mean for me,” she insisted. “Money for me to spend on… on myself. On whatever I like.”

“They are sufficient for that, too,” Lucius added, taking a bite of pheasant.

“But Remus-”

“He has been told not to expect you,” Lucius said.

She thought of Remus, of the books, of the blasted espresso machine.

“But I like working,” said Hermione in a soft, defeated voice.

“There is much for you to do,” said Lucius. “We are fomenting a rebellion. We are preparing for a civil war. Surely the Mudblood who bested Draco in every subject at school can contribute to such an effort.”

She gripped her knife tightly.

“Darling, we talked about that word,” said Narcissa.

“Apologies,” said Lucius in a cruel voice that told her he was not at all sorry.

Hermione lifted her chin.

“I’ve heard that word almost daily for the last ten years,” she said with a shrug. “It’s sort of lost its power over me.”

Lucius met her eyes, and there was something almost like pride in his expression, though she conceded she might have been imagining it.

“I see,” said Lucius. “The fact remains that you won’t be permitted to work outside Malfoy Manor any longer.”

She felt trapped and isolated. The Malfoys could not be seen being friendly with any suspected Order of the Phoenix member, and her only opportunity to interact with her friends and colleagues was at the bookstore. Now, she would see them only on the rare occasions that they had a meeting.

“Our library is quite extensive,” said Narcissa placatingly. “You’ll have plenty to keep you busy.”

Hermione swallowed thickly. It was an attempt at kindness, and she was in no position to reject it.

“Thank you,” she replied, and she cleared her throat. “I would love to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow.”

She had not been able to travel Diagon Alley unrestricted in years. Her mother-in-law looked content.

At that moment, a wisp of a Patronus appeared before Draco. His jaw set tightly as he waited for its message.

Unrest in London. You are needed.

She watched Draco heave a sigh, letting his silverware clatter on his plate. He stood from the table, nodding at his mother and disappearing with a crack.

Chapter Text

It was not how she would have liked to see her son marry, but nothing of the life her son was forced to live was what she would have liked. Narcissa could remember Draco as a precocious toddler, warm and cuddly and utterly obsessed with his mother. They spent nearly all their time together, playing with puzzles on the floor or roaming the expansive grounds of Malfoy Manor. She could almost still feel his small hand reaching out for hers, see his guileless grey eyes looking into her face, hear his casual laughter.

Narcissa had not heard her son laugh in ten years.

People spoke of her son in hushed voices. Other vicious men had nicknames: the Butcher, the Night Stalker, the Ripper. He needed none. The name Draco Malfoy was enough.

Narcissa hated it.

She had held out some final hope that one day, he would find a woman to marry, that he would have children and stop this life of violence, but those hopes had been dashed. The New Ministry, and her husband, needed Draco’s violence, and his marriage was a tool for political gain.

Narcissa was a powerful enough witch in her own right, from a Noble and Ancient House, and she feared that with this marriage between her son and Hermione Granger, the Black and Malfoy lines would now end forever.

Nevertheless, Narcissa Malfoy took it upon herself to pretend that everything about the marriage was normal. She waited for Hermione at the bottom of the stairs, planning a day in Diagon Alley.

“Keep your wand out at all times,” Draco instructed. “Do not let her out of your sight. Diagon Alley and back. Nothing else.”

“I can take care of her,” said Narcissa.

She had looked at her son, seeing deep purple shadows under his eyes and hollows under his cheekbones. It was not the life she had hoped for him, but it was the only one he had. Draco jerked his head in a nod and Apparated away.

~

Though Hermione had been to Diagon Alley many times over the last ten years, she had never been granted full ability to travel, including full access to every shop. Many were barred to Muggleborns, and shopkeepers demanded to see Identification Cards before entry. Her card had always read, “Level 1 & 2 Access Only,” and therefore, most of the establishments in Diagon Alley were prohibited for her.

But not today. Not with a card that read, “No restrictions,” and an escort by Narcissa Malfoy herself. It was a strange sense of freedom. Narcissa seemed to sense her mood, and she simply let Hermione lead the way. They walked past Flourish & Blotts, and though Hermione could see Remus behind the counter, she did not give in to the temptation to go inside. A pureblood family of the Malfoys’ status would never set foot in Flourish & Blotts.

“Shall we have lunch?” asked Narcissa gently.

“Oh,” said Hermione, realizing she had been looking into the window of an elegant café. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

She had not been to a proper restaurant in years. Hermione followed Narcissa in, but the wizard at the host stand stopped them.

“I’ll need to see your card,” he said with a sneer, looking Hermione up and down.

“Excuse me?” said Narcissa in a voice that took Hermione right back to Madame Malkins before her Sixth year at Hogwarts.

The host paused for a moment.

“Mrs. Malfoy, this… this… surely this person cannot be…”

“This is my daughter-in-law,” said Narcissa, her nose wrinkled up at the man in disgust. “My son’s wife.”

The host let out a laugh as though Narcissa had told a funny joke, but his face dropped as Narcissa continued staring. Nevertheless, Hermione produced her card, handing it to the host under Narcissa’s glaring sneer. The host took one look at the card and blanched.

“This way, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said nervously. “And Mrs. Malfoy.”

The rest of their day went similarly. They would enter a shop, and the clerk would demand to see Hermione’s Muggleborn Identification card. Narcissa would throw a fit, and the clerk would be suitably chastened upon reviewing the card. Hermione was granted access and respect that she had not had in the ten years since Hogwarts. And it appeared that Lucius was not exaggerating about the size of the Malfoy vaults: no expense was spared as Narcissa purchased clothes that she considered more befitting the wife of Draco Malfoy.

At the end of their excursion, Hermione walked down the stone pathway in Diagon Alley, carrying in her hands six shopping bags worth of clothing, and suddenly, she ran into Fred Weasley. He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face and body as though expecting to find injury there.

“Excuse me,” said Narcissa, shouldering past him.

Narcissa turned, waiting for Hermione to follow, but Hermione was frozen to the spot. It had only been two days, but it felt like she had been transported to an entirely different world. A world in which she was not allowed to speak to Fred Weasley in public.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a voice so quiet she almost couldn’t hear him.

“I’m fine,” she replied, her eyes downcast.

“He’s not… forcing you to do anything?” asked Fred.

Hermione shook her head, but there was no more time to chat. Narcissa had caught her forcefully by the arm and begun to pull her along the road.

“You can’t speak to them,” she said.

“I know,” she replied. “I’m sorry. We can go back to Malfoy Manor now.”

Narcissa tutted slightly, dragging Hermione along.

“We’re stopping to see my sister first,” said Narcissa. “I’m sure you remember her.”

Hermione’s steps faltered. She most certainly did remember Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione had been dueling Bellatrix when Harry was killed. She could hear the infantile cackling in her head, see Bellatrix’s terrifying beauty as she threw curse after curse. Hermione had always wondered if she could have saved Harry, were it not for the duel with Bellatrix. If she could have bought him just a few more moments. They had needed more time, more time to track down the Horcruxes, to destroy them all before Harry had to face Voldemort. Time that they never got. The moment Harry had dropped to the ground in the courtyard, Bellatrix had let out a shrill, keening laugh.

Through blurred, teary eyes, Hermione had stunned Bellatrix and taken off at a run.

That was the last time she had seen Bellatrix Lestrange up close. Narcissa noticed Hermione’s discomfort and pursed her lips.

“You don’t like my sister,” she said matter-of-factly.

Hermione did not know how to respond. Narcissa sighed.

“She’ll behave herself. I promise,” said Narcissa, and with that, she gripped Hermione’s arm tightly and Apparated them away.

The Lestrange Estate was gloomier than Malfoy Manor, no manicured gardens but instead, overgrown hedges full of thorns. The house itself was large, though Hermione could see that most of the windows were dark, and there was a massive front door with iron latticing that gave it a medieval feel.

She felt the wards buzz around her as they arrived, letting her pass only because Narcissa still had a hand on her arm, and soon, the front door to the estate swung open. Bellatrix Lestrange stood before her.

Bellatrix looked much the same as she always had, with black hair that fell in chaotic waves around her face. Her eyes were hooded, and there were lines around them that Hermione did not remember from a decade earlier, but truth be told, she had never really looked at Bellatrix’s face before.

“Cissy!” said Bellatrix in an infantile voice. “You’ve brought me a Mudblood!”

“I’ve brought my son’s wife,” said Narcissa firmly.

Bellatrix cackled.

“Rodolphus said that Draco had married the Granger girl, but I didn’t believe it,” she said, and then, Bellatrix moved out of the way so that she and Narcissa could enter.

It was cold in Bellatrix Lestrange’s house and somehow damp, like they were under a stagnant pool. There were only a few lamps lit, giving the house an abandoned feeling. The heavy door clanged shut behind her, and she watched as Bella and Narcissa hugged, kissing the air next to one another’s cheeks.

The click of shoes in the hallway, slow measured steps, made Hermione look, half expecting to see Lucius, but instead, a man she had only seen in photographs appeared. Rodolphus Lestrange. As he approached, he let his eyes rake down her form, something disconcerting in the way he looked at her. It was a familiar sort of gaze, one that men used when they were deciding whether they could take what they wanted by force.

Hermione realized then that up to that moment she had not yet felt any fear. Lucius was slimy, and Narcissa was haughty. Draco was taciturn, and sure, he was frightening, but he hadn’t frightened her.

Now, standing in the Lestrange house with Rodolphus Lestrange leering at her, she felt fear for the first time, and she was very surprised to find that her first thought was to wish that Draco was there to keep watch over her.

The situation was dire indeed if she was already thinking of Draco Malfoy as her protector.

“It’s lovely to see you, Narcissa,” said Rodolphus in a rounded, aristocratic pronunciation. “And our new niece as well. I would love to know exactly how this marriage came to be.”

He had a cruel smile on his face, but Narcissa paid him no mind.

“Come, Bella,” she said. “Let’s have tea.”

The corridor was wide and dark, and Hermione stayed close to Narcissa, aware of the stares of the portraits as she passed them. She half-listened to Narcissa and her sister make small talk.

“Of course, I’m sure you’re just thrilled to have half-blood grandchildren,” said Bellatrix in a mocking voice.

Hermione perked up her ears to pay attention.

“I’d be delighted to have any grandchildren,” said Narcissa.

“Oh, stop pretending, Narcissa. We know as well as anyone that this is a political marriage.”

“Of course not. Draco always admired Hermione from when they were at Hogwarts together. It’s rather fortunate that they reconnected before anyone had the opportunity to avail themselves of the Marriage Law,” said Narcissa in a stiff voice.

“Yes, Dolohov was quite disappointed when he found out that you and Lucius got to her first,” said Bella with an evil smirk.

They had arrived in a dark parlour, and Bellatrix waved her wand to light the lamps, though there were only two in a very large space, so it was still dim. A House Elf trembled next to a tea service.

“Thank you,” said Hermione to the elf as her tea was poured.

The elf looked at Bellatrix in terror, but she was still deep in conversation with her sister. They did not include Hermione in their discussion, and though Hermione’s mind mostly fuzzed to blankness, daydreaming of Weasley cooking, she occasionally caught sparks of the conversation that intrigued her.

“They run him ragged,” said Narcissa, her eyes closed. “It’s constant. I worry so much. He’s so exhausted, his concentration could lapse and then…”

“Enough has been asked of your family,” said Bellatrix, rubbing Narcissa’s arm in a way that was likely meant to be soothing. “Perhaps it is time you all were allowed to rest.”

Hermione did not like the way she said it.

After their tea was finished, Narcissa stood, and Hermione followed suit. Rodolphus was waiting for them in the entryway, and his eyes raked over her again, making her shiver. He kissed the air against Narcissa’s cheek, and then, he leaned into Hermione.

“My new niece,” he said, his hands finding her waist, pulling her close into an embrace. “Such a beautiful addition to the family.”

These last words were delivered in a husky voice next to her ear, and though she wanted to push away from him, she did not dare. Rodolphus held her against him for too long, long enough for Narcissa to exert what control she had.

“Rodolphus, enough,” she said firmly.

“Dolohov will be watching you,” he said in an almost silent whisper next to her ear.

He released her, but he gave her a lecherous smile.

Narcissa said nothing as they left the boundaries of the Lestrange Estate’s wards. She grasped Hermione’s elbow, and in an instant, they were Apparated back to Malfoy Manor. House Elves appeared to take their shopping bags and coats, and Narcissa’s movements were quick and frustrated.

“My sister has never been the same since she married that man,” said Narcissa through a clenched jaw.

Narcissa paused, closing her eyes, and then, she smoothed her palms down the front of her robes. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then, she opened her eyes again.

“Dinner is at seven o’ clock,” she said. “You’re expected to join us.”

“I’m happy to,” said Hermione, and though she didn’t actually mean it, she felt she needed to provide this reassurance to Draco’s mother. Her safety was in the Malfoys’ hands.

Narcissa nodded appreciatively, and then, she turned on her heel and disappeared.

Hermione glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. It was just after five, and though she would have liked to find the library for something new to read, she did not feel comfortable wandering the Manor alone, so she headed upstairs to her bedroom. She pulled a book off the shelf at random, finding that she didn’t much care for what she read.

Hogwarts: A History.

A comforting read for many years, but now a reminder of all that she’d lost. She flipped through the pages without interest.

At five minutes til seven, Hermione opened her bedroom door, scanning the hallway quickly for Draco and finding it empty. She wasn’t sure if that meant he would not be at dinner, and whether she preferred it that way or not. She descended the staircase and made her way to the dining room, seeing that Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco were all seated already.

Draco and Lucius stood when she arrived, a practiced motion that they both made fluidly. After she was seated, they fell back into their chairs, and dinner commenced. It was silent for a long time, the only sounds in the air the faint clink of cutlery on their plates.

“Bellatrix suspects that your marriage is political only. Just for show,” said Narcissa.

Draco stiffened.

“When did she say this?” asked Draco.

“When we went to her estate,” said Narcissa plainly.

Draco’s fist slammed down onto the table, jostling the porcelain plates.

“You went to the Lestrange Estate?” asked Draco in a cool, frightening voice.

Narcissa’s mouth fell open for a moment, but then, she fixed her son with an angry stare.

“She is my sister, and my only son has just been wed,” said Narcissa. “I wanted to see her.”

“I don’t trust him,” said Draco. “I think it’s likely that Rodolphus will side with Dolohov when it comes to it, and what will your sister do then? Will she side with you, or will she be loyal to her husband?”

Draco’s mother did not seem to have an answer to this question. Hermione was watching the exchange with interest, cataloguing the information in her mind. Rodolphus Lestrange’s loyalty to the Malfoys was in question. If she was to help them organize a revolt against Dolohov, she needed to know more.

“Who can be counted on to support you?” asked Hermione.

The three Malfoys turned to her in surprise, as though they had not expected her to speak at the dinner table at all. Hermione stood her ground. She had no intention of being a quiet, subservient wife. She intended, as Lucius Malfoy had said, to help the cause. It was the only way she could.

Lucius seemed to take her meaning, and he nodded, adjusting so that he was leaning forward in his seat, elbows planted on the table as he laced his fingers together.

“The Goyles may be our only certain allies,” said Lucius.

“Why are you so certain?” she asked.

Draco let out a scoff, but Lucius held up a hand to silence him.

“It is an important question, Draco. Fresh eyes will see things we don’t,” said Lucius, and then, he returned his gaze to Hermione. “They have always been our closest allies, and they owe a significant debt to Draco.”

“Money?”

“Lives.”

“Hm,” said Hermione, cocking her head in thought. “Who else?”

“The Notts,” said Draco. “Unquestioningly.”

“The Greengrasses are likely allies, though not certain. Similarly, the Parkinsons and Crabbes,” said Lucius. “Ilir Hoxha, the Azkaban Warden, perhaps.”

“Blaise Zabini, Marcus Flint,” added Draco. “Likely, but not certain.”

Hermione waited for them to continue, more names that they thought they could count on, but they did not go on. She looked from one face to another.

“That’s it?” she asked.

Lucius nodded.

“Everyone else is going to be against you?” she asked in disbelief.

“Many will wait to see how it plays out. They’ll choose a side once it is clearer who will be successful,” said Lucius.

“Such a principled group,” said Hermione sardonically, and she heard Lucius give a dark chuckle.

“Yes, well, I should think the Order of the Phoenix has seen where a principled stand gets you,” said Lucius darkly.

Hermione had to concede the point.

“I think Draco is right about the Lestranges,” said Hermione, her eyes on her plate, not wanting to involve herself in family politics but unable to help it. “As I was leaving Rodolphus told me that Dolohov would be watching me.”

She saw Draco’s fingers flex and then tighten into a fist.

“She’ll be coming with me to the New Ministry tomorrow,” announced Draco.

“The Manor’s wards are infallible-” began Lucius.

“I am infallible,” said Draco forcefully. “If your entire plan to keep Dolohov from power rests on my marriage to Granger, then I’ll decide how she is kept.”

Kept. The word rattled in her brain. And yet, when she thought of the lecherous gaze of Rodolphus Lestrange, she shuddered.

“We’ll rekey the wards at Malfoy Manor to keep the Lestranges out,” snapped Draco, and though his mother tried to protest, he steamrolled over her. “Until I have time to accomplish that, she will stay with me.”

Chapter Text

He did not particularly want to have to drag Granger out of bed at four in the morning, but the drumbeat did not cease. You are needed. You are needed. You are needed. A suspect was in custody, and Draco was needed to conduct the interrogation. His mind was already whirring with the logistics of keeping Granger close at hand while interrogating.

Draco had stayed up past midnight working on the Malfoy Manor wards. They were reluctant to shift for him, recognizing his aunt’s magic as tied to his mother’s and thus, the Manor did not want to have to keep her out. He had finally given up for the night, running his fingers down his tired face as he struck barrier after barrier, then falling into bed far too late and waking up far too early.

He shook off his exhaustion and knocked on Granger’s door, softly at first. When she did not answer, he tried again, more forcefully. When there was no answer yet again, his first thoughts were that the Lestranges had managed to enter and steal her for themselves, and it was with this thought in mind that he slammed the door open with his wand.

Granger bolted upright in bed screaming.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Stop screaming, it’s just me!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she shrieked, the blankets pulled up to her neck.

“Why didn’t you open the door?”

“I was asleep, you dolt!”

He clenched his jaw, folding his arms in front of him.

“We’re going to the Ministry,” said Draco. “Now. Get dressed.”

Granger did not move. He was transported to Hogwarts, seeing in her all the swotty stubbornness she’d had then. He lifted an eyebrow at her.

“Apologies, sir. Do you require seeing my naked body before we leave?” she said with a fiery tone.

Draco was completely unprepared for the sudden burn of arousal that sparked within him. He was not sure if it was the honorific (“sir”) or the mention of her naked body, but he was suddenly painfully aware that the woman in this bed was nude and that she was, for all legal purposes, his property.

But the burn disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, a familiar coolness taking its place. There was no room for arousal in his world. Draco glared at her, though she did not cower.

“Get dressed,” he snapped, and he turned on his heel and left her room.

Draco paced the hallway thunderously. He was not used to waiting on anyone. When Draco Malfoy told someone to move, they moved, and they moved quickly. Granger was taking her time. A portrait of his Great-Grandfather watched him without comment. Draco was just about to swing her door open and shout at her to hurry when she appeared.

Her eyes were puffy with tiredness, and her hair was thrown into a messy knot on top of her head. Draco did not wait for her to speak. He turned on his heel and headed down the staircase to the fire, listening for Granger’s footsteps behind him as he walked.

She had followed.

He did not speak to her. He simply grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the jar next to the fireplace and tossed it onto the logs. A green fire blazed up, and he stepped into it slowly, feeling the cool tickling of the tongues of flame on his legs and hands. He faced her, watching her expression to judge whether he could trust her to follow. Finding nothing but impatience in her face, he shouted, “New Ministry” and spun away.

Granger did follow, the massive fireplace in the New Ministry spitting her out moments later. The Atrium was dark and silent. Draco preferred to conduct his interrogations before the bustle of the day. His methods were often viewed as… unorthodox. Only one security wizard was in the Atrium, and he stood when he saw Draco.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” said the wizard.

Draco did not respond, merely walked on, but he heard Granger speak.

“Good morning,” she chirped.

The security wizard did a double take.

The New Ministry’s interpretation of “law and justice” was rather different than the old Ministry of Magic’s had been. There was no right to habeas corpus, no quick and speedy trial. Suspects were brought to the New Ministry and held in interrogation rooms until the Inquisitors were finished with them.

Draco was only called in for the most significant or sensitive of suspects. He began to collect his mind, using the icy tendrils of Occlumency to shut down his thoughts and feelings, preparing himself once again to commit atrocities in the name of the New Ministry. There was a deep well of darkness within him, like still water that ran too deep into his soul.

He stopped abruptly in front of a black door, and he turned sharply to Granger, who had nearly run into him.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, waving his wand to conjure a firm wooden chair for her.

She looked down at the chair with some disdain before pulling out her own wand, swishing it so that the firm chair transfigured into a cozy recliner. Obediently, Granger sank down into it.

“Do not leave this chair,” he instructed, and he cast a ward around her.

Her eyes darted up and around, feeling the constricting magic of the ward, and her fingers tightened on the arms of the recliner.

“How long will you be?” she asked.

He did not deign to respond.

The witch in the interrogation room was a slight, mousy thing with an upturned nose and snaggled teeth. She looked at Draco expectantly, as though waiting for her imminent torture. Draco dragged a metal chair across the room to her, the scrape of its legs echoing in the small, cement room.

“You’re working for The Network,” he said.

“No, sir. I’m with the Order of the Phoenix,” she replied with a slight smile.

His face revealed nothing.

“You kidnapped the two sons of my very good friend,” he said. “I would like to kill you for it.”

“Go ahead, then. Your reputation precedes you, Malfoy,” spat the witch.

“I’ll pull your skin off one piece at a time,” said Draco through a massive ice wall of Occlumency.

“Best get on with it,” she said.

It was as though someone else was doing the atrocities that the New Ministry relied on Draco to commit. His mind hardly registered it, but after what could have been minutes or hours, he had the information he needed, and the Network operative was in a heap on the floor. Draco knelt beside her, emerging slowly from behind the walls of Occlumency, feeling the tug of Dark magic trying to pull him under but willing it away. He pushed himself up to stand, looking down at his hands to see that they were, once again, covered in blood.

He remembered the last time he appeared this way in front of Granger. It had alarmed her. Draco pulled his wand from the pocket of his black robes.

“Tergeo,” he said, and the blood disappeared.

Draco then cast his misty, unformed Patronus, sending a message to his father.

The operative is deceased. I’ll provide the information gathered upon your arrival.

Draco pushed the heavy black door open, finding Granger in her cozy recliner sound asleep. Her feet were tucked under her body, knees against her chest, and her hair was threatening to escape from the knot at the top of her head. He checked his watch: just after seven.

He almost hated to wake her.

He stepped through the shimmering ward around her, and she jolted awake at the feeling of her shields falling, but he watched her visibly relax when she saw his face. A strange experience, seeing someone reassured by his presence rather than terrified by it. Granger yawned and unfurled herself, standing from the recliner and waving her wand to vanish it.

“I need a coffee,” she said in a gravelly voice.

“You drink coffee?”

She nodded, rubbing at her eyes blearily.

There was a café in the Atrium. Draco turned, walking in the direction of the café and listening as Granger’s footsteps trotted to keep up with him.

The New Ministry was awake now. The fireplaces lit up occasionally as witches and wizards arrived for work. Draco strode across the Atrium to the café, tucked in the back corner and surrounded by low tables with comfortable chairs where a few wizards were reviewing documents or drinking tea. There was a short line at the cafe, but when the waiting wizards saw Draco, everyone moved out of the way. He watched Granger scan over the menu, looking at the espresso machine with pursed lips.

“I’ll have a cappuccino,” she said, and the barista nodded.

Draco tossed coins onto the counter. Granger turned to him with a quirked smile.

“I used to make coffees at the bookstore,” she said in explanation. “The espresso machine was my nemesis, so I practiced when it was slow. Got accustomed to coffee over tea.”

He did not know how to react to this information. This was… small talk. No one made small talk with Draco Malfoy. He turned away in discomfort.

The barista handed Granger her coffee in a small mug that had the New Ministry symbol on it. He watched as she noticed the logo, frowning slightly, but then, she looked up and met his gaze.

“Shall we sit?”

She wanted to sit at one of the tables. With him. Drinking coffee.

“Malfoy!” called a voice, and Draco turned to see Theo trotting across the Atrium to him.

A few heads turned upon hearing the name “Malfoy.” Theo stopped short in front of Draco, and his eyes snapped to Granger.

If anyone else at the Ministry had looked at her so closely, Draco would have had his wand out in an instant, but Theo was one of the few people he truly trusted. His curiosity was academic, not threatening. Theo tilted his head to one side.

“You remember Hermione Granger from Hogwarts,” said Draco.

“Yes. Your wife,” said Theo, a sparkle of amusement in his blue eyes.

Draco rolled his neck. He was desperately trying to avoid that word, but Theo was dangling it about teasingly in front of him. No one else would dare. Granger had extended her hand for a handshake, and Draco watched Theo take it, clasping it for half a second before releasing her. Tension was radiating off Draco in waves at the entire interaction.

“What do you need, Nott?”

Theo jerked his head in the direction of his office. A private conversation meant nothing good, and Draco turned to Granger.

“Come on,” he said crisply.

Granger walked between them, nearly a head shorter than he and Theo were, and she was levitating her cappuccino in front of her as they milled through the growing crowd in the Atrium. Draco saw the occasional face light up in recognition as they saw her, and his eyes scanned the crowd expertly for potential threats. Hands moving to pockets a bit too quickly, a disrupted stride, eyes that looked at him one time too many: his training and decade of experience knew how to find these signs and neutralize threats.

He did not know how to move through a crowd without watching for them.

Theo’s office was not in the Inquisitor Cluster but in the Chancellor’s Hall, near Draco’s own. There were additional privacy and security charms on the wing, and though Draco refused to speak of anything highly sensitive unless he was at Malfoy Manor, the security on the Chancellor’s Hall was strong. Theo pushed his door open, holding it for Granger, and with one final sweep of his eyes along the hallway, Draco followed inside. Granger took a sip of her coffee.

“It’s cold,” said Granger with a pouty lip as she sank into a chair in the corner of Theo’s office.

Theo chuckled and tapped her coffee with his wand.

“Thanks,” she muttered, and she brought the cup to her lips again.

Draco simply stared at her for a long moment. It was rare that someone surprised him; he was just too good at reading people, predicting their behavior. But Granger sitting in Theo Nott’s office, sipping coffee like she worked there, was surprising. She showed no fear. She merely looked up at the two of them expectantly.

“Well?” she asked.

Theo laughed out loud.

“Maybe she’s the right wife for you after all,” he said, and he pulled the chair out behind his desk and sank into it.

Draco scowled, but Theo’s voice caught his attention.

“Dolohov’s here today,” he said, and Draco’s scowl only deepened. He saw Granger stiffen in her chair. “Arrived while you were in interrogation. Had a lot of questions.”

“Questions,” Draco repeated.

“Mm-hmm,” said Theo. “About the new Mrs. Malfoy, mostly. He’s furious. He’s hiding it pretty well, but you know he’s got tells.”

Draco had no tells.

“He’s asking whether the two of you knew each other at Hogwarts, or any time since,” said Theo. “It’s not hard to spot his angle.”

“He wants the Commission to annul the marriage on grounds that it’s false,” said Granger.

Theo nodded.

“But his marriage to me would be false, too,” she added. “He’s just hoping the Commission won’t care.”

“Exactly,” said Theo.

Draco ran his fingers down his face, rubbing at his exhausted eyes and sighing heavily. He wasn’t sure of the Commission’s political allegiance, whether they were loyal to Dolohov or Lucius or neither. The weight of responsibility felt heavy on his shoulders.

“Do we have anyone on the Commission?” he said.

“Hopkirk isn’t ours, but she’s fair-minded,” said Theo. “McBride won’t want to upset Lucius, no matter his political leanings, and Johnson could be threatened.”

Could be threatened. Draco knew exactly who would be expected to do the threatening.

“I don’t think they’ll annul the marriage, Draco,” said Theo. “I’m just saying, keep an eye out, and be ready for Dolohov.”

Draco was always ready for Dolohov.

He stood from his chair, ready to find his father and provide the information he’d obtained early that morning, but Granger did not stand. She looked up at him.

“I’m not finished with my coffee,” she said.

He stared at her, finding himself almost in disbelief.

“She can stay with me, if you’d like,” offered Theo.

“No,” said Draco immediately.

Granger picked up her cup and took a slow sip. Then, with a sigh, she set the cup back on its saucer and cast a quick spell to send it back to the café. She stood from the chair, turning to Theo with a slight smile on her face.

“Nice to see you again, Theo,” she said.

Her voice sounded almost normal. Only Draco’s finely trained and experienced ear could pick up the slight strain at the edges of it. She was nervous, exhausted, and frustrated. She was surrounded by Pureblood enemies, Death Eaters, and Inquisitors, and only a few days ago, they would have been able to arrest or attack her without consequence.

Granger shuffled into the hallway, and Draco followed, pulling Theo’s office door shut behind him.

“I do remember him from Hogwarts,” she said casually as they walked toward his father’s office. “From Seventh year. He was never cruel.”

Not like you were. He heard her words unspoken. Draco did not look at her, merely stalked down the hallway to his father’s office, listening for Granger’s footsteps behind him. After a pause, she followed.

He did not like to remember his Seventh year at Hogwarts. The Dark Lord had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor during that year, and the lingering presence of him and his dark magic had taken a toll on his parents and on himself. Snape had served as Headmaster, and he had kept the students mostly safe from the violence outside the castle, but the sons and daughters of Death Eaters had been emboldened by their master’s progress.

Though Draco had been a vicious bully to the Mudbloods at the school in his early years, Granger among them, by his Seventh year he knew what true cruelty was, and he meted it out exactingly. He had used more than a few Crucios on his fellow students. The Carrows insisted it was “good practice.” Draco was thankful that Granger had never been one of his own targets, though he knew that Crabbe had practiced on her a time or two.

He did not like to remember it.

After the Dark Lord had killed Harry Potter, his father’s position had been cemented, and Draco had been trained to be not a bully but a weapon. It was his duty, of a surety, to serve his father and his family name, but in truth, Draco did not know what else he would even do. There was no other option for him, no alternative path before his feet.

At the end of the hall were the large double doors to his father’s office, and Draco flicked his wand to slam them open, walking into the room with Granger at his heels.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” said Lucius, inclining his head with a smirk on his lips.

“Good morning,” she replied primly.

Draco ignored them, placing his wand against his temple and teasing out a memory from the morning’s interrogation, then guiding the silver fragment into his father’s Pensieve.

“Thank you, Draco,” said his father. “I’ll review it and let you know when you are needed.”

You are needed. You are needed. You are needed.

The drumbeat echoed in his brain.

Chapter Text

“Do you remember Hogwarts?” asked Hermione.

He jumped, startled as though he’d forgotten she was there, though she knew by now that Draco always knew exactly where everyone was in a room. It was preternatural, the way his eyes found her without searching.

Hermione hated being in the New Ministry. She had always avoided it as much as possible. She saw the ghosts of what should have been everywhere. But instead of kindly Arthur Weasley or bumbling Cornelius Fudge, there were only those loyal to the New Ministry.

She saw Thorfin Rowle, who had a sour expression on his face even as he bowed his head at Draco. Dolores Umbridge, across the Atrium. She had not noticed them, and it was her face that had prompted Hermione to ask the question.

“What do you mean?” snarled Draco. “Of course, I remember Hogwarts. Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugged.

“It was a long time ago,” said Hermione.

She was trying to reconcile several versions of Draco Malfoy that existed in her mind. When she thought of Draco at Hogwarts, she first recalled the early years: his haughty insults, his not-so-subtle bragging. His actions teemed with jealousy and insecurity, trying desperately to impress someone, though she never really knew who.

But he had changed somewhere along the way. Fifth year, maybe, under Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad. Maybe Sixth year, when he’d become a Death Eater and tried to kill Albus Dumbledore.

The Seventh year version of Draco Malfoy was branded in her brain.

Harry had debated whether to return to Hogwarts for his Seventh year for weeks. Hermione and Ron were happy to follow him in whatever he decided. There were Horcruxes to find, and he ached to go on the lam and look for them. What would a Hogwarts look like under Snape’s control? Harry feared it deeply.

Hermione never learned exactly what had changed his mind, but one day, he marched back up to them at the Burrow and announced, “We’re going to Hogwarts.”

He was close-lipped about his reasoning, which for Harry was remarkable, as he’d had almost no ability to keep any secrets. After that, they’d used Hogwarts as a home base. What had remained of the DA had helped orchestrate a year of chaos, everyone trying to keep the focus off Harry to give him time. There were so many times that year that Hermione regretted Harry’s decision. Even with the help of Aberforth Dumbledore, sneaking them in and out of the castle to seek out Horcruxes, they had not managed to destroy any of them. They were flailing under the heavy weight of the violence at Hogwarts. Amycus and Alecto Carrow reveled in it, tormenting the Gryffindors for sport, and Amycus lurking lewdly near the older girls. Snape had turned a blind eye to it, rarely doing more than sneering in their direction if they complained.

But Draco Malfoy.

She wondered if it was then that he learned to be so cold. Something had changed in him. The Fifth year version of Draco was a boy whose chest was puffed up as he brandished the small modicum of power he had been granted by Umbridge. By Seventh year, he was replaced by a young man who was aloof, disinterested, detached. Sometimes, she would catch the faintest whiff of the metallic scent of Dark magic on him.

He had rarely even looked at her. He had rarely bothered to make fun of her teeth or hair. He had not even bothered to call her Mudblood… except once.

She had met him unexpectedly, nearly slamming into him as she turned a corner. His eyes had scanned her up and down, scrutinizing.

“Mudblood,” he said.

Hermione had lifted her chin with all the naïve indignation of a girl who did not know yet that her cause was doomed.

Had he known then? Had he expected Harry’s death and Voldemort’s rise to power? Was his father already positioning himself to take over the Ministry of Magic? Draco had seemed bored of it all.  There hadn’t even been any bite to his insult. Mudblood. It had been perfunctory at best. He had seemed exhausted even then.

“Get out of my way, Malfoy,” Hermione had snapped at him. She was almost embarrassed to remember how confident she’d been that good would triumph over evil, that Lord Voldemort would lose the war.

Draco had stepped aside without a word, staring down at her with cold grey eyes that betrayed no emotion. Occluding, probably, though she had not recognized it then.

“Stay away from me,” she had said, and it was then that he had sniffed a laugh. It was contemptuous, like she’d been a tantruming toddler.

“Happily,” he had said, and then, he had stalked away from her in long, purposeful strides down the corridor.

He had not been in school much that year. His duties to Lord Voldemort had called, and when the war was over and Voldemort had won, she stopped thinking about Draco Malfoy for years as she scrambled to stay alive under the New Ministry’s rule. Mudblood Identification cards, shops that had once been open to her now forbidden, friends imprisoned slowly over minor transgressions. It had been difficult enough just to survive.

But soon, whispers of Draco Malfoy had percolated in the wizarding community: his cruelty became legend. She had feared him.

Did she fear him now?

Dolores Umbridge had spotted them, and she crossed the New Ministry Atrium to Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Umbridge obsequiously, bowing a bit, though she was so short and squat that there was not much further for her to go.

Draco did not respond. He merely watched Umbridge bow with the same cold disinterest that he’d shown Hermione at Hogwarts. Umbridge turned to Hermione.

“I remember you,” Umbridge crooned. “Antonin told me that you had married Mr. Malfoy. What a curious match.”

Beside her, Draco’s posture had stiffened slightly at the mention of Dolohov. Hermione felt her chin tilt in much the same way it had at Hogwarts, full of righteous indignation.

“Married the same day the law was announced,” Umbridge added sweetly. “How lucky for you, hm?”

“I’m sure Dolohov doesn’t think so,” snapped Hermione.

Umbridge’s lips curled into her toad-like smile.

“He’s so very happy for you both,” she lied. “He can’t wait to visit you at home and celebrate.”

“He’s not welcome,” spat Hermione.

Umbridge seemed to light up at these words.

“But whyever not? Surely, you have nothing against someone like him, given that you’ve married someone so high up in the New Ministry!” she said. “Surely, you support us and our cause!”

Hermione clenched her jaw. Umbridge gave a tittering laugh.

“You were always so bothersome in school,” Umbridge continued. “Never did what was good for you. Never understood my methods. Never understood what I had to do to that Potter boy. But maybe now…?”

The righteous fury bubbled up inside her so that she could not contain it.

“You belong in Azkaban for what you did you Harry!” hissed Hermione.

Umbridge narrowed her eyes, still smiling, and she looked as though she were about to pounce, but Draco moved his body so that his broad shoulders were now in between Hermione and Umbridge.

“Thank you, Dolores,” he said in a low, calm voice. “That’ll be all.”

Where Umbridge would certainly have gone on the attack with Hermione, she cowered in front of Draco, giving another obsequious bow and scurrying away, her footsteps clinking rapidly on the floors of the Atrium. Hermione watched her glance over her shoulder once before she disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly, Draco rounded on her.

“What were you thinking?” he hissed. “You cannot go around antagonizing people who want to hurt you!”

“There is no one on earth I hate more than that woman,” said Hermione through gritted teeth, her hands in fists at her side. “How dare she talk about Harry like that-”

“You’re married to a Death Eater now, Granger. We all talk about Potter like that,” he growled, his voice deliberate.

She didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but she cowered under the force of his cold stare. The muscle at the corner of his jaw ticked.

“Are you afraid of me?” he said, low and dark, his grey eyes boring into hers.

She swallowed.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

There were eyes looking their way. Hermione knew they must have made quite a sight: Draco Malfoy, broad and tall, Dark magic teeming out of his pores, towering over his newlywed wife, slight and looking frightened.

He seemed to come back to himself in that moment, taking a measured breath and backing off her, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He did not speak, merely turned on his heel and began walking as though he knew she would follow.

She did.

Hermione knew in theory that not everyone who worked at the New Ministry was a Death Eater or a Voldemort sympathizer. For Merlin’s sake, Ginny and Ernie both worked there, and they were part of the Order, but even so, she found herself surprised to see Cho Chang walking down the long corridor opposite her. She had her eyes on a stack of parchment in her hands and had not seen Hermione yet.

Hermione noticed the precise moment that Cho saw Draco. There was a slight falter to her step, a hop to the edge of the hallway, keeping herself as far from Draco as possible.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” said Cho with nervousness in her voice.

Then, Cho saw Hermione and dropped her parchments in shock.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Cho shrilly.

Draco’s annoyance was palpable. He stopped midstride and turned, arms folding across his chest and jaw clenched tightly as Cho and Hermione dropped to their knees to pull the stack together again.

“You married him?” asked Cho, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she replied, just as quietly.

“It was Marcus Flint for me,” she whispered.

Hermione’s hands froze where they were, her fingertips on a parchment laying on the floor. She met Cho’s gaze seriously.

“It’s not so bad,” said Cho. “He talks about Quidditch a lot. Could be worse, I suppose.”

Cho had given Draco a meaningful look as she said it, and Hermione felt Cho’s hand graze her own, a silent show of support. She wanted to open her mouth, admit the truth behind the marriage, but Cho had never elected to join the Order of the Phoenix. She was Pureblood and had found it easier to just put her head down and deal with the reality of Voldemort’s reign.

Hermione supposed it had worked out all right up to this point. Cho gave a slight smile as she picked up the last of the parchments.

“Sometimes I think that it could have been Harry,” she said with a sad smile.

They both pushed up to stand, now aware of Draco’s impatient stare.

“Take care, Hermione,” said Cho.

~

“Why bother with this?” asked his father, running his finger along the metal barbell. “Your wand does everything for you. How often do you actually need to lift something this heavy with your hands?”

“I lifted Kingsley Shacklebolt over my head during his assassination attempt,” said Draco.

His father paused a moment, tilting his head, and then laughed.

“I’d forgotten about that,” he said.

“Convenient,” said Draco, wiping the sweat on his face with a towel and slinging it over his shoulder. “Did you need something?”

Lucius gave a haughty smile.

“Your marriage is achieving the desired outcome,” said Lucius. “Many of those we would like to have on our side are impressed by our family’s ability to… secure her.”

Draco’s eye twitched.

“And they are equally as impressed by our ability to stymie Dolohov,” said Lucius.

Draco tapped his wand against a pair of dumbbells, enchanting them to the weight he needed. He wrapped his hands around the cool metal grip of them, hoisting them up to his shoulders.

“Since when you do stop by to tell me how your plans are going?” he said, huffing out as he pressed the weights up over his head.

His father looked at him, watching as he huffed in exertion, his grey eyes calculating, as always. Measuring, it appeared, as though to see if he would come up short. There had always been a distance between him and his father. Draco was not sure if his father had planned it to be so, or if they simply hadn’t known how to drop the walls around each other.

He struggled against the last rep, his muscles quaking under the strain, but under his father’s watchful eye, he pushed it up, and then let the weights drop to the rubber-matted floor with a loud thud.

“Was there something you needed?” asked Draco, feeling the ghost of the drumbeat in his mind.

“No,” said Lucius, tapping the floor imperiously with his cane. “Carry on.”

Chapter Text

Remus Lupin was the last of the Marauders.

It was not an honour he wore well, and sometimes, he wished he had simply died on the same day that Harry had, wished he had just fallen off the battlements of Hogwarts after a fierce duel with a Death Eater, but he had not. For better or for worse, he had survived to see his son grow into a mischievous eleven-year-old who’d been sent a Hogwarts letter that very morning.

“Surely, you can’t be thinking of sending him,” Andromeda said in a tight voice. “Not with Snape still acting as Headmaster.”

“What choice do we have?” Dora said. “Attendance is compulsory, and it’s not as though the New Ministry isn’t aware he exists.”

“Oh, I bet they’d love to get their hands on him,” said Andromeda angrily. “Find out what sort of powers he’s got with a Metamorphmagus and a werewolf for parents. What if they keep him? What if they won’t let him come back home?”

“For all that’s gone horribly wrong over the last ten years, there’s never been a child harmed at Hogwarts. Not since Harry,” said Remus soothingly.

The name hung in the air as it always did when someone mentioned him. Remus still felt a horrible pang in his heart, wondering what James and Lily would think of their only son’s fate, of Remus’s failure to keep him safe.

Dora wanted to send Teddy to Hogwarts, but she seemed to be having second thoughts at Andromeda’s words.

“What if I go talk to Snape? Would that be reassuring?” he asked.

Dora let out a very unladylike snort.

“Would he even see you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but if not, that tells us something about how Teddy’s life at Hogwarts would be, doesn’t it?” he said.

Andromeda and Dora both agreed that his plan was, as always, sensible.

Remus was very tired of being the sensible one.

The Order of the Phoenix was on its last legs. Outside the Weasley family, there were fewer than twenty members. Most anyone who hadn’t been killed or arrested had ended up joining The Network, a far more successful (and more aggressive) resistance organization. Remus sometimes felt like the only thing keeping the Order together was nostalgia: old photographs of James, Lily, and Sirius, a trunk full of Dumbledore’s memorabilia and trinkets, and late-night stories over wine and whiskey about the good old days.

Lucius Malfoy’s offer of help had seemed momentarily too good to be true.

Ever the sensible one, Remus’s first instinct had been to reject it, and truth be told, he was still watching Hermione with a careful eye, from a distance, through a chain of whispers, but she seemed none the worse for wear and perhaps even happy to be helping the Order. Happy to have a mission, a purpose.

He would feel the same way.

When an owl returned from Severus Snape agreeing to meet in the Headmaster’s Office at Hogwarts, Remus reminded himself that he was the sensible one and thus should not get in a petulant argument with his old school nemesis, no matter the fact that Snape had nearly all his friends alive and well while Remus had none. Remus Flooed to Hogwarts, spinning rapidly in place and appearing in Snape’s office.

“Lupin,” said Snape in a slow, jeering voice.

Remus looked around at the portraits lining the walls, his eyes landing on the one of Professor Dumbledore, who was smiling down at him serenely. His heart hammered in his chest. Though the décor in the office was different, the furniture was the same: a large, heavy desk with a wing-backed armchair, and long, velvet curtains hanging from the tall windows. Even the air smelled different at Hogwarts: a mix of antique wood and something sweet.

“Can I help you or were you just here for a trip down memory lane?” asked Snape.

Remus jerked back to attention.

“I’d like to talk about my son,” he said. “He’s received his Hogwarts letter.”

“Yes, I know,” said Snape, his fingertips pressed together as he sat behind his desk. “Are you not planning to send him?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he said truthfully.

They stared at each other for a long time, taking each other’s measure, and Snape’s lip curled. He opened his mouth, and Remus thought that perhaps he was about to make a cruel comment about Teddy, but he did not.

“Do you know?” asked Snape.

“Know what?” asked Remus.

Snape leaned forward, staring at Remus’s face, and though Remus should have known better, should have been more prepared for this, he felt the light touch of Legilimency in his mind, saw his thoughts rifled through in his head. Occlumency had never been his specialty, but he slammed up the walls of his mind’s defenses.

Too little, too late. Snape had a dangerous smirk on his face.

“You do know,” he said.

“Know what?” repeated Remus angrily. “You can’t actually expect me to send my son here after that kind of a display! If Dumbledore were alive, he’d-”

“I would what?” asked the portrait on the wall.

Remus took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gathered himself. Sensible.

“Severus, we were colleagues. I’m here because I worry about sending my son to Hogwarts, and I promised my wife and my mother-in-law that I would speak to you about it. Is there any reassurance you can provide?” asked Remus.

“Yes, I believe there is,” said Snape.

~

When Hermione arrived home from the New Ministry, rushing through the Floo Network just before Draco, she could hear voices in the parlour. She turned, orienting herself to the sound, and blinked twice when she saw who it was.

“Remus!” she cried, racing to his side.

He stood from the sofa, opening his arms and letting her run into them, but he held her for only a moment. She noticed that his hands were no longer touching her, his arms held up at his sides. Hermione backed away, looking up at him in confusion, and saw that he was holding his hands up as though in surrender and staring at a place behind her. She turned and saw that Draco had his wand trained on Remus, his expression cold and furious.

“What is he doing here?” said Draco in a voice very close to a growl.

“He has information for us,” said Narcissa, and she stood, positioning herself in front of Draco’s wand, which caused him to lower it. “I invited him here. I’ve checked his identity thoroughly.”

Draco stared at Remus for a long moment.

“He is not welcome here,” said Draco. “We cannot be seen with him.”

“I agree,” said Remus placatingly. “No one knows I’m here. This will take but a moment of your time.”

Hermione was still staring up at Remus’s face, realizing that she’d only been gone a few days, but she already missed him desperately. He was the closest thing to a father she had left.

“Please, sit,” said Narcissa, gesturing toward the sofa and chairs.

Hermione joined her on the sofa, but Draco remained standing. Remus, for his part, with slow and deliberate movements, pulled his wand from the inside pocket of his robes, making Draco stiffen, but he simply laid his wand on the table, well out of easy reach.

The sound of shoes clicking on the floors alerted Hermione to Lucius’s arrival.

“I thought I heard your voice, Draco,” he said. “I see you’ve welcomed our guest.”

“He cannot be at Malfoy Manor,” hissed Draco.

“He’ll be gone in a moment,” said Lucius, taking a seat next to Narcissa. “Mr. Lupin, as you can see, my son is rather anxious to have you gone, so please go ahead with whatever information you have.”

Remus took a calming breath, clasping his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Severus Snape is working for the Order,” he said.

Only Draco kept his composure at this statement. Hermione gasped, Lucius coughed, and Narcissa let out a yelp.

“There’s no chance,” said Lucius dismissively. “He’s been the Dark Lord’s closest ally for decades. Closer than I, even. If he wanted to be Chancellor, he could have had the position in an instant.”

“But he chose to stay at Hogwarts,” replied Remus. “He chose to keep watch over the wizarding world’s children.”

“It’s a powerful post,” said Narcissa.

Remus nodded, conceding the point, but he continued.

“Severus has provided me with information that may yet help us with our cause,” said Remus, and Hermione still found herself surprised that the cause was now deemed ours. Both theirs and the Malfoys’. “He provided it at some risk to himself, but I think, Lucius, that he suspected your plan.”

Lucius gave a great scoff.

“He would be the only one who could,” said Lucius.

“He heard that Hermione and Draco were married, and I think,” Remus said, and here, his lips turned upward in amusement, “I think that he is sceptical of their claim that they were school sweethearts.”

Hermione let out a laugh, half in disbelief, and then, Remus’s face grew serious again.

“We all know that Voldemort uses Horcruxes to ensure his immortality, though it has clearly come at a higher cost than he believed it would,” said Remus. “Without destroying the Horcruxes, he could simply return to life in the future, fragmented soul and all, and disrupt everything we try to build.”

“We can’t destroy them,” said Narcissa. “We don’t even know what they are, only that there are twelve.”

Remus met her gaze very seriously.

“Severus knows,” he said, and he produced a vial of silvery memory. “Two have been destroyed. Lucius, I wonder, do you remember the diary you gave Ginny Mac- sorry, Ginny Weasley?”

Hermione thought she saw Lucius’s face colour slightly, and he nodded.

“Basilisk venom destroyed it. The first of the Horcruxes to be eliminated,” said Remus. “Dumbledore managed to destroy another more than a decade ago. We must destroy the remaining ten, and with this memory, we’ll know what to look for.”

He was holding the vial of memories between his thumb and forefinger, shaking it back and forth in a way that agitated the swirling mist within it. Lucius was eyeing it with suspicion.

“You want us to help you destroy the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes,” said Lucius, and then, he gave a dark chuckle. “How did we end up here, Remus Lupin? Do you remember when we were at Hogwarts together?”

Remus’s face spread into a slight smile.

“I do,” said Remus. “Though I’m surprised you remember it. I was very young and very frightened of you.”

Lucius had a grin on his face that had a satisfied malevolence in it. Hermione was looking between them with surprise. Although it did seem rather obvious that Lucius and Remus must have been at Hogwarts together, she had never heard it mentioned.

“I’ve seen the memory,” said Remus, holding the vial out. “It would not be safe for someone like me to have a list, to have any notes on the subject, even under the securest spells. I leave it to Hermione to keep notes.”

She straightened in her chair. This was something familiar, something she could do. Something that reminded her of the days in which she was the best at something. Lucius reached out, taking the vial of memory from Remus’s hand. He nodded his thanks.

“Snape reports that he has not yet collected them,” said Remus cryptically.

“Collected…”

“You’ll understand when you see the memory,” said Remus. “Hermione, I need you to Obliviate me.”

She blanched. Hermione did not like messing with anyone’s memories. Not after what had happened to her parents. What she had done.

“I cannot have this information in my mind. My Occlumency is not good enough. If I’m questioned, you will all be implicated,” he said insistently.

She was shaking her head, but Remus reached out and took her hand.

“Please,” he said.

Lucius was watching with lips pursed to hide a smirk. Hermione took a slow breath, and then, she nodded. She angled her body, her knees brushing against Remus’s. Hermione pulled her wand, the vine wood smooth under her fingers, and held it to his forehead. With a soft touch of Legilimency, she sorted through his memories, finding his meeting with Snape and gently whispering, “Obliviate.”

She did not touch the memory of Snape assuring Remus that Teddy would be safe in his care. Remus blinked, disoriented slightly, but he recognized immediately the nature of his visit, even if he did not remember its purpose. He rubbed his temples.

“Okay?” asked Hermione.

“Okay,” said Remus with a nod.

There was a moment of silence, a shared breath exhaled in the room.

“You’ll go now,” instructed Draco, his arms folded over his chest, and Remus stood from the sofa, reaching slowly for his wand and stowing it in his inside pocket as Draco watched with twitchy fingers.

Remus tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and disappeared.

The Malfoys were all sitting together, each of them quiet and lost in thought. Hermione found herself eager to see the memory, to get started on their task, but Lucius was holding the vial, staring at the swirling memory inside it.

“Severus Snape,” said Lucius, almost to himself. “You know, looking back on it, I can see it. He’s always been very protective of the school. Kept the Carrows out after you graduated.”

Draco’s head snapped up, looking at his father, and Hermione wished she could see a window into his mind. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched. She wondered if he was thinking of their Seventh year, when Amycus and Alecto Carrow terrorized the school.

“Let us go to the Pensieve,” said Lucius, and with grace, he stood from his chair.

Lucius Malfoy’s study was exactly what she would have expected: dark wood, high ceilings, bookshelves full of books with fearsome titles. He opened a tall cabinet and a Pensieve swung out. She had never actually seen one up close before; it reminded her of a mortar and pestle, made of granite, smooth, round. Lucius opened the vial and poured it into the bowl. It created a slow whirlpool in the center of the Pensieve.

“Come,” he said, and after a moment, Hermione realized he was talking to her.

She followed his lead, leaning forward into the mist, completely unsure of what to expect, but then, it felt as though her body had been sucked into another scene. Hermione shuddered as she saw Voldemort, hunched and serpentine, looking frail. Snape was standing nearby, watching his master impassively.

“I need you to collect these items,” hissed Voldemort. “They must be kept safe, in case…”

“In case of what, my lord?” asked Snape.

“You know,” spat Voldemort. “Gather them. You are the only one I trust with this. Malfoy and Dolohov both hover, waiting for my demise. I must be ready.”

There was a pause, a hesitation as Voldemort went deep inside himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through the slits that were his nose.

“There are ten remaining,” said Voldemort. “One is here at Hogwarts. The rest…”

Voldemort waved his wand so that a parchment appeared in the air in front of Snape’s face. The Headmaster reached out to grab it, and Hermione positioned herself so that she could see what was written on it. Her mind catalogued quickly, memorizing it with a moment’s glance. It was a skill she had developed at Hogwarts and perfected in her time in the Order.

Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw

Cup of Helga Hufflepuff

Locket of Salazar Slytherin

Gauntlet of Godric Gryffindor

Ugandan Statuette

Key to Gaunt Vaults

Mirror of Elizabeth Burke

Mer-king Trident

Book, Durmstrang

The Snape in the memory folded the parchment in half.

“My lord, there are only nine listed here.”

“The tenth is safe with me,” hissed Voldemort, and Hermione saw that he glanced down at the enormous snake slithering around his feet. Nagini.

The memory dissolved, and Hermione realized she was standing in the study again, her face in the Pensieve. She was pulled up by the shoulders by Lucius Malfoy, and she shook her head slightly to orient herself. Lucius had a calm, pensive expression.

“Well?” he asked her.

“Where can I keep my notes? Where is safest?” she asked hurriedly.

“Here,” said Lucius. “In my study.”

“I need time to work on the wards,” said Draco in a gruff voice.

Lucius nodded, and Draco pulled his wand out of its holster. Narcissa had moved quickly, pulling out sheaves of parchment and a quill. Hermione sank into the chair, an elegant, leather one with an embroidered logo: the Malfoy coat of arms. Lucius leaned over the chair behind her, watching over her shoulder as she wrote.

“Slytherin’s locket… Harry knew about this one. I definitely know where to find it.,” said Hermione with confidence. “And I think I know what this one is.”

She was tapping her quill against the words she had written. Mer-king Trident. She had heard of this before, murmured among the Order of the Phoenix. Her mind called up a memory of a rumour: the trident stolen, absconded to an island, a magically protected site.

“But Durmstrang book… that’s frustratingly vague,” said Hermione. “The rest…”

She turned, looking up at Lucius. He had a smile on his face that was nearly paternal, almost proud. Her spine shivered slightly, unsure how she felt about this. His hand reached down, patting her shoulder, and Hermione saw that Draco noted the movement, stared at his father’s hand resting on Hermione’s shoulder. When Lucius spoke, there was no sneer, no sliminess in his tone.

“We are lucky to have you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

Every night since they were rescued, Pansy Goyle hugged her boys a little tighter than she once had. Images flashed through her head: her two sweet sons, hurt and terrified in the clutches of The Network. Young Gregory was pretending like he was fine, insisting that he was not afraid, that he’d known all along that Draco would rescue him, but Patrick was still a shivering mess. He would not sleep alone anymore, and Pansy was all too happy to cuddle him all night.

Ten years earlier, when Draco had been recruited, ordered to serve as the Chancellor’s guard, his ability to have a relationship with a woman had crumbled, although if Pansy was honest with herself, he had been emotionally unavailable their entire lives. For her, he’d been a trinket, an ornament to have on her arm to show her standing in Slytherin, but after graduation, she had realized she needed a partner, not a bodyguard.

Three years later, she’d fallen pregnant, and she and Greg had been married shortly after. It was a grand affair, a society wedding. The Dark Lord himself had attended. Gregory III had been born a few months later, and Patrick three years after that. Pansy kept herself busy at home, tending to the children and hosting weekly teas with the other Death Eater wives. Lucius and Draco had been protective, making sure she and Greg and the children were well kept and happy.

But her boys being taken by The Network had shaken her to her core. Greg had come home and cried. He never cried.

She didn’t care what happened to the Dark Lord. She needed Draco and Lucius Malfoy to stay in power.

And when Pansy Goyle heard that Draco had taken fucking Hermione Granger for a wife, she saw the possibility of a plan unfolding before her, though she felt a fair amount of trepidation in her heart. The Network was a resistance organization, and no one was entirely sure of their membership. It seemed possible to Pansy that the Malfoys had just welcomed one of the Network’s operatives right into their home.

So, though she framed it as a social visit, Pansy Goyle had an ulterior motive for stopping by Malfoy Manor on a Sunday afternoon.

“You got married and you didn’t even tell me. All of a sudden, no word, no warning. Like it came out of nowhere,” she scolded when she walked into the sitting room. “I should have been there.”

“No one was there,” said Draco simply.

Young Gregory was standing proudly beside her, refusing to hold her hand, but Patrick, only four years old, still would not let go of her. Pansy turned, finding Hermione Granger standing across the room, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” said Pansy with a dangerous grin.

She saw Draco’s jaw roll slightly.

“Hello, Pansy,” said Hermione.

Pansy crossed the room, Patrick dragging along behind her, and took Hermione’s hand, pulling her down to sitting.

“You must tell me how this came to be,” she said in a falsely sweet voice.

She could see Draco stiffen. He rolled his neck so that it cracked.

“Oh, well, erm, we were together at Hogwarts,” said Hermione.

Pansy tipped her head back and laughed.

“I’m sure you remember,” said Draco firmly.

Pansy took his meaning, seeing the Malfoys’ plan for what it was, and she schooled her features, hiding the smirk that still threatened.

“Of course, I do,” she said. “I’ll be sure to spread the word. You two and your clandestine meetings in the broom closet next to Snape’s dungeon.”

She met Draco’s eyes and saw no amusement in them. She rarely saw any emotion from him, though she couldn’t always tell if it was an ice wall of Occlumency or if he had just buried his ability to feel far too deeply.

“Draco, let the ladies talk,” said Pansy.

He hesitated, looking at her with an expression that bordered on mistrust.

“Perhaps you can take the boys outside so they can fly,” she added.

She and Draco stared at each other for a moment, her lips quirked patiently to one side as he seemed to debate whether it was safe to leave his new wife alone with her, but eventually, he jerked his head in a nod.

Gregory went to Draco immediately, but Patrick hesitated. Patrick knew Draco, felt safer with Draco than almost anyone else, but he had been so attached to his mother since the incident.

“Come,” said Draco in a commanding voice.

Patrick hopped up from the sofa and followed. Once the boys were all out of the room, Pansy let out a disbelieving chuckle.

“I wish I could make him obey that quickly,” she mused.

Pansy turned to Hermione, raking her eyes up and down. She was pretty, much prettier than Pansy remembered her from school. Pansy did not think she’d actually laid eyes on her in years, but the decade since Hogwarts had done Hermione Granger good. Her face was no longer round and puffy, and she had grown into her overlarge mouth. The neckline of her shirt was scooped just low enough that Pansy could see the tops of her ample breasts.

Pansy smirked.

“So, you’ve married my best friend,” she said.

“Draco is your best friend?”

“Well, as much as Draco has friends, I’m certainly near the top,” said Pansy, drumming her fingertips on the arm of the sofa. “Who put you up to this?”

“No one put me up to this,” said Hermione.

“If it was The Network and you all have something nefarious planned for him-”

“The Network? You think I’m part of The Network?” asked Hermione.

“For all I know, you could be,” she snapped in reply. “He would never knowingly invite one of their operatives into this house, but if he’s been tricked into it somehow…”

“Do you really think that I’m capable of swindling the Malfoys?” asked Hermione. “You think I’ve hoodwinked Draco Malfoy into marrying me so that I can take down the New Ministry?”

Pansy snorted. Hermione’s face was impassive, revealing almost nothing, but there was a tightness in her eyes, something uncomfortable in her body language.

“You don’t like them, do you?” asked Pansy. “The Malfoys.”

Wisely, Hermione did not respond, but Pansy took the opportunity to sit up, squaring her shoulders to her friend’s new wife.

“Draco Malfoy has been taking care of me since we were kids. He saved my life more than once, but more importantly, a week ago, he saved my children’s lives,” said Pansy.

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to look at her, not a little surprise behind them. Pansy supposed the surprise was to be expected:  why would this woman expect Draco Malfoy of all people to value life when his reputation was so violent?

“I just don’t want to see him hurt,” said Pansy.

“Him?!” said Hermione, and her voice was a bit shriller than it had been a moment earlier. “I don’t hear too many people worrying about Draco Malfoy getting hurt.”

Hermione was scowling, and Pansy nodded to concede the point.

“He’s dangerous, yes,” said Pansy. “But Draco takes care of his own, and now that includes you. There are only a handful of people in this world who could hurt him, and now you’re one of them. Forgive me if it makes me a little bit nervous.”

“It makes you nervous?”

“Very,” said Pansy.

Pansy watched her carefully, searching for tells. She was not as good at reading them as Draco or Lucius, but Pansy saw nothing but righteous frustration in her expression.

“If anyone should be nervous, it’s me,” she said. “I’m a Mudblood surrounded by snakes.”

Pansy crossed one leg over the other. She gave Hermione a long look and shrugged.

“That’s not what matters to them,” said Pansy.

“What?”

“Your blood status. It’s not what matters, or at least, not what matters most,” she said. “With your brains, I would have thought you’d be smart enough to figure that out.”

Pansy was running her finger along the back of the sofa, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her stomach roiled with suppressed anxiety, and she had never been any good at Occlumency, so she had no choice but to feel it.

“They ask too much of him,” said Pansy. “Too much violence, too much Darkness. It’ll get him killed one day.”

She heard commotion in another room, the sound of Patrick’s footsteps running back toward her. Pansy’s eyes snapped to Hermione’s face, and there was something hard in her tone when she spoke.

“You had better not be the reason he dies,” Pansy said.

But before Hermione Granger could ask more questions, Draco, Patrick, and Gregory all appeared in the room. Pansy’s heart ached as she looked at her boys, still thinking about what would have befallen them if it weren’t for Draco Malfoy.

~

Hermione felt rather unmoored after spending time with Pansy. What did matter to the Malfoys more than blood status? Political power, perhaps? Hermione tried to put her brains to use, but they were sluggish, so, she decided to do what she always did when she was feeling adrift: go to the library.

She knocked softly on Lucius Malfoy’s study that evening.

“Come in,” he said.

Hermione pushed the door open and saw her father-in-law seated at his desk, his head resting on his fingertips as he read through a document. The room was illuminated by a candelabra that brought more light and warmth to the study than she would have expected. He seemed a bit surprised that it was her, appraising her with cool grey eyes.

“How may I help you, Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked.

She gave a small snort of derisive laughter.

“First, you can stop calling me that,” she said. “It’s Hermione.”

Lucius met her stare with a challenging one of his own, leaning back in his chair and twirling his quill in his fingers.

“You don’t like your new name?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” answered Hermione.

“Hm,” said Lucius.

There was a pause, a moment of silence, and Hermione was about to ask him for permission to go to the library when he spoke again.

“Do you know much of the Malfoy family history, Hermione?”

She shook her head.

“It’s an ancient line. The name itself came over from France in 1066. My ancestors helped put William the Conqueror on the throne,” said Lucius.

“William the…” said Hermione, brow furrowed in confusion. “But he was a Muggle?”

“Indeed,” said Lucius, and he was running his finger across the top of his desk. “Much of my family’s history is rather dark, I make no excuses for that, but one thread runs true throughout: it is not blood supremacy that has guided the Malfoy family’s actions.”

“Mr. Malfoy, it’s been-“

“Lucius.”

She paused, mouth open.

“If I’m to call you Hermione, you should call me Lucius,” he said.

“Lucius,” she said through her teeth. “It’s been fifteen years since the first time your son called me Mudblood, and I’ve watched you and the New Ministry craft barrier after barrier for Muggleborns in society. I’m a bit sceptical that blood supremacy isn’t your family’s primary motivator.”

“I’m no great champion of the rights of Mudbloods, but those policies came from the Dark Lord,” said Lucius, raising a pale eyebrow at her.

“If not blood supremacy, then what?” Hermione snapped.

He gave a dark chuckle.

“Money. Longevity. Continuity,” said Lucius simply.

She did not understand.

“Through one thousand years of turmoil in England, the Malfoy family has survived, and we must continue to do so. If Antonin Dolohov wrests control from me upon the Dark Lord’s death, we will not. You are perhaps our best hope for ensuring that we do,” said Lucius, and with that, he sat up in his chair, rapping his knuckles on his desk. “Now, tell me what you came here for.”

The dark mood in the study had broken, and suddenly, he was just a man, a paternal figure waiting for his young daughter-in-law to ask a favour. She cleared her throat.

“The library,” she said. “I’d like to use it. I need to start researching some of the things on the list.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Will I be able to enter it?” she asked cautiously.

Hermione had, up to that point, kept herself in a very small fraction of the massive estate that was Malfoy Manor: her bedroom, the traveling parlour, the dining room. She had not dared venture out of those spaces. Lucius laced his fingers together.

“Hermione,” he said, and her skin tingled at his use of her name. “There is no place in this house that is off-limits to you. This is your home, and you may go anywhere you like.”

She considered his words for a long moment, letting herself recognize that, once again, this was an attempt at kindness. An attempt to make her part of the battle to come.

She jerked her head in a nod.

“Jinxy!” said Lucius, and a House Elf appeared with a pop. “Please take Mrs. Malfoy to the library.”

It took the elf half a second to realize that Lucius meant her and not Narcissa, but Jinxy bowed low to the ground.

“This way, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said in a smooth, high-pitched voice.

Hermione’s mind had already drifted to the list of Horcruxes. The trident stood out in her mind, and she was ready to dive into research to locate the mysterious island on which the mer-king’s stolen trident was kept. The rest of the list was frustratingly opaque, but she supposed that the library was as good a place as any to start.

They took so many turns and passed through so many doors that Hermione did not think she would ever find the library on her own, but when Jinxy led her into it, she gasped. The entry had a marble floor with the Malfoy family crest inlaid. There were two matching staircases that led to a second floor, and every wall was covered with books, ladders poised so that the top shelves could be reached. There were alcoves with desks and chairs, lamps hovering in midair above each, and bright, golden windows that overlooked the manicured rosebushes in the garden. A set of beautiful French doors led out to a terrace with a wrought iron table and chairs.

“Anything else that you need, Mrs. Malfoy?” Jinxy asked.

“No, thank you,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, still in awe, and Jinxy began to leave, but she turned. “Wait. Jinxy, how is it organized? How do I find the books I need?”

Jinxy narrowed his bulbous eyes in confusion.

“You simply ask,” he said with a shrug, and with a pop, he was gone.

Ask.

“Hogwarts: A History,” she said.

In an instant, the book appeared in front of her, but it was not the familiar bound version she had taken with her to school. Hermione hardly dared to touch this copy; it was leather-bound with yellowing parchment, and when she pulled open the front cover, she saw an inscription.

First edition.

And a handwritten note:

Dear Magnus, It was a pleasure to have your input on my work. You do your family proud. Hail Slytherin! Sincerely, Bathilda

Hermione’s fingers moved away from the book like it had burned her. A first edition Hogwarts: A History with a personal note from Bathilda Bagshot herself! And who was Magnus? A Malfoy, surely?

“Malfoy Family History,” said Hermione aloud.

Another thick book appeared, levitating in front of her, and Hermione plucked it from the air and set it on a nearby desk, flipping it open until she found a family tree that began with Armand Malfoy (d. 1091). She scanned the names, the lineage easy to follow, as each Malfoy generation had exactly one son. Nicholas, Titus, on and on until she found Magnus, grandfather to Abraxas, grandfather to Draco.

Hermione did not even know her great-grandparents’ names.

She shut the book and pushed it away from her. The library took this as an indication that she was finished with it, and it disappeared.

Oh, she was going to like this library very much.

“Books on the Mer-king’s Trident,” she announced.

A trio of books appeared in the air, and Hermione dragged them to the desk, settling in for a long evening of the familiar comfort of reading.

 ~

“Where is she?” asked a gruff voice in the doorway.

His son. There was no need to ask of whom he spoke.

“She’s in the library,” said Lucius. “She’s researching the location of the Horcruxes and how we might destroy them once we find them.”

Lucius looked up at Draco, seeing his tall frame leaning in the doorway, his face inscrutable as always. Lucius heaved a sigh. He sometimes wondered if he had done wrong by his son. Abraxas had told him under no uncertain terms that the Malfoy family must survive, and after Harry Potter had fallen, Lucius had made a decision: Draco would be a force to create violence, not to be killed by it. Draco had survived ten years of the Dark Lord, and he would survive the impending civil war. Lucius had created the perfect weapon.

But at what cost?

The life Lucius had made for Draco had left his son emotionally closed-off in a way that even Lucius himself was not. Lucius was a schemer, a manipulator, but also a lover, and he had fallen hard for Narcissa when they were teenagers. He did not think he would have survived the years unscathed without her intelligence and her support. Narcissa was his partner in all.

Draco had no partner to lean on.

There was some small part of Lucius, one he did not want to admit he had, that hoped Hermione Granger would draw Draco out of the hard exterior he had built for himself. He knew that Narcissa hoped for this as well, and thus, she was pretending that the marriage was a normal one, not one made for political purposes alone.

“The wards have been fixed,” said Draco. “No one can come into the Manor without one of us.”

“One of us,” said Lucius. “Does that include your wife?”

“No,” said Draco. “Not yet.”

Lucius nodded his agreement. His son’s emotional health aside, Lucius did not quite trust his new daughter-in-law with the power to circumvent Malfoy Manor’s wards. The Manor was quite protective of its family members, but he did not know if it would properly recognize a threat if she did not consider it one.

“Am I needed for anything else?” asked Draco.

Lucius looked up at his son, at the dark shadows under his eyes and the perpetual sag of his shoulders. Exhaustion. A faint scent of Dark magic in the air around him. Lucius eyed the clock on the wall. After one o’ clock in the morning.

“No, Draco,” said Lucius. “Get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

There is no place in this house that is off-limits to you.

Hermione decided to take her father-in-law’s words to heart. When she awoke, Draco’s bedroom door was open, the lights dim, so she assumed he had left on some mission that the New Ministry required. She descended the staircase and saw neither Lucius nor Narcissa, so she set about exploring Malfoy Manor.

She had seen very little of it: her bedroom, the dining room, the library, Lucius’s study. There were dozens of rooms left unexplored, and Hermione began pushing doors open cautiously and peering inside. There was a large banquet room with an ornate fireplace and a long table. Hermione’s skin prickled with the remnants of dark magic when she entered.

Next, she found a massive portrait gallery with dozens of platinum-haired men sneering down at her from within their frames.

“Is this the Mudblood?” asked one.

“Yes, the young Master’s new wife,” said another.

The portraits gossiped about her as though she was not there.

At the opposite end of the portrait gallery was a set of large doors that slid open for her as she approached. There was a small anteroom there with a set of chairs and coat hooks lining the walls. There were two cloaks hanging there. She walked across the room and through the next door, finding herself in what seemed to be a gym.

There was a ring in the centre that reminded her of boxing, though she could feel the hum of magic around it that told her this was a magical fighting ring, woven with protective spells so that duelers could practice. Around the edges of the room was workout equipment: barbells, machinery. She thought of Draco, of his broad shoulders that strained at the seams of his shirts, and she assumed that he spent plenty of time in this room.

She wandered the perimeter, letting her fingers touch the cold, rough metal of the weights, cocking her head at the various contraptions and wondering how they worked. At the back corner, she paused at a door that stood half open. She could smell damp wood and feel warm steam. A sauna.

Hermione was delighted, immediately planning to make use of the room at her first opportunity, but then, she heard it.

A very quiet sound. A huff of breath that was almost a moan. She froze.

But she could hear the panting breaths coming from inside the room, and her curiosity was too strong. She angled her body, careful not to touch the door or walls, not to alert whoever was inside of her presence, and she saw it.

Draco Malfoy was sitting on the wooden bench in the sauna. She saw him in profile. He was shirtless, and Hermione knew she had been correct: he spent a great deal of time in the gym. His shoulders and arms were chiseled, his chest sculpted. He was leaning back slightly, his hands grasping the bench behind him, his eyes closed and his head tipped backward, a relaxed expression on his face that she had not ever seen on him before.

And kneeling between his legs was Theo Nott.

She let her eyes wander across his mop of wavy brown hair, his lithe, slender build, one of his hands grasping Draco’s thigh. All this, she stared at as she tried to ignore what he was doing, but finally, her eyes could find nothing else to linger on, and she watched as Theo’s head bobbed up and down on Draco’s erection.

Unexpectedly, a flood of heat and arousal went through her body at this. She saw Draco’s knuckles going white as they gripped the bench behind him, saw Theo’s efforts invigorate, and she heard the sound again.

The soft huff exhaled through Draco’s nose. Not quite a moan of pleasure. It was as though he was trying not to make any sounds at all, but that small huff could not help but escape. The strict control he held over his mind and body at all times flagged just enough to allow that soft sniff.

And then, she watched his stomach muscles tense sharply, and one of his hands went to the back of Theo’s head, threading his fingers in Theo’s hair, and Draco grunted, quietly, quickly, but she saw Theo slow his movements, swallowing what he could as Draco heaved a gasping breath.

There was silence, and then, Theo sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The two men stared at each other for a long time, their expressions giving away nothing.

“Your turn?” asked Draco simply.

“Nah,” said Theo with a shrug. “Not today. Thanks, though.”

Draco nodded.

They began to stand, refastening trousers, and Hermione realized that if she did not move, they would likely leave the room and find her standing in the doorway. She looked around the gym. The front door was too far, she would not make it there in time. She scanned for another option and saw a nearby door ajar. Though her shoes were not rubber soled, she stepped softly on the balls of her feet, peering into the open door and finding a supply closet. She hid herself within it, hoping desperately that neither Theo nor Draco would need anything inside it.

She heard their voices echoing in the gym, and there was no emotion or laughter in their tone. It was all business-like.

“You’ll get the transfer notice to the New Ministry?” said Draco’s voice.

“This afternoon,” answered Theo.

“I’ll make sure you have the invoices,” Draco responded.

Hermione heard the door to the gym open and slam shut, and their voices were gone.

Her mind reeled with what she had witnessed, and she had absolutely no idea what to make of it. Part of her was shocked and horrified at the sight of Draco getting off in a sauna with another Death Eater, though another surprising part of her was titillated by what she’d seen. She had a momentary impulse to slide her fingers between her legs, find the sensitive place between them and bring herself to orgasm for the first time in… Merlin, she didn’t even know how long.

The image of Draco shirtless would not leave her mind, the way his muscles rippled and clenched, his hands furling in Theo’s hair and the soft, quiet grunt that left his throat when he came. A man who kept everything under tight control but could not stifle that soft sound of pleasure… it made her core tingle and ache.

But in a way, it made her sad. Was Draco in love with Theo and unable to be with him? Was he just so lonely that Theo was his only outlet?

Once she felt sure that they were long gone, Hermione extricated herself from the supply closet and made her way back through the Manor, but as she approached the main parlour, she heard urgent voices. Hermione followed them, arriving in the room to see Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Theo.

She tried not to blush as Theo met her eyes.

“We can’t go to them again,” Draco was saying. “Now that they all know about us, they could plan an ambush.”

“You can’t suggest that we bring them here,” said Lucius patiently.

“You’re the Chancellor for Magic, and it’s my job to keep you alive. You’re asking me to let you walk into a lion’s den,” spat Draco. “I absolutely-”

But he broke off, seeing that Hermione had arrived. Lucius and Narcissa turned to her as well, both smiling, though Narcissa’s looked kinder than her husband’s.

“Hello, Hermione,” she said. “We’re just discussing a meeting that Lucius and Draco have been asked to attend.”

“I see,” she said, the gears in her head turning. “It’s going to rain tonight?”

Lucius gave a low chuckle.

“It is,” he said. “And my son is concerned that my safety might be in question should I attend.”

Hermione looked between each face. Draco had a dark expression, his grey eyes like daggers and his jaw clenched tightly. Theo was standing just behind Draco, mirroring his posture with his arms folded and weight balanced equally between his feet. There was something in his body language telling her that he would take Draco’s side in all things. Narcissa looked maternal: worried, thoughtful, kind, and some measure of patience that seemed very practiced.

Lucius had an expression that said he had figured everything out already and was just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

“It wouldn’t make any sense for them to kill you,” said Hermione. “An ally inside the New Ministry is the biggest accomplishment we’ve had in a decade.”

Lucius cocked his head to one side, looking at his son.

“There are too many people in that organization who hate you,” said Draco firmly. “Your life isn’t worth whatever scrap of information they might have.”

“Then leave me here,” said Hermione. “Leave me here with Narcissa. If they kill you, she’ll kill me.”

She might have expected Narcissa to blanch at this suggestion, but she did not. Narcissa was made of stronger stuff than Hermione had realized; perhaps there was more of her sister in her than she’d once thought.

“Keep you as a hostage?” asked Lucius, laughing again. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Then I can go alone,” offered Hermione. “I can get the information they have and bring it back. You can even take my memory for the Pensieve if you’re worried I might-”

“No,” said Draco.

There was too much insistence in his tone to argue. In the end, it was agreed that Lucius, Draco, and Hermione would all attend the Order meeting that night.

“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asked Theo.

“They might panic if we bring another Death Eater,” Draco said. “Thanks, though.”

Hermione had never before heard Draco thank anyone.

~

According to Ernie, there was much gossip going around the New Ministry about Draco Malfoy’s sudden marriage to Hermione Granger. Most thought that it was simply a way for Lucius Malfoy to continue to consolidate power, bringing one of the Golden Trio to heel, a woman rumoured to have a Leadership position in the Order of the Phoenix.

But there were a few who believed, or at least wanted to believe, the story that the Malfoys had publicly put forward: that Draco and Hermione had been secretly involved during their time at Hogwarts, and that she was not a member of any resistance organization but in fact a New Ministry supporter from the beginning.

“Some people are whispering that Hermione is going to convince Lucius to drop the Muggleborn Registry,” said Ernie.

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

“And do they like or hate that idea?”

“The half-bloods all like it, but there’s a fair amount of support for it among the Pureblood crowd. You know, people like us,” said Ernie.

“Blood traitors, you mean?”

Ernie laughed and elbowed her in the ribs. She took his hand and they Apparated to East Finchley with a crack.

Ginny had been trying to catch a glimpse of Hermione at the New Ministry. It was rumoured that Draco did not much like to let her out of his sight. Though she’d heard a few witches say this as though it was romantic that he was so protective over her, Ginny worried that it was not protection that the Malfoys sought but control: monitoring her every move and keeping her under lock and key.

She intended to find out.

The room was bustling with energy as Order members shook hands and hugged, touching each other so they could be absolutely sure that everyone was alive and well and present. Her parents weren’t there that night, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was. They had not seen him in a while; he was on the New Ministry’s Most Wanted list for his attempted assassination of the Chancellor himself.

“Kingsley, you know who’s coming tonight, don’t you?” asked Ernie with a broad grin.

“Yes, I’m very much looking forward to seeing the look on the Chancellor’s face when he sees that I am not, in fact, in Zimbabwe,” he replied with a laugh.

But the light-hearted laughing and handshaking stopped in an instant when Lucius, Draco, and Hermione appeared. Draco had his wand in his hand, eyes scanning the small group with vigilance.

“Ginny,” said Hermione with a smile, but when she tried to shoulder past Draco, he stiffened and very nearly reached out to stop her.

Hermione fixed him with a glare and hugged Ginny anyway.

“Are you okay?” Ginny asked softly against Hermione’s mass of brown curls.

“I’m okay,” she replied. “Really.”

Ginny pulled back, holding Hermione’s shoulders and looking into her face carefully. She looked… fine. She seemed rested, relaxed, calm in a way that none of the Order members were anymore.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” drawled Lucius Malfoy.

“Surprised to see me?” asked Kingsley with a bright white grin.

“No,” said Lucius. “Draco has been tracking your movements for the last eight months.”

Ginny and the rest of the Order shared dark looks. What other clandestine Order operations did Chancellor Lucius Malfoy already know about? Draco was glaring daggers at Kingsley, and it was a wonder that a fight didn’t break out right away.

“Let’s get to business,” said Remus, and the room settled, though Ginny noticed that Draco did not sit down. He stood behind his father’s chair, wand in hand, eyes sweeping the room.

“You have information for us,” said Lucius, leaning back in his chair and surveying the Order.

“As many of you know,” Remus began, looking around the room, “I have a blank space in my memory, so I’m not entirely sure what this information means, but I received it from one of our operatives inside Hogwarts.”

Ginny assumed he meant McGonagall, though perhaps Flitwick or Sprout had joined the cause. The Order was particular about keeping its network of informants as confidential as possible, sometimes even from each other.

“The missive stated that ‘two are in the Lestrange vault,’” said Remus.

Ginny looked around the room to see if anyone else understood the message. She sure had not, and Ernie was shrugging at her.

“Two what?” asked Fred, but Hermione said, “Oh!”

“I take it this means something to you,” said Remus.

Lucius and Hermione both nodded, Draco looming like a shadow behind them.

“Can you get me in there?” Hermione asked Lucius, and there was excitement and hopefulness in her voice that Ginny had not heard in many years.

“I’m sure we could,” mused Lucius. “But it is a traitorous thing you ask me to do.”

“You’ve already betrayed Voldemort,” snapped Fred, and Lucius slowly slid his gaze to Ginny’s brother. “What makes this traitorous?”

“The Dark Lord is politics,” said Lucius. “This is family.”

“I’m family now,” replied Hermione, her eyes narrowed and an edge of danger in her voice that reminded Ginny very much of the days when Hermione had trapped Rita Skeeter in an unbreakable jar.

Lucius’s low laugh was silky smooth.

“What would my father think of a Mudblood in the family?” he said.

Several people began speaking at once, all hurling insults of varying levels of creativity in Lucius’s direction. The last word thrown out before Remus managed to silence the group was “elderberries,” and Ginny rather wished she’d been able to catch that insult in full. Lucius did not seem perturbed by any of it, though Draco was scowling.

Hermione, too, seemed unbothered by the commotion and completely unfazed by Lucius’s use of the familiar slur. They seemed to be taking each other’s measure, Lucius and Hermione, and Ginny knew that there was something between them that no one else knew. Some tacit agreement that was unspoken.

“Is that all the information you have?” asked Lucius coolly.

“That’s it,” said Remus.

“I’ll be sure to take my family to the vaults,” said Lucius, a slow smile creeping across his lips, and Hermione looked rather victorious. “We will report any relevant information to you when we have it.”

Draco was watchful as Hermione said her goodbyes, his eyes finding wands in pockets and hands, making sure they were not used. Ginny grasped Hermione’s hand and pulled her close.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ginny quietly, a worried quaver in her voice. “I can’t believe he called you that.”

“He said it because he knew it would bother you, not me,” said Hermione with an eye roll, her voice firmer than Ginny’s had been. “I’m telling you, I’m fine. It’s been… better than I expected.”

“That’s not saying much,” said Ginny.

Hermione let out a bright laugh, so light and airy that half the room turned to her. It was rare that anyone laughed like that anymore. With a soft grin on her face, Hermione squeezed Ginny’s arms and nodded before turning back to her keepers, placing one palm over Draco Malfoy’s arm. With a crack, the three Malfoys disappeared.

Chapter Text

The four Malfoys had spent hours discussing the best way to convince the Lestranges to allow them entrance to the vault. If Voldemort had actually entrusted Rodolphus and Bellatrix with two of his Horcruxes, then it was likely that he had impressed upon them the importance of their security.

“You could order them to allow your entry,” Draco had suggested.

“And alert them to the seriousness of our inquiry?” said Lucius. “I think not.”

They’d gone around and around until Hermione had finally thought of a clever solution.

“If we don’t want them to realize the seriousness of it, we need to make it seem like a passing fancy,” said Hermione. “The whims of your wife and daughter-in-law, Lucius.”

“Go on,” said Lucius.

“Some long-forgotten heirloom from the Black family. Something Narcissa wants for the wedding reception,” said Hermione. “She can’t find it in the Malfoy or Black vaults, so it surely must be in the Lestrange one.”

Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa had looked at each other with some measure of surprise. It was a good plan, a better one than any they’d considered thus far.

“I’ll put it to Rodolphus tomorrow,” said Lucius, and with that, he rapped his knuckles on the table and stood, leaving the room with sharp, clipped footsteps.

Hermione thought for a moment that she, Draco, and Narcissa would continue talking, but at that moment, a silvery, wispy, unformed Patronus appeared, hovering in front of Draco.

The Network has attacked a group of Inquisitors. You are needed.

Draco had no expression on his face as he pushed his chair back, his hand in his pocket to pull out his wand. With his fingers wrapped tightly around it, he disappeared with a crack, and Hermione and Narcissa were left alone.

“It’s rather late, but perhaps we should have a glass of wine,” said Narcissa.

Hermione would have demurred, but a House Elf had appeared with a soft pop in an instant with two glasses and a bottle, and Hermione murmured her thanks quietly. She watched Narcissa swirl the wine in the glass, taking a deep inhale of the wine before sipping it.

“I have to admit that I know very little about wine,” said Hermione.

Narcissa let out a laugh.

“Nor do I,” she said. “But I find that if I pretend well enough, no one asks any questions.”

Hermione thought that this advice might apply to more than just wine drinking. They sat in companionable silence for a while, their glasses half-drunk before Hermione worked up the courage to ask the question that was on her mind.

“Why did you marry Lucius?” she asked.

Narcissa’s eyes swept down to Hermione’s wine glass, perhaps looking to see if she’d drunk so much that the wine was making her bold.

“Are you asking if it was an arranged marriage?” said Narcissa, sipping wine.

There was no point in pretending, so Hermione nodded.

“Hm,” Narcissa said. “Of sorts, I suppose. My father made no secret that he would only accept proposals from the wealthiest and most powerful families in Britain.”

Hermione nodded her understanding, and she watched as Narcissa uncrossed her legs, flipping them over one another.

“Nearly every family with a son would have loved to have one of us,” said Narcissa, and Hermione made a face, so Narcissa laughed. “You’re Muggleborn. You don’t know how it is.”

“I know how Muggle kings used to make political alliances,” said Hermione, her nose still wrinkled up in disgust.

“You know, one of Lucius’s ancestors tried to marry Queen Elizabeth I,” Narcissa said.

Hermione let out a disbelieving laugh, and Narcissa smiled, then sighed.

“But Bella was… difficult. The scions of the most powerful houses were too wary of her. She has some of the Black family madness in her. And after Andromeda was such a disappointment to the family,” Narcissa began, and Hermione had to stop herself from snorting, “my father was a bit particular about who I should marry. He would not have approved many marriages, and I feared him too much to disobey.”

“So you were forced to marry Lucius?” asked Hermione, but Narcissa shook her head. “Encouraged, then?”

Narcissa smiled into her wine glass as though recalling a long-ago memory, one that brought her a kind of joy that was rarely seen in the post-Voldemort world. Unexpectedly, it made a grin tug at the corner of Hermione’s lips, too.

“I fell madly in love with Lucius when we were at Hogwarts,” said Narcissa. “And he was almost insufferable in his adoration. When Malfoy men love, they love very intensely.”

Hermione’s face fell, and she felt like a cold stone had dropped onto her diaphragm. Narcissa noticed this, and she reached out a hand, placing it on top of Hermione’s arm. It was warm to the touch, and it was more comforting than she would have expected.

“This isn’t what I would have planned for him, either,” said Narcissa.

Hermione nodded, the strangeness of the situation proving almost too much for her. There was still a swallow of wine left in her glass, but she did not want it. Her chair groaned against the floors as she pushed it back, standing and offering a lame attempt at a smile to Narcissa.

“Thank you,” she said politely. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Good night, darling,” said Narcissa.

~

Draco ground his teeth at the task that lay before him, not because it was beyond his skillset, but because it involved following Granger and his mother to Gringotts to visit Rodolphus Lestrange’s vault.

It had not been difficult to convince Rodolphus to let them into the vault; the story of the long-forgotten Black heirloom and his silly mother’s whims made Rodolphus laugh heartily and wave his hand in the air in acquiescence. The challenge was convincing him that Bellatrix need not accompany them. They had needed to come up with two dozen reasons why this day or that time wouldn’t work for them, finally convincing the Lestranges that their schedules were simply too complicated to ever match up and not to worry about it.

“We’ll be able to find it ourselves, not to worry!” Narcissa had said brightly.

“Don’t let the Mudblood touch anything,” Bellatrix had hissed.

With the key to the vault in hand, they arrived at Gringotts, the two women walking purposefully along the marble floors with Draco’s silent steps a few feet behind. The goblins had been told that Narcissa would be coming to the Lestrange vault, but they eyed his mother with some suspicion, nonetheless. She produced the right documents and, of course, had the right name, so they were escorted to the mine carts that led below. Though the goblins at Gringotts did respect the Malfoys, being the family with perhaps the largest vault in the entire bank, they did not bow or scrape. The goblin did not cower under Draco’s scowl as he climbed into the cart.

The journey was long and very familiar, but he watched Granger’s eyes look around in wonder as they passed under the waterfall without getting wet.

“It removes identity-concealing measures,” said the goblin with a dark, hungry grin.

The goblin pulled out his set of Clankers, and Granger jumped half out of her seat as he began rattling them. He heard her gasp as they passed the old, blind dragon guarding the lower levels, leaning back in the mine cart so that she was flush against him. He wanted to shrug her off, but then, he saw the angry set of her brow.

“You’ve trapped that poor creature down here?” she said.

His mother turned to her in disbelief.

“It’s a dragon,” said his mother, as though that explained everything.

“It’s a living thing! It shouldn’t be kept in a damp underground cave as a slave!” hissed Granger.

Draco was surprised to find he rather liked this side of her.

They arrived at his aunt and uncle’s vault, and the goblin ran his finger down the door, gesturing out with his arm.

“Go ahead,” he said.

The three of them entered. They immediately fanned out, searching carefully among the piles of gold, trinkets, and heirlooms. The Malfoy vault was meticulously organized, each item labeled and stored in order of age. The Lestrange vault was… less so. There were mounds of Galleons with jewelry balanced precariously on top.

They had agreed in advance not to speak of their true purpose outside of Malfoy Manor; there was no telling what charms might be in place to listen into their conversation, so they had each been assigned three of the Horcruxes to look for. Granger had been fairly certain that the trident would not be in the vault, but Draco was charged with looking for it, nonetheless.

“It’s a lovely ring, Hermione,” said Narcissa sweetly. “Please do let me know if you spot it.”

“Of course,” she said.

It was slow going. Draco found a pile of books and was looking at each, trying to determine whether there was anything that might fit the descriptor, “Durmstrang.” There were none. His mother was pawing through a pile of ornate jewelry searching for something that might be Ravenclaw’s diadem. It had been almost an hour when he heard Granger gasp.

He snapped his gaze to her and saw her holding a cup, gold and finely wrought with a badger etched on one side. She nodded solemnly.

Two are in the Lestrange vault.

Granger slid the cup in her bag and went back to her search. Twice, he thought he had found something, only to have Granger shake her head. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack: there were a dozen lockets to look at and fifty keys.

“Hermione,” said his mother in a low whisper that gave Draco a shiver up his spine. “It’s this one. I can feel it.”

Granger turned, glancing at the hand mirror that his mother held in her hand. It was pewter, the mirror itself dingy and old, but he did not dare cast a spell to clear the reflection. But, as he approached, he could feel the pulse of dark magic within it, its darkness calling to the imprint of every Cruciatus and Avada Kedavra that Draco had ever cast. It thumped in time with the blood in his veins, like calling to like.

“This is it,” said Draco firmly. “I’m sure of it.”

“As am I,” said Granger. “Hand it here.”

His mother seemed almost reluctant to part with it, and Draco could sense the reason why. The mirror seemed to be begging them not to give it to someone so brave and pure of heart; it belonged to darkness. He watched his mother’s pupils dilate, staring at her own reflection in the dingy mirror for a long time before she suddenly shook her head sharply, shaking off the pull of the dark magic within it and handing the mirror to Granger.

“Oh, dear,” said his mother in a voice that was just a touch too performative. “I think this isn’t the one after all. Perhaps it’s in our vaults. We’ll look again another day, Hermione.”

They rapped on the door to the vault, and the goblin standing just outside opened it for them. Granger’s bag was magically enchanted so that it looked empty even with the two Horcruxes inside, and thankfully, the goblin asked no questions. They rode the mine cart past the dragon, through the waterfall, and back into the upper floors of Gringotts. After exiting the front doors, the three of them Apparated back to Malfoy Manor with a crack.

His father was standing in the room waiting for them, and he looked them over carefully.

“Well?” he asked.

“We have them,” said his mother.

His father nodded his approval and turned on his heel, marching out of the room with loud footsteps. Suddenly, Granger looked as though her knees might give way. Draco, having caught her in a dead faint once before, moved to her side, taking her by the elbow and forcing her to the sofa. She was trembling madly.

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” said his mother.

“Could I get a coffee instead?” she said in a wavering voice.

“Of course.”

In short order, a House Elf appeared with a cup of coffee, steaming and topped with milk. Granger took it thankfully.

“It’s times like this I miss the damned espresso machine,” she said, inspecting the coffee in her hand.

“What’s an espresso machine?” asked his mother.

Granger began describing it animatedly, seeming to be comforted by this familiar line of questioning. He reached out for her bag, waiting for her to nod her permission for him to take it. Draco brought it to his father’s study, where Lucius was already waiting.

“In here,” said Lucius.

He opened a safe, and Draco placed the cup and the mirror inside it. Lucius, too, seemed to be called by the mirror, holding the door to the safe open for a beat too long before shaking himself and slamming it shut.

“Well done,” he said.

“We have no means to destroy them,” said Draco. “We don’t know how. We can’t keep them here for long or we’ll be found out.”

“One problem at a time, Draco,” said his father dismissively. “For now, there are two new Death Eaters joining our ranks, and you are needed for the induction ceremony.”

Draco scratched absently at his left forearm.

“Who’ll be performing it?”

“You,” said his father, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk.

Draco took a deep breath and jerked his head in a nod. He turned on his heel and left the study, Apparating mid-stride and arriving at the New Ministry. The ceremonies took place in the Department of Mysteries, and he pushed his way through the doors, arriving in a rotunda where a dozen of his colleagues waited, wearing Death Eater masks and robes. A man and a woman knelt in the centre of the rotunda, and they looked up at him with undisguised admiration as he approached.

He clenched his jaw.

Each time he performed an induction ceremony, he was taken back to his own. He had been sixteen years old, terrified and powerless. The Dark Lord had barely returned to power; there was no formal induction at the New Ministry. It was just Draco, kneeling before the Dark Lord as his parents stood by. His aunt had watched, her face greedy, as the Dark Lord burned the Mark into his skin. The pain of it haunted him still, as had the stricken look on his mother’s face.

After Hogwarts, he had vowed never to be terrified or powerless again.

Some of the leaders took their time with the induction, standing on ceremony and reading nonsense incantations in Latin. They wore bright red robes and took droplets of blood, pretending that it was required. Draco did not bother. With a rough jerk, he took the man’s arm, yanking it toward himself and pressing his wand to it.

“Morsmorde,” he said in a cold voice.

The man began writhing in agony, his screams scraping at his throat until it was raw. He gripped his forearm, his hand scratching at it frantically, instinctually trying to rid it of the burning pain, but it was no use. Draco watched dispassionately as the man fell into fetal position, his screams echoing in the rotunda until he finally fell silent.

The second person was always worse. They knew what to expect, and their arms always trembled and jerked away from him. This time, as always, he was forced to cast an immobilization spell first, and the witch’s screams of torment were that much worse for the fact that she could not move, could not curl up against the pain.

But then, it was done. The witch and wizard stood, grinning broadly even as they massaged their aching forearms, shaking hands with the Death Eaters in the circle around them.

Draco did not bother. He turned to leave the Department of Mysteries so that he could return home. It was late, nearing eleven o’ clock, and he was, as always, exhausted.

“Malfoy!” shouted a voice that he knew and had dreaded to hear.

Rodolphus.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked in a steady voice, one that did not give away anything.

“We did not. My mother is now convinced that the ring must be at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place,” said Draco, waving a hand dismissively as though the entire endeavor was preposterous.

Rodolphus laughed.

“She’ll have a time getting in there,” he said.

Draco made a grunt of agreement. He began to turn to leave, but Rodolphus grasped his arm. Draco stiffened, tamping down his immediate instinct to reach for his wand and drop into a fighting stance. Rodolphus seemed to read this body language.

“Easy,” he said in an almost paternal voice that set Draco’s teeth on edge. “Just wondering how that young Mudblood of yours is treating you.”

“Very well, thank you,” said Draco through a clenched jaw.

“I always say I’d never dip my cock into a Mudblood, but for her, I’d probably make an exception. Let me know if you’d ever like to share her,” said Rodolphus with an evil grin. “Arrangements could be made.”

Draco pulled his arm away roughly, and he straightened his robes, taking the time to calm his rising temper. His hand patted at the reassuring shape of his wand in his pocket.

“I’ll let you know,” said Draco coolly.

Chapter Text

“Why does Rodolphus Lestrange want me?” asked Hermione, interrupting what had been a silent meal at Malfoy Manor.

No one answered. Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa eyed each other warily.

“I’m a Mudblood,” she said without flinching. “Why would he want me?”

It was Lucius who cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair, drumming his fingertips on the table as though deciding how much to tell her. He took a slow breath.

“He wants anything the Malfoys have,” said Lucius, and his eyes swept to his wife. “He wanted to marry Narcissa, but her father permitted me to have her hand instead.”

If she hadn’t spoken to Narcissa on this subject the previous day, Hermione might have been horror-struck, but she could not help but recall the way Narcissa talked about Lucius. I fell madly in love with Lucius when we were at Hogwarts. Narcissa’s lips were turned upward in a slight grin as he spoke.

“And so, he was forced to settle for a lesser Black sister,” Lucius continued. “He wants our money, he wants our power, and now…”

Lucius turned to her.

“And now, because Draco has you, he wants you,” said Lucius.

Hermione felt rather sick as this realization. It made the entire political situation seem even more precarious. The New Ministry seemed on the verge of civil war. She tilted her head to one side, considering their short list of allies.

“You said the Azkaban warden might be loyal to you,” said Hermione.

She met their eyes in turn, trying to radiate confidence.

“It is possible,” said Lucius, returning to his veal cutlets.

Hermione took a breath, jutting her chin in the air.

“I want to go to Azkaban,” she said, and when her statement was met with scepticism, she continued. “I want to see for myself.”

Lucius set his fork and knife down gently, the tines of his fork making a soft ping as they rested against his porcelain dinner plate. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and narrowing his grey eyes at her. Hermione’s nerves flared.

“I just want to understand your world,” she said, and she was surprised that her voice was so steady.

Lucius sat back in his chair.

“Ilir Hoxha has known Draco since he was a boy,” said Lucius. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have a visit. Draco, take your wife to Azkaban.”

Lucius rapped his knuckles on the table and stood to leave, Narcissa following behind. Hermione made to leave the room, but she found Draco’s immense presence in her way. She slowly lifted her chin, meeting his grey eyes, which were narrowed at her.

“You want to see Weasley,” said Draco in a harsh voice.

It was not a question.

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to feign innocence.

“You don’t care about Ilir Hoxha. You want to see Weasley in Azkaban,” he said.

Hermione’s gaze dropped to the floor.

“You won’t take me then?” she asked quietly.

Draco let out a hollow laugh.

“My father has commanded it,” he said coldly.

When they arrived at the wizard prison, the first thing she noticed was that the Dementors did not affect him. Hermione did not know if he had been to Azkaban before, but his face was cold and closed off, and the Dementors glided past him without stopping. She wondered whether it was due to his prowess with Occlumency, or if he simply did not have any happy memories left for them to take.

Her shoulders were square as she walked through the front gates of Azkaban, ignoring the Dementors posted on either side of it. She was doing a fair job of pretending not to be frightened of them, but she was certain that Draco could see through her act.

Hermione did not think that the wispy Patronuses of Death Eaters would be sufficient to keep a Dementor away, but she knew that Voldemort and his administration had lured the Dementors into compliance with promises of more freedom. They now were permitted to lurk in the misty places of Britain, preying on Muggles or unsuspecting wizards.

They guarded Azkaban still, a service they provided in exchange for Voldemort’s favor.

Draco and Hermione entered the prison into a long, dark hallway with stone floors, following the poorly lit path until they reached a set of doors. With no warning, the warden flung open the door to his office and smiled.

“Married!” said the warden, his arms wide.

Ilir Hoxha was a handsome man of middling years. He had the look of a man who had once been in very good shape, perhaps a Quidditch player in his former life. Hermione noticed immediately that he did not have a Dark Mark on his arm. Ilir’s white teeth showed in his broad smile, and he wrapped his arms around her in an enormous bear hug.

She could see that Draco had almost drawn his wand, but he had frozen when she laughed.

She laughed. A deep belly laugh right in the middle of Azkaban. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed, but Ilir had lifted her bodily from the floor and set her down in a rush, eyeing Draco as though he knew he was taking a risk by touching his wife.

“Malfoy, your wife is simply stunning,” said Ilir, the faint hint of an accent still present in his English.

Draco did not respond.

Ilir had caught sight of Draco’s hand hovering near the hilt of his wand, and he backed away from her, pressing his lips into a sad sort of smile. Lucius said that Hoxha had known Draco since childhood, and if she squinted, she could see in Ilir’s face the memory of when Draco had been a boy, before he had become this weapon. Yet, there was distance between them. Even Ilir feared Draco.

He swept his arm out to usher them into his office, shutting the door behind him. The room thrummed with the magic that repelled the Dementors, that kept the bleakness of Azkaban at bay. Without it, the warden might go as mad as the prisoners.  

Ilir settled in behind his desk, and Hermione sat in a chair across from him. Draco remained standing; his arms were folded across his chest.

“What brings you here, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy?” asked Ilir, his voice now formal, professional.

“I’d like to see the prisoners,” she said.

Ilir looked up at Draco, watching him for a reaction. Draco gave him none.

“Very well,” said Ilir, standing up from his desk.

He drew his wand slowly, with care and caution, as though knowing that any quick movements would trigger Draco into action, and Draco watched with narrowed eyes as he cast the spell to open the heavy security doors into the rest of the prison.

Hermione decided to approach the entire endeavor like she had a project at school. She was asking Ilir questions as they walked. How many prisoners were there? Were they permitted to go outside? Why did Ilir take this position as Azkaban warden? Did he feel his service was appreciated?

“By some, yes,” said Ilir, and he glanced over his shoulder at Draco looming behind him as they walked. “By your husband, certainly.”

“That’s good,” she said with a smile, filing this information away where it would hopefully be used in the future.

Her smile faded when they reached the cells.

She knew that Draco had put several of these prisoners here himself. Angelina Johnson, a former high-level operative for the Order of the Phoenix. She had been imprisoned after orchestrating a raid on a New Ministry gala. Next, Hermione saw Fleur Delacour, her brilliant blonde hair hanging limp beside her face. She had been locked away on the same day that Bill had been killed by Draco himself. Hermione shuddered to think of it. Dedalus Diggle probably should have been killed outright. The Cruciatus had done a number on him, and he rocked back and forth vacantly in his cell.

She could feel her shoulders slumped further.

“These were your friends once, no?” asked Ilir.

There was some measure of scepticism in his tone.

“Yes,” she admitted, not bothering to lie as she wiped her cheeks. “I wanted to fight the New Ministry for a long time, but it seems pointless. Magic is might.”

“And your husband is mightiest of all,” said Ilir.

Draco, not the Dark Lord. She clocked the statement, noting the message within it. Well-hidden, of course, but a small show of loyalty, nonetheless.

At last, they reached the last cell in the block. It was a dark, desolate corner. Dampness lingered in the air, and no light penetrated from the hallway. Dementors hovered just out of wand-reach, hungry for her thoughts and memories.

She could hear the heartbreak in her own small gasp, though she was trying to disguise it as shock.

“Oh, Ron,” she said in a soft, sad voice.

She could see Ron slumped against the back wall of the cell, his arms resting on his knees.  

“Can he see me?” she breathed.

“No,” said Ilir. “To him, it is a solid wall, much like the other three.”

Ilir turned his head to look at her.

“You know this one well, no? He was a friend of Harry Potter, as were you?” he asked.

Hermione nodded, still staring at Ron.

“Eight years, he has been here,” said Ilir in a low voice next to her ear.

She felt another tear fall down her cheek.

Hermione was trying not to cry as they left Azkaban, making their way down the stone floors of the hallway and out the front gates, past the hungry Dementors. She could not hear Draco’s footsteps behind her, but she assumed he was following. She wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands before Apparating back to Malfoy Manor. Hermione stood silently in the foyer before hearing the crack of Draco’s Apparition as he joined her. She swallowed thickly.

“You’re the one who put him in there, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes.”

Hermione nodded, pressing her lips together against a sob that threatened to escape.

~

Their trip to Azkaban (“your honeymoon,” his father had crooned with a laugh) had taken up too much of his day, and he was needed again. He allowed himself a single moment to rub his aching eyes, to give into the physical demands of exhaustion by letting them drift close for the briefest time, but then, he was alert again, his left hand on his wand.

Draco saw the Dark Lord more than most of his followers did. The sight of him was still jarring, even after ten years. The Dark Lord had little interest in the ruling of a country: his war had been self-serving above all. Strip away the Ministry and replace it with a puppet government that would allow the Dark Lord to satisfy his baser desires: blood purity, cruelty, and Dark magic.

Dark magic settles in the skin, in the blood. Wizards were not meant to use so much of it. The consequences of its overuse were visible in the Dark Lord’s body: he was a shadow of a man, frail and dying.

Draco always had some trepidation in his heart when he saw the Dark Lord, envisioning his own body, hunched and weak with translucent skin, the only thing keeping him upright a steady channel of Dark magic.

“Draco,” wheezed the Dark Lord. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, my Lord,” he replied.

“Your rescue of the Goyle children was a major blow against The Network,” he hissed. “I take it you’ve been able to maximize the information you have on the resistance?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he said.

The Dark Lord fixed him with a serpentine stare, his pupils narrow like slits, his mouth thin-lipped and reptilian.

“You are good at what you do,” he said.

It was not the first time he had said it.

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Draco, and he tried not to outwardly brace for what would come soon after.

“Not too good, I hope? Nothing you and your father are conspiring on?” said the Dark Lord, and his face grew hard and cruel. “Kneel.”

Draco dropped to his knees, the stone floor sending jolts of pain into them, and then, he felt the spindly fingers of the Dark Lord’s hand in his hair, jerking his chin back. Draco stared into the red eyes, and the assault began.

The Dark Lord was not particularly subtle in his use of Legilimency. He was brutal and efficient, seeking out every avenue down which a memory could be hidden. Draco’s mind was well organized, and well Occluded, but the Dark Lord seemed to press against the edges of his thoughts as though feeling for a trick door that would lead into the locked room in which Draco kept every feeling, every secret.

The Dark Lord had been paranoid about Draco and Lucius since the inception of the New Ministry, and as his power weakened, his mania had only intensified. Draco had withstood many tests of Legilimency before, but up to this point, he’d never had actual insurrection to conceal. He knew that he could not let the Dark Lord find out about Granger, about his father’s betrayal, about their plans.

His head ached when the Dark Lord finally pulled out of his mind abruptly. On wobbly legs, he pushed up to stand, the memories still safe and secure in the walls of considerable Occlumency. He was at least a head taller than the Dark Lord, but he still somehow felt like a frightened teenage boy when he stood before him.

“Very good, Draco,” said the Dark Lord. “You may go.”

Chapter Text

Lucius walked into the dining room imperiously, finding his family there already. Narcissa and Draco were seated next to each other, digging into plates of eggs and bacon, and Hermione was across from them, staring forlornly into a cup of coffee.

“Not to your liking?” he asked as he sat down, the newspaper slapping against the wood of the table.

Hermione startled.

“No, no,” she said insistently. “It’s fine, thank you.”

Lucius knew it for a lie. Narcissa and Draco had not looked up from their plates.

“Your lack of… intimacy has been noted,” said Lucius, and at this, all three of them looked up at him.

“What does that mean?” asked Draco.

“We have created a thin and barely believed cover story that your marriage is real. That you were involved at Hogwarts,” explained Lucius. “As such, it is expected that you enjoy each other’s company. That you are physically attracted and intimate with one another.”

Hermione pulled a rather disgusted face at this, and though his son was far better at concealing his emotions than his daughter-in-law, even Draco seemed rather perturbed by this information. But it was true, there had been whispers around the New Ministry that the marriage was just as much a sham as Dolohov’s would be, and if Dolohov rallied enough support around this belief, it was certainly possible that the marriage would be annulled.

“You must be seen together, and not as reluctant colleagues but as husband and wife,” said Lucius. “You must smile, and you must touch.”

“Touch,” repeated Hermione with a slight shudder.

“Touch. Give each other longing looks. Make the Inquisitors at the New Ministry whisper that the new Malfoy couple can’t keep their hands to themselves,” said Lucius.

“Absolutely not,” said Draco flatly.

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Lucius with a barely concealed eye roll. “I’m not asking you to make love on the Atrium floor.”

Lucius nearly laughed at the sudden stiffness in both of their postures.

“Be seen touching. Pretend. Do better,” he said firmly. “Draco, we will go to the New Ministry in one hour. You may bring your wife along if you’d like.”

~

Hermione was trotting along after Draco as they walked the long hallway to their bedrooms. His shoulders were set squarely, and his strides were long and purposeful. She was thinking of Lucius’s words, his insistence that they do better, put on a convincing show. Draco did not look keen on the idea, and Hermione was not sure if it was simply because she was Hermione Granger, Mudblood, or if there was some deeper reason behind his hatred of the entire arrangement.

He did not look back at her as he reached his bedroom door, but when his fingers touched the knob, she stopped him.

“Draco,” she said.

He turned to her. Hermione took a deep breath, gathering her courage once again for a question that was on her mind and required Gryffindor boldness to ask.

“Are you gay?” she asked.

Draco’s expression dropped into such anger that it frightened her.

“What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, I just… I saw you and Theo,” she said, and at this, he took a step toward her, slowly, dangerously, and she immediately continued, trying to diffuse the sudden tension in the air. “It’s okay, really, I’m not judging you, I don’t care. This isn’t a proper marriage and you’re free to do as you like…”

He was still standing, staring down at her with a murderous expression.

“My sexuality is completely irrelevant,” he snapped, and she saw that his hand was in a tight fist at his side.

“It’s not irrelevant,” said Hermione. “You’re being asked to pretend that you’re married to me in public. I can completely understand why you don’t want to if you’d rather be with Theo.”

“Listen, Granger. Neither Theo nor I have time for something as inane as a relationship, but a warm, wet place feels better than your hand,” he said in a dispassionate voice, almost daring her to comment. “It’s a service we provide for one another, nothing more.”

“A service you provide for one another,” she repeated.

A pang of sympathy washed over her at his words. Draco was still standing in the hall and staring down at her. She took one step backward toward her bedroom door, and his body language relaxed somewhat. He glanced at the watch on his wrist.

“We leave in forty-five minutes,” said Draco firmly. “See that you’re ready.”

He pushed the door to his bedroom open and slammed it shut behind him, and Hermione was left standing in the hallway alone. She sighed, turning on her heel and going inside her own bedroom.

Her closet was full of clothes that Narcissa had purchased for her: dress robes in fine fabrics, formal gowns, and blouses with matching skirts. Hermione stared at the rack of clothing, trying to decide what would be most appropriate for a trip to the New Ministry to pretend she and her husband were properly married.

She settled on a pencil skirt in navy blue and a cream-coloured button-up shirt. She tucked the shirt in and went to her vanity, using her wand to charm her curls into something more manageable and swiping mascara over her eyelashes. Hermione stared at her reflection for a long moment, lost in thought and once again marveling at the situation she had found herself in.

But her wand buzzed, the alarm she had set alerting her that it was time to meet Draco and Lucius downstairs. She slipped sensible flats on her feet, the rubber soles making no sound as she descended the staircase, but even so, Draco knew she was coming. He turned as she approached, his arms folded over his chest.

“One of Narcissa’s selections?” asked Lucius with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione nodded, watching as Lucius’s eyes slid down her body, and though in any normal situation, the movement of his eyes would make her uncomfortable, there was something nonthreatening in his expression. He was assessing, not lusting. Still, she saw that Draco was watching his father carefully, and she made a mental note of that dynamic. She heard the crack of Draco’s neck as it rolled on his shoulders.

“Come,” said Lucius.

Draco took Floo powder first, and Lucius gestured for her to follow. She whooshed through the Floo network and arrived at the Ministry of Magic, seeing Draco’s glowering face as she stepped out of the fireplace. He stared fixedly at the Floo until his father arrived.

“Remember what I said,” said Lucius, lifting his index finger and wagging it slightly at the two of them.

With that, Lucius turned and left them. Hermione gazed rather longingly at the café, and Draco must have noticed this, because he began walking toward it.

~

They stood next to the counter in the café, and he watched the witch behind the counter fuss with the machine, which hissed and billowed steam as she made Granger’s drink. And then, Granger shifted, moving from his left side to his right, and he could not discern the reason until he felt her left hand slide into his right. He stiffened, feeling as though his breath had been stolen from his lungs as she laced her fingers with his. She did not look at him, merely stood casually holding his hand as they waited for her coffee.

When was the last time he had held someone’s hand? Hogwarts? The feeling of it was completely bizarre, his knuckles sliding between hers. Her hand felt small and delicate in his rough, large one. But he also realized that before taking his hand, she had shifted so that she was on his right.

She had noticed he was left-handed and made sure she left his wand arm free.

Granger finally glanced up at him, and he saw that her lips were quirked into a slight smile. He heard his father’s words in his mind. Touch. Smile. Damn it all to hell. He let one corner of his lips tug up as well, and when he did, he saw Granger’s face shift slightly. She looked surprised. Her smile grew, and it looked so genuine that he felt his heart skip.

Draco turned his head away.

“Hermione?” asked the witch, holding out a cup of coffee.

Granger released his hand and took the mug gingerly in her fingertips.

“Shall we sit?” she asked.

Sit. In the café. Make small talk.

Be seen.

Draco nodded and followed her to a table, and he noted that she sank into a chair that faced the wall so that he could sit facing the Atrium. He couldn’t be sure it was on purpose, but Draco was beginning to suspect that Granger paid a great deal of attention to the habits and behaviours of those around her. He sat down across from her, letting his eyes scan the crowd carefully.

“Do you ever play Quidditch?” she asked.

It was politely asked, something casual and relatively safe so that they could pass the time without treading into dangerous topics. Draco shifted in his chair.

“No,” he said.

She was looking at him, seemed to be waiting for him to continue speaking, to elaborate on his comment, and though Draco normally would not have cared to fulfill whatever social niceties were expected, he found himself wanting to meet her halfway.

“Not since Hogwarts,” said Draco. “I haven’t even got a broom anymore.”

“What about the one you had in school?” she asked, blowing across the top of her cappuccino.

“It’s about fifteen years out of date by now,” said Draco with a shrug. “But even if I had a new broom, when would I play Quidditch? And with whom?”

“I suppose I just always thought you really loved Quidditch,” replied Granger, taking a sip. “Seems a shame that you don’t get to play.”

“I don’t have time,” said Draco.

Granger looked at him, an inquisitive, judgmental look, and he could tell she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should.

“Go on,” he said.

“Just seems a shame to be on the winning side of the war and still not be able to do what you want,” she said primly.

His first instinct was to be offended, scandalized, but after a moment, he considered her words, and then, he let out a laugh. A proper laugh. The feeling of it was strange in his throat. A quick chuckle, and though it died quickly, it was still the first time he’d laughed in ages. Granger had her brows knit together.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“I… I don’t even know,” he said truthfully. “But I guess it’s been a long time since I’ve been reminded that I was on the winning side of the war.”

He trailed off, and his eyes were unfocused as they slid off into the distance.

“It doesn’t always feel like it,” he added.

At that moment, he saw Theo crossing the Atrium to him, and his first thought was of Granger’s question to him that morning, of the revelation that she had seen him with Theo. Draco wondered when and where she’d seen them, though it was almost certain that it had been in the sauna, one of the few places at Malfoy Manor that he could guarantee his father would not go.

“Hey, Malfoy,” said Theo, and Granger turned, her eyes darting away when she saw Theo.

“Am I needed?” said Draco darkly, making to stand from the chair.

“No, no,” said Theo. “No, I just thought I’d join you. If that’s okay…?”

Theo was looking between the two of them as though he was not sure whether he was interrupting. Granger smiled at him brightly.

“Have a seat,” she said.

He pulled a third chair up to their low table and sank into it, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“So, how’s wedded bliss?” asked Theo.

His clear blue eyes were gazing at Granger rather fondly, and Draco found he did not like it. Granger let out a snort.

“I was just asking Draco why he doesn’t play Quidditch anymore,” she said.

Theo’s eyes swept over to Draco, frowning slightly.

“I haven’t thought about playing Quidditch in ages,” he said. “You know, I would have tried out for the House team if Draco hadn’t already been playing Seeker. I wanted to be a professional player when I graduated.”

“You played Seeker?” she asked.

Theo nodded.

“Nimble fingers,” he replied with a rogue grin, waggling his fingers about a bit. “But alas, Draco had the position secured in Second year, and I was no good at Chaser or Keeper.”

“Hm,” said Granger thoughtfully. “What team would you have wanted to play for?”

“Any, really, but my family’s estate is in Dorset so perhaps the Wasps?” said Theo.

Granger nodded, and then, she looked back at Draco.

“What would you have wanted to do after Hogwarts?” she asked. “You know, without…”

She waved her hand in the air, gesturing at the entirety of the New Ministry he supposed. The question gave him pause. Did he even know? His father had been a politician of sorts for his entire life, but Draco would not have chosen that path, if all options had been open to him.

He chewed at the corner of his lip and glanced up at Granger.

“You first,” he said.

She gave him a smile.

“Healing, I think,” she said. “I had the right marks for it. Would have gone into an apprenticeship if Voldemort hadn’t made it illegal for Muggleborns to do it.”

“You always were a crack hand at Potions,” said Theo diplomatically.

Granger was watching Draco, waiting expectantly. He almost did not want to share it; it was a piece of himself from too long ago, and he wondered if Theo or Granger would judge him for it, but she seemed very matter of fact about the entire conversation. He reached into his pocket, feeling the comforting presence of his hawthorn wand.

“An Auror,” he said. “I had always wanted to be an Auror.”

Granger gave a little laugh, and for a moment, he thought she was making fun of him, but her expression was not a mocking one.

“It’s funny you say that, because that’s exactly what Harry wanted to be,” she said with a smile.

“Draco would’ve made a good one,” said Theo, and he clapped Draco on the shoulder before pushing up to stand. “Speaking of, we should probably get to the Inquisitor offices. What are you planning to do with her?”

Draco stood as well, and Granger finished the last of her coffee, setting the mug on the low table and rising from her chair. He considered her. He could not bring her to the Inquisitor’s offices, not with the task he had before him, and truly, the purpose of having her at the New Ministry was for them to be seen together.

“I’ll walk you to the Floo,” he said.

Granger nodded, taking her place beside him, and Draco stared at her. He knew what his father expected of him, what he should do if he wanted the gossip surrounding their marriage to cease. So, he took a deep breath to steel his nerves, and he placed his hand against her lower back.

Granger stiffened only slightly, not expecting the contact, but she softened into him, allowing him to walk against her. Her body radiated warmth. Draco ignored Theo’s raised eyebrow, but he paid close attention to the knowing glance of a witch who crossed their path. He recognized her; she worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She gave him an approving smirk as she passed.

His father would be pleased.

Chapter Text

A few evenings later, Hermione was surprised to see Pansy, Greg, and Theo in the parlor next to the fireplace, and from the shift in Draco’s posture, she could tell that he was surprised as well. Lucius was standing next to the mantle, one hand resting on it.

“You’re going out,” he announced.

“Out,” repeated Draco.

“Be seen. Be noticed,” said his father, and with that, Lucius turned on his heel and left the room.

Hermione was looking between the faces in the room: Pansy with a knowing smirk, Greg beside her with a half-grin, Theo watching Draco carefully, and Draco, who looked like he might implode.

“I’m not taking her out,” said Draco, an accusatory finger pointed in Hermione’s direction.

“You heard your father, Draco,” said Pansy. “We’ve been ordered to accompany you out in public. To be seen.”

“You knew about this?” accused Draco, rounding on Theo, who put his hands up in innocence.

“I do as my Chancellor bids, Draco,” he replied.

“What do you think is going to happen to her in Diagon Alley with the four of us?” asked Pansy.

“Do you think you can take on Dolohov?” he snarled.

“No,” admitted Pansy, and she brushed past him, patting him once on the shoulder. “But you can.”

His jaw was twitching, but Pansy had reached her now, gazing down at her outfit shrewdly. Tapping her fingers on her chin, Pansy took out her wand and pointed it at Hermione.

Draco’s movement was so quick that Hermione had not even realized what was happening until his hawthorn wand was leveled at Pansy, who dropped her wand in a clatter.

“Whoa, whoa!” shouted Greg, just as Theo was saying, “Easy, mate!”

There was a tense pause, and Hermione could feel her own heart thumping in her chest as Draco’s eyes glittered dangerously. Then, Draco seemed to realize himself what he had done, his grey eyes darting from Hermione to Pansy to the wand he had in his hand. His jaw rolled again, his arm slowly lowering, his neck rolling and cracking as he allowed himself to relax.

“I’m getting her changed, Draco,” said Pansy. “Transfiguring her robes into something more suitable.”

Pansy did not look fearful in the slightest, though Hermione certainly would have if she’d been in her place. Greg stood behind her quietly, seemingly aware that any sudden movements might set Draco off again. Pansy’s dark eyebrow was quirked impatiently.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to her wand on the floor.

Draco jerked his head in a nod. With a huff and an eye roll that Hermione wondered if anyone else would be brave enough to give in this situation, Pansy bent to retrieve her wand. She aimed it at Hermione again, and though Draco did not move, Hermione saw that he was watching closely, his arms folded in front of his chest as though to keep himself from drawing his wand again.

In a moment, Hermione’s robes had been Transfigured into a cocktail dress of sorts, but she hardly noticed it: her mind was still reeling from the altercation. None of the others seemed fazed by it. Was he simply always dangerous? Did he lash out of control often?

And was he protecting her?

Pansy was putting the finishing touches on the dress, and it now hugged Hermione’s hips rather tightly. The material was a sensuous satin in Slytherin green. The three men were conversing now in low voices while Pansy tugged at the seams of the fabric.

“You’ve filled out since school,” said Pansy, kneeling before her and nudging the hips of the dress with her wand so it adjusted. “I mean, I suppose we all have.”

“Hm,” said Hermione absently, her eyes finding Draco’s broad back across the room.

She didn’t know what they were talking about, the three of them, but as Pansy flitted about with the Transfiguration, Hermione watched them. Greg was still large and broad, with long, thick arms. His hair was thick and wiry, cut close to his ears. He wasn’t particularly attractive, and Hermione would have wondered what Pansy saw in him if it weren’t for his bright, kind eyes. She had never noticed them at Hogwarts, though perhaps she’d never been close enough to.

Theo was certainly attractive, with his dark, wavy hair and chiseled jawline. His nose had the slightest bump in the middle, but it only served to make him better looking, his face more interesting. He even had the lightest dusting of freckles across his nose.

Draco was not facing her, so she could see only the back of his head. His platinum hair was full, longer than she’d expect him to have, though it hardly went past his ears. His shoulders were muscular, straining at the edge of the formal shirt that he must have Transfigured for himself. She watched as he ran a finger under the stiff collar, and it made him seem so very young: a boy chafing at the fancy attire his mother had chosen for him. But still, there was no mistaking the posture of his body, and she could smell the metallic hint of Dark magic that always seemed to accompany him.

“How often does he…” she said, trailing off.

Pansy looked up at her from under her lashes.

“Draw his wand on someone he knows?” asked Pansy.

Hermione nodded, and Pansy gave a shrug.

“Sometimes,” she replied, her eyes now narrowed and focused on the last stitches of the dress.

Pansy stood, towering over Hermione in her heels and meeting her gaze.

“But on me?” said Pansy, an expression on her face that was intimidating yet sympathetic. “That was the first time, Granger.”

Pansy turned to the men.

“We’re ready,” she announced.

Draco moved to Hermione’s side, and she felt his fingers at her elbow for an instant before they Apparated away. He released it just as quickly. She glanced around the room where they’d arrived: an entryway, she supposed, to the restaurant.

It was opulent: dark, thick carpets and paneled wooden walls with ornate sconces lit with magical flames that gave the room a warm glow. Above her head was a chandelier that rivaled the one at Malfoy Manor, sparkling crystal pendants dangling from its many arms.  The maître d had pulled menus from underneath his podium, each a leather-bound booklet. His eyes scanned their small crowd as he smiled serenely, but his smile faltered when he spotted her.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ll need to see your identification card,” said the host.

Hermione felt rather than saw Draco’s reaction, his shoulders lifting as he squared himself to the man, leveling him with a withering glare that made the maître d cower, shrinking in on himself and bowing his head.

“Sir, I apologise, it is only policy,” he stammered. “I must ask for her-”

“You know who this is?” interrupted Pansy, jutting a finger out into the man’s chest.

He nodded nervously.

“Then you’ll stop this nonsense,” she said dismissively. “Show us to our table. Goyle, party of seven.”

Hermione glanced between them, numbering them at only five, and was curious and nervous at who else might be joining them, but her heart lifted at the sight of Cho Chang and Marcus Flint already seated at the table. Flint stood, shaking Draco’s hand first and then Theo and Greg in turn. Cho remained seated, but her dark eyes met Hermione’s for a moment, a tiny smile lifting the corners of her lips.

Hermione had not particularly liked Cho Chang while they were at school. To be fair, she had never really been what one might call a “girl’s girl,” and Cho had seemed particularly girly and feminine. Hermione almost wanted to laugh, imagining telling her Hogwarts self that she would be relieved to see Cho Chang at a dinner table with several Death Eaters. Hermione took a seat between Cho and Draco.

“It’s been too long, Malfoy,” said Flint in a carefree voice that struck Hermione as wildly out of place in such dark times. She had grown accustomed to Draco’s cold indifference, to Lucius Malfoy’s feline and calculating intrigue, even to Narcissa’s fretting. She had not really heard anyone sound so carefree.

Draco had not responded to Flint. Hermione remembered what Draco and Lucius had said about their thin list of allies. Flint: likely, but not certain. She steeled herself and spoke.

“Marcus, I believe I remember you from Hogwarts. You were on the Slytherin Quidditch team, no?” she asked.

Cho quirked her lips, stifling a grin as Flint launched into a long history of his Quidditch career. Hermione made all the right noises of approval and avoided mentioning the many times that Gryffindor had come out on top thanks to Harry. Flint was still reliving the finer moments of a Quidditch match in his Sixth year when the first course was served.

“There’s a new head chef,” said Pansy as plates were placed in front of them, a roasted half quail resting in a fragrant sauce on each.

The meal was obscenely delicious: course after course of decadent plates, some heaping with succulent meats and sauces, and others no more than a single bite.

“We eat like this every night,” whispered Cho. “I don’t know how I fit into my clothes anymore.”

Hermione gave her a small smile before the conversation at the table caught her attention.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dolohov was after your father’s job,” said Flint, even more boisterous and carefree after several glasses of wine.

Hermione had noticed Draco abstained.

“Seems frankly treasonous,” offered Pansy, sipping her glass of wine casually.

“That’s what I said,” Flint replied.

A likely ally. Not certain, but likely.

But not all the conversation was gloomy. The Slytherins (all but Draco) roared with laughter as they recounted their years at Hogwarts.

“No, it was the dung bombs!” said Theo.

“The love potions!” cackled Pansy.

Though Draco remained stoic, Hermione swore she saw a lightness in his eyes that had not been there before. The laughter and the reminiscing made her ache for her own friends, her own history.

The meal concluded with a performance of a dessert, the chef appearing at the side of their table while a server sent a small plate to each of them with a flick of his wand. There was a crystal dome on each, filled with wispy smoke.

“We honour the Chancellor and our esteemed Dark Lord with this specialty,” said the chef, bowing toward Draco.

With another flick of his wand, the domes disappeared, and Hermione felt the smoke rise against her face, a sweet, cloying smell accompanying it. When the smoke cleared, she saw the dessert: an artfully designed chocolate sculpture.

In the shape of a Dark Mark.

Hermione had not been to a proper restaurant in a decade. She had not even been permitted to go into them. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that the chefs and restauranteurs of Wizarding Britain had set their alliances so clearly on Voldemort’s side, and yet, seeing a chocolate Dark Mark on her plate sent a shiver down her spine. She felt frozen to the spot.

“Eat it,” whispered Cho urgently out of the side of her mouth.

She came back to herself and mechanically lifted her dessert spoon to take a bite of the serpent, forcing herself to continue until she could reasonably claim to be full. Hermione gave Cho a grateful smile as the plates were cleared away.

“It was lovely to see you, Marcus,” said Pansy, kissing Flint’s cheek.

Hermione nodded her goodbyes as Draco stood imperiously at her side, and then, she felt his fingers on her elbow, and with a sudden jolt, they had Apparated back to Malfoy Manor.

The evening had been so much for her. Forcing a performance in front of Flint, being seen in public together, and listening to the Slytherins talk about Hogwarts as though they, too, had fun and adventures just as Hermione had with Harry and Ron.

Harry and Ron.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she could feel her eyes suddenly brimming with tears unbidden. It was all so unfair. She wiped a tear that had spilled over her eyelashes and pressed her lips together to keep from bursting into sobs.

The moment Draco caught sight of her face, she felt a puff of Dark magic radiate off him, his face turning cold and hard.

“What is it?” he asked, his hand going to his wand. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she said immediately, but his body language remained aggressive and fierce. “It’s just… I…”

“Who was it?” he insisted, grey eyes sharpening dangerously.

“No one!” she replied.

Hermione wiped the tears from her cheeks, letting herself breathe slowly in and out.

“I just miss my old life sometimes,” she admitted. “I miss having friends.”

Draco’s stance softened, though his eyes narrowed in confusion. This was not a foe he could defeat in combat.

“Don’t you ever miss it? Miss your life from before all this?” she asked, looking up into his steely grey eyes.

He did not respond immediately, glancing away from her, but she could tell by the set of his jaw, by the storm in his eyes, that he was thinking about her question. The silence stretched out between them, so much that if she were with her Gryffindor friends, someone would have jumped in just to stop the uncomfortable quiet. But Hermione was patient. She waited, watching his face. Finally, his eyes darted back to hers.

“Yes,” he said simply.

She thought for a moment that he might say more, but a wispy, amorphous Patronus zipped into the room. Draco’s eyes fell closed, an expression on his face that might have been frustration or exhaustion or both, and he listened to the Patronus speak in a voice Hermione did not recognize.

“The Dark Lord says the guard on his fortress is too young and untested. He’s asking for you,” said the voice from the silvery blob.

You are needed, Hermione thought to herself. Draco’s grey eyes opened, dark and expressionless, and without glancing at her, he Apparated away.

Chapter Text

Life at Malfoy Manor was rather monotonous. Hermione spent most of her time in the library, as now that they had two Horcruxes in their possession, the clock seemed to be ticking on the need for their destruction. She wished more than anything that she knew how Dumbledore had managed to destroy the ring, but she also knew that he had somehow destroyed his hand and arm in the process.

With nine Horcruxes to destroy, she did not have enough limbs to sacrifice.

“There are all manner of dark artifacts in the bowels of Malfoy Manor,” Narcissa told her. “Surely there is something that will help us destroy a Horcrux.”

Hearing the word “Horcrux” on Narcissa Malfoy’s lips was still jarring.

But Horcruxes were an even darker magic than the Malfoys had dabbled in, and there was almost nothing in the library that mentioned them.

Of the Horcrux, Hermione read in one of the books, much is written elsewhere, and this text will not elaborate.

Much is written elsewhere… but where?

She snapped the book shut, sipping at the latte that Jinxy had made her (it was a sad, tepid, milky thing). Hermione gave up on the library and wandered Malfoy Manor, diligently avoiding the sauna, just in case Draco and Theo were in there once again.

She let her feet guide her, and eventually, she found herself in the portrait gallery, and the walls full of Malfoy men sneered at her from within their frames. Hermione sat down in the middle of the floor, her knees bent in front of her and her hands on the floor behind her. She stared at the portrait labeled, “Lucius Malfoy I.”

“You’re the one who nearly married Queen Elizabeth,” she said to the portrait.

He sniffed.

Her eyes drifted across the many names and similar faces. Though the grey eyes seemed to be as old as the family itself, Hermione could see facial features change over generations: the nose that Draco and Lucius both inherited began with Claudius Malfoy, the pointed chin showed up in Abraxas.

Draco’s grandfather. He was rumoured to have delved rather deeply in the Dark Arts. Hermione stood from the floor and approached his portrait.

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?” she asked.

Abraxas had been studiously avoiding looking at her, but at this, he turned his head abruptly and stared down his straight nose in her direction.

“What sort of Dark magic are you involved in, Mudblood?”

She rolled her eyes.

“So, you don’t know,” she said, and she spun on her heel, making her way toward the entrance to the gallery, but as she predicted, he called her back.

“Wait!” he said, and she returned to his portrait. “Of course, I know what one is. They were quite the rage when I was young.”

“You mean people were creating them?” she asked, stunned.

“Well, not exactly,” said Abraxas. “I’m not sure that anyone actually completed one, but there were a few years when every cocktail party I hosted ended with a group of society wizards tittering about them. How to make them, if they would work, what would happen if you died after making one.”

Abraxas said this with a hint of pride.

“Did anyone succeed?” she asked.

“Only one of our number ever seemed serious about it,” said Abraxas.

She and Draco’s grandfather stared at each other, both knowing exactly of whom he spoke but neither voicing the name. Hermione swallowed.

“Tom Riddle,” she said, and Abraxas nodded. “Abraxas, do you know how to destroy a Horcrux?”

The portrait wrinkled his fine nose, but after a moment, understanding began to dawn on his face.

“Riddle succeeded, and you want to destroy them,” he said.

“Yes.”

He stared at her for a long time, seemingly reluctant to continue, but at that moment, the door to the portrait gallery swung open, and Draco walked in. Hermione was momentarily annoyed, feeling like her progress had been interrupted. Draco paused when he saw her, his silent footsteps halting, but she turned her gaze back to the portrait, and he walked up to it.

“Hello, Grandfather.”

“Draco,” said Abraxas regally. “Are you aware that your wife is trying to destroy Horcruxes?”

“Yes,” said Draco, and Abraxas looked stunned. “It is crucial for the continuation of the family. If you have any information for her, then I implore you to-”

“Lightsbane,” said Abraxas. “We discussed it often at parties. We were never sure, of course. The information published on Horcruxes is woefully minimal, but we all agreed that Lightsbane would be able to destroy one.”

“It’s a sword that belonged to Armand Malfoy,” said Draco, turning to her in explanation and then, he returned his attention to his grandfather. “Why would it be able to destroy a Horcrux?”

“It was used to kill a Hydra. Wessex unleashed one on the invading Normans,” said Abraxas with a dark smile. “Poisonous breath, poisonous blood. Your ancestor killed it with his sword, so it would be imbued with the Hydra’s poison. It should be enough.”

“We could try it,” Draco said to her with a shrug.

Hermione nodded.

“Thank you, Abraxas,” she said.

“I can’t believe you’ve let a Mudblood into my home,” sneered Abraxas.

Draco rounded on the portrait, jamming his finger directly into the canvas and making Abraxas leap out of the way.

“She will one day be the lady of this house, and accordingly, you will show her respect,” snarled Draco.

Hermione felt her eyes widen. Though she and Draco were, indeed, married, she had never considered herself as the future Lady Malfoy. It might be decades before she took over that role. Did Draco truly expect that they would be married that long? Divorce in the wizarding world was complicated and difficult, and as such, exceedingly rare, but she had never really stopped to consider being married to him for the rest of her life.

Abraxas Malfoy looked chastened by his grandson’s words, but he did not comment; he merely gave an aristocratic nod of his head and surveyed them with cool grey eyes as they left the portrait gallery.

“I’m not sure where Lightsbane is kept,” said Draco as they walked back toward the main wing of the house. “We’ll have to ask my father.”

Hermione was trotting along beside him as he strode purposefully to his father’s study. Lucius was wearing a pair of reading glasses, but he pulled them off when he saw them arrive, stowing them in the pocket of his robes.

“May I help you?”

“Lightsbane,” said Draco. “Where is it?”

Lucius looked at him quizzically.

“Why do you ask?”

“We’re going to use it to destroy the Horcruxes,” said Draco, nodding his head toward the safe in which they were kept.

“What makes you think it can destroy them?”

“Your father told me,” said Hermione. “It was used to kill a Hydra, so it’s imbued with poisonous dark magic. It should be able to destroy them.”

Lucius nodded, looking rather impressed.

“Is it in the Malfoy vault?” asked Draco impatiently.

“Would that it was,” sighed Lucius, and he sat back in his chair. “Unfortunately, it’s kept in a more difficult place to access.”

Lucius and Draco were staring at each other, something unspoken passing between them, something that they both understood but she did not.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“It’s in Tenebris,” Lucius said.

Draco let out a heavy exhale of breath, his hand coming to his forehead, his thumb and forefinger gripping his temples. Hermione frowned, puzzling out the Latin word.

“Darkness?” she asked, and Lucius nodded. “What is Tenebris?”

“It’s a club, of sorts. A favourite haunt for Death Eaters and Dark wizards. Lightsbane is one of the relics that was chosen as… décor,” said Lucius.

“It’s at a club? Why would that be hard to access?” she asked.

“Can’t we just take it back? Insist that it be given back to us?” said Draco, ignoring her question completely.

“Not if we want to keep things quiet about what we’re doing,” said Lucius. “If we ask for it back, someone will wonder why. People will talk.”

“I can’t take her to Tenebris,” hissed Draco, his thumb jutting out toward Hermione.

“You can’t go alone,” said Lucius. “Not now that you’re married.”

“Fuck,” snapped Draco, spinning away and facing the wall, his hand rushing through his platinum hair.

Hermione was mystified, her eyes darting between Lucius and Draco. Neither one of them seemed keen to look at her. She placed her hands on her hips.

“What exactly is Tenebris?” she asked.

“A den of depravity,” said Draco in a foul, disgusted voice.

“It’s a club that caters to particular… interests,” said Lucius.

“What sort of-”

But Hermione cut herself off. The expressions on Lucius and Draco’s faces were enough. Lucius had a grim smile that was almost pitying, though there was a hint of dark amusement in his eyes when he looked at his son. Draco looked distraught.

So, it was one of those types of clubs.

“Can she even get in?” Draco asked. “She’s Muggleborn.”

“With you, of course,” said Lucius.

Draco sank down into a chair despairingly, his elbow on the armrest and his face resting in his hand. Hermione waited for the disgust to sink in, the horror at the thought of going to a Dark magic sex club with Draco Malfoy, but it didn’t come. Instead, she was filled with resolve and purpose.

“Well, let’s go,” she said, her hands still on her hips. “We need the sword. We get in, have a look round, stuff the sword in my bag, and go.”

Lucius had that hint of pride in his face again as he looked at her, but Draco was giving her a dark look, his pale eyebrows furrowed tightly so that there were lines between them.

“We can’t just have a look around,” he spat. “There are… cadences.”

“Sounds like you’re quite familiar with this club,” she deadpanned.

They stared at each other.

“I’ve been,” admitted Draco, and though she’d been trying to rile him up, his tone of voice made her more nervous, not less. “You don’t just get to have a drink and wander.”

“Well, then, we put on a good show,” she snapped, and her voice was filled with a sudden brazen courage.

Lucius’s lips crept up in a slow smile, and when he let out a low chuckle, Draco stared at him slack-jawed.

“We’ve never had a Gryffindor around before,” Lucius said. “I’m beginning to like it.”

“We wouldn’t have to… to…” Draco began, and he swallowed thickly before continuing. “We wouldn’t have to do anything. Not really. You wouldn’t have to get undressed or…”

He glanced at his father.

“You would not have to make love on the floor on the club,” offered Lucius.

Draco gulped. She had never seen him nervous or afraid, but at this mission, he was.

“There’s more than just sex there. It’s Dark magic. Rituals, curses, blood magic,” explained Draco. “We don’t have to participate. We could simply observe, but it must be convincing. You must make it appear that you… that you want to be there.”

“I’m a good actor,” said Hermione. “Let’s go tonight.”

“Tonight,” said Draco, and he heaved a great sigh. “Tonight, then.”

“Have your mother choose what she wears,” said Lucius, waving his hand in Hermione’s direction.

And so, they went to Tenebris.

~

He had never dreaded a mission so thoroughly.

Draco had done many things for his father, for the Dark Lord, for the New Ministry. He had been up to his elbows in blood, he had tortured, he had murdered, but somehow, taking Granger to Tenebris to retrieve his ancestor’s sword seemed a step too far.

She had no idea what she was in for. It was the only explanation for her willingness to go, and now, with Granger’s palm over his forearm as she stood next to him in a tight-fitting satin dress (emerald green, of course), he was forced to reckon with the fact that they would be going to Tenebris together.

He had only been once, many years prior. Pansy had thrown out the suggestion.

“You should try it. I’ve heard good things,” she had said. “A good way to get your needs taken care of without having to deal with a relationship.”

The club had been a heady mix of Dark magic and sex, and Draco had left at dawn with a headache and a dizziness that did not abate for a full day.

But Granger seemed confident, and she was looking at him impatiently, waiting for him to Apparate them to the club’s entrance. With a deep breath, steeling himself, he grasped his wand and they disappeared with a crack.

Heads turned immediately when he walked inside. Draco was perhaps the best-known Death Eater in Britain, and it was widely known that he had married a Mublood Order of the Phoenix member. There were whispers and knowing grins around the room. Granger was looking around eagerly, probably already trying to spot the sword.

Draco could feel the tendrils of Dark magic in the club, and he slowly built the icy walls of Occlumency to block out the sensation. His hand was on his wand, eyes darting around in a practiced scan of the club, watching for threats, though in truth, this was one of the few places he was not worried about them. No one was expecting them there, and the attendees at the club tended to be focused on other pursuits.

“Oh!” breathed Granger beside him, her steps coming to a sudden halt.

She was staring fixedly at a raised dais in the centre of the main room. A witch was naked, splayed out on a wooden bench, and there was a wizard in a Death Eater mask standing before her, though he was wearing nothing else. His wand was weaving small circles in the air, and the witch was shivering.

“What is that?” Granger whispered urgently.

The wizard had a prosthetic of sorts between his legs, a leather phallus that wrapped around his erection. It had blunted spikes at the end, and when he began to push it inside the witch, Granger turned her head.

“I told you, Granger,” said Draco in a low voice. “A den of depravity.”

They moved on, navigating down a hallway away from the main room. Draco knew that each room catered to a unique interest, but he also knew that Lightsbane was most likely going to be in one of them. They had planned their outing: he would pretend to be giving Granger a tour, a first glimpse, so that they could come back another time. Granger had a plan for once they’d found the sword, an impressive bit of magic that she’d shown him before they left.

But first, they had to check each room. Draco knew what to expect in each, but Granger did not. He dreaded each door she opened.

“How is that legal?” she whispered after one particularly dark room.

Draco could only shrug. It was legal because his father and the Dark Lord ran the New Ministry, and they cared little what the Death Eaters got up to in their depraved clubs. In the third room they toured, Draco saw a familiar face. Granger either hadn’t seen or didn’t recognize Blaise Zabini.

It was one of the tamer rooms, this one, and Zabini was doing nothing more than lounging in a sofa watching two witches dance and kiss in front of him. But matters became slightly more complicated when Draco noticed that Lightsbane was hanging on the wall behind Zabini’s sofa.

Granger’s magic was impressive, but if she tried it, Zabini would most certainly notice.

“It’s there,” said Draco, nodding toward the wall.

“Is that Blaise Zabini?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Hm,” said Granger thoughtfully. “Welp, be sure to put on a good show.”

And with that, she took off across the room. Draco was momentarily stunned by her words, but he followed, catching up to her in two long strides. She approached the sofa, and the two nearly-naked witches in front of Blaise paused their kissing and groping.

“Do you remember me?” said Granger with a quirked brow.

“Slug Club for life,” said Blaise with a feral grin, and he patted the space next to him. “Join me.”

Draco did not particularly like the idea of Granger sitting so close to him, but before he could grab her elbow, she sat, and then, she slid her gaze to meet Draco’s, and there was a heat in her eyes that hit him like a freight train.

Draco slammed up his Occlumency walls so quickly he almost stumbled.

“I never see you here, Malfoy,” said Blaise, and then, he looked up at the two witches, who were still watching the proceedings with interest. “Who told you to stop?”

The witches resumed kissing.

“He wanted to show me around,” said Granger with a slight smile and a shrug. “I’ve never even heard of a place like this before.”

“Really? Draco never told you during your yearslong relationship at Hogwarts?” asked Blaise, and though there was a challenge in his tone that made Draco feel for his wand, he had a relaxed smile on his face.

Granger giggled a light laugh he had never heard before and smacked Blaise gently on the shoulder. Draco was taken aback by this flirtatious gesture.

Put on a good show.

He suddenly realized he had no idea how.

But Granger and Blaise had their heads together conspiratorially and were whispering and giggling, and the entire affair made Draco feel out of place, as though Granger were the natural in this forsaken Death Eater sex club and he were the interloper.

He glanced up at the sword on the wall and back to Blaise. He was not entirely sure of Blaise Zabini’s loyalties. It was likely that Blaise would side with the Malfoys when the time came, but not certain. That said, even with Granger’s flair for magic, they would not get the sword off the wall without him noticing. Not without a distraction.

A distraction that Granger seemed keen to provide, for suddenly, she climbed into Blaise’s lap, straddling his hips and gazing down at him. His fingers rested lightly on her thighs, and if Draco had not been Occluding so severely, he probably would have wrapped his fingers around Blaise’s neck and throttled him then and there.

But this was the distraction, and Granger was playing her part well. Draco knew it would be their only chance, and while the two witches played with Granger’s long, curly hair, Draco cast the spell Granger had demonstrated, and the sword instantly shrank and shot into her bag.

Satisfied, Draco took a step forward, shouldering the two women out of the way and grabbing Granger by her curly hair. He pulled. Hard. She yelped and stood from Blaise’s lap, dragged away by her hair. He kept his hand fisted in it as Blaise looked on with amusement.

“Not sharing tonight?” he asked.

“Not sharing ever,” said Draco, the words coming as automatically as if he'd truly meant them. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he pulled Granger’s hair so that she had to face him, her neck craned upward to look into his face.

She had a pliant, obedient look on her face, and Draco felt a jolt of arousal flood his body. He forcefully built the icy walls of his Occlumency around the feeling and glared at her.

“We’re leaving,” he snapped.

Granger nodded deferentially, and he released her hair, turning on his heel and storming out of the room, listening to Granger’s footsteps following behind. His eyes scanned the room for threats, and finding none, he grabbed Granger by the elbow, dragging her to the Apparition point and disappearing. They arrived at Malfoy Manor, the crack of their Apparition echoing in the room.

“You got it?” she asked eagerly. “Let me see!”

“What the fuck was that?” hissed Draco, a tumult of anger and emotion rising in his chest.

“What?” she said, mystified.

“You can’t do something like that in public! What the fuck will people think?” shouted Draco, aware that his voice was rising in volume.

“That you brought me to a depraved sex club? What else would we do there?” asked Granger.

“You are forbidden from ever seeing Blaise Zabini ever-”

“Forbidden?” laughed Granger, and her amusement only served to anger him more. “My Mudblood Identification Card says no restrictions. I can go where I want.”

“So help me, Granger-”

But his father walked into the room, surveying the two of them, and Draco’s teeth snapped shut with an audible click.

“You retrieved the sword, I take it?” asked Lucius coolly.

They both nodded.

“The goal was accomplished,” said his father. “Draco, you know as well as I that… unorthodox methods are warranted to serve a larger purpose.”

Granger could take her unorthodox methods and shove them right up her-

“It’s very late,” said Granger, interrupting his thoughts. “If there are no objections, I think we should get this over with. I’ll follow you to the study.”

Draco slowly rebuilt the walls of his Occlumency, crafting one ice block at a time in his mind, and then, he looked at his father and jerked his head in a nod.

“Very well,” said Lucius. “Let’s destroy a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul.”

Chapter Text

It was the second Horcrux that fought back.

Helga Hufflepuff’s cup was destroyed with ease; Lucius pulled the cup from the safe, and Draco took the sword from Hermione. He lifted it high in the air and then let the blade slam down into the cup. An eerie black fog emerged from it, and it cracked in two.

“Was that it?” asked Draco calmly.

“I think so,” said Hermione.

They expected the second Horcrux to be the same. Lucius pulled the mirror from the safe and held it in his hand, staring at his own reflection for a long moment. Hermione could feel a pulse of Dark magic in the room, and she looked over at Draco, seeing his eyes go carefully blank. Occlumency.

Lucius simply gazed at the mirror, his eyes greedy.

“Father,” said Draco, and his voice had a forced, strangled quality. “Take the sword and destroy it.”

“Yes,” said Lucius, but he sounded far away.

Hermione could feel the darkness pouring off the Horcrux, like a heartbeat rushing in her ears, and she could see Draco’s Occlumency faltering. He took one staggered step toward his father, his eyes fixed on the mirror.

“I could just…” whispered Lucius, and his fingers reached out to touch the mirror’s surface.

“No!” shouted Hermione.

But it was too late.

A burst of Dark energy flew out of the mirror in a ring of hazy black smoke, and Hermione felt its chill as it passed through her. Her breath seemed stolen away. And then, a low, seductive voice emanated from the mirror. A woman’s voice. Elizabeth Burke, Hermione guessed.

“Lucius Malfoy,” said the slow, molasses-sweet voice. “Always at the Dark Lord’s side. The power is there if you wish to take it. Dolohov would have no hope of wresting it from you.”

“Father…”

Draco moved toward his father as though to take the mirror from him, but it continued speaking.

“Draco Malfoy,” it crooned. “Wouldn’t you like to be more than a soldier? More than a cudgel to be wielded by your father?”

His steps paused as he stared at it.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Hermione, and she reached forward and plucked the mirror from Lucius’s hand.

Both Malfoys recoiled, whirling on her in anger, but they seemed to remember their purpose just as the mirror began speaking.

“Hermione Granger,” it said. “I can grant power to the Order, should you-”

But before it could finish its sentence, Hermione had thrown it forcefully to the ground, grabbed the sword, and slammed the point of it straight down into the mirror. It cracked and hissed, and then, lay silent. Draco and Lucius were staring at it with jaws hanging slightly slack.

There was no sudden burn of their Dark Marks, no sudden presence of Voldemort at Malfoy Manor, so it seemed that the Horcruxes had been destroyed without his knowledge.

“I couldn’t have destroyed it,” said Lucius, astounded, to his son. “The lure of it was too strong. Why didn’t it affect her?””

“It was Dark,” said Draco, his eyes boring into hers. “She isn’t.”

~

Severus Snape received a misty, unformed Patronus in his office. The trouble with Patronuses from Death Eaters was that you never knew who was sending them until they spoke. The voice that came from this shimmering silver was Draco Malfoy’s.

It is done. Both are gone.

He exhaled a sigh of relief. Severus still carried a deep-seated sense of guilt at the fact that he could not keep the son of Lily Potter (nee Evans) alive. Albus Dumbledore had implored him to prioritize nothing more than Harry Potter’s safety, and though he was able to keep the boy alive during his tumultuous final year at Hogwarts, there was only so much that Severus could do during that grim final battle. There were a few hundred students that also required protecting, and a moment of calculation cost Potter his life.

He relived it daily. Potter had faced Lord Voldemort before and lived, and though Severus attributed most of it to dumb luck, he had hoped that luck would hold out for just thirty seconds longer so that he could save the lives of fifty First- and Second-Year students who were huddling underneath a falling battlement torn apart by the giants.

Thirty seconds more, and Severus could have saved Potter’s life, too. Could have potentially changed the outcome of the entire war.

But thirty seconds was too much to ask. The Dark Lord had thrown a Killing curse, and Potter’s luck had finally run out. He could remember the roars of several Weasleys, Granger’s scream, and the shocked yet resolved look on young Malfoy’s face.

The reality had sunk in for the boy then. Severus realized at that moment that Draco Malfoy had held out some hope that Potter would survive, would defeat the Dark Lord. That Draco would be spared the fate that had befallen him. But when Potter’s lifeless body hit the stone floors of the Hogwarts courtyard, that hope that been extinguished.

Severus had considered hope lost as well, at least until he learned that Lucius Malfoy was working with the Order of the Phoenix. The Dark Lord was dying, only his most trusted allies knew, and now, the Malfoys were working with Hermione Granger to ensure that he never came back, and that Dolohov did not take over the New Ministry.

It was the first time Severus had felt hope in ten years. He wondered if Draco felt the same.

Severus cast his own Patronus, the familiar doe leaping from his wand and waiting expectantly for the message. He stared at the doe for a moment, thinking of Lily, before speaking.

“Tell her that she can look at Hogwarts,” he said. “I don’t know if there is another here, but you may bring her to find out.”

The doe bounded away.

~

Hermione did not know how she felt about returning to Hogwarts. Some of the best memories of her life were in the castle, scarves wrapped tightly against the chill of Scottish winters, roaring fires in the Gryffindor Common Room, and a wealth of knowledge available to her in the form of a library and a dozen teachers, each expert in their fields.

And yet, memories of Harry and Ron were everywhere, too, and she couldn’t think of Hogwarts without remembering the dull thud of Harry’s body slumping to the floor. She couldn’t imagine seeing the thick rugs lining the cozy corridors of Hogwarts without thinking of Ron suffering in the cold darkness of Azkaban.

But when Draco offered her the opportunity to go back, she could not say no, not only for the chance to look for Horcruxes, but for the chance to see familiar faces. Minerva McGonagall was still there, an occasional Order ally, and Hermione wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in a tight hug by her former professor.

“We’ll Floo into Snape’s office,” said Draco, holding out the bucket of Floo powder in her direction. “He’s set up a ten-minute window for us.”

She nodded and grabbed a handful of powder. Draco left first, his hand on his wand as he spun away in the flames. She threw her handful onto the logs.

“Hogwarts Headmaster!” she called out.

Hermione knew that Snape was working for the Order, but even so, seeing him brought a wave of revulsion in her. Draco’s eyes were darting around the office in a calculating sweep, checking for threats as always, but once he was satisfied, he turned to Snape.

“Do we have your leave to check the entire castle?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” said Snape with a nod.

There was a moment of hesitation, all of them unsure of their positions, their true feelings, but it was a tenuous alliance, one that none of them had an interest in breaking. Draco jerked his head in a nod and left the office, his hand still on his wand as Hermione followed.

“Can we start in Gryffindor Tower?” asked Hermione.

It was not a horrible idea; they had discussed that Gryffindor’s gauntlet might be there, and Hermione was hoping they would start there, finding McGonagall in the process. Draco’s jaw was clenched tightly, but his feet began heading toward Gryffindor Tower, nonetheless.

They ran into only a couple of students along the way. It seemed that students avoided the corridors under Snape’s rule, where in her time there were always crowds of students moving together with their friends. The only students they saw took one look at Draco and ran in another direction. Whether it was because his name and reputation were known, or simply because he cut a frightening figure, she wasn’t sure.

“Miss Granger?” cried an incredulous voice that she recognized instantly.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she replied with a genuine smile.

Though McGonagall’s face faltered for only a moment, her eyes sweeping over Draco, she opened her arms and enfolded Hermione in them. McGonagall smelled like the smoke of a cozy fire, and Hermione felt the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes for just a moment.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asked quietly in Hermione’s ear.

Hermione nodded against her shoulder.

“We’re here for a reason, but I can’t tell you what,” said Hermione. “Can you let us into Gryffindor Tower?”

McGonagall looked at Draco with dark skepticism. Hermione quirked her lips in a grin.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said in her most reassuring tone.

She did not look convinced, her lips forming the thin line that was so familiar, but she nodded nonetheless and began leading Hermione and Draco to Gryffindor Tower. A young student was climbing out of the portrait hole as they approached, and he blanched upon seeing Draco.

“You may not enter the girls’ dormitories, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall in a stern, scolding voice that brought Hermione right back to her days at Hogwarts.

Whatever had happened over the last ten years, Minerva McGonagall was not afraid of Death Eaters.

“I had not planned to,” said Draco with a scowl.

When Hermione entered the Gryffindor common room, it was like being wrapped in a warm hug. The fire blazed, students huddled together around textbooks, and cozy rugs and armchairs were unchanged from ten years earlier. But the mood in the room was darker, more hushed. There were no Weasley twins making the room light with laughter.

The students were staring at them with blatant interest.

Hermione knew from the moment they entered that they would find no Horcrux in Gryffindor Tower. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was certain of it. She set about looking for the gauntlet anyway. Draco hovered over her shoulder as she cast revealing and detecting spells. He waited at the bottom of the stairs as she searched the girls’ dormitory, and he followed her into the boys’.

Hermione’s breath caught in her chest when she saw Harry’s bed. There was a boy sitting on it, looking at her with alarm.

“You know that was Harry Potter’s bed,” she said quietly.

“I know,” said the boy.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Hermione made a sweep of the room, thinking that perhaps Voldemort would find it poetic to hide a Horcrux in Harry Potter’s old dormitory, but there was none. They joined McGonagall outside the portrait hole.

“We’ll need to check the rest of the castle,” said Hermione.

“My dear, you’ll be here all day and night!” said McGonagall. “If you would tell me what you’re looking for-”

“No,” said Draco.

His tone left no room for argument.

“I have an idea,” Draco added.

She and McGonagall both turned to him. She could see something in his eyes, some realization that had not been there before, and Hermione thought that he might be onto something.

“Thank you for your assistance, Professor,” said Hermione. “We’ll be fine from here.”

With one more hug (and a look of some concern), McGonagall left them. Draco began stalking down the corridor, Hermione trotting after him, and she thought he would take the turn that led to the dungeons, but he did not. He walked toward the Room of Requirement.

When they stood in front of the room, an ornate door materialized. He had his hands in his pockets, his left fingers likely curled around the hilt of his wand, and he was staring up at it. There was something faraway in his expression, something that was different than the stoic one she usually saw on his face. He was not the violent Death Eater in that moment; he was just a man.

“I used this room in Sixth year,” said Draco.

“I remember,” said Hermione.

He turned his head, looking down at her. She looked into his eyes, realizing that she never truly had before. His pupils were dilated in the dim light of the corridor, and she felt strange staring into them, like this was too close, too intimate. Hermione averted her eyes and gave a shrug.

“Let’s go in,” she said.

He pressed his lips together, taking a breath that raised and lowered his shoulders, and then, he turned to the door and pushed it open.

It was a room full of… everything. Hermione’s eyes landed immediately on the Vanishing Cabinet, and she saw that Draco’s gaze was fixed on it as well. She wondered what was going on in his mind: his expression looked almost… regretful.

Hermione lifted one hand to his shoulder, pausing for a moment before she laid her palm on him. He jolted under her touch.

“This was a good idea,” said Hermione. “I think I feel something. Let’s look around.”

Draco nodded.

There were piles of everything: books, cauldrons, boxes, bins. The room made the Lestrange vault look like a catalogued library, but she let Draco follow his feet. If it was anything like the mirror, there would be a pulse of Dark magic, and Draco would sense it more keenly than she did. He began pawing through stacks of crates, and Hermione joined him, lifting the lids of small boxes and peering inside, looking for a gauntlet or a statuette.

It was an hour of searching when Draco found it.

“This is it,” said Draco. “This is Ravenclaw’s diadem.”

Hermione craned her neck to see, and sure enough, a small tiara was nestled in a bin. Hermione could not feel any Dark magic emanating from it, but it matched the description well enough, and Draco seemed sure.

“You found it,” she said.

Draco snapped the bin shut and tucked it under his arm, and they headed for the door, his footsteps faltering for a moment next to the Vanishing Cabinet. They walked with purpose toward Snape’s office, but as they were within sight of it, they were stopped by Amycus Carrow.

“Malfoy,” said his voice, as evil as she remembered it, sending a shudder down her spine.

In an instant, Draco was no longer just a man; he became the soldier, the bodyguard. He whirled, his wand coming out of his pocket and his feet planting in a stance that seemed nonthreatening but that she could tell could become a fighting stance in an instant.

Amycus Carrow stared at her with a greedy expression.

“I remember you,” he said. “I would have done much worse to you if Snape hadn’t prohibited it, you disgusting Mudblood.”

Draco practically growled next to her, and he positioned himself between her and Carrow. Carrow gave a delighted laugh.

“Keeping her protected?” he asked, amused. “I heard you married the little-”

“I suggest you stop there,” said Snape’s slow, sneering voice. “Thank you, Amycus.”

Carrow gave a soft laugh and walked toward them, and she felt Draco stiffen as he walked past her. She could hear Carrow inhale through his nose as though he were smelling her, his face near her hair, and Draco’s hand shot out, his fingers around Carrow’s throat.

“Get away from her,” said Draco through gritted teeth.

“Malfoy,” said Snape warningly.

Draco and Carrow were standing on either side of her, staring into each other’s eyes with fierce expressions on their faces. Draco’s hand tightened, and she saw one moment of panic in Carrow’s eyes, but Snape spoke again.

“Malfoy, enough,” said Snape.

With a jerk of his hand, he released Carrow. Draco grabbed her roughly by the elbow and fairly dragged her down the corridor to the Headmaster’s office, Snape following behind him, his robes billowing about him. The door to Snape’s office slammed shut, and he cast a Colloportus spell on it.

“I’ll have quite a time dealing with him now,” said Snape in annoyance.

Draco did not respond.

“Don’t tell me if you’ve found anything,” said Snape, holding up a hand. “Just go.”

Hermione realized that Draco still had her arm, and he pushed her toward the fireplace, his expression dark. He thrust the bin that contained the diadem into her hands.

“Go through,” he instructed.

She obeyed. Hermione tossed a handful of Floo powder on the logs and spun away to Malfoy Manor, where Narcissa was waiting for her.

“Well?” asked Narcissa.

Hermione nodded, sighing thickly and falling down onto the sofa.

“I’ll fetch Lucius,” said Narcissa soothingly. “He’ll take care of it from here.”

Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling completely exhausted. Three Horcruxes down, six to go.

Chapter Text

“He’s coming here,” said his father in a clipped tone.

Draco turned, looking over his shoulder at his father, prepared to ask who precisely was coming, but the look on Lucius’s face said it all.

“Dolohov,” said Draco.

Lucius nodded.

“And McBride with him. They say it’s just for a drink, but there’s no doubt that Dolohov wants McBride to witness that your marriage is false. You must act with your wife, Draco. Smile, touch, kiss,” said Lucius, and Draco’s face must have showed the revulsion he felt, because his father gave a half-smirk. “I’ve already talked to Hermione about it. She understands, and she will do what is necessary.”

“When?”

“Tonight,” said Lucius, and he turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder as he left for his office. “Be sure you return home in time.”

Tonight. Draco blanched. He was not sure whether hearing that Granger had already been told what to expect made him more or less anxious about the entire endeavor, but Draco vaguely realized that he had not kissed anyone in nearly ten years.

Draco checked his watch. He had quite a few hours yet to stew on the possibility, and there was a planned raid on a Network base. The team of Inquisitors was suiting up in protective robes in their locker room. Draco never bothered with them; they restricted his movement too much, and he preferred to rely on his wandwork.

He met the team in the corridor, glancing over the assembled group and judging how likely it was that they would succeed. Half the Inquisitors were barely competent, taking the job only to have the opportunity to harass Mudbloods, but this group was of his own choosing, and Theo was among them.

“Anyone have questions?” he asked stoically.

They had been over the plan meticulously, and if anyone had questions, they were too intimidated to ask them. Theo had buckled a vambrace over the forearm of his wand hand, a new invention of his own making that would cast a shield charm. If it worked, Draco planned to have one for himself: less bulky than protective robes, but with nearly as much defensive magic built in.

The portkey was a circular hoop, gold-wrought and engraved with the New Ministry logo. Each of the six of them wrapped a hand around the hoop, and in a moment, it activated, sending them to the Network building, where they fanned out in a practiced formation.

Theo set to breaking the wards around the building, and less than two minutes later, Draco could feel that the hum of protective magic had dropped. The group moved into the base.

They encountered the first Network member at the front door, a volley of spells shooting out and nearly hitting one of the Inquisitors, but Draco was too quick, blocking the spell and dropping the Network operative in two flashes of his wand.

The second cluster of Network wizards was more challenging. Theo knew exactly how to follow Draco into a fight without being a distraction. He shadowed Draco, watching his eyes to gauge the next movement. The other Inquisitors were not as observant, and Draco found himself casting spells to keep them alive more than to take down the Network. To buy time, he sealed the door before the Network wizards could leave through it.

“Sectumsempra,” he said coldly, drawing from the well of Darkness within him, and a line of blood erupted from the wizard’s throat, his mouth working soundlessly as he tried to sling a curse at Draco.

Theo blocked the curse with a shield. One of the Inquisitors threw a Crucio at a Network wizard, but the other crumpled, hit with a stunning spell.

“Avada Kedavra,” said Draco, and the Network wizard fell to the ground.

Draco rolled his neck, shuddering against the trickle of Dark magic that lingered in his veins after casting the Killing curse. He unsealed the door, and the group of Inquisitors split up. Theo followed Draco up the stairs, and they incapacitated two witches with quick precision. Draco nearly scoffed at the ease with which they were dispatching the Network, which was supposed to be the only real threat to the New Ministry.

Perhaps it was overconfidence that led him into it.

He was stalking down the hallway with surefooted steps, but even as Theo yelled out, “STOP!” it was too late. Draco walked straight into an invisible trap, no tendrils of magic that warned him of its presence, and immediately, his breath was stolen away. He felt as though his heart had stopped.

It was only a decade of training that kept him from panicking.

He turned to look at Theo, who was frantically casting with his wand, but each spell bounced off the invisible ward surrounding him. Draco did the same, attempting to dismantle the trap from within, casting nonverbal spells that had no effect at all.

The lack of oxygen was taking its toll quickly. Draco could feel his hand begin to tremble, his vision begin to go blurry at the corners, and he gathered his Occlumency skills, honing his mind to a focused, dangerous edge. His hand on his wand, he swiped downward as though his wand were the tip of a dagger, cutting open the ward.

The ward parted, and Draco tumbled out of it, falling to the floor. He could hear the gasps scraping out of his throat, Theo hovering above him and murmuring a diagnostic spell.

“It’s your heart and lungs,” said Theo. “You need a Healer.”

“When it’s done,” said Draco, the words hoarse and quiet.

He placed his palms one at a time against the smooth wood floor of the hallway and pushed upward, his muscles straining at the effort of simply pushing himself up to stand, but with Theo’s help, he was on his feet again, wand in hand. He dissipated the remnants of the trap with a wave of his wand, and they pressed forward.

They had reached the hub of the Network building. Though Draco knew it was too much to hope that taking out this headquarters would end the Network completely, it was critical not to let this knot of operatives escape. His lungs ached desperately, but with Theo shadowing him, he methodically took out the four wizards who were throwing vicious and violent curses from their final holdout at the end of the hall.

There was blood on the floor, and Draco’s veins burned with Dark magic, but it was done. He fell to his knees.

“You need to get back to Malfoy Manor,” said Theo, kneeling beside him. “Maybe even St. Mungo’s.”

Draco nodded, but his father’s words rang in his head. Be sure you return home in time. He massaged at his aching sternum, his brain feeling foggy and sluggish. Draco grasped the hilt of his wand and Apparated away with a crack. He was aiming for his bedroom, but in the haze of injury, he appeared in Granger’s instead.

Of course, he did.

She gasped when he arrived, still slumped on his knees, his pulse racing yet faint at the same time, his breath scraping out of sore lungs. Granger crossed the room to him, her hand on her wand.

“What do you need?” she asked, business-like.

He appreciated that she did not waste time with “What happened to you?” or “Who did this?”

“Jinxy,” gasped Draco.

The House Elf appeared. Draco’s vision was going grey, and he could hear Jinxy consulting with Granger. The magic that shimmered over his skin was not an elf’s but a witch’s. Slowly, his heart and lungs stopped seizing, and his breathing returned to normal. Draco blinked a few times against the dizziness, shaking his head, and he stood from the floor of her room.

“Thank you,” said Draco.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

They stood awkwardly for a moment. He glanced around the room, noticing the small touches that showed her presence: photos, books, a lamp that he knew had not belonged to the Malfoys. And as he looked around her room, she looked at him, her eyes searching his face.

For what, he was not certain.

“Dolohov and McBride will be here in an hour,” she said. “Will you be ready? Are you well enough?”

“I’ll survive,” said Draco, straightening his collar.

With that, he left her room.

His father cornered them ten minutes before Dolohov and McBride arrived. Draco had not bothered to inform his father of the too-close call. They happened, and what could be done about it after all? Draco was needed. There was no time for St. Mungo’s.

Granger was standing in the corner of the parlour, staring at a sculpted bust of one of his ancestors. Draco had his hands in his pockets, waiting as though facing a life sentence in Azkaban. Smile, touch, kiss.

“You will be kissing when they enter the room,” said Lucius, his finger jabbed in Draco’s face. “It will be as though we have interrupted an intimate moment between a husband and wife who love each other. You must do this.”

Draco jerked his head in a nod, turning to Granger and seeing that she was biting her lip with nerves. She was looking at him, and he watched her eyes flicker down to his lips.

He would take a dozen Network headquarters over this.

Lucius gave him a withering look for good measure before he left, and Draco was left alone with her. His… his… he still didn’t like to think the word “wife.” She had her chin tilted up almost defiantly, standing in the corner of the room. Draco could hear the distant sound of the front door opening, low voices making introductions and a loud laugh that echoed through the ceilings of Malfoy Manor.

He stepped across the room to her.

Draco took a deep breath in through his nose. He could hear footsteps approaching. Granger lifted her hands, placing her palms on his chest cautiously, and Draco almost moved away from her, but he steeled himself. With his right hand, he threaded his fingers in her curly hair. Her eyes were watching his, darting back and forth between them. He unclenched his jaw and dipped his head.

Draco kissed her.

His father had asked for an intimate moment, a sensual embrace, and this was not quite that. He could feel the tension in Granger’s body and his own. But still, her lips were soft, parted for him, and his mind recalled the long-forgotten reality that kissing was pleasant.

Heat swooped through him, and he slammed up the icy blocks of Occlumency to block it out.

She let her fingers tighten on his shirt and kissed him back. His eyes were open, watching her, but hers were closed. Her hair felt soft and wild in his fingers, her mouth warm and gentle. His left hand moved of its own accord to her waist and pulled her flush against him. He felt a tremor move through her body.

And then, the footsteps and voices had arrived in the parlour, and his father was laughing.

“I swear, I find them like this in every corner of the Manor,” said Lucius.

He and Granger broke apart, but she let her hand linger on his chest for a beat longer than strictly necessary. Draco stared at Dolohov, who had a murderous expression, and McBride, who looked delighted. Draco checked in with his body, realizing that his pulse was elevated and his breathing rapid. He felt slightly delirious.

Likely lingering effects of the trap at the Network headquarters.

“Please sit,” said his father, gesturing toward the sofa. “What would you like to drink?”

Dolohov fell down onto the sofa and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table in front of it, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Gin martini,” he said.

A House Elf appeared immediately, martini in hand, one olive. McBride was gentler with the furnishings of Malfoy Manor, but he requested a glass of wine and the House Elf brought one. His father and Granger both asked for wine as well. Draco did not, as a rule, drink alcohol.

“Wine, hm?” asked Dolohov. “So, no little Malfoys on the way yet?”

“Not yet,” said Granger with a calm smile.

Draco seethed quietly, but he did not need his father’s glare to know that he should not say anything. McBride was chatting animatedly with Granger, delightedly pressing her for details on the history of their relationship.

“But Gryffindor and Slytherin! What a rivalry! I was a Ravenclaw myself,” said McBride with a smile.

“Yes, the rivalry is partly why we kept it such a secret, but make no mistake, Mr. McBride,” said Granger with a twinkle in her eyes. “I was always rooting for Draco to catch the Snitch.”

McBride let his head fall backward in laughter, but Draco kept his eyes on Dolohov, whose expression was stormy. He thought of his father’s words: No one in the family can be harmed here. Would Malfoy Manor recognize her as part of the family? Could Dolohov hurt her here?

Suddenly, he realized that Granger and McBride were both looking at him expectantly, as though they had asked him a question and were waiting for his answer. His father raised a blond eyebrow.

“I apologize, what was the question?” asked Draco.

“The Tri-Wizard Tournament,” said McBride. “I was there, you know. Tell me, how did you feel about Miss Granger and Mister Krum?”

This he could answer truthfully.

“I had no idea what he saw in her,” said Draco.

He saw his father shift slightly in discomfort. Dolohov looked eager, and McBride looked rather disappointed and confused. Draco opened his mouth to add to this statement, knowing that he was expected to invent some fanciful tale, but once again, he did not know how.

“I saw you looking at me at the Yule Ball,” said Granger conspiratorially. “I knew that was when he developed… an interest.”

She had a smile on her face much like the one she’d had at Tenebris, and she leaned in close to him, threaded her fingers with his. He felt the warmth of her body next to his keenly. McBride, once again, looked delighted.

“But we didn’t properly date until Sixth year,” she said. “I learned so much about him then. He was going through a lot.”

Granger was gazing up at him with the same pliant, beatific look she’d had at the club, and Draco forced himself to return it as he looked down at her face.

“What a beautiful story,” said McBride.

“Beautiful,” said Dolohov in a dispassionate voice, swirling his martini in its glass so that the gin almost fell over the edge.

It was all business after that. His father discussed some policies that the Dark Lord wanted to implement, and they all lamented the existence of The Network. Lucius commended Draco’s efforts taking down the headquarters that morning. Throughout the evening, Granger kept herself next to him, her hand holding his. It was… bizarre.

Their night was coming to a close, the clock on the mantle striking eleven, when a misty Patronus appeared before Draco.

One of the Order of the Phoenix members has been taken into custody. You are needed at the New Ministry.

He felt Granger’s fingers tighten on his, and Dolohov was staring at her with a cruel, vicious expression.

“One of yours, Miss Granger?” asked Dolohov.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she corrected immediately. “And no, of course not. They’re traitors.”

He wondered if Dolohov could hear the lie in her voice, or if Draco only knew because he had been interrogating liars for ten years. He carefully pulled his hand from hers, marveling at the strangeness of the feeling.

“Be careful, Draco,” said Granger, and in a move that surprised him, she leaned in close, her hand finding his face, her eyes staring into his, and once more, she kissed him.

It was quick, just a short press of her lips against his, but it was soft and tender, and for the briefest moment, he forgot that it was an act. He forgot that they were putting on a show for Dolohov and McBride. She pulled away and their eyes met. For a moment, he considered Legilimency, to pry into her mind and see her thoughts, but he dismissed the idea immediately. She broke away from him, and he looked around the room, almost surprised to see that McBride, Dolohov, and his father were still there.

Granger was not looking at any of them. He did not need to use Legilimency to guess what was on her mind now. One of the Order of the Phoenix members has been taken into custody.

Without bothering to excuse himself or say goodbye, Draco stood from the sofa and Apparated to the New Ministry.

Chapter Text

“Who was it?” she asked frantically. “Who?!”

Draco had appeared in the hallway where she was sitting on the floor next to his bedroom door. He stopped short as she scrambled onto her feet.

“Who do they have?” asked Hermione, her voice shaking with fury.

He was just standing there gazing down at her with an expression that almost looked sympathetic, and she knew that she was going to hate whatever name he said next.

“Arthur Weasley,” he said simply.

Hermione let out a great exhale, her hand going to her chest. She stumbled backward slightly until she was leaning against the wall. It had been a very long time since the New Ministry had taken anyone from the Order. They were careful, so very careful.

“What did they get him for?” she asked.

“Conspiracy against the New Ministry,” he said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “He was caught with an illegal communication device.”

“A two-way mirror?”

Draco nodded, and Hermione let out a deflated laugh.

“Did you torture him?”

He clenched his jaw for a moment, his pupils dilated in the dimly lit hallway so that his eyes looked almost black.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” he asked.

She considered this question for a moment. It was almost a kindness that he was offering, not to tell her that poor Arthur had been tortured at his hands, but Hermione shook her head.

“Tell me.”

“I had to put on a good show,” said Draco, and he averted his eyes for a moment. “I had to make the Inquisitors think it was real.”

“So, for this you know how to pretend?” she snapped.

He stared into her eyes.

“Yes.”

“How bad was it?” asked Hermione quietly.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” said Draco, and she watched him unroll his sleeves, which had been up to his elbows, exposing his Dark Mark. “There’s to be a party.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. A party?

“To what, celebrate Arthur’s capture?” she asked.

“No,” said Draco, waving his hand dismissively. “No one cares about Arthur Weasley.”

Hermione wanted to interrupt him, to tell him that she most certainly cared about Arthur Weasley, but he barreled on.

“A party at the Lestrange Estate tomorrow night. We’re expected to attend,” said Draco. “The Dark Lord will be there.”

“Voldemort?!”

“Yes,” he said.

He turned, going to his door, and one of his hands was already on the handle when she called out.

“Draco,” she said.

He paused, turning on his heel and facing her again. She was staring at his face, searching him for some kind of emotion, but she found none there. There was panic threatening to well in her heart. Living with the Malfoys was one thing, but going into the serpents’ nest was quite another. She could not shake the image of seeing Lord Voldemort in person, of being around the likes of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange.

Draco was waiting for her to speak, one pale eyebrow lifted at her.

“What will they do to me? The Death Eaters?” she asked.

His grey eyes narrowed, a fierceness behind them.

“Granger,” he said slowly, dangerously. “I will not let them do anything to you.”

Though there was no warmth in his voice, the assurance was enough. Hermione exhaled and bit her lip.

“I need to see Ginny,” said Hermione. “Can you please help me see her?”

She thought he would tell her no, dismiss her, but instead, he seemed to consider the request for a moment before jerking his head in a nod.

“I’ll take you to the Ministry with me tomorrow,” said Draco.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.”

~

Ginny was flipping through the parchments on her desk without interest, staring at the words without reading them. Her chin was resting in her palm, her bright red hair hanging lank around her face.

Two of her brothers were dead, and another was in Azkaban, where her father had recently joined him. The Order was dwindling, and the Weasley family with it, and her best friend was stuck in a marriage to the most dangerous man in the New Ministry. She could hardly focus on her work anymore. She and Ernie spent their evenings watching holographic Quidditch matches in their living room, but her eyes no longer had any focus.

Ernie was worried about her.

Sometimes she felt like she was barely hanging on. Ginny was just wondering how incompetent she would have to be at her job to get sacked when she heard a soft knock on her cubicle door. She looked up and felt a swell of emotion rise in her chest.

“Hermione!”

“Ginny,” she replied, and though Ginny could see the shadow of Draco Malfoy looming behind her, she leapt up to hug her anyway.

“Are you alright?” asked Ginny.

“I should be asking you the same,” said Hermione. “Draco told me about…”

She trailed off, and Hermione’s eyes darted around the room, as though she were expecting that someone was listening in.

“Can you come with me to the Chancellor’s office?” asked Hermione.

Ginny blanched. The Chancellor’s office was never a place that someone in the New Ministry wanted to be, but Hermione’s eyes were telegraphing reassurance. Ginny glanced at Draco, whose arms were folded across his chest, his face revealing nothing.

Ginny nodded.

She wasn’t sure if it was an act or if Draco Malfoy could not help himself, but he grabbed her roughly by the elbow, pushing her along through the New Ministry as though he were taking her in for interrogation. Several heads turned to look at her, eyeing her with suspicion. As they passed the DMLE, she caught sight of Ernie, whose jaw dropped when he saw the scene. He leapt up from his chair, but Ginny shook her head rapidly. Ernie saw Hermione and relaxed.

She had never seen Lucius Malfoy’s office, but it was exactly what she would have expected: there were ornate, elaborate furnishings, a desk that probably cost more than the entirety of the Burrow. Lucius was sitting behind it, staring up at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Mrs. MacMillan,” he said coolly.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she replied.

Ginny did not speak further. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing in Lucius Malfoy’s office, whether it boded well or poorly.

“My daughter-in-law requested the chance to speak to you privately,” said Lucius, and with that, he stood from his desk, fingertips pressed against it. “Come, Draco.”

Draco did not look keen to leave Ginny and Hermione alone, but as his father passed him, he turned on his heel and followed him out the door, letting it click shut behind him. Hermione let out a great whoosh of breath.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she said urgently. “Draco has assured me that he’s done everything he can-”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” said Ginny, her hands up in front of her. “How are you? Really?”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut and a confused look crept across her face, her brows knitting together as though this question were unexpected.

“I’m fine,” said Hermione dismissively. “I wanted to see how you are, and how the Order-”

Ginny leapt forward, clamping a hand over Hermione’s mouth.

“You can’t talk about the… the…” she hissed. “You can’t talk about that here!”

Hermione peeled Ginny’s hand off her mouth.

“This room is unmonitored,” said Hermione. “Draco assured me.”

“And we trust Draco Malfoy?” asked Ginny.

Hermione shrugged.

“I mean, we kind of have to,” she said, and then, her lips quirked into a devious smirk. “He is my husband after all.”

Ginny gave a great shudder.

“Don’t remind me,” she said. “Hermione, if he’s forcing you into any… wifely duties, we’ll have his head.”

“Ginny, don’t be ridiculous,” said Hermione. “Of course, he isn’t.”

Ginny stared at her, searching her face, and in truth, Hermione looked better than she had in years. She looked purposeful in a way that reminded Ginny of their years at Hogwarts, when Hermione took on the responsibility of shepherding Harry and Ron through their schoolwork.

“How’s Remus?” asked Hermione, interrupting her train of thought.

“Fine. Everyone’s fine,” said Ginny. “Truth be told, Hermione, we feel like we’re in sort of a holding pattern. It’s like we all just sit around waiting for you and the Malfoys to tell us what to do next.”

Hermione’s eyes got a glint of excitement to them.

“I’m making progress,” said she, reaching out for Ginny’s hand. “Real progress. More than we have in years.”

“With the Horcruxes?” asked Ginny quietly.

“You know I can’t tell you what we’re working on,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “Just… patience.”

“Patience?” said Ginny, and suddenly, she was filled with anger that she couldn’t quite pinpoint, other than the fact that Hermione was living a life of luxury at Malfoy Manor, learning more than they had in a decade, being active and involved in the fight against Voldemort, and the rest of them were just…

“Hermione, my father is in Azkaban along with my brother!” Ginny snapped. “I’m supposed to just have patience while you and Malfoy sort this all out?”

Hermione’s expression had an almost pitying look to it, some sympathy there but also some exhaustion.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Ginny,” she said. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“Let me help you, then!”

“I can’t,” she said, biting her lip.

Hermione extended a hand, patting Ginny’s arm gently and offering her a wan smile.  Ginny’s fury died as quickly as it had blazed. They couldn’t afford to fight amongst themselves.

“Sorry,” said Ginny, and Hermione’s smile warmed. “Please just… just tell me if there’s anything we can do.”

“I will,” said Hermione.

~

“If it isn’t the lovebirds!” said a familiar voice as Hermione and Draco walked across the Atrium, returning to Lucius’s office after taking Ginny back to her desk.

Hermione turned to see McBride behind her. He was next to a woman she did not recognize. Hermione saw her appraising look at the two of them, and she slipped her hand into Draco’s. She felt him stiffen, but he did not pull away.

“You two are the talk of the New Ministry,” said the woman with a sly smile.

“Oh, we’re just like any newlyweds,” replied Hermione with a light giggle that she hoped did not sound forced.

“So I’ve heard,” the woman said.

At this, Hermione tugged at Draco’s hand, turning her head and gazing up at him. He looked at her, his grey eyes confused, and she let her gaze dart down to his lips, hoping he was reading her signals. But of course, he did not, so she took it upon herself to stand up on her toes and kiss him.

His lips softened only slightly as she pressed her mouth to his. She let the kiss last just a beat too long, just long enough so that their displays of affection would continue to be the talk of the New Ministry, and then, she pulled back slightly. He looked a bit mystified, but she hoped that to an outside observer, he just looked enamoured with his new wife.

“Adorable,” said McBride with a grin.

McBride and the witch strode off down the corridor toward the Atrium. She watched them walk, saw the witch’s confident steps in stiletto heels.

“Who is she?”

“Clory Moss,” he said, and he pushed the door to his father’s office open. “She’s in the Department of Mysteries with Dolohov.”

Hermione filed this information in her mind, wondering if the woman was a potential threat or ally, or neither. Lucius’s office was empty, and Draco shut the door behind them with a loud clink.

“You’ve got to stop looking like I’ve Confunded you when I touch you in public,” said Hermione.

“What?”

“Every time I touch you or kiss you, you act like I’ve hit you over the head with a club,” she continued. “People will notice. They won’t believe the act.”

He was shaking his head, running a hand through his platinum blond hair.

“I don’t know how else to do it,” he said.

“You just pretend. Same way you did when you were torturing Arthur. Just pretend that we’re-”

“Granger, I don’t know how,” said Draco suddenly, pacing the room. “I don’t know how to pretend like you do. Not on this. It’s… it’s too confusing.”

“Confusing?”

He had stopped moving, his face falling into his hands. Hermione realized that this might be the most emotion he had shown in front of her since they had started this charade. His body was tense, stressed. When he finally spoke, the words were muffled through his palms.

“When you kiss me…” he said, and his voice sounded caught in his throat. “Granger, I haven’t been kissed in ten years. I don’t even remember what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone, and now, I’m being asked to pretend we’re… we’re….”

“Married?” she supplied, her brow furrowed.

“Yes,” he continued, and he resumed his pacing in a rush. “Something in my brain can’t process what’s happening, can’t separate fiction from reality because there is no reality like this for me. I have not been permitted to have it, and then…”

His hands were tight in fists at his sides, and Hermione was beginning to understand the point he was trying to make.

“Your subconscious brain thinks this is real,” she said. “Because it’s the closest thing you’ve had to real in ten years.”

“Yes,” he said, and his face flushed slightly as though this were embarrassing to admit.

She stopped to collect her thoughts. Her first reaction was repulsion: the idea that Draco Malfoy was somehow attracted to her was rather horrifying, and yet, it made her sad to hear. They should both have been spending their twenties dating, loving, finding a partner to make a life with, and both of them had this cruelly ripped away from them.

Perhaps he was a victim of the war, too.

Hermione bit her lip. She was the first kiss he’d had in almost ten years. It was no wonder his brain had scrambled this up.

“I get it,” she said, and he exhaled a breath of relief. “Listen, we’re living together, we’re pretending to be married, we’re holding hands and kissing in front of others. It’s inevitable that we’re going to start… well, it’s going to be confusing.”

He nodded, staring at her as though her words were his salvation.

“Let’s just keep focused on what matters,” said Hermione. “Destroying the Horcruxes.”

Draco was chewing at the inside of his cheek, but after a moment, he nodded. His body had its confident stance back, and Hermione almost smiled at him, but she kept her expression carefully neutral.

“We were thrown into this, Draco. We’re doing the best we can,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

There was silence. The muscle at the corner of his jaw was ticking as he sat with his thoughts, but he was watching her expectantly, as though waiting for her to tell him what they would do next. As though waiting for her to give him his orders. Hermione sighed.

“Tonight’s the party,” said Hermione.

Draco’s grey eyes stared at her, his expression dark. He nodded.

“We’ll have to act. Pretend. Put on a show,” she said, and he stiffened again. “Can you handle it?”

He squeezed his hands into fists and then flexed his fingers.

“I can handle it,” he said.

Chapter Text

Draco never felt anxious. Anxiety was an emotion that he had buried ten years ago, when Harry Potter had dropped dead in the courtyard at Hogwarts. Since then, Draco had felt neither nervousness nor fear.

And yet, as Granger stepped out of her bedroom wearing a Gryffindor red gown, tight around her body with a slit up to the middle of her thigh, Draco felt a wash of anxiety suffuse his body. He would be expected to behave as though he were married to her in front of a room of Death Eaters, half of whom would probably rather see her dead.

But on top of the anxiety was something else rising within him. The dress hugged her curves, the black liner around her eyes accented them, and her calves stood out in her high heeled shoes. Draco searched his mind, trying to pinpoint the thought he was having. He thought… he thought…

He thought she looked beautiful.

Beautiful. A surge of something in his chest had to be surrounded by the ice walls of Occlumency, and yet still, he realized that he had not thought of a woman as beautiful in ten years. It was as he told Granger: he had not been granted the luxury of such thoughts, and to realize it about Granger of all people.

But she did. She was too thin, the kind of thinness that came from too many years of hunger and exhaustion. The kind of thinness he saw in his own body, despite the sinewy muscles that he had built in the gym. A leanness that spoke of war. But still, as he looked at her, his mind drifted to a simpler time, a more pleasant time in which he had taken Pansy Parkinson to the Yule Ball and seen Granger dancing with Viktor Krum, looking like he’d never seen her look before. Looking beautiful.

She looked a bit anxious, too, however, and this brought him some measure of comfort. She had seemed so calm, so accepting of the arrangement thus far, so it was a relief to see that he was not the only one approaching the evening with some dread.

Draco watched her eyes scan down his body, taking in the tuxedo, expertly tailored and paired with emerald cuff links. She bit her lip, but it was clear that it was from nerves, not flirtation. He held an arm out stiffly for her, and he saw her shoulders lift and lower as she steeled herself with a breath before placing her arm in his.

They descended the staircase together, and his parents were already waiting for them. His mother had a gentle smile on her face, looking at them as though they were a proper married couple. She had always wanted him to get married and start a family, and though he could see the tension in the corners of her eyes, she was making a valiant effort to pretend as though this marriage was perfectly normal, thank you very much.

His father had an appraising expression, and Draco noticed that his father’s eyes were on Hermione, not on him.

“I don’t believe that dress was red when Narcissa bought it,” said his father as they approached, and he leaned in to kiss the air next to Granger’s cheek.

“It wasn’t,” said Granger.

He heard his father laugh. They seemed to get along so well, his father and Granger. Better, perhaps, than he and his father ever had. He met Lucius’s eyes.

“You’re prepared for this?” asked Lucius. “You can do what’s expected?”

Draco nodded, his jaw clenched. He would hold her hand, run his fingers through her nest of curls, smile at her, let her kiss him. He would do all of this in view of the Dark Lord, who seemed to view his marriage to the most famous Mudblood in Britain with wry amusement, and the gathered Death Eaters, who whispered “blood traitor” while still eyeing his prize with jealousy.

Who he really needed was Theo.

The four Malfoys Apparated to the doorstep at the Lestrange estate, and the massive front door swung open for them instantly, the sounds of lilting orchestral music flowing out into the night air. Draco’s eyes swept the crowd, watching each movement for potential threats, assessing body language in each attendee. Most were deferential as the crowd parted, murmuring “Good evening, Chancellor,” as his father passed. Some were judgmental, sneers on their faces and arrogance in their postures. Ilir Hoxha inclined his head as they passed, and Granger smiled at him.

Draco clocked only two wizards as potentially threatening: Carrow, who was certainly still reeling from their encounter at Hogwarts, and Rodolphus Lestrange himself, who had something predatory in his body language. He turned his shoulders so that they were square with Lucius’s.

“So glad you could make it, Chancellor,” said Rodolphus.

His mother was kissing her sister on the cheek, and Bella was cackling at Granger’s choice in gowns. Granger seemed completely unfazed.

To Draco’s great relief, Theo was wandering across the room to meet them, and Greg Goyle was at his side. Draco felt his body relax as his friends shook his hand, both of them nodding at Granger politely.

“How’s married life?” asked Greg.

“It’s suitable,” said Draco grimly.

Greg laughed.

It was easy to pretend all was well and normal. Theo and Hermione got along famously; if they were putting on an act for the sake of the party, Draco could not spot it. Was she simply that good at pretending? Was it all a mission for her, or did she enjoy the company of his father and his best friend?

He could not tell, so he banished the thought.

“The Network is crumbling,” said Greg. “All the intelligence says so. They’ve got maybe fifty wizards left in their org. They’re desperate, though, so they’ll be doing their worst.”

Draco scoffed.

“What they’ve done thus far is horrifying,” he said. “I’d hate to see what’s worse.”

Greg nodded darkly.

The party was rather dull, but predictably so, at least, until the Dark Lord arrived. There was a hush in the room at his Apparition, which made no sound but a soft, smoky whisper. His skin was a pale grey, his eyes bright red, and his limbs frail. With each breath, his lungs hissed. And yet, even in this fragile state, the room deferred to him, bowing and scraping. Even Lucius Malfoy dipped his head to the Dark Lord.

Draco did not. The Dark Lord always found this amusing.

“Your work on the Network has not gone unnoticed, Draco,” said the Dark Lord in a wheezing voice. “Nor has your work with the Order of the Phoenix.”

There was a titter of laughter in the room as all eyes swept to Granger. Draco felt a sudden impulse to place himself in front of her, to be between her body and the Dark Lord’s, but he stifled this urge. He watched as the Dark Lord wandered toward her. She did not cower.

“I remember you,” wheezed the Dark Lord. “Do you remember me?”

“I do,” she said defiantly.

“You screamed when Harry Potter died,” said the Dark Lord, and he laughed a sinister laugh. “How do you feel about it now?”

She let a sadness wash over her features, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“He was my friend,” she said, and then, she looked up at Draco, meeting his eyes. “But Draco is my husband.”

The Dark Lord’s head fell backward, leading the room in a laugh.

“So he is!” said the Dark Lord, and he clapped her on the shoulder. “So he is.”

She did not grimace as he squeezed her bare shoulder. Draco felt she deserved credit for that alone. The Dark Lord moved onto the next cluster of fawning sycophants, and Draco took his place at her side. He could sense her slight shiver, and with a deep breath of resolve, he held his arm out for her to take.

She glanced up at him and smiled. He tried to force a smile on his own face but failed. There were threats in every corner of the room.

“Well done,” said Theo in a voice so quiet he almost couldn’t hear him.

Granger smiled at him, too, grabbing a glass of champagne off a floating tray nearby and downing it in a single gulp.

Draco would have been content to stand beside her the entire evening, scanning the crowd with practiced eyes and prepared to draw his wand as he waited for his father to finish making his political rounds, but the Dark Lord had other plans.

“Wizards!” he announced in a scratchy voice barely more than a whisper. “You shall join me in the drawing room. Witches, you shall retire to the parlour.”

Granger’s face was carefully blank, but he saw her brown eyes searching the crowd for his mother. As his father crossed the room to stand at the Dark Lord’s right hand, Granger let go of Draco’s arm. He watched her follow Narcissa out among the crowd of women, and Draco felt the unfamiliar sensation of anxiety as she left his sight.

~

Hermione had not planned to leave Draco’s side that evening. The crowd was too unfriendly for her to be on her own, and as much as it galled her to think it, Draco Malfoy was her best chance at protection at a Death Eater event. But there was nothing anyone could do in the face of a command from Voldemort himself. The men and women were to separate, and Bellatrix Lestrange looked wildly displeased.

“-but he still lets Rabastan in with him, even after he lost the fucking book,” she hissed, and Hermione’s ears perked up. “Tells him it’s the most important book in the entire collection, and Rabastan gambles it away to some Eastern European idiot. The Dark Lord isn’t even aware. I should tell him-”

“Bella, don’t,” said Narcissa. “It’ll only bring his wrath on Rodolphus as well.”

“Yes, we all know that shame on one member of the family brings shame on all,” said Bella in a girlish voice, staring Hermione up and down.

Pansy Goyle was in the corner, three witches with her, and Hermione worked up the courage to join them. She recognized Millicent Bulstrode easily, and Daphne Greengrass. The third woman was less familiar.

“Hello, Hermione,” said Pansy sweetly. “Do you need a drink?”

“Please,” she said.

Pansy snapped her fingers and another champagne appeared. Hermione held it gently, feeling the cool condensation on the crystal.

“As I was saying,” said the unfamiliar witch. “The Dark Lord has placed Corban at the forefront of the investigation. He’s positioned to have significant influence at the New Ministry.”

“I still can’t believe you married him, Astoria,” said Pansy, rolling her eyes. “He’s twice your age. Disgusting, really. Do you fuck him? Can he get it up?”

Daphne giggled, but Astoria sniffed into her wine glass.

Hermione was bathed in gossip, conversation that was generally easy to ignore. It was perhaps an hour later that Rodolphus Lestrange reappeared and let the women know that they were allowed to return to the party with the men.

Hermione found the entire thing absurd, but she gamely followed the crowd of women into the hall, feeling rather unprotected and ready to get back to Draco’s side.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Malfoy,” said a sickly-sweet voice in her ear.

Rodolphus Lestrange had her by the elbow, and he was guiding her away from the rest of the women. She looked for Narcissa’s blonde head, hoping to catch her eye, but she was lost in the crowd.

“Someone wants to see you,” said Rodolphus. “Seems like you made an impression on him back at Hogwarts.”

Hermione’s stomach roiled as Rodolphus led her down a long corridor and to a wooden door, pushing it open and revealing a dimly lit study. Amycus Carrow was waiting for her, a feral, toothy grin on his face as he stared, his eyes roving up and down her body.

“Enjoy yourself, Carrow,” said Rodolphus, shoving her roughly toward him. “Maybe I’ll find her later and take a turn.”

And before she could react, a Body Bind curse had been thrown, and Hermione’s body went rigid, Carrow catching her about the waist. The door clicked shut as Rodolphus left, and Carrow pulled her stiff body against his own. She could smell an overwhelming cologne, something cloying, like rotting undergrowth in a forest. She could feel his hands on her, his fingertips pressing into her skin, roving down to the curve of her arse.

He let out a breathy moan and pushed his hips against her, his breath hot and moist against her neck.

Ah, so it would be this. Hermione tried to school her mind to blankness, tried to find the detachment of Occlumency as Amycus Carrow pushed her down over a desk. His hands found the soft skin of her thighs as he lifted her red gown up, and try as she might to block out the feeling, she could not. His fingers were touching between her legs, sliding them under the fabric of her knickers.

She could not help the frightened whimper that escaped her lips, and Carrow gave a cruel laugh in response.

“You like having pureblood in you, hm?” he asked, and she heard the horrifying sound of the zipper on his trousers.

But just as she felt the disgusting, awful feeling of the head of his erection against her body, the door to the study slammed open with a force so great it shook the walls. Hermione could not see who it was, but she did not need to. The air crackled with the force of his magic.

“That’s. My. Wife.”

There was a flash of green light in the room, and then, the feeling of Carrow’s body against her was no more.

It took her a moment to realize that the Body Bind curse was no longer in place, that she could move, and she frantically stood straight, letting the skirts of her gown fall and adjusting her knickers to cover herself. Draco stood in the doorway, his expression murderous.

“Did he…”

Hermione shook her head. She tried to speak, but her throat was too tight and strangled, her eyes burning with the threat of tears. Coughing, she tried again.

“Almost. Almost, but you…” she said, and she began to tremble violently from head to foot. “Draco…”

There was a long moment in which they stared at one another from opposite sides of the study. Her legs felt as though they might give out, and she saw the decision surface in his face. With three long strides, he crossed the room and pulled her against him, holding her upright so that her shaking body would not collapse to the floor. She fell against him, her hands finding the lapels of his tuxedo, gripping them to still her quaking fingers.

She felt safe.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest, her voice trembling.

He did not say anything, just held her close, and she could hear the heavy pounding of his heart in his chest. His arms were strong and unyielding around her body, and she inhaled deeply against him. She smelled him, the faint metallic scent of Dark magic oddly comforting, and felt herself melting into him.

“There you are,” said a familiar voice.

They broke apart, and Hermione saw Theo’s figure in the doorway. He glanced at them, confused at first, but then he saw Amycus Carrow dead on the ground. Theo sighed heavily.

“That will be hard to explain,” he said.

It said something about Theo’s friendship with Draco that he asked no questions, simply cast his wand to levitate Carrow’s dead body in the air, moving it away from Hermione’s feet. The three of them stared at it, heads tilted to one side as they considered what to do next.

“Shall we fake a suicide, or invent a crime?” asked Theo.

“Is Snape here?” Hermione asked.

Theo nodded.

“Fetch him?” asked Hermione, glancing at Draco, who nodded his agreement.

Theo disappeared from the room, leaving Draco and Hermione alone, and suddenly, the air felt rather thick around her. It was trauma, surely, that was bonding them, but the bond had sparked nonetheless, and Hermione slipped her hand in his. He was still staring at Carrow’s body, jaw clenched and grey eyes dark, but he silently pulled her closer to him.

When Snape billowed into the room, he took one look around and pursed his lips.

“The three of you should go. I’ll handle this,” he said, and his black eyes found Draco’s face. “Make sure you teach her Occlumency.”

Draco jerked his head, and she followed him and Theo back into the party. Lucius was laughing with a cluster of Death Eaters, but he visibly relaxed when he saw them enter. She moved among the crowd, feeling the eyes staring at her as she did.

Hermione’s hand did not leave Draco’s for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Draco would have preferred never to let her out of his sight again. Ever. For the duration of his life. Alas, his life was not so simple. His evening meal had been interrupted by the incessant call. You are needed. You are needed. You are needed.

He did not allow himself to think about the reasons why he was feeling so protective over her. Of course, it was simply because she was his ward. His mission partner. He did not let himself think of the identity that had cemented itself so firmly the night of the Lestrange party.

His wife.

Draco shook his head, ridding himself of the thought. Only his father’s intense threats had kept him from casting several Avada Kedavras in Rodolphus’s direction.

“You’ll stay at the Manor,” he said, his finger pointed menacingly in her face.

She nodded, and he lifted his wand to cast his Patronus, a misty, amorphous thing that awaited his message.

“I’ll be there in a moment. Keep your wand on him at all times,” he said, and the Patronus zipped away.

He turned back to Granger, who was seated at his father’s left at the dinner table. Lucius was watching him with a patient expression.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” snapped Draco, and Lucius inclined his head in obedience, his lips quirked into a smirk.

Draco stalked out of the dining room, the crack of his Apparition sounding as he disappeared mid-stride, reappearing at the New Ministry. It was late in the evening, and the security guard jumped out of his seat and stammered, “Good evening, Mr. Malfoy.” Draco ignored him, heading straight for the interrogation rooms.

It was a Network leader. The Inquisitors, inept though they were, had somehow stumbled their way into capturing one, but it was left to Draco to draw any information out of him. The Inquisitors bowed and scraped as he passed, but he ignored them, entering the holding cell where one Inquisitor stood with his wand trained on the wizard. His hands and legs were bound to a chair.

“You may go,” said Draco to the Inquisitor.

Draco slid behind his icy walls of Occlumency, and it was as though the room had hushed to silence, his magic sharpening in his extremities as his thoughts disappeared behind the barricade in his mind. Draco lifted his wand.

“We’re recruiting,” the Network leader offered with a smirk.

Draco lifted an eyebrow.

“Order of the Phoenix members are our first target,” he added, and then, he shrugged. “If you know any.”

The wizard had a smile that was part cruel, part mischief, but despite the cage of Occlumency around his thoughts, Draco felt his temper rising. If you know any. It was no secret that Hermione Granger was his wife.

His wife.

Draco had to shake his head again. Focus. He lifted his eyes to the wizard, stepping closer to him and grabbing his face roughly in his hands. Draco stared into the wizard’s eyes and delved into his mind. He was rough with his Legilimency, vicious, tearing through memories and shredding them so that the wizard groaned in pain.

There were few memories he could see. The wizard’s Occlumency was well practiced, but Draco found a memory of the Network that disturbed him.

“She would be able to provide an unbelievable amount of information if we could recruit her. She’s married to Draco Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake,” said a witch that Draco recognized from his Hogwarts days.

“Would she join? Is she loyal to the Malfoys? The Order?”

“I’m sure she could be convinced.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and shredded the memory, taking a bit of the wizard’s consciousness with him.

By the end of the Interrogation, it was nearly midnight, and Draco was casting a Tergeo to rid his hands of blood, though the wizard was still barely hanging onto life in his holding cell. Draco let the walls of Occlumency melt as his footsteps echoed in the New Ministry. He Apparated home with a crack.

~

The Patronus’s appearance surprised her. No one ever sent her messages; it was too dangerous. And yet, this one appeared, its wolf tail wagging as it spoke in Tonks’s voice.

“It’s going to rain tonight in East Finchley,” spoke the wolf.

Hermione shared a look with her in-laws.

“It’ll be something big if they’re inviting us,” said Lucius, fingering the rim of his wine glass.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“That Patronus was for me, not for you,” she snapped.

“Well, Draco won’t let you go alone,” said Lucius calmly, raising his grey eyes to meet hers.

Hermione did not speak. Narcissa was staring at her hands, folded in front of her on the table. Lucius shifted in his seat, crossing his legs so that one ankle rested on the opposite knee, his back leaning against the chair.

“Who do you suppose I meant when I said ‘us,’?” asked Lucius.

“You and Draco,” said Hermione.

Lucius clucked his tongue.

“I meant all of us. You included,” he corrected.

This took the wind out of Hermione’s sails a bit. Lucius was staring at her with something of an impatient expression on his face, as though waiting for her to acknowledge that he had fulfilled every part of his end of the bargain and then some. It was true, she had to own. She had expected grudging tolerance that bordered on cruelty, but instead, he had been supportive and paternal.

“Your friends would likely rather not have the Chancellor for Magic at their meeting tonight, but you may not go without Draco,” said Lucius firmly, and then, he quirked his lips in a smirk. “He’d have my head.”

She nodded, taking a slow breath.

“You’re right,” she said, trying to bring the conversation back to where they’d started. “It’s something big if they’re willing to risk sending me a Patronus.”

Hermione glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It was half eight. When she looked back at Lucius, she saw that he had already anticipated her next question. He pulled out his wand and cast his unformed Patronus.

“Hermione is going to an event this evening. You are needed,” he said, and the Patronus flew away.

It felt like less than half a second later that the crack of Draco’s Apparition echoed through Malfoy Manor, his stride not even faltering for a second as he crossed the room to them.

“She’s not going anywhere,” said Draco through gritted teeth.

“She’s going to an Order meeting, and so are you,” instructed Lucius.

“Absolutely not,” said Draco.

Hermione watched as Draco and his father argued back and forth about the Order meeting. It brought to mind the many arguments she had witnessed at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius and Snape shouting and snarling at each other over minutia while the war approached. She glanced at Narcissa, remembering that she and Sirius were cousins. Hermione wondered if Narcissa would have liked to have any of the Black family heirlooms from the home.

It hit her suddenly, and she dropped her fork with a clang.

“Lucius, I have an idea of where the next Horcrux is, and we’re going to need the Order’s help to get it,” she said.

Lucius raised an eyebrow at her, but then, he looked at Draco as though to say, that settles it. The muscle at Draco’s jaw ticked, but grim-faced, he nodded.

Hermione and Draco appeared at East Finchley together, Draco’s hand at her elbow. When Fred Weasley crossed the room to embrace her, Hermione noticed out of the side of her vision that Draco had nearly started forward to stop him, but he kept it together, and Hermione welcomed the hug from Fred.

“You’re still alright?” he asked in her ear.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Hermione took a seat at the long table, the chair so close to the wall in the cramped closet that Draco had to angle his body in order to stand behind her. His arms were folded in front of his chest, his eyes sweeping the room skillfully as he watched for threats in the last place Hermione would ever expect to find one.

“We’re here today because the Network has reached out,” said Remus, and a low murmur erupted in the room so that he had to hold up a hand to stop it. “They’ve nearly been taken out by the New Ministry. They were cagey on specifics, but I doubt they have more than fifty witches and wizards left after what the Inquisitors and Death Eaters have done.”

The room turned their eyes to Draco, who scowled.

“What this means, in clear terms, is that for the first time, The Network is interested in working with the Order,” said Remus.

He let the room sit with this information. Hermione saw Ginny lean in and whisper into her husband’s ear. Tonks was surveying the room with a critical eye, her body angled slightly toward Remus in an unconscious show of support.

“Does anyone have any thoughts they’d like to share?” Remus asked.

“We should do it,” said Fred immediately. “We’ll never make any progress if we don’t.”

Hermione bit her lip.

“Their tactics are disgusting, Fred,” said Ginny. “We don’t want to start doing the kinds of things they’re willing to do.”

“The New Ministry is afraid of them. They aren’t afraid of us,” Fred said.

“Afraid is not the right word,” said Draco, and every head in the room turned to him. “But they must be dealt with in a way that the Order does not require.”

“Because they’re willing to do anything that’s necessary,” spat Fred.

“They kidnap children!” said Hermione in a suddenly vicious voice, thinking of Pansy Goyle and her young boys. “They kidnap terrified young children just to get the New Ministry’s attention. Working with the Network is not an option.”

There was some unrest at the table at her proclamation. Fred looked mutinous, but Remus looked as though he had been hoping someone else would take the hard line against working with the Network. She felt Draco shift behind her as the whispers grew. He moved so that he was standing at her side, pushing an empty chair out of his way. Hermione held up a hand to silence the table.

She had a plan, and she needed help.

“We can take down Voldemort without their help,” she said firmly. “We’re getting closer, and we have two on the inside now. We can’t trust the Network with that kind of information, so there’s no point in even considering it. What I need is…”

She trailed off, but Remus nodded his head encouragingly.

“Go on,” he said. “What do you need?”

Hermione took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.

“I need to get into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place,” she said.

Remus’s eyes widened, and she heard someone let out a low whistle in the room.

“Remus, you know it best. Would Narcissa be able to get in? Would the house recognize her as the heir?” asked Hermione.

He gave a shrug, shaking his head.

“When Harry died, there was no will. He was so young…” Remus said, trailing off, and Ginny’s gaze dropped. “We’ve never tried to go back, because we weren’t sure if it would have passed to the Malfoys.”

He and Draco shared a look.

“It’s never been formally passed to us,” Draco said. “To be honest, I think my mother forgot all about it.”

“Must be nice to have so many houses you can forget about one,” said Fred, rolling his eyes.

Draco looked as though he would have liked to draw his wand. Hermione lifted her hand, grasping his left forearm, and she saw a few people at the table note her movement.

“What’s in there that you need?” asked George.

Hermione shook her head.

“The less you know, the better,” she said.

“Agreed,” said Remus. “Hermione, there are some protections that Dumbledore set up before he died, some things I helped him with. Why don’t we make a plan for you and Narcissa to meet me there and we’ll try to get in?”

“I’ll be there as well,” said Draco firmly, and she squeezed his forearm without thinking about it.

The room was staring at her and her husband, eyes trained on her hand, which still had not let go of his arm. His eyes were sweeping the room for threats, his body language protective, and far from finding it grating, it felt… safe. Hermione had not felt safe in a long time.

“The four of us, then,” said Remus, nodding. “We can try for this weekend.”

Hermione craned her neck to look up at Draco. He was the busiest of all of them. She knew that he often traipsed in well after midnight and awoke before dawn. He had so little time in his life for a Horcrux hunt. She watched the cogs in his mind turn, planning how he would put off his responsibilities so he could help her.

“Sunday,” said Draco.

Remus jerked his head in a nod.

Once they had returned to Malfoy Manor, Hermione was trotting behind him down the long hallway to their bedrooms. She knew by now that he was listening to her footsteps, always aware of exactly where she was in a room. Sure enough, when she stopped walking, he froze, turning on his heel to look at her.

He was so fucking handsome.

He had a straight nose, piercing grey eyes, a strong jawline, and a head of tousled platinum blond hair that had escaped his attempts to slick it back. And yet, he was so… detached. Hermione half wanted to grab him by the shoulders and tell him to feel, goddammit.

She wanted to feel his arms around her again, feel the safety of his body, hear the thumping of his heart in his chest.

“What is it?” he asked.

Hermione looked at the floor, staring at his stolid leather boots.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For?”

“For everything,” said Hermione, glancing up at his face. “But particularly for rearranging your schedule so that you can help me find the Horcruxes. I know you have… other responsibilities.”

He let his lips quirk into the tiniest smirk.

“This Sunday, it’s just Theo,” he said.

Her eyes widened, memories of a sauna flashing through her mind, and she heard a sniff of something that might have been laughter.

“He won’t mind,” said Draco.

Hermione watched his face carefully, tilting her head to one side. The feeling bubbling in her chest might have been jealousy.

“Are you and Theo…”

His eyes narrowed, and she thought for a moment that she had overstepped, but his shoulders lifted and lowered slowly as he took a slow breath. He shook his head, the tiniest movement.

“I’ve told you this before, Granger,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “We’re friends. He has… well, we’ve been through a lot, but we’re just friends.”

She thought she saw the corner of his mouth lift, as though he found the entire line of questioning quite amusing.

“And thank you,” he added.

“For?”

“Everything,” he said, and he took a small step toward her. “But particularly for helping my father in his mad attempt to consolidate power when the Dark Lord dies.”

“It is rather mad,” said Hermione, and she realized she was taking a small step toward him as well.

They were inching closer, just a half step apart. She could reach out and grab his shirt, pull him close, rest her head on his chest. He could wrap his arms around her, he could rest his head on top of hers. They could embrace, finding some warmth and comfort in a cold and frightening world.

Draco sighed.

“Good night, Granger,” he said.

Chapter Text

“I know he had something to do with it!” came a shrieking voice, jolting Draco out of what must have been fewer than four hours of sleep.

His body had accustomed to instant alertness over the years, and he had swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood before his brain had fully caught up to what he was doing. The footsteps were thundering up the stairs, the shrieking continuing, and he could hear a low murmur of what must have been his mother’s soothing voice.

“Get him OUT of there,” shouted the voice.

A woman’s. His mind whirred for a moment as he attempted to place it, and then he realized. Alecto Carrow. How had she managed to enter the Manor? The wards were foolproof. He hardly had time to slide trousers up his legs before the footsteps reached the corridor of his bedroom, and he swung his door open before his mother and Carrow had a chance to reach it.

He watched Alecto Carrow’s steps pause for a moment, her eyes raking down his half-naked body. His eyes narrowed. Carrow had propositioned him more than once, the first time during his Seventh year at Hogwarts. He had never acquiesced.

“Why is she here?” Draco asked his mother.

“We ran into each other at Diagon Alley,” said Narcissa helplessly. “She wanted to see you and-”

Alecto Carrow seemed to come back to herself then, lifting a finger as though she planned to jab him in his bare chest.

“Amycus is dead, and you had something to do with it,” she snapped.

“How do you figure?” he asked calmly.

“The last time I saw him alive, he was looking for you and your whore at the Lestranges’ party,” said Alecto.

Draco bristled, his hand reaching for his wand, though his mother looked at him imploringly.

“Let’s all go downstairs and have tea, and we can sort this out,” said Narcissa sweetly.

But Granger chose exactly that moment to open the door to her bedroom and see what the fuss was all about, and when Carrow rounded on her, all hell broke loose. Carrow had not even bothered to draw her wand, leaping at Granger with her bare hands, and Granger flinched backward, nearly falling onto her bedroom floor, but stumbling to catch her balance.

Draco’s wand was in his hand in an instant, but his mother pounced on his arm, hissing, “No!” in his ear and sending his nonverbal Stunner into a nearby wall. Carrow had not even noticed the spell, cocking her fist back and sending it flying toward Granger’s jaw, but as she threw the punch, it was as though her arm was caught in glue. Her fist had slowed to a halt a mere inch from Granger’s face, and both Carrow and Granger were staring at it open-mouthed.

No one in the family can be harmed here.

Well, he supposed that meant the Manor recognized her as family.

After a moment, Granger drew herself up to her full height, which was not very considerable, but even as Carrow stood several inches over her, she was not afraid. She was livid.

“What was that?!” she snapped.

“You had something to do with it, too!” screeched Carrow. “You two are the reason he’s dead!”

Draco watched Granger’s face carefully, checking to see just how good she was at lying, and he was satisfied to see that her expression did not shift in the slightest.

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” said Granger.

His mother stepped in.

“All of you need to stop,” she said firmly. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Carrow was looking at all of them accusatorially, but she jerked her head in a nod. After Carrow turned to follow Narcissa, Granger let out a breath, and he saw that her hands were trembling ever so slightly. He swept his arm out in front of him, meeting her eyes for only an instant before she collected herself and followed.

The crack of his father’s Apparition echoed in the Manor as they were descending the stairs. He was waiting for them with narrowed eyes.

“The Manor is agitated,” said Lucius, glaring at Carrow.

“There’s been a small scuffle, Lucius. It’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding,” said Narcissa. “We were just about to have tea.”

The women walked through to the parlour, but Draco lingered behind with his father. Lucius gave him a questioning look.

“She thinks I killed Amycus,” whispered Draco.

“And did you?”

Draco’s lips pursed, his expression stony, and he saw his father’s shoulders lift and lower as he sighed resignedly. Draco rolled his neck, feeling the familiar pop of the joints there. Lucius swept his arm out in front of him.

“After you.”

The tension in the room crackled in the air when Draco walked in. His mother was pouring tea, and though she was holding it together quite well, he could see the slightest tremor in her hand as she did. Granger was glowering at Carrow with daggers in her eyes, and Carrow was slurping tea noisily, her eyes darting from one Malfoy to the next.

Lucius collapsed into a sofa, draping himself artfully in a pose that Draco knew was meant to convey that he considered the entire matter beneath him.

“So, Amycus is dead, and instead of leveraging the New Ministry’s considerable investigative power,” Lucius said, his fingertip tracing the carved wood at the edge of the sofa, “you have decided to lie your way into my home, accuse my son of murder, and attack my daughter-in-law.”

Carrow’s jaw rolled as Lucius’s cool grey eyes found her face, studying it judgmentally.

“I could have you arrested for this,” said his father calmly.

“The Dark Lord wants to get to the bottom of this,” snapped Carrow, her finger pointing accusatorially as she puffed herself up with a confidence Draco knew was an act. “He’ll shred her mind to pieces to find out what happened to my brother.”

“Let him try,” said Lucius, waving a hand in disinterest.

Draco was watching his father’s face carefully. The grey eyes moved to Draco for the briefest moment before sliding back to Carrow. Draco thought of Snape’s words: teach her Occlumency.

~

“I got something for you,” said Draco.

It looked as though he had been nervous to say it, working up the courage. It seemed unlike him. Hermione tilted her head to one side, considering him. He had been gone for the better part of the day, and though that was not unusual, it was rare that he sought her out upon his return.

“You got something for me,” she repeated.

He nodded.

“What is it?” she asked.

He paused, worrying the corner of his lip with his teeth. His hands were in his pockets. He looked so young in that moment that it made her heart ache.

“Follow me,” said Draco.

His footsteps were as quiet as ever going down the staircase toward the kitchen. Hermione vaguely realized she had never been there before. The House Elves skittered out of their way nervously, but then, Draco stopped, standing in front of a granite countertop and staring at…

An espresso machine.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked.

Her mouth had fallen open. Draco had remembered, had listened to her, had thought of her and bought her a gift. It was an espresso machine. She could smell the coffee beans from where she stood, and every memory rushed back to her at once: laughter with Remus as milk sprayed into her hair, smiling customers at Flourish and Blotts, lattes with flower art in the foam.

Hermione launched herself at him.

Her arms squeezed tightly around his broad shoulders, her face buried into his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She hugged him, holding onto him like he was her salvation. He was stiff, his arms at his sides, but slowly, ever so slowly, she felt him melt into her embrace. His hands wound their way around her back, fingertips pressing into her ribs. Hermione heard a tiny gasp in his throat as he buried his face in her hair. Something shifted in the air around them, and suddenly, she could feel the heat of him, the thumping of his heart inside his ribs. His hands roaming her body, scrabbling for purchase, and she let her fingernails dig into his back, pulling herself closer to him.

Finally, his fingers found their way into her curls, and he pulled her head back, tilting her chin so that she had to look up at his face. His grey gaze was stormy, flickering from her lips to her eyes, his breath coming in heavy pants. Her lips parted of their own accord, waiting for the kiss that she sensed was coming. She wanted it desperately.

And then-

“No, we’ll need the 16^th century porcelain for the second course, and the-”

Narcissa froze when she saw them, two House Elves at her feet. Her mouth worked soundlessly. Hermione felt a rising panic, but Draco’s fingers had not let go of her hair. Slowly, she let her hands fall away from his body, and with some reluctance, he pulled back from her. Her body ached for him, the cold air of the Manor making her skin prickle in the absence of his warmth.

“I’m so sorry,” said Narcissa. “I can go-”

Draco stalked out of the room, brushing past his mother without a word. Hermione bit her lip, catching her breath nervously while Narcissa returned to the task of selecting dinnerware.

Hermione made herself a latte.          

~

He wanted to avoid her, but the Dark Lord was coming. Soon. Though there was a pretense of the event being an honour, an opportunity for the Malfoys to host their Supreme Leader in their home and in the presence of the other highest ranking Death Eaters, Draco knew that their family was now under scrutiny. Alecto Carrow had spread the rumour as far as she could that Draco and Hermione had killed Amycus Carrow.

Theo’s Occlumency was good. Good enough, Draco hoped. At least Alecto had not tried to cast any suspicion onto him. How good was Granger’s?

He rapped his knuckles on her door and heard her shifting inside her room before she pulled it open. She met his eyes bravely, chin in the air as though daring him to mock her for what had happened, what had almost happened between them.

How could he? He had very nearly lost control. Every instinct in his body had begged him to pull her mouth toward his, to lose himself in her, to finally let himself feel for once. A decade of building walls around his emotions had nearly shattered over an espresso machine.

After he had almost kissed her, he had stomped up the staircase to his room, enjoying the echoing thud of his heavy boots, and when he had slammed his bedroom door behind him, he had felt the surprising and unwelcome sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. Draco had marched into his bathroom, disrobing chaotically as Jinxy picked up his clothing behind him. He had turned the water on so that it nearly scalded him and let it beat on his shoulders, resting his hands against the tiled walls.

He could not lose control.

He would lose everything.

Slowly, he had organized his mind, rebuilding the crumbling wall around the place in his mind where his feelings lived. Compartmentalizing it. Reminding himself of his duty, his reality.

And here he was, ready to teach Occlumency to his… his…

To Granger.

“Hello,” she said.

“The Dark Lord is coming. We need to practice your Occlumency,” he said.

Granger nodded, pulling open the door fully and beckoning him inside.

He arranged two chairs facing one another, sinking down into one of them, spreading his knees and resting his elbows on his legs. She sat in front of him, knees together, brown eyes confident.

“I…” he began, but stammered, feeling off-kilter.

“You have my consent,” she offered.

It reminded him uncomfortably of the day they were wed, the day that she had expected he would want to consummate the marriage. He gulped. Still, she was waiting expectantly, so he squared his shoulders to her and stared into her eyes.

“Don’t you need a wand?” she asked.

“No.”

Draco dived in.

Granger’s Occlumency was good, but not good enough. He rifled through, finding superficial memories, but he pushed past them roughly. He heard her give a whimper of pain, and some impulse begged him to pull back, but he could not. Draco found her parents. He found the list of Horcruxes. He found her brewing Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts.

He found her first time having sex, too young with Viktor Krum.

“Stop,” she said.

He stopped instantly, slipping out of her mind in less than a second. He did not say anything, just held her gaze.

“I’m not good enough,” said Granger. “I know.”

“What system do you use?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

He took a slow breath.

“What do you picture? How do you organize your thoughts?” he pressed.

She gave a little mystified shrug.

“I have a wall. I build the wall out of ice. It surrounds any thoughts I don’t want him to see,” said Draco.

“Oh,” she whispered.

He watched her for a long moment. She was sorting through something in her mind, making decisions, organizing her thoughts in whatever way made sense to her. After a long time, she looked up at him again, meeting his gaze. She nodded.

“Try again,” she said.

It was better. Shockingly better. He rifled through the memories again, finding the vision of her brewing Polyjuice Potion but unable to push past it. The rest of the memories were distractions, keeping him away from the core.

Draco pushed harder. She whimpered again. He grabbed onto a sliver of a memory, a thread of something she was trying desperately to hide. He tugged, pulled, yanked, and then, in front of him was a vision of her at Hogwarts, Ron Weasley shouting at her in the library, her fear and anxiety palpable.

“Stop staring at him then!” Weasley was shouting. “You’re making me look like a-”

“Stop,” she said.

He stopped. He found himself shaking slightly in anger. Just the thought of someone shouting at her in that way. Draco wanted to Apparate to Azkaban at that moment and tear Weasley’s skin from his body one strip at a time.

He shook himself.

“It was better that time,” he said. “What was your system?”

Granger gave a small grin.

“A library,” she said.

Draco let out a snort that was almost laughter, and she giggled. The sound was pleasant, filling the room.

“Again,” she said.

They continued for over an hour. Granger had shored up her Occlumency remarkably fast. It became more and more difficult to find any thoughts of Horcruxes, of the Dark Lord, of Potter. But still, he pushed, slipping in between the memories and tugging at the ones that were most dangerous. They were hard, but not impossible, for him to find.

“I’m sorry,” he said as she rubbed her aching head.

“No, you’re doing the right thing,” said Granger. “Voldemort won’t be gentle with me.”

He shivered. Once she looked up at him, staring into his eyes, he dived in once more, pushing past barriers, sifting through visions.

“You can dangle those memories as bait,” said Draco as he chased her thoughts of Viktor Krum. “If you make it seem like you’re trying to hide them, it can distract the Legilimens from the things you need to keep secret.”

Granger nodded, resting her forehead in her hands and massaging her temples.

“Fuck, it hurts,” she said.

He didn’t think he’d heard her swear before. At that moment, she bent over sideways and retched onto the rug. Draco stood in a rush, waving his wand to clean up the mess.

“That’s enough practice,” he said.

“I think so, too,” she groaned, pressing her palm against her forehead. “More tomorrow.”

“Jinxy,” called Draco, and the Elf appeared with a pop. “A pain potion, please.”

The Elf nodded and disappeared, returning a moment later. Granger downed the potion in one gulp and then sat up, blinking blearily.

“I’m all right,” she said.

Draco doubted this.

“You need to rest,” he said. “Before we go to Grimmauld Place.”

Granger grumbled her agreement as she climbed into her bed.

~

All she could think about was Sirius. She wasn’t sure whether it was because Draco had spent the entire morning rifling through her head or just because Grimmauld Place held so many memories that they couldn’t help but surface. Sirius lived here. A man who had been like an uncle to her, like family in the wizarding world.

She wondered if Narcissa was thinking of him as well.

“I suppose there’s nothing to it but to try,” said Narcissa.

The house was full of magic, layers of it, mostly dark. Try as they had to cleanse it while it had served as the Order’s headquarters, the magic was far too deep to be eliminated, and had likely festered over the last decade. The four of them walked up to the front door with some reluctance, all of them watching Narcissa’s hand reach out for the doorknob, waiting for some spell to leap out at her. Draco was on edge, his wand in his hand.

Nothing happened. The door pushed open with a groan. The four of them let out a collective breath.

Hermione saw Sirius in every corner. At that table, he had leaned back in his chair so that only the back legs were on the floor. There, he had argued with Snape. There, he had pretended to be merry at Christmas even knowing that the children would return to Hogwarts soon.

“Memories,” said Remus quietly.

He was standing next to her, the word murmured in her ear, and she watched Draco scowl, his grey eyes icy cold.

“Let’s split up,” she said.

Draco refused to let Hermione out of his sight, so Remus and Narcissa began sweeping the basement while she and Draco climbed the staircase. She fingered the placard on Sirius’s door.

Sirius Orion Black

The posters of Muggle women still adorned his walls, the bed unmade as though he had just left and would return at any moment. There were motorcycle parts on a desk in the corner, and when she uncovered a particularly raunchy magazine, she stifled a giggle. Draco looked over her shoulder and stiffened when he saw it, his expression inscrutable.

They checked Regulus’s room next, dusty and long abandoned.

“My mother always speaks fondly of him,” said Draco, holding up a framed photograph of Regulus and his mother as children.

“He betrayed Voldemort,” said Hermione simply.

The photograph clanged on the floor as Draco dropped it. He stared at her in open disbelief.

“There was a fake,” she continued. “A fake Horcrux that Harry and Dumbledore found, and a note inside from R.A.B.”

Draco was shaking his head, not following. Hermione left the room, waiting for him to follow before tapping the placard on his door.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

“That’s how I knew the locket was here somewhere,” she said. “He stole it from Voldemort. We found it, actually, when we were cleaning. I’m not sure what happened to it, but I’m sure it’s here somewhere-”

“It’s here!” called Narcissa’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “We have it!”

Draco and Hermione looked at each other for one long moment before they turned, Draco’s shoes silent even as he raced down the stairs.

Narcissa held the locket out before her, dangling on its chain. Her eyes watched it swing back and forth. Even Remus seemed mesmerized by it, and Hermione could feel a rushing in her ears. Finally, Draco snatched it, stowing it in the bag Hermione had over her shoulder.

Remus exhaled.

“Obliviate me,” he said.

“No,” said Hermione.

“You want the chance that an Inquisitor decides to rifle through these memories?” he said. “My Occlumency-”

“If you don’t do it, I will,” Draco said to her.

His grey eyes were dark and had a sense of danger behind them. Hermione drew her wand, pointing it at Remus’s face and destroying the memory of the Horcrux. He blinked, looking around at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

“Nice to finally feel we’ve said goodbye to Sirius,” said Hermione.

Remus narrowed his eyes, knowing that there was a gap in his memory, but he nodded slowly in agreement. Then, they all left the building. Remus and Narcissa stopped on the stoop, Apparating with a pop. Draco was walking in front of her, and he Apparated mid-stride, without faltering for a moment. She followed him, feeling the wards of Malfoy Manor shift around her as she arrived home.

Draco was marching toward Lucius’s study, and Hermione hoisted the bag over her shoulder and followed. Lucius was seated at his desk, but with one look at them, he rose and pulled Lightsbane from the cabinet. Balancing it on his palms outstretched in front of him, he handed the sword to Hermione.

This was the first Horcrux that fought her.

The others had called to the Malfoys, darkness begging for darkness. The mirror that none of them would have been able to destroy. But the locket spoke to her. Just as she lifted the sword to stab it, a shadowy figure arose from within it.

Harry.

A hissing, whispering voice spoke through the Harry’s mouth.

I would hate you for what you’ve become. Abandoning your friends, your cause. Aligning yourself with enemies. Your body aches for him.

At this, the Harry had pointed to Draco. Hermione’s face flushed.

You are worse than useless. You’re a traitor, and you will let my enemy have his way-

Draco roughly placed his hands on top of hers, helping her grip the sword, and he plunged it down into the locket, which screamed and sizzled. Then, the Harry was gone, and the room was quiet. It was destroyed.

Chapter Text

You are needed. You are needed. You are needed.

The drumbeat was fierce in his ears as his family bustled about the Manor preparing for the evening. Theo followed at his heels all day, and though Draco was too moody to be nice to his best friend, he appreciated his presence, nonetheless.

“You are very on edge,” observed Theo.

“The Dark Lord is going to shred my wife’s mind tonight,” he replied through gritted teeth. “So yes, I’m on edge.”

Draco pretended not to notice Theo’s quirked lips. He rounded on his friend.

“We could be discovered. Everything could be destroyed tonight,” said Draco. “If the Dark Lord realizes what we’re doing…”

At this, Draco put his fingers to his forehead, pressing into his temples with his eyes closed. A feeling of desperation was welling inside of him, something helpless and very unfamiliar. He thought of his mother, his best friend, Granger… all surrounded by a nest of sudden enemies.

“I don’t think I can save all of you,” Draco said in a low voice.

He felt Theo’s hand clap on his shoulder, giving it a rough shake.

“Her Occlumency is good, Draco,” said Theo gently. “Good enough. And we’re tougher than you think.”

There was a pause, Draco looking into Theo’s eyes plaintively. This would normally be a moment in which Theo and Draco would help each other relieve their stress, would disappear from their responsibilities for just a quarter of an hour, but somehow, Draco felt that this was now inappropriate. Theo had a grin on his face, blue eyes twinkling.

“I’ll help you look after her, all right?” he said.

A weight eased in Draco’s chest. There was no need to ask which “her.”

“There will be an induction tonight,” said Lucius, his voice echoing in the hall.

Theo pulled back his arm, and Draco straightened, building the walls of Occlumency around his emotions so that he could face the evening ahead.

“You will perform it,” Lucius said.

“Where am I needed?” asked Draco blankly.

“Here,” his father replied. “In the banquet hall.”

If it weren’t for the walls of Occlumency, Draco would have shivered. As a family, they avoided the banquet hall. It held Dark Magic, and too many horrific memories. It was where Draco’s own induction ceremony had been performed.

“I see,” said Draco.

Lucius stared him hard in the face.

“Be ready,” he said.

Draco was always ready.

~

There was an undercurrent of nervousness at Malfoy Manor as they prepared for the arrival of Lord Voldemort. The Malfoys had come under some scrutiny thanks to Amycus Carrow’s death. Hermione kept replaying the moment in her mind, the feeling of Amycus Carrow’s erection pressed against her entrance, the sound of the door and the crackle of Draco’s magic. The thud of the body on the floor.

She was grateful to him.

But they all needed to put on a good show of loyalty that night. Hermione knew that her own would be tested. Lucius had warned her.

She dressed in Slytherin green, a show of solidarity, and wore satin stiletto heels that clicked on the marble floors as she walked. Draco still wore his heavy leather boots, but he was dressed in finer clothes than usual. Lucius was in a set of expensive dress robes, and Narcissa was in a flowing gown.

The guests arrived via the Floo network, which Draco had keyed to allow a ten-minute window of entrance. They were in the banquet hall, and Hermione could feel the remnants of Dark Magic itching at her skin. Narcissa patted her shoulder reassuringly.

The Lestranges arrived first. Bella leaned in to kiss both of her sister’s cheeks, and she let out an infantile giggle as she looked Hermione up and down.

“Such a pretty thing, aren’t you?” she cooed. “All the men have been saying it since our party. Draco had better keep an eye on you, hm?”

Hermione snapped her teeth shut with a click, hoping that Bella knew nothing of Amycus Carrow. Mercifully, Draco had not heard her words, instead busying himself with the fireplace, watching as Dolohov came through. She could see the tension in Draco’s posture, the readiness. His left hand by his wand, his weight balanced evenly on each foot.

Two more arrived. A Death Eater she recognized but could not name, and a young, wiry fellow with a nervous twitch. The man bowed subserviently before Draco and his father.

“Lord Chancellor,” he said, his head low. “And Inquisitor Malfoy.”

They did not deign to reply.

Theo’s appearance in the flames was a welcome respite, his brown hair effortlessly wavy and his blue eyes twinkling. He kissed her cheek when he arrived. She saw Draco shift uncomfortably at this, but Theo whispered in her ear.

“You’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

The last one through the fireplace was Lord Voldemort himself. He unfolded himself as he stepped into the room. He was gaunt, his skin almost transparent. It was like he was fading away before their very eyes. His billowing robes masked what she knew would be a bony, hollow frame underneath. She did not enjoy being so close to him. The massive snake wound its way around his feet. She wondered what Harry would think of her now.

“Let us begin!” said Voldemort’s wheezing voice.

The banquet table had been set with Narcissa’s 16^th century porcelain. Voldemort sat at the head of the table, Lucius at the opposite end. Some aristocratic Pureblood tradition meant that she was not permitted to sit next to Draco, so she was in between Rodolphus and Theo.

House Elves served platters of pheasant, roasted tomatoes, wilted spinach. There were trays of oysters, and Hermione watched as Rodolphus tipped his head back and ate one, trying not to wrinkle her noise as he slurped. He held up another to her, offering it, and when she shook her head, he shrugged, sticking his tongue into the oyster shell in a lascivious display that made her turn her head just before she heard the slurp. Did Lestrange know what Draco had done to Carrow? Did he care?

The conversation at dinner was banal. Hermione was not expected to participate, so she pushed food around her plate, forcing herself to eat at least something before Voldemort dived into her mind. She was paying so little attention that she hadn’t realized the conversation had hushed. She looked up from her plate and saw Voldemort standing beside her chair. Draco was clenching his jaw and avoiding looking at her.  Theo, too, had averted his eyes.

“You knew this was coming, Mrs. Malfoy,” said Voldemort in a voice that seemed as frail and transparent as his thin skin. “Look at me.”

She did.

The assault was brutal. If her mind was a library, Voldemort rifled through every stack. He threw books on the ground, tore out their pages, pushed over the shelves. It was painful, slicing through her brain like an ice pick, but she had left a few memories as bait, just as Draco recommended. Lots of Harry. Harry learning the Accio spell. Harry talking about Dumbledore. Harry hating Snape. She knew Voldemort would not be able to resist. He followed each thread doggedly, but he never found the most dangerous memories. The Malfoys, the Order, the Horcruxes.

After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled out of her mind abruptly, leaving her nauseous and reeling. She waited for a long moment as her eyes returned to focus.

“Very good,” hissed Voldemort.

Theo’s hand found her knee under the table, giving it a squeeze.

“It is time for the induction ceremony,” announced Lord Voldemort.

With no pomp or pretense, Draco pushed his chair back and made his way to the fireplace, the only place in the room with enough space. Hermione had no idea what the induction ceremony entailed. Would there be chanting? Dark robes and masks? He had his arms folded across his chest, his expression as stoic as ever.

“Malcolm,” said Lord Voldemort.

The young man stood. Hermione wondered how old he was. Had he been at Hogwarts while she was there? Had they ever crossed paths?

He was nervous and did not hide it well. His entire arm was trembling as he held it out. Draco took it dispassionately, and with no ceremony at all, pressed his wandtip into it and cast the spell.

The shriek was otherworldly. Hermione’s stomach churned at the sound of it, the pain that must have gone bone deep. He was on the floor now, writhing and scratching at his arm in desperation. No one at the table spoke. Narcissa had her hands folded in front of her, eyes averted. Hermione met Lucius’s gaze. It was as stoic as his son’s.

It was a few minutes before Malcolm ceased his screaming. He lifted himself up off the floor and stared at his forearm, his eyes hungry as a malicious grin spread across his lips. Hermione felt sick. The grin did not leave his face as he returned to his seat. Draco began to move back to sit as well, but Lord Voldemort held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

Hermione sucked in a breath.

~

“Your wife has shown remarkable commitment to our cause, Draco. What a wonderful addition to the New Ministry’s efforts,” wheezed the Dark Lord.

Draco felt a tightening in his chest. He glanced at his father, whose face was impassive.

“Her mind has shown her loyalty to us,” he continued. “Now her body must do the same.”

The dawning realization of what the Dark Lord would ask of him sank into him. He felt like a hot tongue of flames was roaring out from within him, melting the ice walls of his Occlumency. He caught his mother’s eye. She could not bury the horror in her expression as she realized it, too. The muscle in the corner of Theo’s jaw was twitching, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Dolohov had a satisfied, cruel grin on his face, and the Lestranges looked frankly delighted.

Granger had schooled her features to blankness.

“It would be an honour, my Lord,” she said.

The Dark Lord’s high-pitched laugh echoed in the room.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Go on, Draco.”

He could hear the scraping of the legs of Granger’s chair on the floor as she stood, making her way over to the fireplace. She stood in front of him, lifting her chin in a display of Gryffindor bravery and holding out her left arm. She needed no immobilization spell, not even after witnessing the first induction.

He wanted to refuse. He wanted to lift his wand and destroy the entire room, kill everyone inside it. He wanted to wrench open the Dark Lord’s chest and yank out his still-beating heart.

Granger gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“I’m ready, sir,” she said.

A shiver ran down his spine. The entire room was watching, waiting for him to begin. He took her wrist in his hand, feeling the fine bones there roll across each other. She did not pull away from him. She simply watched his face.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.

“I’ll do it for you, if you like,” said Dolohov in a cruel voice.

Draco gritted his teeth. He pulled his wand out and set the tip against the unmarked skin of her arm.

“Morsmorde,” he said.

She handled it better than most, but even Granger could not help the cry that scraped out of her throat. She gripped her forearm, her eyes squeezed shut tightly, and her knees gave way, buckling underneath her so that she was on the floor. His mother rose from her seat, rushing across the room and helping Granger stand. It was like he was watching through someone else’s eyes as his mother helped Granger to a sofa against the wall, whispering soothingly while Granger tried not to cry out.

“Very well done, Draco,” wheezed the Dark Lord as he stood. “We will take our leave now. Thank you, as ever, for the hospitality, Lucius.”

“It is our honour,” said Lucius, inclining his head.

Draco watched, feeling his muscles tremble under his skin as he forced himself not to hurl a Killing curse at each of their guests. The Dark Lord left through the fireplace first, followed by Dolohov. Theo grasped Draco’s shoulder for a long moment, squeezing it tightly and offering what sympathy he could without words. After Theo disappeared into the flames, his mad aunt followed. Rodolphus hung back for a moment.

“Now that she’s marked…” he said, giving a little shudder of his shoulders. “Oh, you’ll have even more fun with her.”

Draco’s knuckles were white on his wand.

“There’s a vault full of Galleons for you if you’d-”

“Thank you, Rodolphus,” interrupted Lucius. “Looking forward to seeing you again soon.”

With one last vicious smile, Rodolphus stepped into the fireplace and disappeared.

Chapter Text

The moment Rodolphus left the Manor, Draco rounded on his father, storming up to him with such force that Lucius stumbled backward. Draco’s hand wrapped around his throat, his wand pointing in Lucius’s expressionless face.

“DID YOU KNOW?”

“Go ahead and kill me, Draco,” drawled Lucius. “I’m very tired, and at this point, I think it would be a blessing.”

“Draco, you are needed,” his mother’s urgent voice called from the sofa.

“Did you know he was planning this?” roared Draco, not dropping his hand nor his wand.

Lucius fixed him with a hard, grey stare.

“Of course, I knew,” said Lucius. “And so did she.”

Draco blanched, his grip around his father’s throat tightening as cold fury washed over him.

“You told her this was coming? You knew and you did NOTHING?” spat Draco.

“She did her duty for her family. For the cause,” replied Lucius, his voice hoarse from the grip around his neck.

“Draco, you are needed!” called his mother.

Draco could hardly hear her.

“You would let him order my wife to be branded! To force ME to do this to her! And yet, you felt no need to tell me?!”

“Your reaction is all the confirmation I needed!” hissed Lucius, his lip curled in a snarl. “What would you have me do? Refuse the Dark Lord? Compromise everything we have been working toward? I took a calculated risk, Draco.”

“What risk?”

“Draco, you are NEEDED!” cried Narcissa.

“The risk of the Dark Lord murdering me if I refused,” said Lucius. “Versus you murdering me if I went through with it. Your wife made her choice clear. She chose this. She chose us.”

“You had no right!”

“I do what I must for my family!”

“Draco, I need you,” said a soft, strained voice.

His entire body went rigid. His grip on his father loosened, his wand arm dropped to his side. Slowly, he turned and saw Granger on the sofa, gripping her left forearm, tears streaking down her cheeks. His mother sat next to her, a cool rag in her hand that she dabbed on Granger’s forehead.

Granger was looking at him, pleading with her eyes. She was trembling madly.

It was a moment that shattered everything.

The ice walls of Occlumency that he had so carefully built and rebuilt were melted down as a roar of flame burst from his heart. Draco crossed the room to her in three long strides, lifted her bodily into his arms, and with a crack, Apparated them to his bedroom. He laid her carefully onto his bed and looked into her face. There were still tears leaking from her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, taking her face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, a hitch in her voice. “None of this is your fault.”

Something twisted in him, an ache in his body that was suddenly releasing, and try as he might to Occlude it away, there was nothing there. No walls, no ice, no way to keep the emotions at bay. His heart was racing, his breaths heaving in his chest. Her face was inches from his so that he could see the wetness on her eyelashes.

He kissed her.

Granger’s mouth opened against his, her fingers threaded in his hair and pulled him closer so that he was falling into the bed on top of her. He heard a gruff moan and realized that it had come from his own throat. She was tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and running her fingers over the skin of his torso. He was running his palm up the exposed skin of her thighs, feeling the curve of her arse under her skirt. She was moaning, pleading, pulling his shirt farther up, and he broke their kiss only for a moment to help her lift it over his head.

He couldn’t stop to think about what was happening. Draco’s mouth moved against hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his heart pounding as she fumbled with the fastenings of her gown. Impatient, Draco ripped it open, the clasp flying across the bedroom. With a gasp in his throat, his mouth descended to her breast, hearing her whimper as he laved his tongue across her nipple.

She hissed in pain when he pulled her sleeves over her arms, and he felt something lodge in his throat at the sight of her marred forearm. The Dark Mark standing out against perfect skin.

I did that to her.

Her hands were in his hair again, pulling his face toward hers, crashing her lips into his. Messy, chaotic, desperate. There was wetness on their cheeks, but he truthfully did not know if it was her tears or his own. Her fingers were pulling at his trousers, tugging them down off his legs, and Draco noticed with some surprise that his erection was standing proud and stiff. He had not been with a woman in so long, he had not known his body still knew what to do.

But it did. She had removed her knickers somewhere along the way, the remnants of her dress hiked up around her hips, and she was pulling him toward her. Draco pushed against her, sliding askew, his cock slipping between her labia, but with a second thrust, he thrust home.

They both froze. He felt like he was falling into an abyss, that the carefully constructed world he had crafted for himself had opened up to a gaping maw beneath him. He was unmoored, untethered, lost.

“Draco, please,” she begged.

It was all he needed. Draco clung to her body like a life raft, rocking in and out of her. Each time he pulled out of her, he ached for the feeling of her soft warmth again, and each time he pushed back inside, it was like coming home.

“Fuck, Granger,” he said in a ragged whisper.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

Though his mind wanted to obey her, his body wanted to refuse. He could feel the sweet release of orgasm building low in his belly as beads of sweat from his forehead fell down into her mass of curly hair. Her brown eyes were half-shut, each of her breaths a soft moan, her fingers on his thighs, pulling him deeper. Then, her head tipped back, exposing the pale column of her neck as she cried out. Her body tensed and fluttered around his erection, and it was more than he could stand. With a great, loud roar, he thrust hard as he came, the orgasm seeming never-ending. He groaned again and again, pushing into her, her body milking the last of his spend.

They did not move for a long time. It had probably taken less than five minutes from the moment he had kissed her to when it was over, but somehow, five minutes had changed his life. She had caught her breath, and she was holding his face in her hands. She lifted her head from the pillow and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. The flame erupted in his heart again, something vicious and primal.

He felt something fracture within him, though he wasn’t even sure what it was.

He kissed her again, then pulled her left forearm in front of his face, kissing the Dark Mark that he had put there. He would never hurt her again. No one would ever hurt her again.

“Draco,” she said quietly.

“Granger,” he replied.

They still did not move. His erection was softening, slipping from her body. She shifted her hips, stretching out her legs. Draco rolled onto his side next to her, staring at her. He brushed her curly hair from her face, wiped the remnants of tears from her cheeks. They did not speak, just listened to one another’s breathing. After a long while, her eyelids drifted shut, and she slept.

~

She knew the bed was empty before she opened her eyes. Her forearm throbbed painfully. So did the place between her legs, though that pain was much more welcome. Hermione rolled onto her side and peeked her eyes open only to see Draco seated in a chair, his elbows on his knees as he watched her. She blinked blearily.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“Good morning,” he replied.

He pushed himself up from the chair and held out a hand for her to take. She took it, and he pulled, lifting her up as she climbed from the bed. Hermione realized that she was naked, but Draco was looking only at her face.

She did not know what to expect from him. Not after last night. He had practically melted into her, his tears mingled with her own as they kissed, his heart pounding against his ribs as he slid into her. She had made love to her husband for the first time. Would it change anything?

He had not yet released her hand.

“We’re to meet the Order in East Finchley,” he said gruffly, and there was no emotion in his voice.

Change happened slowly, if at all.

“Who called the meeting?” she asked, searching around for something to wear.

He held out a shirt for her, and she pulled it over her head.

“Ginny MacMillan. I think rumours spread after last night,” he replied.

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to his, immediately thinking of the sex, but then realizing the rumours would be about her Dark Mark. It itched and burned.

“It was beyond the scope of your duty,” said Draco.

“It was necessary,” she said, feeling the lingering Dark Magic in her veins.

“It wasn’t,” he said. “And Ginny MacMillan is probably going to try to kill me for it.”

He did not seem bothered by this, but he was probably correct. Hermione noted that the shirt he had fetched for her was long sleeved, and she was thankful for it. A pair of her knickers and trousers were folded at the foot of the bed, so she pulled them on. He watched as she did so, not bothering to look away politely. It didn’t bother her.

They descended the staircase together to find Lucius waiting for them. He looked them up at down, making his own judgment of what, if anything, had shifted between them. He arched one pale eyebrow but made no remark.

“Come,” he commanded.

They followed.

When the three Malfoys arrived, the entire Order was standing in the corner of the small meeting room, huddled together like they were discussing something. The group turned to them. Fred had his arms folded in front of him, looking absolutely murderous, Ginny’s eyes were flashing with fury, and Remus and Tonks looked like they had been working very hard to keep a massive brawl from erupting the moment Lucius and Draco arrived.

“Let’s see it,” spat Fred.

“See what?” Lucius asked.

“Her arm,” said Ginny.

“Why would you need to see her arm?” Lucius said.

“Don’t fucking pretend, Malfoy,” spat Ginny. “We entered into this because we thought there would be an equal partnership. That you would do us the courtesy of treating her well. Instead, you’ve shut us out at every turn, kept her away from her friends, refused to give us any information, and now, we hear you’ve branded her with the Dark Mark.”

Hermione fiddled with the end of her sleeve, nervous with so many pairs of eyes fixed on her. The room might as well have been a tinder box, ready to go up in flames at any moment. Fred started forward, reaching out as though to pull her sleeves up himself, and the flames erupted.

Draco moved so fast she almost hadn’t seen it happen. In the flash of an eye, Fred was bent over the table, his arms locked behind his back and a wand at his face. When George and Ginny rushed forward to help their brother, Draco Stunned them both, while Molly and Hermione both cried out, “Stop! Stop it!” All hell had broken loose, wands drawn and Order members meticulously taken out by Draco one at a time. She didn’t know what would have happened if Viktor hadn’t arrived.

“Viktor?!” she cried.

Viktor’s jaw was hanging open as he took in the carnage, but he wisely had put his hands in the air, showing Draco that he was no threat. It was enough to stop the chaos.

“Yes, Viktor Krum!” said Remus testily, his arms in the air as well. “The real reason why we brought the three of you here today!”

“Dear Merlin,” said Molly, her eyes darting around at the unconscious bodies strewn about.

“Wake them UP!” snapped Hermione.

Draco did not move for a moment, assessing the potential threats remaining in the room, but he obeyed her, waving his wand. She watched Ginny, George, and Ernie blink and shake their heads experimentally, all staring murderously at Draco. Fred was conscious but still being held facedown against the table.

“Don’t touch my wife,” growled Draco through gritted teeth.

Fred jostled against the table, trying to wriggle free of Draco’s grasp, but he was held firm.

“Draco, let him go,” said Hermione.

Draco obeyed immediately, releasing Fred and standing straight and imperious at her side. Lucius quirked an eyebrow.

“I haven’t been forced to do anything I didn’t consent to,” said Hermione. “Now, if you please, why have we been asked to come? Surely not over some rumour.”

“You’re here to speak to Viktor,” said Remus in a calm voice, as though there was a spooked horse in the room. “He reached out with some information I thought you would find useful.”

“Ah,” said Hermione, and at that, she turned to Viktor, smiling broadly. “It’s good to see you.”

She stepped toward him, ignoring Draco’s tense, towering figure behind her, though Viktor’s eyes did not stop watching Draco as she enveloped him in a hug.

“You probably remember Draco Malfoy,” said Hermione, stepping aside. “My husband.”

“I remember him,” said Viktor, extending a hand.

Draco shook it, his jaw still clenched tightly. Hermione could see Ginny and Ernie sharing a look, but she could not discern its meaning.

“I have something that I believe may be of use to you,” said Viktor.

He reached into the inside pocket of his robes, and Draco stiffened, grabbing for his wand, so Viktor slowed his movements. With deliberate care, he pulled out the object he had kept there, extending it out to Hermione. It was a book. Though most of the cover was written in the Cyrillic alphabet and she could not read it, there was one large word written in the Roman alphabet emblazoned on the front. “Durmstrang.”

Book, Durmstrang.

It was a Horcrux.

Chapter Text

“Where did you get this? How did you know we would want it?” asked Lucius, his voice dripping with the kind of suspicion that came from many years of political machinations.

“There’s more,” said Viktor, producing a folded piece of parchment and handing it over.

Hermione snatched it up, unfolding it and reading it aloud.

“Greetings friends of Dumbledore,

I have narrowly escaped death at the hands of your Lord Voldemort-”

Ginny let out a hissing sound.

“-and have spent the better part of my later years keeping him from what he seeks. The wand, he will never truly have. The book is now in your possession, and the statuette is destroyed. I do not expect your forgiveness for my actions in life, but I try now to make some recompense. Perhaps we will meet one day. I ask only that you do not kill me immediately if we do.

Gellert Grindelwald.”

The room erupted.

“Grindelwald?” “But he was in prison!” “What wand?!” “Statuette?” “What is this book?”

The questions were all happening rapid-fire, all directed at Hermione, and she could see that it was making Draco nervous. She placed one hand on his arm, feeling tension leak out of his body at her touch.

“Since when do you associate with Grindelwald?” drawled Lucius.

“War makes strange bedfellows,” said Remus, exhaustion in his words. “Hermione, I’m guessing you understand this more than the rest of us?”

“I do!” she said, stifling the urge to bounce excitedly.

The breakthrough was huge. She gripped the book tightly in her hands, eager to be off to Malfoy Manor to destroy it. She only hoped that the letter was telling the truth about the statue. And what of the wand? It was not one of the Horcruxes. At least, not that she knew of.

“Hang on a second,” said Fred. “I just don’t think it’s reasonable that the fucking Malfoys know every detail of what’s going on and we don’t.”

The tension had risen in Draco once more, his broad shoulders now straight and squared to Fred.

“We’ve been over this,” said Remus tiredly. “We simply can’t know all the details. If one of us were captured and questioned-”

“What if Malfoy is taken in for questioning?” roared Fred, gesturing angrily at Draco.

“Draco has endured torture before,” said Lucius coolly. “Have you?”

“Yea, you know what? I have. My brothers were killed. Another is in Azkaban with my father. My sister was taken into the Chamber of Secrets because of YOU,” said Fred. “Is that not torture?”

“No,” said Draco, an icy edge in his voice. “It is not.”

“We can’t let too many people know what we’re doing,” said Hermione in a voice that felt very much like her old know-it-all one from Hogwarts. It felt almost good to be using it again. “You’re all at much more risk than we are. We’ve provided updates, we’ve come to every meeting you’ve requested. Remus has been to Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor-”

“Remus went to Malfoy Manor?” asked Tonks, a sharp edge in her voice. “Why?”

“What more would you ask of me? I’m here because we agreed to this,” said Hermione.

“We’re asking for the same things we’ve always asked for. You’ve got the biggest brain in the Order. We want to know what’s going on inside it!” said Ginny.

“It seems like the only people who are asking for something new is them!” shouted Fred. “They get everything from you, and you do everything they ask!”

“You know what, FINE,” snapped Hermione, and at this, she began rolling up her left sleeve methodically until the Dark Mark was showing. The room hushed. “You’re right. The Malfoys have done nothing but keep me safe and help with our cause, so yes. Yes, I do what they ask.”

“Hermione…” said Ginny.

Remus had sunk into a chair, his head resting heavy on his hands. Molly had tears in her eyes. Viktor looked uncomfortable, like he was in the middle of a family argument in which he had no side to take. Lucius looked triumphant. Draco cold and vicious, daring anyone to get closer.

“We would have never asked that,” said Remus, his voice muffled. “We never expected that when we sent you off to them.”

Hermione was pulling her sleeve down again, righteous anger in her chest as she looked away.

“I’ll take the book to Malfoy Manor,” she said firmly. “I have it handled.”

“Hermione-” begged Ginny.

“Take me home, Draco,” she said.

Draco took her gently by the elbow and Apparated them away.

~

“What have we done?” asked Fred.

“Are we sure she’s still working for the cause? What if she’s really gone over to the other side?” asked Tonks.

“This is Hermione we’re talking about! How can you say something like that?” said Remus. “She’s absolutely right. She’s done everything we’ve asked and more.”

But even as he said it, he felt a moment’s hesitation. They had operated up to this point on the assumption that they were using the Malfoys to advance the cause, that Draco was a weapon they were honing for their own purposes. Remus now found himself wondering if Hermione was the one being used. Was it possible that the Malfoys had turned her? Remus shook his head.

“You have gaps in your memories,” said Ginny. “You don’t know for sure.”

Remus felt woozy.

“Hermione would not join Voldemort!” said Molly. “She was closer to Harry than any of us!”

“Any of us?” asked Ginny coolly.

Remus was miserable and exhausted. There was nothing but bickering and infighting in the Order of the Phoenix these days, and they’d hemorrhaged most of the few members they had left to the Network.  He could see a deep fury in Ginny MacMillan’s face that he had never seen before, like something in her had shifted irreparably.

“I think I’ll leave now,” said Viktor.

Remus nodded and waved him off, and he disappeared with a pop. The Weasleys were all still bickering, debating whether Hermione taking the Dark Mark meant that she had sold her soul to Voldemort.

“It’s time to work with the Network now,” said Fred firmly, Ginny nodding over his shoulder.

Dora was biting her lip nervously.

“Remus, I’m afraid he’s right,” she said. “We don’t have to tell them anything about what Hermione is doing. We can pretend that we really think she’s married to Draco Malfoy, that she isn’t on our side anymore. They’ll have no reason to investigate further.”

Remus searched his mind for any resistance to the idea, any rational argument that he could put before them to keep the Order from teaming up with the Network, but he was all out. He was too damned tired. With a sad, heavy sigh, he nodded.

~

Destroying the Horcrux was a simple matter by this point. They made their pilgrimage to Lucius’s study, and in the warm light of the lamps, they pulled Lightsbane from the cabinet and ran it through the book, which sizzled and smoked before falling limp. There were only three Horcruxes to go, plus the snake, and even though she felt like they were closer than ever to defeating Voldemort for good, she had an uneasy feeling about the Order.

“You’re doing well, Hermione,” said Lucius, patting her arm. “They’ll understand one day.”

“Thank you,” she replied robotically.

“We’ve been away from the New Ministry for too long,” said Lucius. “Draco, you need to be seen there.”

You are needed. Hermione heard the words, and her heart ached for him. He jerked his head in a nod before looking down at her.

“You’ll stay here,” he said. “With my mother.”

“I’ll stay here,” she repeated, her voice as soothing as she could make it.

Her arm itched.

After Draco and Lucius were gone, Hermione wandered the Manor looking for Narcissa, finally finding her in the rose gardens with pruning shears in her hand.

“Why don’t you do it with magic?” asked Hermione.

Narcissa brushed a blonde lock of hair behind her head, though it immediately fell back over her shoulder.

“It’s just not as satisfying,” said Narcissa, now placing her hands on her hips and tilting her head to one side, considering Hermione. “You grew up Muggle. Surely you understand.”

“I do,” said Hermione.

Narcissa watched her for a moment, then returned to the rose bushes, snipping in metronomic rhythm. Hermione took a breath, steeling herself for the conversation she was about to start.

“You said once that Malfoy men love very intensely,” said Hermione.

The pruning shears skipped one beat, but she continued her work, not looking up.

“They do,” she said.

“Was it frightening?” asked Hermione.

Her mother-in-law’s face looked pained, her eyes dropping shut and her lips pressing together. She wiped her brow with her arm and stopped her work on the rosebushes, fixing Hermione with a sympathetic gaze.

“It was never frightening for me, no,” said Narcissa. “Because Lucius has never really been a frightening man. Cold, sometimes. Clever. Powerful. But never frightening.”

“But Draco?” asked Hermione carefully.

“Oh, Hermione, my darling,” said Narcissa, her voice quavering. She dropped her pruning shears and took Hermione’s hands in hers, a desperate pleading in her eyes. “He has not always been like this. He was a sweet, loving little boy, a spoiled but tenderhearted child. What they’ve turned him into? It’s not who he was supposed to be.”

“I believe you,” said Hermione.

“And even in this…” said Narcissa. “He should have married Astoria Greengrass when he was twenty-one and given me grandchildren. You should be married to one of those Weasleys-”

The condescension in her voice at the mention of a Weasley made Hermione laugh out loud. At first, Narcissa looked stunned, offended even, but a grin ghosted the corners of her lips, and then, both women were laughing. Doubled over. Full bodied, teary, hysterical laughter. Over nothing. Over a stale rivalry between the Malfoys and the Weasleys, one that was such a small fraction of the battle before them.

“I would never have been happy,” said Hermione. “Not with Ron.”

“He wouldn’t have been happy with Astoria, either,” said Narcissa, and then, her voice dropped into a serious tone, taking Hermione’s hands again. “He’s my son, Hermione. He’s my baby boy, my only son, and he frightens me, too.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

“He’ll love you in the way he knows,” she continued. “In the way they’ve taught him. With all the intensity of a Malfoy man.”

Narcissa paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully, and then, she gave Hermione’s hands one last squeeze.

“Please love him back,” she said.

She gave a tiny nod.

She had spent the rest of her day in the library, searching for any information about the last Horcruxes, and it was past midnight when a House Elf nudged her gently and suggested she go to sleep. Hermione was not sure if she was permitted into Draco’s bedroom at all, much less without him home, but when she ascended the staircase and was forced to choose whether to open her own door or his, she ached for his bed. As soon as she entered the room, Jinxy popped into view.

“May I get Mistress something to eat or drink?” Jinxy asked subserviently.

“Could I please have a latte?” she asked. “Decaf? From the new espresso machine?”

“Of course,” said Jinxy, bowing low to the ground. “We is practicing with it every day.”

“Thank you,” she said as Jinxy disappeared.

Hermione gazed around the room, realizing she had not really seen much of it before. There was nothing personal in it. No pictures, no books, no trinkets collected over the years. It was completely blank, like a guest suite. She traced her finger along the edge of his desk, trying to stifle the impulse to look through the drawers.

Her curiosity got the better of her. The first drawer had nothing of interest. A comb. A bottle of Sleekeasy’s hair potion. A straight razor. But in the second drawer, she spotted a photograph, faded and curled in at the corners. She picked it up carefully with two fingers, and her lips curved into a smile as she watched the figures move within it.

Pansy Parkinson, Theo Nott, and Draco Malfoy at Hogwarts. They were standing in front of the fountain in the courtyard. They were nudging each other and laughing. Pansy placed a kiss on Draco’s cheek, and he wiped it away melodramatically, then dived out of the way as Theo tried to plant one as well. Draco ruffled Theo’s wavy brown hair, and then, the scene started again.

But the students in the background of the photo! Her heart soared. There was Hannah Abbott, scurrying through the courtyard with her books held up to her chest, and there was Neville! Hermione realized with some embarrassment that she had not thought of Neville in years. He had been killed five years after the Battle of Hogwarts on Order business. But there, in the top corner of the frame, a tiny glimpse of Harry. The back of his head only, but the messy black hair was unmistakable. There he was, probably walking with her and Ron. He had no idea what the future would hold for him.

No one in the picture did.

The door to the bedroom swung open, and Hermione jumped in panic, dropping the photograph on the floor. Draco was standing in the entry and looking at her with a cold, stoic expression. Was he angry?

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, her pulse thundering in her ears. “I thought you wouldn’t mind-”

“I don’t mind,” he replied.

Jinxy returned then, her latte in his tiny hands. After she took it, he noticed the photo on the floor. He picked it up and held it out for her.

“This belongs to Mistress?”

“No, it belongs to Draco,” she said.

Jinxy obediently handed it to his master and popped out of the room. Draco took the photo, lifting it slowly so that he could look at it. Draco smiled only slightly, for the briefest moment, before he schooled his features. Then, he crossed the room, standing inches from her as he placed it back in the drawer, pushing it shut with a dull thud.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“There’s no need,” he said. “Nothing in here is a secret. Not from you.”

He seemed to realize what he had said, and he averted his eyes, his lips forming something like a scowl. He was still standing close to her, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body. Before he could walk away, she reached out and touched him, her hand on his chest. Draco’s grey eyes found hers.

“If you had known back then…”

“I would have killed myself,” said Draco matter-of-factly.

She blanched. He tossed it out so confidently, like he had given it serious thought. Her hands wound their way around his back, and she rested her head on his chest, reassured by the heartbeat she heard there.

If she had known then that one day she would be falling for Draco Malfoy…

She felt his hands around her, felt the press of his lips on the top of her head, felt the slow exhale of breath that sounded like one he had been holding for years.

“You’re exhausted,” she said against his chest. “You need to sleep.”

He tensed in her embrace, his heartbeat beginning to gallop. His fingertips tightened against her skin.

“Please don’t leave,” said Draco.

“I won’t,” she replied.

Chapter Text

There was tension in the ranks.

Pansy could feel it. She had spent her entire life navigating complex social and political relationships, from the very first moment she stepped aboard the Hogwarts Express. Of course, she had known most of the Pureblood children since birth, but starting at Hogwarts, especially in Slytherin, was like beginning with a blank slate. Alliances must be formed; respect must be earned.

Draco was her oldest ally.

He arrived via Floo, the flames flaring up in green tongues around him. He stepped out, unfolding himself from the fireplace and turned, watchful. His eyes were narrow, his muscles quivering like a stallion’s. It wasn’t until Hermione appeared behind him that he relaxed.

He held out his hand for her as she stepped out of the fireplace. She stumbled slightly on a loose stone, and his hands caught her expertly. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before they both turned to face the room.

A fury rose up in Pansy like she’d never felt before.

~

Hermione had been surprised to see that Pansy’s Patronus was corporeal. She had seen so few corporeal Patronuses since she moved into Malfoy Manor.

Come by for tea tomorrow. We need to talk.

Draco had cast his Patronus, and Hermione would have sworn that it tried to form into something beyond its usual nebulous blob. He responded in the affirmative, and now, Hermione found herself at the Goyles’ mansion once again.

This time, however, she felt that she was on stronger footing than she had been. Her eyes met Draco’s for a single moment before they faced the Goyles together.

“Greg, darling,” crooned Pansy. “Take Draco out to see the boys. Hermione and I need to chat for a moment.”

Hermione could feel Draco’s hesitation, and she could see some measure of surprise in Greg Goyle’s face. This was not planned or expected. Draco’s eyes swept the room as though making sure there were no secret Death Eaters in waiting, and then, he jerked his head in a nod and followed Greg out to the terrace.

Hermione watched them go, saw the door slam shut behind them, but when she turned back to look at Pansy…

“You BITCH!” she shouted.

Hermione staggered backward, instinctively going for her wand, her eyes glancing nervously toward the door where Draco had just left.

“You’re fucking him!” Pansy cried, and with this, she stood and advanced on Hermione. “What’s your game, Granger? Make yourself his weak spot and then shove a knife between his ribs?”

“Pansy, calm down!” said Hermione, her hands out in front of her placatingly.

“I’m not going to calm down! You took a man with no emotion, no relationships, no love,” Pansy said, ticking each off on her fingers, “and brought him to heel with your Mudblood cunt!”

She was in Hermione’s face, the air around her crackling with magic.

“Pansy, if he comes in here and sees you like this, he’ll kill you,” said Hermione, her voice serious.

Pansy seemed to come back to herself at this, likely realizing that Hermione was right. Even so, her teeth were clenched tightly, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Pansy, it’s not… it’s not…” stammered Hermione, but she found she didn’t have the words to explain what was happening between her and Draco. “I didn’t… It’s more than just fucking, Pansy-”

“You think that makes it better?” she snapped.

Hermione’s heart was racing. Pansy took a slow, measured breath, her eyes closed, and her lips pursed as she considered her words. When she opened them again, there was something fierce and protective there. She leaned in.

“You can’t do this to him, Granger,” Pansy said quietly, standing so close to Hermione that her words were like a breath against her ear. “Do you know how he has survived the last ten years? By closing himself off. By keeping himself distant so he can do all the things he has to do to stay alive. To keep his father and his mother and Theo and me and my children alive.”

Hermione was staring at Pansy, whose eye were glassy with the threat of tears.

“You tear down those walls and you leave him vulnerable,” she spat, and at the last word, she spun away from Hermione, dabbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

Draco and Greg were approaching the glass door, and upon entering the room, Draco’s eyes swept to Hermione immediately upon entering, a practiced motion that she was familiar with by now. Intensity in his body language, particularly as he took in the tension that was lingering in the air.

“Pansy?” asked Draco, his voice low and assertive, demanding that she explain herself.

Pansy spun to him.

“You are going to tell me everything that’s going on. You are going to explain that,” said Pansy, her arm swinging out to point her finger at Hermione, “and tell me what you’re hiding from me or so help me, Draco-”

“Pansy,” warned Greg.

“I thought maybe you and your father were just trying to get a jump on Dolohov. All the Death Eaters were so impressed that you scooped her out from right under his nose,” continued Pansy, and there was a slight waver to her voice, a note of hysteria. “You’ve married her, you’ve had her Marked, and you’ve… you’ve… Draco, I can see it in your eyes. You’ve gone over for her.”

Pansy swallowed, her eyes darting between Hermione and Draco.

“And now. Now!” Pansy barreled on. “They’re closing ranks. Lines are being drawn in the sand. They’re deciding whether they’re with Dolohov or with you and your father. And apparently with Granger, for Merlin’s sake.”

Draco’s body had gone tense, his left hand flexing.

“Don’t you dare draw your wand on me, Draco Malfoy,” she continued. “I have known you my whole life. You are like a brother to me, and you’ve completely shut me out. You two will sit down and explain everything.”

Pansy had pointed at the sofa, and now, she was standing with her hands on her hips and zero fear in her eyes, despite Draco’s intense presence. He was near quivering with unspent energy and anger, but Hermione saw the walls of Occlumency go up as he calmed himself.

“An Unbreakable Vow,” he said.

“What?” asked Pansy, flustered.

“You and Greg make an Unbreakable Vow, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Draco, his arms folded in front of his chest, a flat expression on his face.

“I don’t think that’s-” Greg began nervously.

“Yes,” said Pansy. “Go ahead.”

She had thrust her hand out, waiting for them to get on with it.

Hermione pulled out her wand, watching Draco lock his forearm with Pansy’s, his eyes fixed on the spindling gold threads that wound around their arms as they sealed the Vow. Greg looked uncomfortable as he watched, but after Pansy’s Vow was complete, he grasped Draco’s forearm and swore the same things she did. Secrecy, mostly.

Pansy took a long, steadying breath and narrowed her eyes.

“Is this real?” asked Pansy, gesturing between Hermione and Draco.

They glanced at each other.

“It wasn’t at first,” said Hermione. “It was a scheme, just like you thought. A way for Lucius to keep power away from Dolohov.”

“Why did you go along with it?” asked Pansy.

Hermione and Draco spun the tale. To her credit, Pansy did not express any disbelief, disgust, or even surprise as they explained. They left out the bit about the Horcruxes, and Pansy did not press, but when they said that Voldemort was dying, she sighed and nodded.

“I had guessed as much,” she said.

“He looks like he’s disintegrating,” said Greg in agreement.

Pansy had her arms folded in front of her chest. Hermione could tell that she was about to ask more questions, detailed questions about how she and Draco felt about each other, and as Hermione did not really know the answer, she moved on.

“What lines in the sand are being drawn? What’s happening behind the scenes that Draco isn’t seeing?” she asked.

Pansy seemed thrown off for the briefest moment, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it again, gathering herself to form a response. Her brow was furrowed.

“It’s like there are fumes in the air,” said Pansy. “And any spark will set them off. It’ll be civil war. Dolohov on one side, Lucius on the other.”

“Which side will Voldemort be on?” asked Hermione.

“If he lives long enough to see it?” she replied, and then, she shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Pansy leaned forward, dropping her face into her hands, and Greg began rubbing the space between her shoulder blades.

“Do you feel better?” asked Draco, his voice quiet. “Better now that you know?”

“Yes,” said Pansy, her voice muffled through her hands. “Yes, I feel better, but I also feel worse, Draco.”

When she lifted her face from her palms, there were tears on her cheeks. Hermione felt for a moment like an intruder on a private moment, that this version of Pansy was not one she was supposed to be permitted to see. Draco’s jaw was clenched tightly.

“I don’t want to lose you, Draco,” she said in a quiet voice. “And with all this…”

Pansy trailed off. Abruptly, Draco stood from the sofa, glaring down at Pansy.

“Ask me how you can help,” he commanded.

Pansy sniffed once, her breath hitching, but she obeyed.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“Be ready,” said Draco. “When the time comes, be ready.”

Chapter Text

“Of course, we won’t let him have her, Draco,” she could hear Lucius saying as she approached the dining room for breakfast. “I’d rather not have to deal with Bella after you’ve killed her husband.”

She heard the sound of a fist hitting the table, porcelain plates rattling. Hermione hung outside the room, waiting for the argument to end, and more than a little curious about the subject of it.

“He’s too dangerous to be around her,” said Draco’s voice. “You’ve seen the way he looks at her, and she told me he’s the one who handed her off to Carrow!”

“We can’t forbid your uncle from Hogwarts. It’s not within our power to do so,” said Lucius.

“It’s within Snape’s,” spat Draco.

“He won’t,” said Lucius calmly. “He will not risk it.”

“Then she’s not going with us. She’ll stay at the Manor.”

“You can explain that to the Dark Lord, then,” said Lucius. “He is thrilled to show off his newest Death Eater, and I think you’ll find it rather difficult to explain why you won’t let her out of the Manor.”

There was a pause. Hermione could picture Draco seething with anger.

“Keep her within arm’s reach the entire time, for all I care, but she will attend with us,” said Lucius in a tone that suggested he would brook no argument.

“Attend what?” asked Hermione as she finally entered the room.

Draco’s grey eyes found hers, and she felt the pull toward him like a string gone taut. He stood when she approached the table, as did Lucius, but where Lucius’s body language was formal and aristocratic, Draco’s was intense. He did not take his eyes off her until she was seated. Lucius noted this with a raised eyebrow.

“A gala at Hogwarts,” said Lucius.

“Snape is allowing a gala?” she asked, taking fruit from a bowl in the centre of the table.

“The Dark Lord is not allowing him a choice,” said Lucius. “He is eager to have you there. Did you know that your OWLs still hold the record at Hogwarts? Highest marks scored by a student. Ever.”

Hermione had not known that her record still stood, and she felt a wave of self-satisfaction wash over her. It felt good to be good at something. Being the best at Hogwarts was her entire identity for years. It had seemed, after Harry’s death, that it didn’t matter, that it hadn’t made a difference. And still, even if the reason was because Lord Voldemort now had her in his arsenal of Death Eaters, she was pleased to have to show for all her effort.

“You’ll stay at my side the entire night,” said Draco.

“Of course,” she replied.

“I will kill anyone who gets too close,” he said.

Hermione and Lucius made eye contact. He nodded slowly at her.

“Of course,” she said.

Draco said nothing else.

“Lucius?” asked Hermione, and her father-in-law raised an eyebrow expectantly, his fork poised in mid-air with a slice of melon on the tines. “What do you know of Gellert Grindelwald?”

“Brushing up on your History of Magic lessons?” asked Lucius before taking a bite.

“Quite,” said Hermione without elaborating.

“The last I was aware, the Dark Lord had sought him out in Nurmengard. For what purpose, I am not sure,” said Lucius. “We were meant to think that the Dark Lord killed him. It was implied.”

“But you don’t think he did?”

“Apparently not,” said Lucius.

Hermione nodded, taking a sip of her latte. It was almost as good as the ones she used to make for herself.

“Do you think Voldemort is the stronger wizard?”

“In his prime?” asked Lucius. “Without a doubt. The Dark Lord’s prowess was indisputable. Even now, weakened and with his soul in a dozen pieces, there are precious few who could defeat him in open combat.”

“Grindelwald?”

Lucius shifted in his seat, shrugging with some discomfort.

“Yes,” he said. “Probably so.”

Hermione thought she knew what the answer to her next question would be, but she asked it anyway.

“Who else?”

Lucius let a resigned smirk cross his face.

“Draco,” he said.

Hermione’s gaze snapped to her husband’s face. He looked impassive, unsurprised. The cold veil was on his features.

Draco and Lucius departed for the New Ministry, and she was left once again at Malfoy Manor. She had tea with Narcissa, but she spent most of her hours in the library poring over book after book about the trident. And yet, her eyes scanned the pages without reading any of the words. Her mind was on Draco, the seismic shift that had occurred between them over the last week. The intensity, the obsession.

The night before, they had lay in bed together, his arms tight around her, pulling her close against his chest so that she could hear the comforting thud of his heart. His hands had not strayed, there was no lust in his touch. She had felt his body relax one muscle at a time, his legs going still, his breath slowing, and his arms finally going slack. But any time she wiggled in his grasp, he jolted to alertness with all the practice of a combat veteran.

Each time, she would ghost her fingertips over his face, running a finger down his nose and watching his eyes drift closed again.

He had been gone when she awoke in the morning, but she could still smell him on her skin.

Lucius thought that Draco could defeat Lord Voldemort. So could Grindelwald. What if Draco and Grindelwald were on the same side? The possibility was titillating. It represented a solid hope forward for the resistance. Hermione had to banish all thoughts of what the Order thought of her now. It did not matter, as long as Voldemort was gone in the end.

She only hoped that there would be enough left of the wizarding world to rebuild once it was over.

Jinxy brought her another latte and dutifully stacked the books on the corner of her desk as Hermione read by the orange glow of lamplight. Her eyes were beginning to cross, the words on the pages blurring together, but finally…

“Oh my god,” she said under her breath.

She knew where it was.

Hermione was frantically scribbling notes on parchment when she sensed his presence. His footsteps were as silent as ever, but still, something had shifted in the air. She turned in her chair and saw Draco, his arms covered in blood.  She leapt up.

“It’s not mine,” he said hoarsely.

She did not ask him whose it was. She merely drew her wand and pointed it at his blood-stained hands, a dark maroon color in the dim light.

“Tergeo.”

He was looking down at his hands, seeing that they were clean, turning them over slowly. His grey eyes were glassy and vacant. Hermione was close enough to touch him, and she did, letting her fingers graze his palms. Draco sighed and fell into her arms. His body was heavy.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, gripping him tightly. “It’s almost over.”

He made a muffled noise into her neck, and then, she felt the press of his lips on the skin there. His hand had lifted, wrapping itself around her throat, and she searched her heart for fear, but found none. He was holding her neck firmly, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw, and his grey eyes bored into hers.

He crashed his lips onto her mouth.

It was feverish, his kiss. Just as desperate as the last one. Their hands were pulling at each other’s clothes, her jeans tugged down her legs, her shirt lifted haphazardly. His teeth nipped at her collarbone, her fingernails dug into the skin of his lower back.

As his hands roamed her body, she vaguely wondered whose blood had been on them, what vicious crimes he had committed that evening.

“Draco,” she whispered urgently.

Her words spurred him on. He reached behind his head to tug his shirt over it, the fabric sliding over the rippling muscles of his abs and chest. Her hands found his skin greedily, feeling its warmth.

With one sweep of his arm, the parchments and books flew to the ground. Draco’s hands cupped her arse and lifted her, setting her on the desk and positioning himself between her legs.

He was pulling her knickers off, and then, his mouth was on her core. Whatever skill he had lost in ten years of near celibacy, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. His tongue dipped under the hood of her clitoris, sliding over it and making her gasp. Softly, he sucked it into his mouth, and gently, he rolled his tongue against it. Her legs were twitching with pleasure. His lips worked as though he was drinking a lifegiving nectar, a forcefulness and desperation in the way he pleasured her.

His finger joined then, finding its way inside her, curling back so it was pressed against her front wall. Hermione cried out.

Her back arched against the table. His other hand grasped her hip, holding it firm so that she could not wriggle out of the reach of his tongue. She could feel sweat on her skin as she approached her climax, and then, she convulsed, her shoulders lifting off the wooden desk, her muscles going tense, stars erupting behind her eyelids.

She had hardly had time to catch her breath before she felt him slide inside her, heard him grunt, his hands gripping her firmly. His cock stretched her, as it had the first time, but it was a delicious stretch, not a painful one. His eyes roved her body, watching as her breasts bounced in time with his thrusts, pulling her toward him so that he could thrust even deeper inside her, making her whine in mixed pleasure and pain.

He fucked her like he was consumed by her, obsessed with her. That every bit of control he meticulously built over a decade had disappeared was instead channeled into driving himself over and over into her body.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Her eyes jumped to his face, wondering for a moment if she’d imagined his words. His pale eyebrows were knitted together, a line in between them as he stared at her body. His hands could not stop moving over her bare skin. She could feel the calluses on them.

“You’re mine, Granger,” he growled, his hand sliding up her body, between her breasts, finding her throat again, but he pressed only gently. “Say it.”

A dark thrill coursed through her at his words, his thrusts ragged and uneven now. There was something feral in his eyes, something set loose.

“Say it,” he begged.

She realized then that it was she who held the power. That this terrifying, violent man who the world feared now belonged to her. She remembered words that Pansy Goyle had spoken: There are only a handful of people in this world who could hurt him, and now you’re one of them.

Draco Malfoy was now thrusting inside her, holding his hand lightly on her neck, and pleading with her. She could break him. She had that power. But she did not want to. She wanted to take him close, wrap her arms around him tightly, feel his silky blond hair between her fingers, and take away his pain. The pain that he had kept buried deeply since Harry’s death. She grabbed the back of his arms and pulled herself up so that she was seated on the desk, wrapping her legs around his hips and kissing the side of his neck.

“I’m yours,” she whispered against his throat.

He groaned thickly, thrusting inside her twice more, and she felt the twitch and spasm of his cock as he emptied himself into her body.  His body was trembling, so she held herself against him until the shivers stopped. Draco was kissing her jaw, her lips, her forehead.

He belonged to her.

At long last, he stood straight, slipping out of her body. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed, and then, he bent to pick up the clothes that had piled on the floor around his feet. They dressed in silence, and he turned to leave the room.

“Draco?”

He paused but did not turn back.

“I think I know where the trident is,” she said.

“That’s good,” he said simply.

“Take me there,” she said.

“Wherever you go, Granger,” said Draco. “I’ll follow.”

You’re mine, Granger. His words played in her mind.

You’re mine, Draco, she thought.

Chapter Text

He needed her more after that.

After the incessant drumbeat that had beckoned him for ten years, Draco Malfoy had finally succumbed to needing someone. His need was a ripcurrent that wanted to drag Hermione under with it. His days were still spent at the New Ministry, his evenings often interrupted by a wispy Patronus, Theo or Greg’s voice calling him away, but his nights were hers.

Some nights, he would push open the door to his bedroom, finding her reading in his bed, perched on top of the coverlet. He would kick off his heavy leather boots and climb on top of her, letting his breath drag over her skin, his lips ghosting over the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the inside of her elbow, the space between her breasts.

Draco would bring her to orgasm with his fingers, his lips, his tongue, leaving her quaking and trembling, and then, he would slide inside her, covering her body with his own, meeting her lips in open-mouthed kisses. Her legs wrapped tightly around his hips as she pulled him deeper into her body, her fingernails digging into his back. His orgasm would spasm deep inside her, his corresponding roar.

He was unguarded in the moments afterward, his fingers ghosting over the bare skin of her belly.

“Do you remember when I hit you?” Hermione asked him one day.

Draco snorted.

“I try not to,” he replied. “You know they teased me for years about that?”

“Is that why you became who you are?” she teased. “A way to make the Slytherins shut up about a Mudblood slapping you across the face.

He was smiling, though there was a sadness in his eyes as he did.

“Did you ever think of marriage?” Hermione asked, her fingers following the sharp lines of his collar bones.

“Not really,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest. “I suppose I assumed my father would arrange a marriage between Pansy and me.”

She quirked her lips in a grin, pressing a kiss on his sternum and feeling rather like she had finally won something from Pansy Parkinson.

“What about you? Planned to have a horde of red-haired Weasley children, I suppose?” he asked.

“Actually, yes,” said Hermione, and she could see the muscle ticking at the corner of his jaw, so she needled him in the ribs teasingly. “It’s not about Ron. I just…”

She trailed off, but she felt him shifting his position so that he could look at her face. Her cheeks flushed. She did not know how to confess this to him. It was something so deep within her, something she had buried.

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” she said, and then, she buried her face in his chest in embarrassment. “Is that silly?”

He was silent for a long moment, so silent that she almost wondered if she’d angered him, but when he finally spoke, his voice was reverent.

“It’s not silly,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry I’ve taken that from you,” said Draco, and he shifted uncomfortably.

She pursed her lips, wondering if she dared ask.

“What about you? You don’t want children?” she said softly.

Immediately, he shook his head fiercely.

“No,” he said, and his tone made it clear that there would be no convincing him. “I will never have children. The Malfoy line ends with me. I made sure of that a long time ago.”

“Why?”

He gave a rueful sniff of laughter through his nose but did not answer. Hermione stayed silent, wondering what exactly he meant when he said he “made sure of that a long time ago,” and yet, she had the sudden realization that neither of them had ever cast a contraception charm. She stared at his face, the sharp line of his jaw, his grey eyes fixed at a fuzzy point in the distance, his mind elsewhere.  I’m sorry I’ve taken that from you.

Every night, Draco brought her to climax with his mouth, and only once did she try to reciprocate. She was straddling his body, knees bracketing his hips as she kissed him languidly. Her lips were on his sharp jaw, trailing down his neck, over his muscular chest, but as she descended further, he grasped her arms, pulling her back up to him.

“Not that, please,” he said in a husky voice. “Not that.”

Her heart ached for him.

Other nights, he would Apparate directly into the bedroom, the air around him heavy with the Dark magic and the atrocities that clung to him like an oily residue. On those nights, he was pushed by a primal need, tugging her clothes off with a maddened fervor. He would drive into her, his erection reaching the deepest places in her body as he thrust with a desperation that was palpable in the air. His groans were savage, frantic, delirious, like he was trying to maintain some hold on whatever humanity was left within him.

And in the moments afterward, the words would spill out of him like water over a dam. Hermione would pull him close, letting him rest his head against her breast as his confessions ran out like spilled blood.

“As a child, I wanted nothing more than their approval. I craved it,” he said in a ragged voice that trembled in his lungs. “But now, my mother fears me, and my father..”

He let out a hollow laugh.

“My father treats you like a daughter,” he said. “He treats me like a weapon.”

Hermione rested her head against his, holding him close.

They made love again and again, clinging to one another’s bodies as though they knew everything would come to a head soon, that all might collapse around them at a moment’s notice, but still, their hungry mouths met, their hips rocking, their breathing ragged.

They made plans, too. Plans to recover the trident. Plans to kill Voldemort.

“Voldemort has taken everyone I care about from me. He killed Harry. He’s the reason Ron is in Azkaban,” she said furiously.

“I’m the reason Weasley is in Azkaban,” said Draco, his face an impassive, cold mask.

“And it’s because of Voldemort that you’ve become what you are! Everyone I care about, Draco. And that includes you,” she said, her words coming in a rush of emotion.

This seemed to stun him into silence. The line between his brows was there again. Hermione sighed deeply.

“I’m just saying that I want to be the one who does it,” she said, hoping her tone of finality would sway him, but instead, fierceness welled up inside him. She thought for a moment that he would shout at her, but instead, his voice was deadly quiet.

“You’ve never done it, have you?” he asked, and suddenly, there was a dangerous edge to his body language. He was like a serpent poised to strike.

Hermione felt frozen to the spot, her breath stolen from her lungs.

“You’ve never killed someone. Never cast Avada Kedavra,” he said.

“No, I haven’t, but-”

“You know you have to mean it,” said Draco icily.

“Draco, there’s no one in the world I could possibly mean it more for than Voldemort,” she said, still wary of his mood.

He shook his head, his grey eyes not leaving her face.

“Righteous anger won’t do it, Granger,” he said. “You have to want to kill. It has to come from a dark place inside you.”

“I can do it,” she whispered, but she was feeling shaken and uncertain.

“And then after? It rends your soul, casting the Killing Curse. You’ll feel the Darkness in your veins. It gets into your magic and refuses to let go,” continued Draco, and her heart began to pound. “Then the dark place inside you becomes a well, deep like a reservoir, ready to be called up again, and the next time you cast the Killing Curse?”

Draco snapped his fingers.

“It’s that much easier,” he said.

Hermione was quiet for a moment. She reached a hand out to touch him but thought better of it, pulling her fingers back just before they grazed his shoulder.

“How many times?” she asked.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, and then, he twisted his neck in a slow circle, cracking it.

“How many times have you cast it, Draco?”

He would not look at her, but he answered.

“Dozens, Granger,” he said. “Hundreds, maybe.”

Hermione felt as though a leaden stone had dropped into her stomach. He made to stand from the bed, and she longed to reach out for him, to pull him back down, to tell him that he had not frightened her away, but the reality of his world had crashed down on her in a way that it had not before.

“Are you trying to scare me on purpose?” she whispered.

He paused, standing next to the bed, his broad back to her.

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“I’m so sorry, Draco,” she said.

He ran a hand through his blond hair.

“I can feel it,” he said, and he turned to her, pressing two fingers into his sternum. “Here.”

Hermione sat up on the bed, kneeling in front of him, and she rested her palm over his hand, trying to will whatever healing she could into his heart.

“Let it be me, Granger,” he said. “Let me be the one who must do this.”

“No, Draco. If I get the chance, I’m going to take it,” said Hermione, and the fierceness had returned, her face set in a scowl.

His eyes closed, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I suppose I should expect nothing less,” he said, one eye popping open, and suddenly, his expression was a mischievous wink, “from the woman who agreed to marry Draco Malfoy on the mere chance it would help her cause.”

~

“It’s The Network, Draco,” said Theo. “You are needed. Urgently.”

There was a measure of anguish in Theo’s face that he was trying desperately to hide, but he had tells. Draco stood from his desk in a rush, his chair falling to the floor behind him, his wand in his hand, his body coiled and ready.

“Granger?”

Theo shook his head.

“It’s…” and Theo’s voice shook slightly with fear.

Draco knew that Theo was not afraid of The Network. Was not afraid of the battle before him. He was afraid of Draco, of what Draco would do if Theo finished his sentence. A cold wash of fury settled in his chest, tapping into the deep, still well of Dark magic within him.

“Theo,” said Draco.

It was a command.

“It’s your mother, Draco,” he said.

Draco was on the move in an instant, marching with long, silent strides toward the Inquisitor offices.

“They’ve taken a handful of civilians and noncombatants. Wives, children,” said Theo, trotting along behind him.

“Pansy?”

“No, Pansy’s safe,” said Theo. “But they’re at McBride’s estate. They have him and his children.”

Draco stormed into the Inquisitor offices where eight wizards and three witches stood, awaiting his orders. His father was with them, and though Draco knew that Lucius was a roil of emotion internally, he was watching the proceedings stoically, trusting Draco’s expertise. His Aunt Bella, Dolohov, Rodolphus: everyone was gathered, awaiting his orders.

If it had not been his mother, he might have just sent the Death Eaters in alone. Let them die, let them rot. He might have said he’d had enough of the guilt, had enough of being the New Ministry’s most finely honed weapon. He might have said he was through and gone home to Granger, climbed into his bed, found release inside her soft warmth, and abandoned the New Ministry for good.

But it was his mother. His father hid his emotions well, but he, too, had tells. Draco was needed. He leaned over a large conference table on which a map of McBride’s expansive home was stretched out in front of them.

“You four, cover me while I take down the wards. You two, enter here once they’re done. You, the back entrance, and the rest of you, make sure they don’t double back and get away,” said Draco.

The team nodded. He looked around at them. Who among them was loyal to him? Would any join him when his betrayal was revealed?

Theo clapped him on the shoulder.

“Draco, we need to go,” he said.

Draco nodded, his eyes sweeping over the map one last time. He waved his wand, producing his Patronus. For a moment, it stretched and bobbed in midair, as though trying to be more than the amorphous, cloudy thing it was.

“Stay at the Manor. Do not leave under any circumstances whatsoever. My father will join you imminently.”

The Patronus zipped away.

“Draco, I need to-” his father began.

Draco rounded on him.

“You will return to Malfoy Manor and see to it that Granger does not leave,” said Draco, the rage simmering in his voice.

His father seemed to know better than to argue.

Draco and the Inquisitors disappeared with a series of cracks.

Draco’s Confractus took down the wards almost instantly, and the battle began. He knew from the map of the estate that there were only a few places likely to house the hostages, and the Death Eaters swept the estate. Draco cast with ease, each curse landing precisely on its target, Network members dropping dead or clutching at their hearts or screaming in agony. His attack was ruthless.

He rounded a corner into a hallway, Theo at his back. His wand was slashing midair, prepared to throw another curse at the witch in front of him. If he had been a less experienced, less precise fighter, his curse would have sliced her throat clean through, but he paused his wand less than half a second before it was too late, meeting her eyes across the room.

Ginny MacMillan.

So, the Order had teamed up with The Network. They had fallen too far behind, and they no longer trusted Draco to help the cause. They thought he had actually recruited Granger to the Dark Lord’s side. The realization sickened him.

Would Ginny kill him for it?

They sized each other up for a heartbeat. That hesitation could have easily cost one of them their lives, but neither was willing to risk it. The well of Dark magic within him felt thick and sluggish. He could not mean it, not for her.

With a jerk of her head, Ginny MacMillan was off, fighting the next battle, throwing curses at Dolohov, who was fighting back-to-back with Avery. Draco moved on, slipping between duelers, seeking the centre of the conflict. Theo followed without question.

He found it. A tiny, dark-haired woman was hurling curses haphazardly with a short, thick wand. Her curse-work was creative, he had to own, and he could see the shimmering magic of the cage she’d created for her captives. Draco felt the rage, the fury, the madness rising inside him, and he strode forward without hesitation.

No one lasted long in a duel against Draco Malfoy, and though this witch’s dueling skills were significant, they were no match for his own. She sensed it almost immediately. Their duel had hardly begun when he saw the panic settle in behind her eyes.

The retreat was sounded. The witch Apparated away. Draco waited for his rage to subside, for his heart to stop racing in his chest, while Theo teased away the protective enchantments that bound the hostages.

It was too late for McBride. His children were whimpering in terror, clinging to their father’s dead body. Draco’s jaw was clenched tightly as he took McBride by the hair, tilting his head back to evaluate how he was killed. His eyes were glassy and vacant. Draco could feel the tendrils of curses The Network had used. His children were quiet, fearful. Whatever had happened to McBride, it had happened in front of them.

Draco’s mother was shaken but unharmed. Her fingers trembled madly as she fell into Theo’s arms. Draco waved his wand to cast his Patronus, the shape limp and amorphous once again.

“Mother is safe. We will return shortly.”

Chapter Text

A week later, the Malfoys were preparing to head to Hogwarts for the Dark Lord’s gala. It was a bold move, hosting a party at Hogwarts. Narcissa wondered how Snape felt about it. She smoothed her hands over the skirts of her gown, willing them not to tremble. Her ordeal with The Network had shaken her deeply, though she tried not to let Lucius and Draco see. They needed no more reason to become wilder, more dangerous.

Draco had returned from the battle at the McBride estate and shuttered himself in his bedroom, casting a ward around it so complicated that even the House Elves could not enter. He had stayed inside with his wife for three days.

When he had finally left the room, his eyes were not so hard as they had been. Whatever Hermione had become for him, Narcissa was unquestionably thankful for it.

And now, Draco would accompany them all to Hogwarts, where Death Eaters would be watching their movements closely. Rodolphus still craved Draco’s wife. Dolohov watched them for weaknesses. The accusations that Draco had killed Carrow still hung over their heads. It was a tinderbox ready to ignite, and her son was feeling pressure from every angle. She could see the toll it was taking on him.

Narcissa was only thankful that none of the students would be in the castle when they arrived for the gala. The thought of the Great Hall overrun with Death Eaters made her sick, reminded her of the Battle of Hogwarts ten years earlier. Narcissa could still picture Harry Potter’s body landing on the stone floor of the courtyard with a soft thud.

For all she had fought on the Dark Lord’s side in the battle, she was still a mother. It could easily have been her own son. In the years since, she wondered how things might have been different if she had stepped in to help.

The Patronus arrived while they were making their final preparations for the event, Narcissa fluffing her hair in the mirror and Lucius fiddling with his shirt sleeves. It was a misty, amorphous thing. Narcissa hated seeing them. Her own Patronus was regal and feline, sort of like her husband.

Her son had been in the middle of adjusting the strap of his wife’s dress. It was such a simple movement, and yet, Narcissa knew it signified so much more. It was an intimate thing, sliding his finger under the thin strap, straightening it. Hermione glancing up at him with a tiny smile. Draco’s eyes gentle, for once, but his body language protective. Narcissa knew he did not want to take his wife to Hogwarts, did not want her Dark Mark to be visible in her dress.

The Patronus interrupted, and his jaw ticked in irritation, but it was Theo’s voice. Narcissa saw her son relax.

“There has been no movement that we can track. It appears The Network is laying low after the McBride debacle. You will be needed after the banquet at Hogwarts. Please confirm.”

Draco lifted his wand and cast the spell to send a reply.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The room hushed to silence. It was misty, barely formed, but the Patronus that had left his wand tip was unmistakably corporeal. It hazed in and out of its shape, but there it was. Her son had produced a corporeal Patronus.

“It’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said Hermione in a reverent voice.

They all looked at her, but her eyes were fixed on Draco’s Patronus.

“I remember from Fourth year at Hogwarts,” she said, smiling.

“There are few Death Eaters who can produce a corporeal Patronus,” said Lucius.

Draco was staring at the creature, which was waiting obediently for his instruction.

“After I’ve seen my wife back to the Manor, I’ll join you,” he said.

The Horntail struggled for a moment to keep its shape, becoming a circular blob, but it found itself again, zipping away through the walls of Malfoy Manor. Narcissa wanted to hug him, to congratulate him, but she had hardly touched him in years, and he seemed too introspective to interrupt.

Theo’s amorphous Patronus returned in an instant.

“What the hell was that? See you at Hogwarts, mate.”

Hermione was grinning. Narcissa felt her own lips stretching into a smile. When Lucius had proposed this arranged marriage, for solely political purposes, it had felt like a death knell for her son’s happiness, but as the months had passed, she had begun to see something change. It wasn’t happiness, not per se. Draco Malfoy might be too far gone for happiness, but it was something better than he’d had before.

“We should be going,” said Lucius.

Narcissa placed her hand on Lucius’s arm, and Hermione did the same to Draco’s. The Malfoy family disappeared with a crack.

~

Being at Hogwarts had been a balm to her soul when they had come to find the Horcruxes. Now, with Death Eaters roaming through the Great Hall and Lord Voldemort himself perched in the seat that had once been Dumbledore’s, it made Hermione feel a bit sick. She saw Theo in the crowd, and he gave her a reassuring smile, but it hardly helped.

Narcissa was the perfect Death Eater’s wife, gliding alongside her husband and chatting with everyone in the crowd. Hermione tried to emulate her, forcing a smile on her face, but her arm was tight around Draco’s. His eyes were scanning the crowd for threats, his body tense, his left hand twitching as though he wanted to draw his wand. There was a vambrace under the sleeve of his tailored suit, one that Theo had given him before the gala.

When Voldemort spotted the Malfoys, he stood from his chair and made his way through the parting crowds to them, Antonin Dolohov and Rodolphus Lestrange at his heels. Draco placed a hand around Hermione’s waist, and though it seemed a casual movement between husband and wife, she knew there was much more to it than that.

“Welcome, welcome, Chancellor,” hissed Voldemort.

Lucius inclined his head in a bow.

“We’re honoured to be here with you, my Lord,” he said. “And it is good to see you, gentlemen.”

Dolohov was smirking in superiority.

“And look! It’s the Mudblood with a Dark Mark on her arm!” wheezed Voldemort, wry amusement in his tone.

Hermione could feel Draco stiffen as his Dark Lord lifted her arm and inspected the Dark Mark there.

“How perfect, Draco,” he wheezed. “Shall we see if it works?”

Draco twitched, his left arm nearly going for his wand, the hand at her waist tight. Voldemort laughed.

“You see, my Lord? How protective he is of her?” said Rodolphus. “Perhaps if he was made to share her…”

Hermione thought Draco might leap across the short distance and throttle his uncle.

“My son is ever so protective of his wife,” said Lucius’s cool, drawling voice.

“You were the same with Narcissa, were you not?” asked Voldemort, and something like a grin stretched across his serpentine face.

Lucius laughed a politician’s laugh. Draco’s jaw was clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth did not crack. And then, without warning, Lord Voldemort dived into Draco’s mind.

Hermione could only watch as her husband’s hands went to fists at his sides, his muscles trembling as Voldemort stared into his eyes. She caught Lucius’s eye, but his face had not changed. It had all the haughty superiority written on it that she remembered from her days as a Hogwarts student.

Lucius played his part well.

It took only a minute or two, but Hermione knew from experience that it felt far longer when someone was rifling through thoughts and memories. Draco staggered backward when Voldemort pulled out of his mind, but his expression did not change. Voldemort’s snake-like lips were stretched in a satisfied grin, and Lucius exhaled slowly, his face still not giving anything away, but his body language relaxing so slightly that only someone close to him would have recognized it.

“Rodolphus, if you could but see what you’re missing,” hissed Voldemort. “It is almost enough to make even me hunger for the pleasures of the flesh.”

Hermione’s face heated. Draco’s body was as a marble statue, as though he knew if he allowed himself to move, he would be reaching for his wand. She squeezed his forearm, bringing him back to himself.

“Now, the Mark,” Voldemort continued. “Let us try it.”

He rubbed his palms together, the long, thin, bony hands looking eerily like a weird spider. Lucius looked away when Voldemort extended one wiry finger and pressed down onto Hermione’s arm. The pain was searing hot in her arm, and completely unfamiliar. Through the explosion of white stars in her vision, she saw Rodolphus grip his forearm. Dolohov let out a hiss of pain. Next to her, Draco was tense, his eyes closed, though he had not moved an inch.

Voldemort cackled in triumph.

“How wonderful,” he crooned. “If only Harry Potter could see you now.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Hermione weakly.

She longed to rub her aching forearm, but she refused to show any weakness in front of him. Rodolphus was eyeing her with something between lust and pity.

“My Lord,” said a girlish voice. “Did you call?”

It was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was batting her dark, hooded eyes at Voldemort. There was a sickening sensuality to it, and while Bella continued her flirtatious advances on Lord Voldemort, Rodolphus dragged his eyes up and down Hermione’s body. Draco seemed ready to explode, but Hermione’s hand on his arm kept him in check.

Hermione was relieved that she was not seated next to Rodolphus Lestrange at dinner, though she could feel his eyes on her throughout the evening as the meal was served. Instead, she was pleased to find herself in between Theo and Ilir Hoxha. Ilir grinned broadly at her when she sat, but his face fell when he saw the Dark Mark on her arm. She suppressed the desire to cover it with her hand. Hermione wanted to explain herself, but she did not know how she could without revealing too much.

Pansy glided into the seat next to Draco, whispering something in his ear as she did. Hermione was trying to read Draco’s lips for his response, but she couldn’t make it out.

“How are things in Azkaban, Mr. Hoxha?” she asked, placing her cloth napkin in her lap.

“Quiet,” he replied. “We await orders.”

She met his eyes.

“Whose orders?”

He did not respond, merely smiled at her, and then he looked across the table where Draco was watching with a steely expression.

The meal was served in courses, brought in on platters by trembling House Elves. Hermione couldn’t help but scan their faces, hoping she might recognize one from her days at Hogwarts, but none were familiar. No Dobby, No Winky. No Kreacher. The Death Eaters seemed to make a sport of harassing them, nudging them with their wands, casting hexes at their feet. Hermione’s brow was screwed up in anger, but Narcissa caught her eye, shaking her head.

“What news of The Network, Lucius?” asked Dolohov daringly.

“The Network is dead,” said Voldemort dismissively, sucking in breaths of air in rattly lungs. “Thanks to Draco’s efforts, I don’t expect we shall ever hear from them again.”

Hermione glanced at her husband. He did not know how many Order members he had killed, if any. After the raid, he had buried himself within her, craving absolution in her touch. Dark magic was literally killing him from the inside out. His eyes were haunted, his fingers twitching, his mind sinking deeper into the dark well within him each passing day.

Hermione did not know if The Network was truly dead, nor how many of her friends still lived. She heard overconfidence in Voldemort’s pronouncement, and she hoped they would be able to use it to their advantage.

She eyed Snape, seated at Voldemort’s right, wearing his usual billowing black robes. His face was inscrutable. What did he think of the Death Eaters and their gala at Hogwarts? As the meal came to a close, the Death Eaters began to stand, the conversation rising in a low murmur all around her. Voldemort was not finished with them. He took Snape’s arm in his, pulling it toward himself and pressing down into the Dark Mark branded there. Hermione clamped her mouth shut before a yelp could escape it, and she could hear the hissing sounds of pain from the Death Eaters around her.

“My faithful servants,” said Voldemort. “I wish to make an announcement!”

Voldemort laughed, high-pitched and reedy. He stood up in the middle of the Great Hall, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, all hell broke loose.

Chapter Text

Hermione did not register what had happened immediately, only that a huge volley of spells had been cast from the edges of the room, and in the single blink of an eye, Theo had pushed her down to the ground, covering her body with his own.

Had the Death Eaters turned on Voldemort? Was it civil war? Her confusion only mounted as she heard panicked shouts from Dolohov and Snape both.

But in the haze of the explosion, Draco slowly unfurled himself, standing up even as she and Theo still lay on the ground. It was a deadly vision. His wand was in his left hand, and it was with effortless precision that he began to strike down assailants. She could feel the hum of a protective shield around her, one that she had not even seen him cast.

“How did they get in?” she heard the wheezing voice of Voldemort say, his wand whipping around him.

“The castle’s protections have not been the same since the Battle of Hogwarts, my Lord,” Snape replied, casting alongside Voldemort.

Theo was on one knee in front of her, wincing in pain as he threw defensive spells in front of them. There were jets of light, green, blue, red, shooting all around her, and Hermione had her own hand on her wand, though she hardly knew in which direction to cast. If it was the Order attacking, she did not want to risk hurting one of her friends.

Death Eaters were collapsing in droves, furniture exploding, and then, the beautiful glass ceiling that mimicked the night sky outside shattered. Shards of glass tumbled down onto them. Instinctively, Hermione covered her head with her arms, though thanks to Draco’s shield, nothing touched her. When she looked back up at him, she saw a bloody slice down the side of his cheek, but he fought on.

“It’s The Network,” said Draco dangerously. “They’ve come for us.”

“There’s not one of them alive who has the power to-” but Rodolphus Lestrange’s words were cut off when a spell hit him in the throat.

Draco’s wand moved fast, but not fast enough, and Rodolphus made a gurgling sound as he dropped to the floor. Hermione’s eyes searched the room, which was cloudy with dust, trying to find the source of the spell.

She saw a flash of red hair and bolted upright, but Theo’s arm pushed her back down to the ground, his wand movements quick and sure as he threw off the volley of curses heading toward them.

Hermione peered into the cloud of dust and debris. Had it been Fred? George? Ginny? If it was the Order, why would she not have been told about this? They must not have known she would have been there. Or else…

Her stomach sank with the possibility that they knew but did not care.

The battle raged on around her. She watched Dolohov’s wand moving so fast it was almost not visible as he dueled with a wizard Hermione did not recognize. She considered for a moment that if Draco wanted to crumble the New Ministry and solidify his power, he could easily kill Dolohov then and there. It would not be difficult to blame it on a stray curse in the chaos.

Draco seemed to have realized this, too, and she could sense Dark magic gathering itself around him, his eyes fixed on Dolohov, but then, through the chaos and dust, Hermione spotted a figure she had seen only in textbooks.

He was old, though still quite good-looking, especially for a man who’d been in prison for more than fifty years. And like Draco, like Dumbledore, the air around this man crackled with the energy of his magic. Even at a glance, his power was undeniable.

“It’s not possible!” hissed Voldemort’s voice.

Gellert Grindelwald.

Grindelwald seemed to suck up all the air and magic in the room, pulling it in toward himself before he exploded outward. The speed and fury of his wand work was awesome. Jets of blue and red flew from the long, thin wand in his fingertips, his body moving as though dancing as he wove between Death Eaters and their curses.

At last, he was face-to-face with Draco, and the air thrummed with their warring magical signatures. Draco’s face showed no fear, merely resolve, and Grindelwald had a smirk on his face as though playing. Though Hermione knew the outcome of the infamous duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald decades earlier, she was not sure she wanted to know the outcome of a duel between Grindelwald and Draco Malfoy.

Draco was a soldier in that moment, nothing more or less. And when Grindelwald made eye contact with him, Draco leapt into action. Jets of light flew from their wands, ricocheting off shields, cutting holes in the walls. Draco was a deadly force, focused and calm as he faced down one of the most notorious Dark wizards in history. Hermione could not tell if he was acting, if it was a show. Draco knew that Grindelwald had helped them secure one of the Horcruxes. Was he pulling his punches? Pretending to duel in earnest so as not to blow his cover?

A green light flashed from the tip of his wand, missing Grindelwald by a hair. Hermione was not certain. The shield around her had fallen, Draco’s concentration focused fully on Grindelwald, who was likely the most powerful opponent he had ever faced. Hermione drew her own wand from a holster on her thigh, throwing up a shield charm in front of herself.

But despite Draco’s power and prowess, and despite a half dozen other Death Eaters and Voldemort himself all simultaneously launching spells at Grindelwald, nothing landed on him. In fact, he was pressing on the offensive.

“Kill him!” ordered Voldemort, as though six Death Eaters plus Draco Malfoy weren’t already trying.

But in the midst of the chaos, Hermione felt a set of arms around her shoulders, and she looked to see Theo grasping her, dragging her by the arm to pull her away from the battle.

“But Draco-”

“Do you think for a second that Draco and I haven’t been over exactly what I’m supposed to do if we ever find ourselves in this situation?” Theo snapped impatiently as she stumbled along after him. “Trust me, he has been incredibly explicit on what will happen to me if I don’t get you out of an attack safely.”

“But-”

“Draco has his hands full enough without you to worry about,” snarled Theo, pulling her away by force as he cast shield charm after shield charm. “If it were anyone but Grindelwald, Granger, I swear I would not be doing this, but you have to go.”

She took one last look over her shoulder, seeing Draco nearly get hit with a curse. She flinched and followed Theo. The moment they left the Great Hall, she felt Theo’s attempt at Apparition, but the air around them felt like glue.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, and they rush forward, seeking the edge of the Anti-Apparition ward.

“Did anyone know they were coming?” asked Hermione, coughing through the dust.

“No. Our intelligence all said The Network was laying low,” said Theo, dragging her forward, her steps stumbling in the dim light.

“Draco…”

“Draco can handle himself, Hermione!” scolded Theo as they ran through the familiar corridors of Hogwarts. “I need to get you out of here before anyone realizes that you’re-”

In a flash, Theo dropped like a stone to the floor.

“That she’s what, Nott?” said a woman’s voice.

There before her stood Fred Weasley, standing beside a woman Hermione did not recognize. She was leering down at Theo’s prone form. Before Hermione could react at all, Fred had taken her by the arm and Disapparated.

~

He could not get the upper hand in the duel. Draco was throwing everything in his arsenal, his mind calm as the icy walls of Occlumency blocked out any distractions. Out of the corner of his vision, he had seen Theo drag a protesting Granger out of the Great Hall. If it’s ever something I might not be able to handle, get her away, Nott.  

Theo’s confidence in him had wavered. For the first time in his life, he was facing a foe with no apparent weaknesses, no tells. It was clear that Gellert Grindelwald was everything that the legends had said about him.

Draco couldn’t even tell if he should be dueling in earnest or pretending for the sake of keeping his cover.

Then, there was a shout from one of The Network. He could not hear what the man had said, but without further warning, the entire attack ceased, and Grindelwald disappeared with a sudden crack. Draco was frozen in position, his wand held aloft, waiting for further attack. After a moment, when nothing came and no one returned to the fight, he lowered his arm and turned around.

“You all right, mate?” asked Greg Goyle, who had positioned himself at Draco’s side to guard his blind side.

Draco’s face hardened.

“Where’s Granger?”

~

It was a dim room, but she heard several voices say, “Lumos.” Hermione had stumbled to the floor, and she looked up, blinking in the wand light. Fred was there, and the woman who had been with him. Two more unfamiliar faces, and Gellert Grindelwald himself. She tried to Apparate, but the air around her was like glue. Another Anti-Apparition spell. Hermione felt fury bubble up in her chest.

“You idiots,” she said. “Draco is going to fucking murder the lot of you.”

“He’s welcome to try,” said Grindelwald absently, and then, he turned to the others. “Did you get it?”

“We got it, Gellert,” said a witch, producing a wand from the pocket of her robe. “No one was paying any attention. Your duel kept them busy.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She recognized that wand, but just as she opened her mouth, the room filled with more soft pops. The entirety of the Order, plus a dozen more witches and wizards that must have made up the rest of The Network. Remus spotted her and raced to her side, kneeling and looking carefully at her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“All right?!” she shrieked, pushing herself up to stand, her hands on her hips. “No, I’m not bloody all right! I’ve just been fucking kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped?” replied Fred. “We’ve saved you from those disgusting, foul-”

“I didn’t need saving!”

“The Order needs your help, Hermione!” he roared.

“I’m helping!”

“We’re dropping like flies out here while you live a life of luxury!” Fred said angrily, and she tried to interrupt, but he barreled on. “Look around you! Look!”

Her jaws snapped shut with a click, and she did. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be seeing.

“This is it, Hermione,” said Fred. “This is the last of the resistance. This is all that’s left.”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, her voice dropping low and dangerous.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Because my family isn’t here, and they’re part of the resistance, too.”

“Your family!” said Fred with laughter in his voice. “Your family?! You mean, the bloke who put that on your arm?”

He was pointing at her left forearm. There was a low murmur spreading through the room as the Order and The Network took in the sight of her Dark Mark. Hermione covered it as best she could with her hand. Grindelwald had a slight smirk on his face, and he was rolling the familiar wand in his fingers.

“What is it with Dark Wizards and our affinity for brands and symbols?” he mused, and then, he tapped the hilt of the wand he held. “This was the one everyone associated with me.”

She squinted, seeing a triangular mark etched into the wood.

“That’s Dumbledore’s wand,” said Hermione in a swotty tone.

“It was, yes,” said Grindelwald. “Do you know to whom it belonged before him?”

Hermione did not know, so she kept quiet. Grindelwald tapped the wand against his palm.

“It was mine,” he said. “Do you know why he dueled me for it?”

She still did not know, an uncomfortable feeling for a woman who prided herself on knowing most things.

“Because it’s the Elder Wand,” said Grindelwald.

Hermione snorted.

“That’s a myth,” she said. “A legend.”

“If you say so, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she spat.

Grindelwald smirked. Then, in what must have been an attempt to show its power, he lifted the wand and pointed it at Remus, who didn’t even have time to flinch before Grindelwald said, “Expelliarmus.”

Nothing happened. Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, turning the wand over in his hand, bringing it closer to his eyes to inspect it.

“This is the wand you pulled from Albus’s tomb?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the witch nervously.

“It should have passed back to me,” said Grindelwald. “Albus was not killed in combat. He did not lose it in a duel. It should have reverted its allegiance back to me.”

“What do you mean?” Remus asked, looking a bit discomfited at the fact that Grindelwald had chosen him to use as an experiment.

“All wands have allegiance,” said Grindelwald, rolling the wand between his fingers. “But the Elder Wand especially so. If I’m to defeat Lord Voldemort in combat, I need the wand’s loyalty. But it seems to have loyalty to someone else.”

“Snape, probably,” said Hermione, and every eye in the room turned to her. “He’s the one who killed Dumbledore. Wouldn’t it be loyal to him, then?”

“Hm,” said Grindelwald. “Perhaps.”

He stowed the wand in his robe pocket as though planning to look into it at a later time, and then, he turned to her again.

“You destroyed the book?” he asked.

“I did,” she said.

“What did you use?”

“A goblin-made sword imbued with Hydra poison. Four other Horcruxes. too,” said Hermione, and then, her eyes flashed at Fred, Remus, and the rest of the Order. “I have been busy, despite what some may believe.”

“Hermione, it’s not like that-” said Remus.

“THEY MARKED YOU, HERMIONE!” said Fred, and she had never heard his voice flare in temper as it had then. “The Malfoys made you a Death Eater, and you expect us to leave you in their care? To assume all is well?”

“Did you think I’d gone over to the other side?” she snapped angrily. “Joined Voldemort’s cause? That Draco Malfoy had fucked me into submission?”

Fred flinched.

“Children,” scolded Grindelwald. “Stop squabbling. We’ve Horcruxes to destroy.”

Hermione turned, her eyes lighting up with some hope.

“You’ve found more of them,” she said.

She really looked at him then, comparing him to the pictures in the textbooks she’d read as a child. He looked very much the same: a sharp nose, prominent cheekbones, wavy hair. His face had deep lines around the eyes and mouth, and there were hollows in his cheeks, but she could see the man he had once been.

“Two more, yes,” said Grindelwald.

“Give them to me,” she said. “I’ll take them to Malfoy Manor and destroy them.”

“NO.”

It was one of The Network. She was looking around the room like they would be insane to even imagine it.

“She’s a Death Eater!” said the woman, a tiny thing with jet black hair.

Hermione didn’t bother responding. She just watched the room erupt in more arguments. The resistance to Voldemort seemed to be crumbling from within. They hardly needed the New Ministry to rout them out: they would destroy themselves.

“We don’t need the goblin-made sword,” said Grindelwald, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll use Fiendfyre.”

Hermione stared at him in horror.

“It’ll get out of your control,” she said. “It’s notoriously dangerous.”

“I’ll handle it,” said Grindelwald confidently. “You’re dismissed.”

He said it with force, and the rest of the crowd gathered in the room left immediately. Hermione stared in awe as even Fred and Remus filed out of the room. However much she appreciated Grindelwald’s help in the matter of Horcruxes, it seemed shocking to her that he was being so swiftly obeyed by the Order of the Phoenix. And that they hadn’t even told her!

“He’s good with a wand, your husband,” said Grindelwald with a handsome smirk, interrupting her inner monologue.

Hermione scowled.

“He’s better than you are.”

He tipped his head back and laughed.

“I’m sure I’ll find out.”

Chapter Text

“Draco Malfoy is on the warpath,” announced Ernie. “We’re not going into the New Ministry. He’ll kill us the moment we step out of the Floo, but not before he rips out our hearts while they’re still beating.”

“We all have to stay here until it’s over,” said Remus, resting his head in his hands.

Tonks was standing behind him, rubbing the space between his shoulders. Ernie’s expression was worried, desperate almost. Heads began to turn to Hermione, who crossed her arms in front of her.

“Let me go, then,” said Hermione.

“Half the Death Eaters think you’ve defected,” said the black-haired woman who was the leader of The Network.

Hermione didn’t know her name, but the rest all called her “Runt.” Hermione assumed it was due to her short stature. In her own mind, she called the woman a different name, though it did rhyme with “Runt.”

“Then let me go to Draco. I know where the last Horcrux is. We can destroy it,” said Hermione.

“Tell us where it is, and we’ll take care of it,” said Runt.

“Go fuck yourself,” she spat in reply.

They made no further progress than that. Hermione was stuck in The Network headquarters, unable to Apparate, unable to send or receive a Patronus. She had nothing but the monotony of a rebellion that no one seemed to want her to be a part of. They all eyed her askance, glancing down at the Dark Mark on her arm. Hermione had slept in her banquet gown and was still wearing it, even though Remus had offered her a set of clothing. She was refusing it on principle.

“Keep a guard on her,” said Runt.

“She doesn’t need it,” Remus replied soothingly. “She’s not a threat to us.”

“She’s a Malfoy,” spat Runt.

Hermione was waiting for the barrage of spells, the volley that would take down their wards as Draco swept in to rescue her, but it didn’t come, and in some ways, she was thankful. Even with Gellert Grindelwald on their side, she didn’t think the Order would survive Draco’s wrath.

“Hermione, if you help us get the Horcrux, Gellert can destroy it,” said Remus. “This can all be over.”

She fixed him with a hard stare.

“Remus, he will find me, and when he does, he will kill you,” she replied.

“Don’t you know how that makes you sound?” he pleaded. “You sound like you’re more loyal to the Malfoys than to us!”

She clamped her jaw shut and crossed her arms, not looking at him.

Hermione sat while the Order and The Network busied themselves around her, but eventually, Runt came back, wand in hand. Fred was with her, looking unhappy, but three other Network wizards were at her side.

“We’ll have the location of the Horcrux now,” said Runt in a menacing voice.

There was a reckless edge to Runt’s attitude. It was so unlike Draco’s cold, contained rage. Runt seemed to be flailing, lashing out wildly in a last attempt to wrest control from the New Ministry. Hermione felt even more frightened than she had amongst Death Eaters. She was looking at Fred, begging him with her eyes to help her, but he seemed frozen to the spot. Runt took Hermione’s wand.

“What do you know about Horcruxes, Hermione Granger?” she asked.

Hermione did not speak. Runt gave her a malicious grin.

“We have reason to believe that if there was only one left, it could be used to control Voldemort. To force him to do our bidding,” said Runt. “It would be the last part of his soul, after all.”

“What?!”

“Now wait just a-” Fred spluttered.

“We could topple the New Ministry with him as our muscle. We could keep control of him and bring Britain back to the way it should be,” she said, and her eyes flashed. “The way we want it to be.”

Runt paused for a moment. Fred looked horrorstruck, but still, he said nothing. Runt tossed Hermione’s wand in the air once, catching it with ease before turning it on her threateningly.

“But we need to know everything about the Horcruxes, particularly where the only remaining one is.”

Runt was vicious with her Legilimency, and though her attempt was feeble compared to Lord Voldemort’s, she was persistent. It was as though Runt’s fingertips were touching every book in the library of her mind with greasy fingers, unsettling and gross. Each time she swept out of Hermione’s mind, she paused for only the briefest moment before diving in again.

“You’re hurting her!” Fred said as Hermione gripped her temples.

“Hm,” snapped Runt, her hands on her hips. “Maybe hurting her would be a good way to get more information.”

Hermione tried to scramble backward, but Runt slashed with her wand, and Hermione felt a searing pain in her chest.

“Stop it!” said Fred.

The Order had been warned about The Network. They had not listened. It was clear that The Network was every bit as vicious, violent, and unpredictable as she had always thought, and with her chest throbbing in pain, she struggled to organize the library of her mind against Runt’s invasion. She pulled up memories to distract her: the mirror being destroyed, the goblin-made sword, imbued with Hydra poison.

Runt pulled out of her mind with force.

“Maybe it’s not hurting you that will help,” said Runt with a malicious grin. “Him, maybe?”

She aimed her wand at Fred.

“Crucio.”

Fred screamed in agony, falling to the floor and curling into a ball, writhing in pain.

“No!” Hermione cried.

The Cruciatus ended, and Runt immediately dived into her mind again. Hermione’s defences were flagging. She tossed out memory after memory in distraction, struggling to keep the location of the trident from Runt, but she was exhausted, and Runt was tenacious. Finally, Hermione brought a memory of the library at Malfoy Manor to the forefront of her mind, trying to distract Runt with the image of Draco Malfoy sliding into her on top of the desk.

Runt chased the memory like a terrier chasing a mole into a tunnel. She chewed on it, shook it back and forth in her grasp, attacked it, and at last, found a glimpse of the book that had been on the desk. The book on the mer-king trident. There was no solid information in the memory: Hermione pulled it back into the locked recesses of her Occlumency before Runt had found the map to follow, but the glimpse was enough. Runt pulled out of her mind and started barking orders at the rest of them. Fred rushed to her side, but Hermione pushed him away, massaging her head and her sternum. The Network was preparing to move out. Fred watched her for a long time, but soon, he was called out of the room by Runt and her ilk.

Hermione was left alone.

It was very late in the afternoon when Gellert Grindelwald himself appeared, studying her as he paced the room.

“They think you’re on Voldemort’s side,” he said.

Hermione scoffed.

“I’ll lift the wards,” said Grindelwald, handing her wand out toward her, and Hermione stared at him open-mouthed. “You’ll have just a few seconds to leave. They’re going to try chase you down.”

She began to stand, waiting for the hum of the thick layer of wards to cease. Grindelwald gave her a wink, and without touching his wand, without moving a muscle, the wards fell. Hermione Apparated home with a crack.

~

It was some wonder that Draco hadn’t just killed them all outright. With Hermione missing, he was violent in his madness, beyond the usual cold and steely anger, it was a white-hot fury that drove him.

Dolohov was insistent that Hermione had betrayed them, gone over to The Network, and Theo was too busy managing Draco to try to convince anyone otherwise. He knew it was a mercy that Draco hadn’t killed him for being the one responsible for losing her.

If Hermione turned up dead, Draco’s mercy would surely run out.

Lucius was doing everything he could to keep the political machine moving forward, to prevent any suspicions from being cast on the Malfoys. Draco was on the warpath, stalking every square inch of England looking for her. Narcissa was with her sister, comforting her in the loss of her husband and trying to soothe the tensions among the Death Eaters.

So, Theo was alone at Malfoy Manor, seated at the edge of Draco’s bed, waiting like a prisoner whose execution would come at dawn. His head was heavy in his hands, replaying every moment of the battle in his mind, knowing that it was his own fault that Draco’s wife had been taken. And then, Hermione arrived with a crack.

She stumbled slightly, her evening gown tangled under her feet, and Theo leapt up.

“Thank Merlin!” he hissed, taking her about the waist so that she would not fall to the floor.

Theo wasted no time at all in sending a Patronus. Draco would slit his throat if he knew that he’d hesitated for even half a second, so he sent a misty blob that sped away immediately while he helped Granger onto the bed.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though she did not look fine.

“Do you want some clothes?” he asked, and he began digging through Draco’s drawers looking for something that she could wear. “Jinxy!”

The elf popped in.

“Get her some clothes!” commanded Theo, and the elf skittered away.

There was a loud crack in the room, and Draco was striding across it without faltering, kneeling in front of his wife and taking her hands in his. His jaw was clenched tightly even as he spoke. His voice quavered with rage.

“Who did this and where are they?” said Draco, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“I’m fine, Draco,” repeated Hermione. “But we’ve got to move. Now. The Network might be able to figure out where the last Horcrux is, and they want to try to use it to control Voldemort.”

“Control him?” said Theo with a derisive laugh.

“They aren’t going to destroy it,” she said, hurriedly trying to stand.

Draco caught her when she nearly toppled over. His right arm fell slack as he did, and Hermione stared at him open-mouthed.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

This was not true. Draco had made it out of the battle at Hogwarts as unscathed as he could have hoped for, given that he was fighting Gellert Grindelwald himself, but a stray curse had hit his shoulder. It would heal, in time, but Draco had refused to let anyone look at it, his single-minded focus on his wife unwavering.

“The Network is going after the Horcrux,” she said, regaining her balance with Draco’s help. “And they’re coming after me, too.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Draco growled.

“The Death Eaters want her, too, Draco,” Theo said. “They think she’s a traitor. They might kill her if they lay eyes on her.”

“We have to GO, Draco,” she said. “We have to get the trident before The Network does!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Draco. “I’ll handle it alone.”

“So, what? I’ll stay here with Theo?” she said, and Theo blanched. “Do you think the Manor’s security that infallible?”

Draco’s hands went to fists, his knuckles turning white.

“Take her,” said Theo, squeezing Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll try to throw them off your trail. Here.”

Jinxy had appeared with a t-shirt and trousers for Hermione. Theo leaned down to kiss her cheek, ignoring Draco’s growl next to him as he placed a hand on her face.

“It’s almost over,” Theo said. “I can feel it.”

Theo thought for a moment that Draco had decided to kill him after all, for he felt Draco’s hands gripping the front of his shirt tightly, but when Theo looked down, Draco’s face was serious.

“Anyone who might take our side,” he said. “Get them together. We’re going to need them.”

~

There was no way to get there using magic.

Hermione had peeled herself out of her gown, Draco’s watchful eyes on her every move, and dressed in the shirt and trousers Jinxy had brought for her. She had galloped down the staircase of Malfoy Manor with Draco striding purposefully behind her, rounded the corner to the library, and grabbed the book she had found on the mer-king’s trident. Then, she’d raced to Lucius’s study and shoved Lightsbane in her bottomless bag.

She had threaded her hand in Draco’s larger one and Apparated them to the coast, and they could see an island, tiny in the distance. They could not Apparate there, could not fly on a broomstick. No magical means of transportation could reach the tiny island. There was a dock at the shore with several boats moored to it. The sky was beginning to darken, stars visible in the twilight, as Draco and Hermione climbed into a boat.

Hermione tried first to charm the oars to row for them. It was a long distance to the island, but with each row of the charmed oars, it seemed that instead of getting closer, they got further away.

“No magic, I suppose,” said Hermione, pursing her lips.

Draco’s expression was resolute. He sighed, rolling his neck to crack it, and took his place at the oars. His strong hands gripped the handles, and then, he rounded his shoulders, leaning forward and pulling back. Hermione saw him grimace against the pain in his shoulder. They began to glide across the starlit sea.

The journey was silent save for the soft swishing of the oars in the water and the exhalation of Draco’s breath with each pull. Hermione perched on the seat in the small craft, watching the island, which still seemed so very far away. She inhaled deeply, smelling the salty air. Occasionally, she had to guide Draco’s progress, as his back was to the island.

“Farther to the right,” she said as they drifted off course. “To the right, Draco.”

With a grunt of pain, he pulled harder with his injured right arm. More soft swishing, and the darkness deepened. But then, she heard voices.

They sounded so close, but it was just that they carried so well over the open water. Draco scowled.

“Looks like they’ve tracked us down,” said Hermione, twisting in her seat and straining her eyes as she watched the bobbing wand lights on the shore. “But I’m not sure if it’s The Network or the Death Eaters.”

There were several jets of red and green light, voices rising in shouts.

“Or both,” said Draco darkly.

Hermione thought they might be rowing through the entire night. Draco’s strokes were getting weaker as he tried to favor his right arm but continued falling off course. Eventually, they tried switching places, the boat bobbing and rocking dangerously as they did. His palms were blistered and bloody, and they did not dare risk magic to heal them. Hermione took the oars and pulled.

It was harder than she expected. She had no idea how Draco had kept it up for so many hours thus far. With her eyes now facing the shore from which they had come, she could see the groups that had given chase. They were on the water now, and she could hear curses shouted across the water, jets of light cracking through the air between the boats.

She had rowed for maybe an hour when her arms would not pull any more, and Draco had to take the oars again, but the island was getting close, so close. He roared in agony now with each stroke. Hermione kept turning in her seat, watching the boats gain on them, the voices getting dangerously close.

“We’re almost there, Draco,” she whispered. “Almost.”

Less than an hour later, with Draco’s hands bleeding profusely and his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, they reached the island, the boat riding the lapping waves up to the sand. They grabbed their wands, both murmuring “Lumos,” and stepped ashore.

Chapter Text

There was nothing on the island, not even vegetation, save for a dais that glowed eerily in the dark. Draco’s right arm was hanging numb and tingling at his side, his palms dripping blood from hours of rowing by hand, but he stood straight, following Granger up the sandy beach to the dais. The boats approached quickly from the sea. He could not see them well in the darkness, but it looked like six or more, each with multiple floating wand lights inside.

The trident lay on the dais surrounded by a protective enchantment. Granger was murmuring to herself, casting with her wand to unravel the wards.

“This is one of the most complex enchantments I’ve ever seen,” she said, and she looked over her shoulder, seeing their pursuers had nearly reached the beach, and then, she met his gaze. “I’m going to need time.”

Draco nodded.

“They won’t touch you,” he said, and he turned to face the shore, buckling Theo’s vambrace over his arm so that a shield charm slid in front of him. His wand was aloft. He was ready.

At first, the witches and wizards in the boats were fighting each other more than him. He could see two boats full of Death Eaters: the Dark Lord, Dolohov, Bellatrix, and others, all volleying spells at two boats full of Order and Network members. There were others, too: Theo, Greg and Pansy, and Blaise Zabini, Marcus Flint and Cho Chang, all casting defensive spells and Stunners, fighting on the Order’s side without letting the Death Eaters realize it. And most surprisingly of all, a boat captained by Ilir Hoxha and filled with several Azkaban prisoners, including Ron and Arthur Weasley.

Some long-forgotten impulse to scoff was buried in Occlumency.

It did not take long for the battle to reach him, and his sole focus became keeping them from Granger, who was still muttering spells behind him. He did not care if it was Antonin Dolohov or Remus Lupin or Ron Weasley. Hell, Harry Potter himself could arrive on that godforsaken shore, and Draco would not have let him get past.

“Get the girl!” shrieked Bellatrix.

Like Theo and Greg, Draco was forced to fight against the Death Eaters without letting on that he was doing so. He did not want to tip his hand so early in the battle. The Order did not seem to see this strategy.

“Malfoy, let us pass!” shouted one of the Weasley twins, shouldering his way through the battle toward Granger. “We can help her!”

He stunned the twin without pause.

Thank Merlin, Gellert Grindelwald had some sense of strategy, and he busied himself with putting on a show of dueling with Draco. It was obvious that Grindelwald was holding back. He had shown his prowess at Hogwarts, and even then, Draco was not sure he had thrown the full force of his magic at anyone but the Dark Lord. With Draco’s useless right arm and the sheer exhaustion saturating his body, Grindelwald could have taken him quickly if he’d tried.

It gave Draco something to do, though, and still allowed him the ability to stun anyone who got too close to Granger.

“Kill him, boy!” shouted Dolohov. “Unless you’re too-”

Dolohov was hit with a curse in the back that looked rather like Theo’s doing.

“Hermione!” shouted Ron Weasley through the din.

Draco turned for the briefest moment, saw Granger light up at the voice, saw her concentration lapse, and watched the protective enchantments swirl, setting her back at least a full minute. Draco grinded his teeth in frustration as he returned to the duel with Grindelwald.

It was chaos. Spells were flying, shields were falling, and the Death Eaters seemed to be gaining ground on the ragtag band that fought against them, but then, the tide turned.

He knew that Granger had done it. He felt the gust of magical energy of the shield falling, and he heard her exhausted grunt of effort, and then, there was a horrible scraping, scratching, tearing noise. The Dark Lord let out a wheezing, hissing scream when he saw Granger with Lightsbane sticking out of the mer-king trident, and he pressed the attack. Draco threw charm after charm to protect her, taking down Death Eaters and Network members with precision, the reserves within him running dangerously low, his strength fading.

Granger wiped her brow, ready to collapse, and then, their eyes met across the short distance between them.

“Draco, the snake!” she shouted over the chaos, her voice ragged as she lay over the dais. “You have to kill the snake!”

He had only one good arm. He could not hold both the sword and his wand, and there was no hope of fiendfyre among so many allies. He looked for Grindelwald, his wand whipping through the air as he dueled. As though Draco had called his name, he looked over. Draco needed just a moment’s time. Grindelwald understood.

He watched as Grindelwald drew up a well of magic from within, a blue and shimmering cloud that drew the attention of everyone on the battlefield. Draco looked back at Granger, holding his left arm out for the sword, and with the last of her strength, she heaved it in the air toward him. He caught it one-handed.

Where was the snake? Draco searched the darkness for the Dark Lord and saw him. He looked elderly and frail, like a shadow becoming fainter in growing light, and there with him was Nagini. Draco stowed his wand, counting on Theo’s vambrace to hold up long enough. He lifted Lightsbane over his shoulder, marching across the field with deadly purpose.

The Dark Lord did not register the danger, not knowing then that Draco’s loyalty had shifted. He strode to the snake that was winding its way around the Dark Lord’s feet. He lifted the sword, trying to balance it with his useless right arm, and with a single stroke, he cut the snake’s head off. It died with no scream, no sizzle, no puff of black smoke. Simply dead.

The battle froze. Death Eaters looked at one another, trying to make sense of Draco Malfoy’s slaughter of the Dark Lord’s treasured pet, trying to decide if Draco had acted alone or if there were other traitors among them. The Network fighters reckoned with whether they had been wrong about Hermione and the Malfoys.

Draco could feel Dark magic in his bones, his blood sluggish in his veins from the thick residue of every curse he’d ever cast. He could smell it in the air around him, feel it like a film of oil on his skin. But even so, while the battle was still, while everyone was reeling, his steel-edged voice shouted.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Voldemort fell dead on the ground.

The sheer evil of it: Draco casting the darkest curse against the darkest wizard in history. Casting it might have killed a weaker wizard outright. It brought Draco to his knees, his vision going blurry with the backlash of it. He thought for a moment that he might die as the deep well within him became a thick bog, one that threatened to drown him, the Dark magic clawing its way up from his diaphragm to suffocate him in his own lungs.

Then, a split second after Voldemort fell, Draco fell a searing pain in his left forearm. He and every other Death Eater on the battlefield fell to their knees, groaning in agony that felt much the same as the day they’d been branded with the Dark Mark. Draco saw Granger out of the corner of his eye, heard her strangled cry, tried to reach her, but Ron Weasley got there first. Weasley wrapped his arms around Granger, holding her close against him. The pain in Draco’s forearm grew so intense that his vision went white, and he passed out.

~

It was astonishing how easily the New Ministry fell. More than ten years of fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and in one single moment, when everyone branded with the Dark Mark had collapsed gripping their arms, it was over. Arthur Weasley had been weak from his stay in Azkaban, but he had helped the Order immobilize the Death Eaters, sending them to isolated interrogation rooms. And then, once Antonin Dolohov and Bellatrix Lestrange and all the others had been locked up, Arthur Weasley could finally exhale.

It was over.

He embraced his wife, who he had not seen in months. His remaining sons, only four where there should have been six. His daughter, whose eyes had a hardened edge to them that had not been there the last time he had seen her. Remus was sending a Patronus to his mother-in-law, letting her know that it was over and that Teddy’s parents both still lived.

One of the first things the Order and The Network had done was destroy the statue of Voldemort that stood in the Atrium at the New Ministry. The trident he held in his hand shattered against the stone floor when the statue toppled. The Order and The Network embraced each other, cheering.

But the celebration was not long-lived, and the in-fighting began immediately as the Order and The Network began to squabble over everything. They argued over what to do with Voldemort’s dead body: the Order wanted it buried in a hidden location so that it could not become a martyr’s tomb. The Network wanted it disfigured and put on display. They argued over who should be put in charge of the reconstruction efforts: the Order wanted to hold an election, The Network wanted to take control themselves, immediately and by force. Wands were drawn in tense negotiations. It was thanks only to Remus Lupin’s soothing presence that they had not broken into dueling.

And most of all, they argued over what was to be done with Hermione, Draco, and Lucius.

“Azkaban,” said the woman who was called Runt.

“Absolutely not,” insisted Remus. “Were you not there? Did you not see what Hermione and Draco did? The Trident and the snake-”

“Shall I describe to you everything that Draco Malfoy has done to us over the years?”

Runt began to describe in detail the battles, the captures, the interrogations. The blood, the torture, the flayed skin. It was enough that even Remus flinched.

“Execute him,” spat Ron, interrupting Runt’s tirade.

Arthur was surprised to hear these words come from his youngest son’s mouth, but perhaps he should not be. Arthur had been in Azkaban for only a fraction of the time that Ron had, but the toll it had taken was large. There was an emptiness in him where his heart should be, one that did not want to dissipate even as his loved ones surrounded him.

“Surely, you can’t mean to execute the girl,” said a calm voice in the corner.

Gellert Grindelwald. It had been a shock indeed to see the famed Dark Wizard fighting on their side. Would Arthur have agreed to team up with him? With The Network, whose tactics were so much more vicious and sinister than the Order’s? He supposed things had become quite desperate while he was in Azkaban, but Grindelwald was right on this. They could not mean to execute Hermione.

“Of course not,” said Ron dismissively, and he turned to Runt and the other Network members present. “Let her out. I want to see her.”

Three Malfoys were in adjacent interrogation rooms, each with a small window that allowed those gathered to see within. Hermione’s arms were crossed, her expression full of righteous anger. Lucius had an aloof, haughty smirk. Draco’s body language had an icy cold stillness, seeming to draw on some deep well of fury within.

Arthur could not help but shudder when Draco made eye contact.

“Let her out,” repeated Ron.

When the door to her holding cell was opened, Hermione raced out of it, her eyes flashing at everyone gathered in the anteroom. She marched up to Remus, her finger in his face even as several members of The Network raised their wands.

“How dare you!” she hissed. “After everything I’ve done for the Order! After-”

“Hermione,” said Ron.

“I have spent the last several months working to overthrow Voldemort’s reign, and the second it’s accomplished, you lock me in a cell like I’m a Death Eater!” she cried.

“You are,” said Runt.

“Hermione!” Ron said, louder this time.

She ignored him, turning to the other two interrogation rooms, peering through the charmed glass and seeing Lucius and Draco, each held in isolation. Lucius’s face had the same smirk, and Draco’s expression was still icy.

“Where is Narcissa?” she demanded.

“She’s at Malfoy Manor, under guard but unharmed,” said Remus.

Hermione began running through the list of Death Eaters that had fought on the Order’s side, asking after each. The Network had been reluctant to send them anywhere but Azkaban, but Arthur knew this would make them no better than the regime they had replaced. Hermione was scratching her forearm absently as though it still burned.

“Hermione,” said Ron. “Look at me.”

If Arthur had hoped for a tender reunion between Ron and the one girl he’d always loved, it was not to be. Hermione’s focus was elsewhere, and as Arthur was beginning to realize, so was her heart.

“I swear to Merlin, if you don’t let Draco and Lucius out of those cells, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” asked Runt with a derisive laugh. “If you think I’m letting Draco Malfoy out of that cell, you’re out of your mind.”

“Lucius, then,” said Hermione, and she swept around the room, wagging her finger at the Order. “Lucius Malfoy came to us with an offer. He was transparent and honest, and he provided me protection when he could have easily left me to Dolohov. He did everything he promised and more.”

“He was the Chancellor of the New Ministry!” roared one of the Network wizards.

The Order and The Network were jockeying for position. The Network and its leadership wanted punitive damages, vengeance for what the New Ministry had done. Arthur saw that under the leadership of Runt and The Network, it would be no different, in the end. It would be the New Ministry, but instead of targeting Muggleborns, they would target former Death Eaters, their family, their friends.

“You’re no better than they were, then! A bunch of vicious, angry, rotten-”

“Watch your mouth, Malfoy,” spat one of The Network.

Ron and Fred both cried out in anger.

Arthur looked around, realizing that he was the oldest person in the room. The patriarch. If he wanted to secure a better future, he needed to lead, not follow. He met Remus’s eyes plaintively.

“It’s true, Remus,” interjected Arthur. “Whatever happened while I was in prison, it does appear that Lucius Malfoy kept his end of the bargain.”

Remus sighed.

“Arthur’s right,” he said, and he held his hands up against The Network’s protests. “We made a bargain with Lucius Malfoy, and we must honour it.”

Though everyone in the room seemed prepared for Lucius Malfoy to attack them the moment he left his interrogation room, he did not. He inclined his head to Hermione, patting her arm once and sharing a quiet word. He answered all of the questions the group had for him, promised to help them untangle the bureaucratic morass of the New Ministry as they rebuilt. Then, to Arthur’s surprise, Lucius made his way to the back of the room and stood next to him.

They watched as Ron and Hermione talked, bickering perhaps, some pleading, some handholding and begging. It was no secret what Hermione was asking. Draco’s release.

“What will he do, Lucius?” asked Arthur. “If we let him out.”

The elder Malfoy shrugged.

“I’ve never been able to control him, Arthur,” said Lucius. “Not really. He served because he was needed, but he had no true loyalty to me.”

“But he was your-”

“He was not my anything,” interrupted Lucius, and then, he glanced over at Hermione, who was still pleading with Ron and Fred. “But he is hers.”

Something must have shifted, some plea had finally softened their stance, because Arthur heard Hermione’s loud sigh of relief as she wrapped her arms tightly around Ron’s neck, standing on her tiptoes to reach his shoulders. Arthur looked into the window of Draco Malfoy’s cell. His face was impassive and cold, his jaw clenched as Hermione carefully pushed the door open, sliding through the humming wards that kept Draco contained.

He turned back to Lucius, who was watching with a raised eyebrow.

“What will he do, indeed?” Lucius mused.

~

Draco had been where Granger was standing before, on the outside of an interrogation room as a prisoner sat waiting for what was to come. It was part of the torment, the waiting. Making his prisoner stare through the glass in anticipation, watching as he rolled up his sleeves, grasped his wand, prepared to torture.

And now, Draco sat on the inside of the room staring out. Staring at Granger, who was standing in Weasley’s tight embrace. Draco suddenly had empathy for all the prisoners who had been in his position.

Draco sat, his fingers clenching into fists, feeling the residual effects of the battle in his bones. A lurking presence that threatened to siphon away the last of his life force. She was looking at him now, about to walk into the cell. She would be thankful, without a doubt. She would float into the room and be sickeningly genuine in her gratitude for everything he’d done for her and for the cause. She would assure him that his pardon would be forthcoming, that she would be sure to testify for him at his trial.

It made his stomach turn to think about it, and so, he sat with his jaw clenched, hands bound around the chair behind him, watching her face buried in Ron Weasley’s neck. Draco waited for the gallows.

Chapter Text

Being in Ron’s arms brought back every memory that she had been trying so desperately to bury for nearly eleven years. It felt good. She had missed him.

And yet.

She let herself hug him, let herself inhale the familiar scent of him, feel the coarseness of his fiery red hair. She let herself wonder what could have been, what surely should have been. Harry alive, married to Ginny. Hermione and Ron with a pair of children waving to them on the Hogwarts Express as they stood hand-in-hand on the platform.

And yet.

The nostalgia faded away, leaving her heart empty and aching for Draco. For her husband. She pushed back from Ron.

“You really think it’s safe to go in there with him?” Ron asked.

Hermione smiled.

“Ron, there’s no place safer for me in the entire world,” she replied.

She knew that Ron hated it. Hated this answer. But here they were. Hermione turned slowly, looking through the charmed glass and seeing Draco, sullen and angry as he sat in the holding cell. She could not contain her grin as she joined him in the room, letting the door click shut behind her. Hermione stood, watching him. Studying his tousled blond hair, his icy grey eyes, his sharp jaw, and his soft mouth. Smelling the faint metallic scent of Dark magic that permeated the air around him. Stronger now.

It was Draco who broke the silence.

“So, this is it? After everything?” he snarled.

She didn’t speak.

“After all of it, you’ll go back to him? It makes sense. He hasn’t nearly so much blood on his hands,” said Draco, and he scoffed. “I’m on the losing side of the war, Granger, and now you’re here for the execution. The entire Order waiting for-”

“Malfoy.”

He looked at her, waiting.

“It’s not Granger,” she said. “It’s Malfoy. Hermione Malfoy.”

His mouth fell open just slightly, his brows furrowing so that a line appeared between them. Hermione saw the reluctance, the distance that he was trying to create. She watched him try to build the walls of Occlumency around his emotions, the muscle at the corner of his jaw rolling. She smiled.

“Is it really so difficult to believe that I love you?” she asked.

He froze. She could see the icy walls crumbling as he strained to rebuild them.

“Yes, Granger. It is difficult to believe that,” said Draco.

She watched him, her head tilted to one side. It was an unusual reversal of positions. She had the power now. She was on the winning side of the war, and he was at her mercy, under her protection. It felt strange. She almost missed Draco Malfoy as her protector.

“Where is my mother?” he asked.

“She’s fine,” said Hermione. “She’s at Malfoy Manor.”

“Theo and Pansy?”

“They’ve both been questioned under Veritaserum and released,” said Hermione. “Everyone is safe, Draco.”

She crossed the room to him, kneeling in front of him and placing her palms on his knees.

“Even you.”

The expression on his face nearly broke her. His grey eyes had something in them that she had not yet seen. It looked like… hope. With a wave of her wand, the bindings on his hands dropped. He rolled his wrists experimentally, looking at his hands and finding them uninjured, and then, he looked up at the window behind her.

“Whatever they’ve said I did, it’s true,” said Draco sullenly, staring at the faces that Hermione knew were at the glass watching every move. “Every last horror they’ve described to you, I committed it.”

“I know,” she replied.

“What will they do to me?” asked Draco.

“Draco,” she said, and she took his hands in hers, feeling the calluses there, the familiar swell of each knuckle, the lines on his palms. She met his gaze, a fierceness welling up inside her. “I will not let them do anything to you.”

His entire body shuddered, and he leaned forward so that his forehead was resting against hers.

“Come on,” she said, and she stood, pulling him up with her.

Her wand tapped the door handle. Her hand was in his left one, and it twitched as though aching for his wand. There was tension thick in the room as members of the Order and The Network watched him. There were unanswered questions among them. Namely, who would now run the Ministry? Would it go to Runt and her ilk, or to the Order? The air was thick with tension, and she felt Draco puff up beside her as though he was prepared to protect her even without his wand.

A fight might have broken out if Gellert Grindelwald had not intervened.

“This belongs to you, I think,” said Grindelwald, holding the Elder Wand in his palm.

It was to Draco he had spoken. No one moved.

“Do you recognize it? The Elder Wand? I think I’ve gotten the story straight by now,” said Grindelwald, spinning the Elder Wand between his fingers. “You see, I tried giving it to Severus Snape, but it rejected him. No allegiance there. So, we had to figure out who it was loyal to.”

Hermione looked at Draco’s face. His eyes were locked on the wand, mesmerized by it.

“You disarmed Albus,” said Grindelwald, grasping the wand and holding it out to Draco hilt-first. “It’s yours.”

There was one yelp of protest in the room, though Hermione was not sure from whom it had come. It didn’t matter. Draco had taken the wand, the most powerful wand in the entire world. Draco Malfoy was nearly undefeatable in battle even without the Elder Wand’s power. With it, his power would be limitless. A hum of magical energy thrummed in the room as he grasped it. His eyes flashed, then narrowed, looking at the Order and The Network members around him. A few of them staggered backward.

Grindelwald was waiting patiently.

Draco lifted the wand. His grey eyes met Hermione’s. The room held its breath.

“Avius,” he said.

A trio of yellow birds appeared, chirping merrily and circling his head. He waved the wand again, and they disappeared.

“How does it feel?” asked Grindelwald, and there was a hint of longing in his voice, a nostalgia for the days the Elder Wand was loyal to him alone.

Draco turned the Elder Wand over in his hand, rolling it in his left palm.

“It feels…” he began, and then, he looked up, his grey eyes meeting each face in the room with not a little animosity, his knuckles going white around the hilt of the Elder Wand. “It feels like I am going to take my wife back to Malfoy Manor now.”

No one dared gainsay him.

There were anti-Apparition wards around the room, but it did not matter. Between Draco’s considerable power and his possession and mastery of the Elder Wand, it appeared he could circumvent them with ease. There was a crack, and then, she blinked against the feeling of constriction in her body. When she opened her eyes, she was in Draco’s bedroom at Malfoy Manor.

Hermione thought that perhaps he would tug at her clothing, meet her mouth with his in searing kisses, slide his erection inside her body, but Draco did none of these things. He holstered the Elder Wand and stared into her face. His eyes were bloodshot with deep hollows beneath them. Hermione laced her fingers in his.

“It’s over, Draco,” she whispered. “You can rest now.”

Without even kicking off his heavy leather boots, Draco pulled her down into the bed, wrapped himself around her, and fell asleep.

~

His entire body came to alertness in a moment, his eyes flying open as his muscles tensed. He was in his bed. His right arm throbbed horribly, and his muscles ached. He was wrapped around his wife, and when he looked up at her, she was grinning sheepishly.

“Thank Merlin you’re awake,” she said, a grin on her face. “I’ve had to pee for two hours.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he said, sitting up in bed and rubbing at his eyes.

“You needed the sleep,” she said, and she shimmied out of the bed and headed for the toilet.

Draco had not even realized he’d been asleep for two hours. He reached for his wand in its holster only to find two wands there. Everything rushed back to him so quickly that he had to slam up his Occlumency walls to keep himself steady. He flexed his fingers, staring at them.

The bed dipped beside him as Granger returned.

“How long was I out?” he asked, his voice hoarse and raw in his throat.

“Hm,” she mused. “About ten hours.”

He coughed.

“Ten hours?” he said, and his eyes snapped to the windows. The curtains were drawn, but it looked to be mid-morning.

“Mm-hm,” she replied with a smirk.

“No one has come looking for me?”

“Oh, they have. About a dozen Patronuses have arrived since I woke up,” said Granger.

Her voice had a lightness to it, a teasing edge that he had never heard from her. Draco was still stunned. When was the last time he’d slept for ten hours? Fifth year at Hogwarts?

“I’ve let everyone know you’re alive,” said Granger, lacing her fingers with his. “But you need a Healer desperately, Draco.”

He rolled his shoulder, feeling the ache there, pressing on it gently with his fingers and wincing.

“More than that,” she said, and she was peering into his eyes, searching him for something. “I felt it when you killed him. That much Dark magic…”

She trailed off, now unwilling to meet his eyes.

“It could have killed you,” she whispered.

Draco sat dumbly, staring at her face. He could feel the Darkness crawling underneath his skin. She was right. Granger glanced at him again.

“There’s so much to do,” said Granger, and she rested her head on the headboard, tilting her chin up to stare at the ceiling. “A million things that we have to figure out now that Voldemort is dead. Your father and Remus are doing what they can without us, but…”

Draco sniffed through his nose.

“But I’m needed,” he said sullenly, making to stand from the bed.

Granger took his arm, pulled him back down.

“No. Not yet, Draco,” she said, shaking her head. “It can wait. They’ll wait for you.”

Something eased in him then, but something unsettled him, too. Who was he if he was not the New Ministry’s weapon? Who was he if he was not obeying the constant drumbeat of need?

“You said,” he began, and he swallowed thickly, working his throat around the words. “Yesterday, you said…”

Granger was watching him patiently, her lips quirked to one side.

“Yesterday, you told me…”

He could not force it out. He could not say it. The barest thread of hope in his heart had clung to her words, a tiny shard that had dug its way deep within him, shattering any ice wall he tried to build around it. If she yanked on it, if she tore it out, he would break. Draco could feel it within him. He was worn too thin. He would not survive it if she-

“That I love you,” said Granger.

All the breath whooshed out of his lungs. His heart ached and soared in equal measure. He stared at her face, taking in every freckle that dusted her nose, every line that crinkled in the corners of her eyes, every flaw and imperfection that made her so fucking beautiful.

She shifted in the bed so that she was facing him, took his hands in hers.

“Draco, I love you,” she said, and her hand caressed his cheek. It was all he could do not to nuzzle into it. “I love you, and I want to stay married to you. I want a proper wedding, and I want to live at Malfoy Manor with your parents, and to be with you for the rest of my life.”

His breath was coming too fast, his head was beginning to spin. He gulped in lungfuls of air as she watched him, her expression amused.

“That all… that all sounds so normal,” he croaked.

Granger laughed, a bright sound, no undercurrent of darkness there.

“We can have normal now,” she said. “We can have a normal life together.”

Chapter Text

His mother’s Patronus interrupted them. It was a leopard, its tail curled elegantly over its silvery back. It spoke in her voice.

The Healer is here for you. Please send word when you’re ready for him.

Draco sighed. Ten hours of sleep. Ten hours undisturbed, restful, in the arms of his wife. It was enough. He realized he was still wearing his clothing, right down to the boots. Draco felt for the Elder Wand in its holster, pulling it out with callused fingers and feeling the unfamiliar hilt before casting the spell to send a reply.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Nothing happened.

Draco’s brow furrowed. Granger was watching with concern in her face. It was the Elder Wand he had in his hand. Unmatched in power. Any spell should have come easily to his fingertips. He could feel the thrum of it vibrating in his hand when he held it.

Draco tried again.

“Expecto Patronum.”

A feeble silver thing left the tip of the wand and vanished into the air. Granger was looking at him sadly.

“It’s the Darkness, Draco,” she said, and she reached out, grazing her fingertips along his forearm where the faded Dark Mark still stood out against his pale skin. “Too much Darkness. It nearly dragged you under with it. A Patronus…”

He turned the Elder Wand over in his hand, staring at it as though it had betrayed him. He grabbed his Hawthorn wand from its holster, its familiar magical signature tingling in his arm. The unicorn hair inside it had never taken to the Dark magic he’d performed with it. It was through sheer brute force that he’d managed so many Unforgiveables. He gave it a wave.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Nothing.

Draco felt a strange hole inside of him. He’d seen the Hungarian Horntail that had corporealized from the tip of his wand, watched his parents and Granger stare at it in awe. Now, he was the most powerful wizard in the world, and he couldn’t even produce a misty blob.

Too much Darkness inside of him.

It was killing him. He did not need a Healer to tell him that the Dark well within him was slowly poisoning him to death. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. He laced his fingers with Granger’s, thinking of her words: a normal life. He would not live to see it through.

Granger waved her wand, sending her silvery otter to his mother to let them know the Healer could come up.

The Healer was businesslike in his movements, his bedside manner quick and professional. Over her vocal protests, Draco insisted that he look at Granger first. The Healer cast a diagnostic charm, and his brow furrowed as he reviewed the results.

“Hm,” he said, pausing for a moment as thought deciding what to do next, and Draco almost asked him what was wrong, but he continued.

The Healer jabbed his wand at Granger’s chest, teasing out a bruise in her lung from a curse The Network had used.

“I’m not sure what curse it was,” said Granger. “Runt used it to try to break through my Occlumency.”

Darkness seeped out of him, making him crave the violence, the curses, to seek Runt out. His hand flexed toward the Elder Wand. When Granger’s eyes snapped to his face, sensing his shift in mood, he rebuilt the walls of Occlumency in his brain.

“It will heal,” the Healer said, his wand pulling out threads of bruising.

Draco’s palms were healed immediately with a charm, but his shoulder required more difficult work. The Healer pulled several jars out of his black bag, using a dropper to measure out potions and salves for his arm. They stung his skin, but slowly, they radiated warmth throughout the muscles and bones. He could feel the injury slowly dissipating.

“Is there anything you can do about these?” Granger asked, holding her forearm out for the Healer.

“Hm,” he replied, quirking his lips in puzzlement.

He tried several ointments, rubbing them into her Dark Mark with scraps of clean, white cotton. She stared at her arm as though willing it to work, but the Dark Mark stood as clear as ever. Draco’s stomach twisted in guilt.

“We’ll keep trying,” offered the Healer.

If Healing Draco’s shoulder was a difficult process, Healing his soul was another matter altogether.

“You’ll always favor it,” said the Healer as Draco rolled his shoulder, wincing at the remnants of pain. “But you’ll recover in time.”

Granger was chewing her lip nervously.

“And what about the Dark Magic?” she asked.

The Healer’s expression fell, and he would not make eye contact as he packed up his bag. His fingers were nimble as he secured each glass vial in its holster. Finally, with a resigned sigh, the Healer spoke.

“Mrs. Malfoy, there’s only so much that our Healing magic can do,” he said. “Dark magic of this magnitude… it has lasting effects. It…”

The Healer had trailed off. Draco was rubbing his shoulder, his face expressionless. Granger’s face was expectant. There was no real concern in it. He was a puzzle for her to solve, the Dark magic was simply something she must figure out. Draco opened his mouth, inhaling slightly, but hesitating. He wanted to watch her face for a moment longer. Before he had to tell her the truth.

His eyes never left her face, even as he said it.

“It will kill me,” he said. “Eventually.”

Indignation suffused Granger’s face, a righteous fury. So predictable.

“Don’t say that,” she spat, and she turned her anger to the Healer. “It can’t be that simple. There must be something we can do. What are the treatment options?”

The Healer was looking at Granger with a patient expression. He rummaged through the bag he carried, pulling out a jar filled to the top with a light blue potion.

“This might slow the effects,” said the Healer, but Draco could read it in his eyes. Slow the effects. There was no stopping them. It was too late.

“How long do I have?” said Draco.

“Don’t even talk like that!” snapped Granger.

“If you don’t use any more Dark magic? And take this every day?” said the Healer, and he gave a noncommittal shrug. “A few months? It’s hard to say.”

Draco nodded as he pulled his shirt over his arms, buttoning it mechanically.  The Healer stowed the rest of his supplies while Granger drilled him with questions.

“What if we drew out a tincture of dittany? Could nebulizing murtlap make a difference? If I found a way to remove the Dark Mark? If I could channel the Darkness into a Philosopher’s Stone?”

“A Philosopher’s Stone!” laughed the Healer. “Yes, Mrs. Malfoy. If you found a Philosopher’s Stone, you could most certainly save his life.”

His bag was packed, snapped shut at the close. The finger she had been anxiously chewing on was in midair in front of her lips as she watched the Healer leave the room. Hermione sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor, her shoulders lifting and lowering with her breath.

Draco sighed, too.

“I want to let you go,” he said.

He was not looking at her.

“What?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Draco had a rueful smile on his face, shaking his head slowly, still toying with the Elder Wand in his hand.

“I’m steeped in Dark magic,” he said, his voice dark. “I’m soaked through to the bone. You can smell it when I walk into a room. It clings to me. I’ve got a death sentence, Granger. An expiration date.”

“Stop,” she hissed. “Stop it.”

She crossed the room to him, sinking down onto the bed beside him, her hands going to the fabric of his shirt, clinging to it. He could see tears in her eyelashes, and he hid his emotions behind thick walls.

“Stop Occluding,” she commanded.

The icy walls dripped away to nothing, and his heart was bare.

“I’m tired, Granger,” he said, and her eyes narrowed, refusing to admit it for truth.

His knew face was exhausted far beyond his years, his body and soul having given more of themselves than anyone possibly could. He felt worn, spread too thin, and on the verge of giving up.

“I want to let you go,” he repeated. “You deserve better than this. I don’t even know what I am anymore. I want to send you off to Weasley.”

He watched Granger swallow around a lump in her throat, and then, he let out another laugh, but this one was not so vicious, it was simply sad.

“But I’m selfish, Granger,” he said. “I’m too selfish to do it.”

Their eyes met. She placed one hand on Draco’s cheek, cupping his jaw. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, and something eased within him.

~

Picking up the pieces of the New Ministry would have been impossible without Lucius Malfoy’s help. It appeared that the Order was under the impression that the moment Voldemort fell from power, all would return to how it had been before the war, but of course, it was not so simple. Everything from Floo Network regulation to international trade to marriage licensing had the stain of the New Ministry’s regime, and Lucius Malfoy was as committed to helping them dismantle it as he had been to propping it up.

He was every bit as ruthless and pragmatic as he had been as Chancellor for Magic. He tore through every department, helping the Order separate the true civil servants from the power-hungry sycophants. He put stacks of parchment in front of them, all laws that he knew they would want to dismantle immediately. Remus and Arthur had somehow been thrust into the position of evaluating the most mundane of bureaucratic policy, but in fact, none of the Order had any real talent for politics and leadership, save one.

“You would make a good Chancellor, Hermione,” said Lucius off-handedly.

She flushed.

“I’m not sure they would want to put a Malfoy in charge again,” she replied.

He paused for a beat, and one of his proud, paternal smiles ghosted across his lips before he wiped it away, shuffling more parchments to put before the Order as they rebuilt. But something over her shoulder caught his eye. She sensed Draco’s presence without looking.

“If you asked, I don’t think they’d dare to refuse you,” said Lucius, his eye on Draco’s Elder wand. “There’s no one else in the world with that kind of firepower in her back pocket.”

Hermione sniffed a laugh.

But it was the one thing that all remaining, the Order, the Malfoys, and the civil servants in the Ministry, could agree on: Hermione Granger had a talent for being in charge. She had a deep, powerful sense of justice, and she had been corrupted just enough by her Slytherin family to be able to implement it.

“We’ll have to have an election,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to just take power like this.”

“Of course,” replied Lucius with a patient, patronizing smile.

But she was offered the role of Interim Chancellor, and without hesitation, she accepted it. Hermione was deep in a stack of pardon requests, Lucius walking her through each one, when Draco appeared in the doorway.

“You’ve worked long enough. It’s time to go home,” he said.

It was not a question.

“I suppose you’re right,” sighed Hermione, stretching her arms behind her. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” replied Lucius with a smirk.

Hermione grinned. It was hard to believe her relationship with Lucius Malfoy. He had done nothing but support her since the first day of their arrangement, and in her earliest days as Interim Chancellor, he seemed single-mindedly focused on keeping her in power. And yet, he had never pushed her for anything. She felt supported, not manipulated, and though the difference was subtle, it was important. Lucius had become like a father to her. In some ways, she felt closer to him than to Draco.

Draco.

Whatever hole in his life the collapse of the New Ministry had left, Draco filled it with Hermione.

If it had been anyone else, if it had arisen from any other circumstance, it would have been suffocating, overwhelming, but because it was borne out of the darkest times of her life, forged on the brutal anvil of rebellion and war, she could do nothing but submit to it. He loomed after her like a shadow during the days, becoming her bodyguard just as he had been his father’s.

But at night, he became something else. Something that no one else would ever see or understand. He became her husband.

After she stood from her chair, Draco walked across the office to her and placed his fingertips gently at her elbow. The feeling of Side-Along Apparition was always uncomfortable, but Hermione had noted that there was something disorienting about doing it with him now. His considerable power made all of the magic he performed seem that much bigger, that much more intense, but at the same time, there was something off about his magic. Too much Darkness in him. An undercurrent in the magic he cast that left her feeling itchy.

Narcissa was waiting for them in the dining room. It was remarkably normal, their dinner. Draco held Hermione’s chair for her. Lucius selected the wine. Narcissa told them stories about the stores in Diagon Alley, teeming with Muggleborn shoppers who had not been allowed into them for a decade. Hermione could feel Draco’s hand on her thigh throughout the meal. It was as though he could not help but touch her.

After dinner, with slow, deliberate steps, they ascended the staircase. Hermione glanced at the door to the bedroom that had been hers. It stood ajar, and she could see the half-empty room. Jinxy had moved most of her things into Draco’s room. She wondered if he minded.

Draco collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment. She watched as tension eased from each muscle in his body, starting at his shoulders and working its way up to his neck. He rolled it, and she heard the familiar crack. It was as though each night he had to will himself to relax, something he had not been allowed to do for ten years. Hermione sank down next to him, and his eyes flew open, finding her face and searching it with an expression that bordered on desperation.

“I love you,” she said, allowing her hand to cup his face.

His expression softened. Hermione leaned in, pressing her lips to his.

Chapter Text

The first few weeks passed in something like bliss. Hermione had never felt the kind of lightness that she was experiencing, not even at Hogwarts. She was refusing at point blank to think about Draco’s predicament: he seemed well enough to her, and there was so much to do. It felt easy enough to ignore the stench of dark magic that lingered on his person.

“Is something up with Malfoy?” asked Fred one day at the Ministry.

“No,” snapped Hermione, too quickly.

Fred closed his mouth, looking nervous, and Hermione sighed. Their friendship was going to be difficult to repair.

“Sorry,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“He just looks…” said Fred, and he eyed Draco’s figure across the room warily. “For a bloke who’s got the most powerful wand in the entire world, he looks a bit… sluggish.”

She did not know how to respond.

It was a foregone conclusion that she would win her election bid, her new last name notwithstanding. Though Runt had put up something resembling a campaign, Hermione was the only one that Wizarding Britain could actually unite around. Those sympathetic to the Order appreciated her tenacity and her role in the war, and those skeptical of her blood status appreciated her husband and in-laws.

She should have expected that bliss would not last forever.

They lay naked, her fingers tracing the outline of his abs, the strong lines of his chest, the cords in his neck. He held her reverently, hands roving her body as though reassuring himself that she was still there, still his. Hermione rested her head on his ribcage, listening to the comforting thump of his heart, smelling the faint metallic scent of the Dark magic that saturated him. She was sleepy and dazed when she spoke.

“I want a baby.”

Draco’s hands froze. His heartbeat sped up. Hermione lifted her head from his chest, brushing her hair out of her face so she could look at him. His grey eyes were narrowed, stormy with emotion. He was not touching her. She noticed.

“No,” he said flatly.

Hermione cocked her head to one side.

“I love you, and I want to have a baby with you,” she said, as though repeating herself might make him understand.

Draco sat up in bed, refusing to meet her eyes as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“I’ve told you before,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve made sure that there will be no Malfoy heirs.”

“How?”

“It’s permanent, Granger,” he snapped. “Besides, what life would a child have with a father who’s dying?”

Hermione made a noise of protest, but Draco barreled on.

“No Healer will be able to promise us that the Dark magic saturating my blood won’t be dangerous to a baby. Heritable to the next generation,” he said. “Now, more than ever, I cannot bring a child into the world.”

“Draco, you’re not going to die,” she said.

“I am,” he said, and there was a puff of Dark magic that emanated from him as though proving the point.

He turned to her, and there was something fierce in his eyes that she did not recognize.

“If you want a baby, find another husband,” he said coldly, and he made to stand from the bed, but her hands found his arm, trying to pull him back down with her.

“Draco,” she said soothingly.

He shrugged her off. Hermione sat in bed, drawing her knees up to herself as she watched him dress.

“Draco, stop!” she said.

“I mean it, Granger,” said Draco, his knuckles white around his Elder Wand. “Unless you can find your Merlin forsaken Philosopher’s Stone and cleanse me of this… this…”

He shuddered dramatically, like a tendril of Dark magic had just crawled up his spine.

“I have never wanted children,” he spat. “Not ever. You knew this. And I most certainly don’t want them now. I’m a dead man walking.”

“You’re not going to die!”

He rounded on her.

“The very least you can do for me is not lie,” he said through gritted teeth, and at that, he spun on his heel and left the room.

Hermione was alone.

~

His daughter-in-law was in the gallery room when he found her, gazing up at the many portraits of Malfoy ancestors. The portrait of his own father, Abraxas, seemed most keen to talk to her.

“It has been the hallmark of the Malfoy family since time immemorial,” Abraxas was saying. “One child in each generation. No more, no less. Always a son.”

She had not yet noticed his approach. There was something in her posture, in the furrow of her brow, in the questions she was asking of his father’s portrait.

“What if they did not want a child?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” asked Abraxas.

Hermione shrugged, and her hand went to her belly.

Lucius could not help the immediate flush of victoriousness that washed over him. If she was not pregnant already, she wanted to be, and perhaps the impulse that had driven his son to sterilization had hope yet.

“You will grow to be a man,” Abraxas had told him when he was young, “and you will have a wife and children. Your only responsibility is to protect them. Whatever it takes.”

Lucius was certain that the Malfoy line would continue, despite his son’s efforts. Lucius had attempted this conversation with Draco a few years after the war. The viciousness with which Draco rejected the idea of continuing the thousand-year-old genealogy had surprised him. It had saddened him and riddled him with guilt.

“You’ve made me into this. And this,” Draco had spat angrily, “is not something that is suitable for fatherhood. Your precious Malfoy line ends with me. I’ve ensured it.”

“Ensured it?” Lucius had asked.

“It’s irreversible,” Draco had replied dismissively, and Lucius had not pressed the matter.

He cleared his throat, and Hermione turned to him. He was taken aback to see a tear spill out over her eyelashes. Despite everything, Lucius had never seen Hermione cry. It made him uncomfortable. Lucius had never been particularly emotional, not someone who was good at comforting others. He put a hand in the pocket of his robes, walking toward her at a measured pace, the heels of his expensive shoes clicking on the hardwood floors.

“Am I to guess that you’ve spoken to my son about children?” he asked coolly.

She let out a watery laugh, dabbing at her eyes with her knuckles.

“We’ve never had a fight,” she said. “Not really. Not until now.”

“Hm,” he said, considering his words.

He clasped his hands behind his back, letting his eyes rove the gallery wall. Abraxas, Claudius, Titus, Magnus, all of them staring down at him. The Malfoy legacy.

“Hermione, what Draco has done to himself is likely… irrelevant,” he said.

At this, she straightened, blinking away tears so that her eyes were dry. He quirked his lips. This was a puzzle for her to solve, and he knew her well enough to know that she was driven by the solving of puzzles.

“I am certain that there is a deeper magic at work than any Draco could derive, his considerable power notwithstanding,” Lucius continued. “But this magic is a more ancient one that stretches back to the year 1066 and beyond. This magic will not be denied, and Draco’s irreversible spell is nothing next to one thousand years of Malfoy lineage.”

“You’re saying that…” said Hermione, reasoning out his meaning. “You’re saying that it isn’t going to work. That he believes himself to be sterile but is not.”

Her hand went to her abdomen again.

“You’re not…?” he began.

“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head, and her cheeks flushed slightly. “And Lucius, I don’t think I can do that to him. Not without his consent. He doesn’t want it.”

Lucius hummed a sympathetic sound. He held out his hands, palms up invitingly. Hermione glanced down at them, hesitating for a moment, but then, she placed her hands in his. Lucius felt a wan smile creep onto his face. He felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, like a father. For his son, he had been aloof and distant, trying to toughen him up. Lucius did not know whether he regretted this or not.

“This is something I want,” she said, her voice quavering. “But he doesn’t. I don’t think he ever will.”

“He will in time,” said Lucius. “He must feel settled. To recover from everything I’ve put him through.”

She glanced up at him, searching his face. He tried to ensure that his features were appropriately regretful, though it was certainly true that he had put his son through more than any man deserved to. Hermione sniffed again, blinking wildly.

“It’s not just that, Lucius,” she said, and she hesitated.

She was keeping something from him.

“Go on,” he said, a steel glint in his voice.

Hermione took a slow breath.

“He doesn’t want to have a baby because he fears he won’t be around to raise it,” she said quietly. “All the Dark magic… Lucius, it’s killing him.”

The portraits broke out into low murmurs. Lucius felt his eyes fall closed. This was not a shock to him; far from it, he was surprised his son had survived that final battle against the Dark Lord at all. The stench of Dark magic followed him wherever he went, overwhelming to the senses at times. Lucius did not know how one man could survive when he was oversteeped in Darkness, a tea bag left in the cup for far too long.

“The Healers don’t think there’s anything we can do,” said Hermione. “I’ve spent hours in the library trying to find the answer, but…”

She trailed off.

“If anyone can figure it out,” said Lucius, squeezing her hands. “It will be you.”

She was staring at their joined hands.

“We haven’t even had a chance to… we… Lucius, we barely even know each other.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You know him better than anyone else in the world,” he replied. “And he is wildly devoted to you. Anyone can see it.”

“Devoted or obsessed?” she snapped, and at this, she pulled her hands from his, turning away from him and folding her arms over her chest. Her eyes were staring at the portrait of his father. Abraxas.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she added.

At this, Lucius scoffed so loudly that she turned and glared at him.

“How very Gryffindor of you,” he said.

She did not seem offended by his words. She tilted her head to one side, raising an eyebrow. Go on.

“It has always been so with you all. So much hand wringing, so much righteous anger, so much time spent fighting for what you think is right. For how it is supposed to be,” said Lucius. “It is not supposed to be anything, Hermione. We are dealt a hand, and we must play it.”

She quirked her lips.

“How very Slytherin of you,” she said.

Lucius laughed. Something very paternal had bubbled up in him. Something very much like love.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said, inclining his head. “Of all the women he could have ended up with, I’m very glad it’s you.”

~

There was still the matter of Gellert Grindelwald.

He had decided to take over the Inquisitor department at the Ministry, taking it upon himself to rid the world of any remaining Dark wizards, and no one had dared to deny him.

Everyone was skittish around him, the undercurrent of fear in their conversations. Everyone except Draco. Of course, everyone was fearful and skittish around Draco, too. However, Gellert Grindelwald and Draco Malfoy spoke to one another like equals, and because Draco had no fear of him, Hermione did not either.

“Why are you still alive?” she asked him, plopping down across a table from him as witches and wizards gave him a wide berth.

Grindelwald snorted a laugh.

“Planning my execution?” he replied. “Your husband could probaby accomplish it.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to know how you’ve survived after using so much Dark magic.”

“Ah,” said Grindelwald, his face falling as he realized what she was asking. His eyes were on Draco, who was standing with arms folded in front of his chest in the hallway outside Grindelwald’s office, watching the activity bustling around him with a stoic expression. “It’s killing him, isn’t it?”

Hermione nodded. Grindelwald’s lips quirked up into a smirk.

“I’ve used less Dark magic than you think, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said. “And most of what I have used was channeled through the Elder Wand.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“Do you wonder how he’s still alive even now?” said Grindelwald, and Hermione nodded briskly.

Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, running a finger along the smooth wood of the table between them. He seemed to be considering her, deciding something.

“There are some artifacts in the magical world that can make a wizard the master over death,” he said, and she felt her face screw up in anger, opening her mouth to spit a retort, but he continued. “Not Horcruxes. No, not Horcruxes. And not unicorn blood or the Philosopher’s Stone. Nothing that helps a wizard cheat death, but instead, allows him to truly master it.”

Hermione had no answer to this. She waited for Grindelwald to continue. He was looking at Draco again.

“The Elder Wand alone will not be enough for him,” said Grindelwald. “There’s too much in his blood, in his soul. But if you could make him the Master of Death…”

Hermione turned in her chair, looking at her husband, and he sensed her eyes on him, meeting her gaze. Something relaxed in his posture as their eyes met. Something protective welled up inside her. She could not lose him.

“All right,” she said resolutely, turning back to Grindelwald. “How?”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you want him to have this kind of power?” Gellert asked.

They were bent over the dining table in Malfoy Manor. Flung open in the center was a very old copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard, purloined from the library at the Manor.

“It’s not optional, Gellert. He must have this if he’s going to survive. Merlin knows how much time he has left. I should have been working on this problem for the last three months, but…”

She trailed off, but he finished her sentence for her.

“You’ve been busy running Wizarding Britain,” he offered.

Hermione pressed her lips together. He had a handsome smile on his face as he watched her.

“You know, if I were thirty years younger…” mused Gellert.

Hermione snorted.

“Try seventy,” she said.

Gellert laughed, a loud and unembarrassed sound so very unlike the contained, measured laughs that she rarely got from Draco. Their eyes met for a moment, and there was something flirtatious in his gaze.

“If you keep looking at me like that, Draco is going to kill you,” said Hermione evenly.

“I believe you,” said Gellert, a twinkle in his eyes. “It might be worth it.”

She did not have it in her to be afraid of him, though many other witches might have been. Hermione stared at him coolly, waiting for him to move on from his flirtatious line of conversation.

After a moment, he took a slow breath, and the energy in the air dissipated. He leaned over the heavy book that lay open on the table, and they were poring over its contents when Draco appeared. She had not seen him in two days, but she felt his presence immediately, and as soon as he saw her, standing so close to Gellert that they were almost touching, he drew the Elder Wand in an instant. She could smell Dark magic.

Gellert stood, hands up in innocence, but there was a very mischievous smirk on his face.

“Stay away from my wife,” snarled Draco.

“Your wife asked me to come,” said Gellert. No one else would have dared.

Draco’s angry stare fixed on her instead.

“Find someone else to give you a baby, then?” he said coldly.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Draco, get a grip,” she snapped.

This seemed to jar him out of his mood. He paused for a moment, staring at her in something like shock, but he holstered his wand, folding his arms across his chest waiting for her to explain herself.

“I know how to keep you alive,” said Hermione with a victorious grin.

He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m listening,” said Draco.

She pointed to a page in front of her, the large triangular mark of the Deathly Hallows emblazoned on it.

“The wand,” she said, tracing the line down the centre. “The stone, and the cloak.”

She traced the circle and triangle as she said it. Hermione looked up at Draco, whose arms were still folded in front of him, his expression unimpressed.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asked.

“Combine the three and become the Master of Death,” said Gellert.

Draco clearly did not like Gellert’s presence, and she half expected him to decide he was done with the elder wizard for good, but he rolled his neck, cracking it, and steadied himself. She explained the Hallows, letting Gellert step in only where strictly necessary, but Draco still looked skeptical.

“Draco, you’re going to die without this,” she said.

Gellert sniffed at the air. The Dark magic scent was palpable, lingering in the air around them.

“Imminently,” he observed.

Hermione’s eyes snapped to Gellert’s face. He had a knowing expression, and when she looked back at Draco, he looked stoic, his feelings buried behind a wall of Occlumency.

“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to quell the note of hysteria that threatened her voice. “Imminently? What do you mean imminently?”

Gellert was twirling his wand between his fingers, staring up into the corner of the ceiling.

“Blood feels like sludge in your veins, doesn’t it?” asked Gellert,

Draco did not respond, but she could see it written on his face.

“The Elder Wand isn’t enough to keep all that Dark magic away, Malfoy,” Gellert continued. “You’re going to need the Hallows to survive.”

A desperation bubbled within her, an urgency that hadn’t existed a moment earlier. How long did he have? A few months, the Healer had guessed. Hermione had not realized that might mean his demise was…

She couldn’t even think of it.

“You have the Wand,” she said, refocusing her eyes on the papers in front of her, blinking away the sting of tears. “We need the Cloak and the Stone, and I know where to find one of them.”

Draco’s expression softened at this, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Where shall I follow you now, Granger?” he asked.

She bit her lip to stifle a grin.

“You’re going to hate it even more than you hated that island,” she replied.

~

Draco did not want to go with her, but she insisted, and he found that he could not be parted from her. It was not only his protective instincts, although those were considerable, but the Dark magic that crawled under his skin seemed soothed while she was near him. It seemed soothed further when he was holding onto the Elder Wand, but he forced himself not to hold onto it as they walked down the path toward the house.

If it could be called such. Draco struggled to keep his face neutral as they approached. It looked like the home might tip over. It seemed haphazard, sloppy, unsightly. He could not imagine anyone living in a hovel such as this. Just going inside seemed riskier than entering one of The Network’s hideouts. He half wanted to grab her by the arm and yank her away from the ghastly place.

But Granger was positively beaming as they reached the front door, and so, he clenched his jaw tightly, steeling his resolve as though this was just another battle he had to fight.

“Hermione!” said Arthur Weasley.

Draco watched his wife, noticing the subtle way she kept distance between herself and Arthur, the slight shake of her head as though reminding him not to try to touch her. Draco had spent ten years honing his instincts, learning to react first and ask questions later, and they both knew it would take ten years to unlearn them.

There was something cooking, a rich and spiced scent in the air, combined with the smell of old fabric and worn wood. He could hear voices and laughter in the kitchen, and though he could tell she wanted to sprint toward them, she paused, turning back to be sure Draco was behind her. He was there, feeling out of place and uncomfortable, the metallic scent of Dark magic incongruent with the warm smells of the house.

The voices all hushed to silence as they entered the kitchen, but a moment, later, they roared back to life, greeting his wife with exuberance. It was all Draco could do not to draw his wand, but they all seemed to know his tendencies, and they kept well away from her. There was a very tenuous peace in the air between them. Draco would have paid extravagant sums of Malfoy money to avoid coming to the Weasley hovel, but Granger had insisted.

She wanted to return to normal. But for Draco, there would never be normal, but even if there were, he could not fathom that it would include a family whose members had been killed or imprisoned by his own hand.

Some of the Weasleys seemed to be thinking the same. He could see a curled lip on two of them.

“Don’t know why you had to bring him,” snapped Ron, and Fred’s face seemed to have similar thoughts written onto it.

“Hush,” said the mother. “Come on in, you two.”

There was a heaviness in the air as the Weasleys took stock of him. He recognized Fleur, some of her colour and beauty returned after her stint in Azkaban, though she had a fiery anger in her face that told him she had not forgiven him for her husband’s murder.

He knew he did not deserve it.

Granger did not let any of it faze her. She pulled out a chair for him at the long kitchen table, gesturing to it impatiently. He did not want to sit. It panicked him to sit. With a patient exasperation, she rolled her eyes and huffed audibly, sinking into the chair herself as the Weasleys arranged themselves around her. Draco stood behind her chair, arms folded to keep his fingers off the Elder Wand.

“I need Harry’s Cloak,” she said.

There was a low murmur in the room.

“What for? The Horcruxes are gone. Why would you need it?” asked Ron.

There was a pause, and Draco wondered if she’d thought better of revealing their true purpose, but she spoke.

“I need to save my husband’s life,” she said.

There was a hiss at the table, but he couldn’t tell who had made it.

“Assuming we even want to help him,” began Ginny, “how would having the Cloak save Malfoy’s life?”

“It has magical properties…” said Granger, and here, she hedged. “Gellert has been explaining-“

“Oh, Gellert,” said Fred with an exaggerated eye roll.

“You’re the one who teamed up with him,” snapped Granger.

“You’re the one who-”

As Fred Weasley’s voice raised, Draco felt a wave of protectiveness, a wave of anger, and a gust of Dark magic exhaled from his body in a palpable ring. The room once again hushed to silence, and Molly gave him a look that reminded him of his own mother’s face when she sensed the expiration date on his life.

Sympathy. Pity. Helplessness.

Molly Weasley sighed, standing from the table and going to a low wooden chest in the corner of the room. She lifted the lid, pawing through it for a moment before tugging out a shining piece of fabric the size of a blanket. It rippled in her fingers. She held it out to Granger, who took it with a smile.

“Thank you,” said Granger. “We’ll return it. I promise.”

“Of course,” said the Weasley matriarch, resigned. “Please stay for dinner. Both of you.”

Draco would have rather not, but Granger seemed intent on staying. Heaping trays of food were levitated to the table, and suddenly, it seemed incredibly awkward for him to remain standing. He pulled the chair next to Granger out with a loud scrape against the wooden floors. The Weasleys were generally pretending his did not exist, so he did them the courtesy of the same. He did not eat.

After the meal, Granger followed the Weasleys into the sitting room, a more spacious area of the home. She was sitting on an overstuffed sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, hands flitting animatedly as she spoke. She looked like she belonged here. He sank down into a chair, resting his palms on his knees, staring at his wife.

“You all right?”

The voice startled Draco, but he managed to still his twitchy wand arm. His brow furrowed as Arthur Weasley sank down into a chair next to him, both of them watching Granger laugh from across the room.

The silence between the two of them stretched on for a while, but Weasley made no attempt to bridge it. He simply sat, quietly, patiently.

If he had tried to push, Draco would have shut him out. Draco would have snarled some insult or allowed a puff of Dark magic to emanate from him and scare the Weasley patriarch off, but he didn’t. He simply sat, resting back in his chair, elbows resting on the table behind him. Draco could feel his heart beating in his chest, and finally, he allowed the words to come out of his mouth.

“Why would you allow this?” he demanded. “Why would you let me into your house? I killed your son.”

The words were more accusatory than he’d meant them, but Arthur did not seem offended. He frowned slightly, pondering, but then, he let a small, sad smile cross his face.

“Hating you won’t bring him back,” said Arthur Weasley, his eyes still trained on the laughter across the room.

After a long moment of silence, Weasley took a slow breath and spoke again.

“You were a child, too, Draco,” said Arthur Weasley, now looking at Draco. “It may not seem like it now, but you were a child.”

Arthur seemed poised to clap a hand on Draco’s shoulder, but he seemed to think better of it, and he settled back into his seat. Draco did not speak. He did not know what to say. This kind of paternal generosity was very unfamiliar to him, and it made his insides squirm uncomfortably.

“We owe her a lot, don’t we?” Arthur said, inclining his head toward Granger.

This, Draco fully understood.

“Everything,” said Draco, unhesitating.

Arthur nodded.

“You know, she won’t hear a word against you?” he said, and there was some lightness in his voice now. “If Hermione Granger-”

Arthur paused, quirking his lips as he corrected himself.

“Hermione Malfoy,” he amended. “If she feels that strongly about you, I reckon it’s worth trying.”

Draco was still silent, brooding. The stillness stretched out again, until one of the Weasleys called across the room to his father. Arthur stood up, and he gave Draco a genuine smile.

“I’ll see you around, son,” said Arthur.

Son. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been called that. Not properly. At that moment, he felt Granger’s eyes on him, and he glanced up, locking his grey eyes with hers. She grinned, and the roil of Dark magic within him calmed.

Chapter Text

It surprised her only a little to see them when she entered the bedroom. Theo and Draco, sitting opposite one another, their heads bent and resting against each other, Theo’s hand resting on Draco’s jaw. They broke apart slowly when she entered, and there was no guilt written on their faces. Instead, she saw the glitter of tears in Theo’s eyelashes.

“We can’t let him die,” said Theo, and there was a desperation in his voice that tugged at her heartstrings.

Perhaps Theo loved Draco more than he let on.

“He’s not going to die,” she said briskly.

“You have a plan, right?” Theo asked.

Hermione sighed. It felt like it had always been up to her to make a plan, been her responsibility to figure out how to help someone pass an exam or make Polyjuice Potion or get rid of Voldemort. Now, this responsibility weighed heaviest of all.

“I have a plan. Once we have the stone, he should be fine. Gellert has assured me that it will work.”

It was a testament to Theo’s trust in her that he asked no questions, required no explanation. Draco’s face was resting in his own hands as Theo rose, awaiting her instruction.

“Where’s this stone, then?” he asked.

“We’ve got to get to Hogwarts,” she said. “That’s the only place I can think of. Draco, you can Apparate us there and-”

“I can’t,” said Draco.

She paused, brows furrowed.

“Are the wards that strong?” she asked.

Draco shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze.

“I can’t Apparate,” he said. “I can’t do any magic at all.”

“You’re the most powerful wizard in the world and you have the most powerful wand. What do you mean you can’t do magic?” she said.

“It’s like… it’s like trying to push a walnut through a straw,” he explained, and he was sliding his fingers against each other, staring at them intently. “It won’t come out.”

She simply stared, mouth agape, and he looked up at her.

“It’s over, Granger,” he said ruefully. “I think my time is up.”

Theo let out a sound like he’d been hit in the gut.

“What do we do, Hermione?” Theo asked, panicked.

“When Dumbledore died, he left me a book,” she said, pulling out the thick, worn copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard.

“Children’s stories,” said Draco.

“I never understood why,” said Hermione. “I couldn’t figure it out, until I learned what this symbol means.”

She tapped the triangular mark.

“Gellert and Dumbledore had a lifelong quest to find the Hallows,” she said. “Dumbledore clearly wanted us to know about it. To follow the quest. And when Dumbledore died, he left Harry something, too.”

She looked at Theo’s face, which looked hopeful, and Draco’s which looked pale and uncertain. Hermione refused to dwell on Draco’s numbered days. How many did he have left?

Headmaster Snape sent a return Patronus almost immediately after Hermione had sent her otter to him. He opened the Floo Network to his office at Hogwarts for just long enough that Draco, Hermione, and Theo could arrive. Snape looked older and more exhausted than she had ever seen him before. A consequence, she supposed, of holding the school together through multiple wizarding battles and wars.

“What are you looking for now?” Snape asked tiredly, rubbing his fingers down his sallow face.

His eyes snagged on Draco’s face, staring at him with coal black eyes that seemed to discern more than they intended to reveal.

“Professor,” began Hermione, and Snape turned to her. “We’re looking for something Dumbledore left for Harry. I’m not sure what happened to it when he died, but it was a Snitch.”

Snape’s eyebrows raised.

“A Snitch,” he repeated.

Hermione nodded.

“A Golden Snitch. The first one he ever caught. He tried to open it after Dumbledore’s funeral, but…”

She trailed off, unwilling to admit the words that had been printed on the Snitch. The words that were ringing in her ears.

I open at the close.

The end. It may not have been the end that Dumbledore had expected, but the search for Horcruxes, the battle against Voldemort, was over. They had reached the close, and Hermione was certain that the Snitch would open for Draco. It was this or death.

Snape was contemplating the three of them, sitting back in his chair, and then, his hands moved to the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a Snitch, its wings fluttering feebly as he held it, and handed it to Hermione. She held it to her face, watching as the words shimmered on its surface, before she handed it to Draco.

I open at the close.

~

Draco could read the expression on Gellert Grindelwald’s face well enough. There was the shadow of greed there, but mostly, it was victoriousness. A lifetime of seeking the Deathly Hallows only to watch another man become the Master of Death.

None of them were really certain what happened next.

“Do we just hand them over to Draco? Does that make him Master?” asked Granger.

“To be honest, I have no idea,” admitted Grindelwald, scratching the back of his head. “Albus and I never really got into logistics. ‘Unite the Hallows’ was sort of where our plan ended.”

“Well,” said Granger, holding the Cloak and the Stone, one in each hand, glancing down at them with uncertainty.

The Elder Wand seemed to hum in its holster.

“I supposed there’s nothing to be done but try it,” she said, nervousness in her voice.

Draco wondered if he should have invited his parents to witness this moment. He was half as sure that this would kill him as he was that it would save his life. Perhaps he should have granted his mother, at least, a last chance to say goodbye to her son.

Granger seemed to be considering the possibility as well. She was hesitant to hand the items over, chewing at the corner of her bottom lip. A swell of something rose in his chest, wondering if this would be the last time he saw her.

He felt like he had lived most of his adult life with a veil over his eyes, distanced from everything and everyone around him, and for the last few months, the veil had finally lifted. He had finally understood what it meant to be a man. And yet, as Dark Magic choked his lungs, his blood, the veil had fallen over him again.

Granger was right. There was nothing to be done but try it.

Draco extended his hands, and she placed the Cloak in his left hand, the Stone in his right. They waited.

Nothing happened.

“Do you feel anything? Any different?” asked Grindelwald.

“No.”

“Try casting a spell,” offered Granger.

He moved the Cloak into his right hand, pulling the Elder Wand from his hip and holding it in front of him.

“Avius,” he said.

Nothing.

Granger put her palms over her face, shaking her head.

They had failed.

There was no purpose in following Granger to the Ministry the next day. He could not perform any magic anyway, but it seemed too strange not to accompany her. She kept her day short, and he pretended not to notice the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes throughout the day.

Draco would have chosen to spend his last few days alive with only his wife, but his friends and family would not have it. When he and Granger returned home from her day at the Ministry, the dining room was full of people. His parents. Theo, Pansy, Greg. Ilir Hoxha. Gellert Grindelwald.

The mood should have been somber, but it was not. They all smiled, laughing as they told stories, some of which Draco knew and featured in, others he did not.

The story of Draco’s first Quidditch game. Grindelwald’s tale of his life with Albus Dumbledore. His mother, holding it together better than he would have expected, talking about Draco as a sweet but spoiled little boy.

There were sad smiles all around, but the gathered crowd did well not to dwell on it.

“So,” said Theo, a finger running along the rim of his glass. “How long do the Healers reckon you’ve got?”

The room hushed. His father’s eyes were shut, his expression pained.

“Not long,” said Draco, his voice steady. “Today, tomorrow?”

Pansy whimpered. His mother dabbed at her eyes.

“Well,” said Theo, croaking out the word. “We should let you spend some time with your wife.”

Draco could not even look at her, but he nodded.

Alone in his bedroom, her fingers ghosted across his bare skin, as though she wanted to memorize each inch of his body. His lips found hers, and with a tenderness that had eluded him for his entire life before this, he rocked into her, finding peace inside her warmth.

Afterwards, she did not cry. At first, her words were a tumble of brainstorming: spells or rituals they could perform to truly unite the Hallows, or Healers from the far reaches of the world that she could call upon. He did not want to. He was exhausted, his mind and body and magic were all finished, and he sensed the moment that she realized this. She aligned her body with his, every inch of their skin pressed together. She spoke of her parents, asked him about his earliest memories, and told him over and over again how very much she loved him.

It was enough.

Chapter Text

Perhaps the answer was in letting go.

Granger had fallen asleep some hours earlier, though she had tried desperately to stay awake all night with him. To enjoy every hour of the few remaining ones in his life. But she was sleeping soundly beside him, the dim, blue glow of the moonlight streaming in through his bedroom window and landing on her serene face.

He had simply watched her as she slept, wondering how he had ever deserved her.

But there was nervous energy in him, and he could not lay in bed any longer. He stood quietly so as not to wake her, and when he picked up the Elder Wand from his night table, he could feel it thrum in his hand. It was nervous, too.

Next, he picked up the Golden Snitch, cool in his palm, and tucked it into his pocket. Finally, the cloak,  which he draped over his body so that he could move through the Manor and its grounds unseen by his parents or his visiting friends.

When his mother had told him the story of the Three Brothers as a child, she had said the final brother had greeted death as an old friend. Draco knew death rather well. He had lost count of the number of witches and wizards he’d killed over the last eleven years, and he’d had his fair share of brushes with near-death himself. And yet, he’d never grown comfortable with death. He had buried himself behind a thick, icy layer of Occlumency and kept himself at a distance from it.

Now, as he marched onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor, concealed under the invisibility cloak, he kept his mind clear, unhidden by the walls of Occlumency. There was a grove of trees at the edge of the property, and he made his way to it unseen in the dark.

He pulled the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders, an act of defiance, almost: revealing himself to Death. His time was here, and he would not force his wife to wake up next to his dead body in their bed. He would greet Death as a friend.

I open at the close.

He pulled the Golden Snitch from his pocket, and unexpectedly, when his skin touched the cool metal, the Snitch popped open and revealed a small, smooth stone hidden within. Without thinking about his actions, he placed the stone in his palm, spinning it three times, and he looked up.

A transparent, luminescent figure had appeared among the trees. Slight and scrawny, gazing around at its surroundings until the eyes, hazy green, landed on Draco.

“Potter,” he said, popping the “p” in the word, a slight sneer on his lip that came unbidden despite his best efforts to stifle it.

“Malfoy,” he replied.

Potter was standing in the clearing, looking around with naked interest at the trees around him.

“I’m dead,” said Potter simply.

“You are,” he replied.

“How long?”

“Eleven years.”

“What happened?” Potter asked.

There was too much to tell, and Draco had never been much to speak. Yet, he found that without the barrier of Occlumency, without the walls around his emotions, the words were spilling out of him. Potter’s death in the courtyard at Hogwarts, the rapid fall of the Ministry and replacement with his father and the Dark Lord. The Inquisitors, the Mudblood Identification Cards, and his violent role in upholding the system.

The Marriage Law. Lightsbane. The Horcruxes. Draco’s voice was growing thick and hoarse as he spun the tale, but Potter’s attention was rapt.

“So, you did it? You killed Voldemort?” asked Potter.

Draco nodded stiffly.

“Hm,” said Potter, and he was nodding, seemingly impressed.

There was silence as they stared at each other. He could see that the edges of Potter’s body were… fuzzy. He did not belong in this world.

“What is dying like?” asked Draco.

“Oh, it’s fine, really,” said Potter with a shrug, and Draco had to suppress a scoff. He wanted to laugh at how very Potter the answer seemed.

Potter continued.

“I’m not sure where I’ve been for the last eleven years,” he added. “Nowhere, I think. Everywhere? It’s very strange.”

Draco chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“I take it you’ll be joining me?” Potter asked.

Draco nodded stiffly.

“I just… I hope she’ll be all right,” Draco said, and the words came out almost as a gasp.

Potter nodded sadly.

“She will. They all will. They move on without you, and they turn out fine,” said Potter, and he grinned. “Obviously.”

“Yea,” he replied, and strangely, he felt at ease. Prepared. Relaxed.

Potter stepped over to him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. He seemed small and young, his growth halted at seventeen.

“Wow, Malfoy,” said Potter, squeezing his arm. “You filled out a bit, didn’t you?”

Draco felt the corner of his lips lift the slightest bit. Potter’s gaze slid down him, snagging on his hands, in which he still held the Hallows.

“You’ve got my Cloak,” said Potter. “And Dumbledore’s wand.”

Another pause. Another silence that seemed to stretch. Draco felt another clap on his shoulder.

“I think you’re going to be all right, Malfoy,” said Potter.

At first, Draco wanted to state that he doubted it, but the thick sluggishness of Dark magic in his veins suddenly did not feel so suffocating. He could breathe again. He was relaxed.

He knew he must be dead.

~

When Hermione awoke and found the empty space in the bed next to her, terror rose in her chest. Draco had left her in the night, going off to die alone so that she would not wake up beside his body. Tears stung her eyes, and she sprang out of bed and flung the bedroom door open. The door to the room across the hallway was ajar, and memories of every moment she and Draco had spent lingering in the space between their rooms crashed into her. A strangled cry threatened to become a sob, and she sprinted down the staircase.

What she had not expected, however, was the sound of light and happy voices coming from the dining room.

Hermione raced toward them, her footsteps echoing heavily in the grand manor in a way that Draco’s never had. How could Theo and Pansy and Narcissa and Lucius be reminiscing so cheerfully while her husband’s dead body lay somewhere on the grounds? How could they ignore her pain?

Hermione arrived in the dining room, her mane of curly hair behind her, and stopped short. The room went silent.

He was there.

Draco was sitting at the dining room table. His grey eyes met hers at once. His face lit up, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It was then that Hermione noticed the palpable resonance of power in the room. This was no Dark magic but something else entirely: something with a clean, bright smell, without any of the metallic stench.

Draco stood from the table. It seemed like a dream, the way he almost glowed with whatever reservoir of power was within him. It was so unfamiliar, so unlike him, that she hesitated when he stood in front of her.

“Is this real?” she whispered.

Her hand reached up to his chest but stopped short before she touched him. Frozen there, her fingers inches from his chest, and then, Draco’s large, rough hand was over hers, pressing her palm against the place where his heart was beating in his ribs. She looked up, her eyes finding his face. His grey eyes were soft.

“I’m sorry to worry you,” he said. “I wanted to let you sleep.”

“Let me sleep!” she cried. “Let me sleep?! What happened?”

She felt his rough hands cup her cheeks. Her mind raced with possibilities, with explanations, with questions, but as his mouth descended to meet hers, it went completely and blissfully blank.

Her relationship with Draco had begun as a farce, as something forced and pretend, for nothing beyond political reasons, but now, as she felt his lips press against hers, his fingers threaded in her hair, his body aligned with hers so closely that they might have been carved from a single slab of marble, she could not imagine anything more real.

~

Scorpius Abraxas Malfoy was born on the 31^st July of the year 2010. When Draco had rushed down the staircase to tell Lucius and Narcissa that his son was born, on Harry Potter’s birthday no less, Lucius had collapsed into his armchair in sheer relief.

“Seven pounds,” said his son with a grin.

“And Hermione?” asked Narcissa, wringing her hands.

“Wonderful,” said Draco proudly. “It might have taken nineteen hours, but she was amazing through it all. This wand is truly nothing compared to the power it takes to give birth.”

The puff of magic that emanated from his son in these moments still took Lucius off guard. There was nothing like the raw power that Draco held within him, a bottomless pool of pure, clean magic. Draco could very well live forever.

“Would you like to meet him?” asked Draco.

“Oh, could we?” cried Narcissa.

Lucius pushed up from the upholstered chair, following Draco and Narcissa up the grand staircase and to Draco’s bedroom. A Healer still stood beside the bed, a diagnostic spell whirring in the air, but Lucius’s gaze landed on his daughter-in-law, who held a small bundle in her hands. He could not help the smile that crossed his face.

He placed an arm on his wife’s back as they gathered beside the bed, looking down at the newest Malfoy in the line of dozens of generations.

“Abraxas?” asked Lucius with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione rolled her eyes, grinning at him.

“Without your father, we would never have known about Lightsbane. We would have never gotten to this moment,” she replied. “We wouldn’t have-”

“Hermione,” interrupted Lucius. “It’s a fitting name. Well chosen.”

She smiled. Her face had a bright glow, still a slight sheen of sweat on her brow from the hours-long ordeal. Lucius had not expected to feel so much anxiety as his daughter-in-law labored in her bed, but the feeling had been all-consuming, as though every ounce of worry he ought to have felt for Draco over the past twelve years had bubbled to the surface in one day.

The relief in his heart was palpable. Draco beamed at his wife, awestruck. It was so different than the persona his son had crafted over the eleven years of the Dark Lord’s reign. There was no stoicism, no Occlumency. His emotions showed raw and powerful on his face.

Narcissa sank down on the bed as Hermione offered the baby to her, and the two women spoke in quiet voices as his wife asked Hermione about her labor. And then, after a short while, Narcissa held the bundle up to him.

He panicked for a moment as he reached for Scorpius, whose tiny fist was wiggling outside of the blanket that surrounded him. Draco had a smirk on his face, something disbelieving in his expression as Lucius held the baby close to his chest.

Then, Lucius’s eyes met Hermione’s, who had a small, knowing smile on her face as she watched him hold her newborn son. Then, he looked down at the tiny babe in his arms, the pointed chin and tuft of wispy blond hair. Lucius felt a seismic shift within him, his world turning upside down in the same way it had done when he made the decision to bring Hermione Granger into his family. He knew at that moment that he would do anything to protect his grandson, his son, and his daughter-in-law. His loyalty was now to the next generation. Whatever it takes.