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The oppressive silence of Courtroom 10 hung heavy, a stark contrast to the cacophony of their own racing heartbeats. Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and the formidable sisters Astoria and Daphne Greengrass stood accused, their faces pale beneath the harsh magical lights. This very chamber, steeped in a history of both justice and injustice, had once hosted the trials of the most infamous dark witches and wizards. The specters of Barty Crouch Jr., Bellatrix Lestrange, Karkaroff, and countless other Death Eaters, all undeniably guilty of heinous crimes to varying degrees, seemed to linger in the air, their past verdicts echoing through the hallowed space. Now, it was their turn to face the scrutiny of the Wizengamot and the unforgiving gaze of the jury, their fates hanging precariously in the balance within the same circular walls that had sealed the doom of so many before them.

Hailing from prominent Death Eater families, whose names were synonymous with terror and the Dark Lord's reign, the accused found themselves in the unforgiving glare of justice. Their lineage, steeped in generations of pure-blood fanaticism and dark magic, was a heavy cloak they could not shed. These individuals, many of whom had been raised in environments that glorified Muggle-hatred and the subjugation of magical folk deemed "inferior," now faced the consequences of their deeply entrenched beliefs and actions.

The trials, held in the aftermath of the final war, aimed to dissect their involvement not only in the climactic battles but also in the insidious campaign of fear and violence that preceded it. The charges against them were grave, ranging from acts of torture and murder against Muggles to the systematic persecution of Muggle-born witches and wizards, and the betrayal of those within the magical community who dared to oppose Voldemort. Each defendant's story, while unique in its specifics, wove into a larger tapestry of complicity, ranging from active participation in raids and dark rituals to providing financial or logistical support to the Death Eater cause, or even simply using their family influence to protect other loyalists. The wizarding world, still reeling from the devastation, demanded accountability, and these trials were a crucial step towards healing and rebuilding, a somber reminder that no one, regardless of their family name, was above the law.

Draco Malfoy, the sole heir of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, harbored a grim understanding of their family's precarious position. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that despite the duress and coercion under which they had been forced to carry out Voldemort's increasingly monstrous demands, they were destined to be found guilty. The war had ended, but the shadows of their past affiliations loomed large, promising a future clouded by judgment and retribution.

The wizarding world, in its post-war fervor, was consumed by a fervent, almost reflexive prejudice against those who had served the Dark Lord, or even been associated with his cause. This narrow-mindedness, Draco mused bitterly, was strikingly similar to the deep-seated bigotry displayed by purebloods towards muggleborns and Muggles alike. The cycle of hatred and misunderstanding seemed destined to perpetuate itself, merely shifting its targets. He saw the same ignorance, the same unyielding condemnation, in the eyes of those who now sought to cleanse their society of all remnants of the darkness, regardless of the nuanced circumstances that had driven some to their choices. The Malfoy name, once synonymous with power and influence, was now a brand of shame, an indelible mark that no amount of forced compliance or feigned repentance could erase.

He quickly learned this at school, especially when Ron Weasley would often bring it up with a disdainful sneer. It didn't matter how innocently a student began their journey, being sorted into Slytherin House automatically led to immediate and often unfair assumptions of being a dark wizard, or at the very least, possessing a morally ambiguous nature. For him, having Lucius Malfoy as a father, a man whose notorious reputation preceded him with every whispered rumor and scowl, only intensified this deeply ingrained perception tenfold, casting a long, inescapable shadow over his every action and interaction.

He was deemed guilty the moment he entered the grand, echoing Great Hall of Hogwarts. The whispers started almost immediately, a low, insidious hum that followed him like a shadow. His mother, Narcissa, had warned him of this pervasive prejudice before his first day, her elegant hand gently tracing the lines of his young face. She had explained, with a sigh that spoke of generations of weary acceptance, that some families, particularly those from the "Sacred Twenty-Eight," would judge him solely for being Lucius Malfoy's son. The weight of his family name, a name steeped in both ancient power and recent infamy, settled upon his slender shoulders like an oppressive cloak.

Despite his innocence as a child who had committed no atrocities, whose hands were clean of the dark magic that had stained his father's reputation, he was guilty by association. Every sneer from a Gryffindor, every wary glance from a Hufflepuff, every hesitant step from a Ravenclaw, reinforced this unspoken condemnation. He saw it in the eyes of the older students who remembered the war, and in the faces of the professors who had fought against his family's ideology. He was not just Draco Malfoy; he was the heir to a legacy of darkness, a potential vessel for the same venomous beliefs that had almost torn their world apart.

The Sorting Hat, when it finally settled upon his head, seemed to hesitate, its inner voice a muffled debate of ambition, cunning, and an unexpected flicker of fear. But ultimately, it was the pull of tradition, the echoes of generations of Slytherins, and perhaps, the boy's own desperate desire for belonging within the only house that seemed to accept him, that sealed his fate. He was sorted into Slytherin, and the collective sigh of resignation from many around him was a further indictment. He felt the invisible chains of expectation tighten, binding him to a path that had been carved out for him long before he could even walk. The prejudice was not just external; it began to seep into his own nascent understanding of himself, shaping his world through a lens of inherited guilt.

Draco Malfoy, a scion of one of the most ancient and influential pureblood families, made no secret of his deeply ingrained snobbery and the profound prejudices he harbored. These biases were particularly directed at those labeled "mudbloods" or "blood traitors" by the rigid tenets of pureblood society. He openly championed the belief in pureblood supremacy, a doctrine that had been meticulously instilled in him from his earliest days.

Yet, a fundamental source of his frustration stemmed from what he perceived as a profound misunderstanding from others. He grappled with their inability to comprehend that his beliefs, however morally reprehensible or logically flawed they might appear, were not a conscious choice made in a vacuum. Instead, they were the inescapable and direct consequence of an upbringing steeped in a culture of intolerance and elitism.

From the very moment of his birth, Draco had been subjected to a relentless and systematic process of ideological conditioning, a form of brainwashing that began even before he possessed the cognitive capacity to question or even fully understand it. His nursery was adorned with ancestral portraits that subtly reinforced the family's esteemed lineage and pureblood status. Conversations at the dinner table, even when he was a toddler, often revolved around the superiority of pureblood lines and the perceived deficiencies of others. He was taught, implicitly and explicitly, that the Malfoy name carried immense weight, and with it, a responsibility to uphold the traditions and values of his ancestors – values that included a deep-seated distrust and disdain for anyone outside their narrow definition of acceptable wizarding heritage.

This relentless indoctrination shaped his worldview, molding his perceptions of right and wrong, and forging the prejudices that would define so much of his early life. It was a tapestry woven with threads of hardship and manipulation, a direct consequence of the two figures who shaped his formative years. He was not merely a passive recipient of their care but a casualty of their flawed choices and deeply ingrained biases. The circumstances that surrounded him were a crucible, forging a young man burdened by expectations and a legacy he did not choose. His identity was, in many ways, a reflection of their influence, a testament to the powerful, often destructive, impact of upbringing.

Of course, Draco understood that at some point his choices were his own, and many of those choices—wrong and cruel as they were—merited some form of punishment. The weight of his past misdeeds was a constant, heavy cloak, a reminder of the path he had trod. He would never make excuses for the things he did, for the people he hurt, or for the pain he had inflicted. The memories, sharp and unyielding, served as a stark testament to his complicity. Because of his innate pride, a stubborn facet of his character that resisted easy surrender, and the persistent ache of guilt that gnawed at him from within, he had apologized enough times that he didn’t need his second hand to help keep track. Each apology, though offered with a genuine, if begrudging, sense of remorse, was a small chipping away at the formidable wall he had built around himself, a silent acknowledgment of the deep-seated regret that had finally taken root.

Despite a promising beginning, the ingrained prejudice against his ancestry became an unyielding anchor, tethering him to the very ideals that society vehemently opposed. He was never truly given a fair chance; instead, the constant ostracization and suspicion acted as a relentless force, pushing him further into the isolating embrace of those who had instilled in him a warped understanding of the world. This insidious isolation, fueled by the rejections he faced, ultimately became the conduit through which he was drawn into the dark machinations of Voldemort, especially after his father, once a figure of influence and guidance, had demonstrably failed him and the family name. The weight of his heritage, instead of being a source of pride or even neutrality, became a burden, actively shaping his destiny and aligning him with the very forces he might otherwise have resisted.

Draco, consumed by a venomous cocktail of anger, bitterness, and profound resentment, yearned desperately for the very things he saw so effortlessly possessed by others. He longed for the warmth of family, the steadfast loyalty of friends, and the unconditional embrace of love – a stark contrast to the cold, calculating world he inhabited. These were the treasures he witnessed in the lives of the Weasley boy, Ron, and particularly in the trio formed with Harry Potter and the Granger girl, Hermione. Their bond, so outwardly strong and resilient, served as a constant, agonizing reminder of his own emotional barrenness.

In his immaturity, and lacking the emotional tools to articulate his deep-seated pain and insecurity, Draco reacted the only way he knew how: by lashing out. His targets were consistently those who, in his twisted perception, held everything he desired. He sought to dismantle their happiness, to sow discord, and to inflict upon them a fraction of the emotional turmoil that simmered within him. Each cruel word, every cutting jibe, every act of sabotage was a desperate cry for attention, a clumsy attempt to assert control in a life where he often felt powerless. Yet, even as the words left his lips or the actions were committed, a flicker of something akin to self-loathing would often follow. He knew, deep down, that these were not the actions of a person content or at peace. Each incident became another painful entry on a rapidly growing list of regrets, a silent testament to the misguided path he repeatedly chose, propelled by a potent mix of envy and an aching, unfulfilled desire for connection.

It was only when Voldemort had forced him to carry out the deed of murdering Dumbledore that things started to change. The weight of the impending act pressed down on Draco, a suffocating shroud that threatened to consume him whole. He prided himself on his ability to maintain a carefully constructed facade, believing he was doing well at hiding the imminent self-destruction that clawed at his insides. The stress of the task he was given was eating him to death, a relentless torment fueled by the terrifying prospect of failure. The Dark Lord's wrath was a concept he understood all too well, and the thought of incurring it sent shivers of dread down his spine. Every day was a battle, a desperate attempt to appear strong and unwavering, while internally, he crumbled.

But she had seen him. Really seen him. Not the arrogant, sneering pureblood heir, nor the terrified, unwilling servant of the Dark Lord. She had truly seen who Draco was beneath the layers of bravado and fear—a boy caught in an impossible situation, struggling to survive in a world that offered him no escape. Her gaze, warm and understanding, had pierced through his carefully erected defenses, laying bare the vulnerability he so desperately tried to conceal. It was a revelation that both shocked and unnerved him, for he had long believed himself to be an impenetrable fortress of apathy. Yet, in her eyes, he found not judgment, but a flicker of compassion that he had not dared to hope for. It was in that moment, under the crushing burden of his grim assignment, that a tiny, fragile seed of something new began to stir within him.

Hermione Granger, her heart heavy with an unspoken understanding, found Draco Malfoy in the desolate, echoing confines of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The air was thick with a palpable sorrow, not just from the resident ghost, but from the trembling figure huddled on the cold, tiled floor. Draco, usually so composed and cruel, was utterly broken, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. For the first time in Hermione's memory, no cutting words, no venomous insults, escaped his lips as she approached.

A strange, quiet instinct guided her. She didn't speak, didn't question, didn't even express judgment. Instead, she simply lowered herself to the floor beside him, the chill seeping through her robes, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated comfort, devoid of any ulterior motive. A silent offering of solace. To her surprise, and perhaps even to his own, Draco allowed it. His body, usually so rigid with pride and disdain, remained unresisting, even as a faint, internal tremor of protest seemed to ripple through him. In that moment, the years of animosity, the bitter rivalry, and the deeply ingrained prejudices seemed to dissipate, replaced by a raw, shared vulnerability. The echoing cries of Moaning Myrtle seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the quiet understanding between two unlikely souls in a place typically reserved for teenage angst and spectral sorrow.

The simple gesture, a small act of comfort, resonated deep within him, stirring emotions he hadn't known existed. No one had ever shown him such tenderness, such understanding, and the raw vulnerability of it overwhelmed him. He didn't want to feel this way anymore, torn between the aching desire for more and the crushing weight of a life he desperately wished to escape. More than anything, he yearned for an escape, a complete severance from his current existence. He'd trade places with anyone, even the unassuming ginger Weasley, if it meant shedding this unbearable burden. He was utterly exhausted, weary of the charade, the constant struggle, and the relentless pressure. He wanted out; he didn't want to do any of this anymore. The very thought of continuing down this path, facing another day of the same desolate routine, filled him with a profound weariness that settled deep in his bones. He craved anonymity, a chance to disappear and rebuild, far from the expectations and burdens that suffocated him. The future, once a distant, vague concept, now loomed as an inescapable prison, and he found himself longing for a freedom he knew he might never attain.

Wordlessly, Draco had moved to rest his head in her lap as he cried out all his tears. He didn't care how he looked, how pathetic he would have appeared to his father. The carefully constructed façade of the unfeeling, superior Malfoy heir had shattered, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable boy. He currently had something that his father would never give him - had never given him. It was a stark, painful realization, one that cut deeper than any insult or physical blow.

Comfort, love, physical contact. These were not mere luxuries but fundamental human needs, conspicuously absent throughout his upbringing. His father's affection, if it could even be called that, was a transactional affair, conditional on adherence to the family's rigid expectations and the upholding of their blood purity ideals. There were no gentle touches, no reassuring embraces, only a cold, calculating assessment of his worth as a Malfoy. In her lap, however, there was an unspoken acceptance, a profound sense of solace that resonated through his very being. Each tear that fell was a release, washing away years of suppressed emotions and the heavy burden of expectation. For the first time in his life, Draco felt truly seen, truly cared for, not for his name or his status, but simply for himself.

"I need help," he pleaded with Hermione Granger, his voice raw with despair, tears streaming down his face and soaking into the fabric of her skirt. His body trembled uncontrollably, a pathetic sight that tugged at her heartstrings despite the inherent danger he represented. "He's going to kill me if I fail. I can't do it. I don't want to do it." The words tumbled out, each one laced with a terror that was palpable, a deep-seated fear that gnawed at his very soul.

He cried hysterically in her arms, his fingers clutching at her robes as if she were the last anchor in a storm-tossed sea. The weight of his burden, the unspeakable task he was forced to undertake, had finally broken him. He was no longer the arrogant, sneering boy she had known; instead, he was a terrified child, trapped in a nightmare of his own making. The shadows of the impending doom loomed large, threatening to consume him entirely, and in that moment, all he could do was cling to the hope that Hermione, with her unwavering sense of justice and her remarkable intellect, might somehow find a way to save him from the monstrous fate that awaited him.

That night, under a sky bruised with the last vestiges of twilight, Draco Malfoy led Hermione Granger through the labyrinthine corridors of Hogwarts. His strides were purposeful, almost desperate, as if the very act of moving would outpace the gnawing dread in his gut. She followed, a knot of apprehension tightening in her chest with every silent step. His destination, she knew, was the Room of Requirement – a place of whispered secrets and desperate wishes.

Once inside, the room shifted, conforming to their unspoken needs, manifesting as a sparsely furnished space, devoid of the usual clutter. The air crackled with a tension thicker than the dust motes dancing in the faint light. He intended to detail the horrifying task Voldemort had assigned him, a burden that had been crushing his spirit for months.

But before he could even begin, the dam of Hermione’s carefully contained fear burst. "Draco, please," she pleaded, her voice a raw whisper, "we can still go to Professor Dumbledore. Confess everything. He'll help you."

His response was immediate, a furious, wounded roar that echoed off the unseen walls. "Dumbledore? Are you mad, Granger? They'll cast me into Azkaban without a second thought! Don't you see? To the world, I'm merely another Death Eater in the making, a pawn in my father's game." His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, as he paced the confined space like a caged animal. "I'm not redeemable," he spat, the words laced with a self-loathing that clawed at her heart. "Not worth saving."

His eyes, usually filled with a cruel glint, now held a haunted, defeated look. The weight of his lineage, the indelible mark of the Dark Lord, seemed to press down on him, suffocating any hope. He saw no escape, only a preordained descent into darkness, and in his despair, he pushed her away, convinced that his fate was sealed, and anyone who tried to intervene would only be dragged down with him. The argument intensified, a tempest of desperate pleas and bitter retorts, each word a further wedge driven between them, as the Room of Requirement silently bore witness to their unraveling.

In that critical moment, a surge of frustration, sharp and undeniable, coursed through Hermione Granger. Draco Malfoy's obstinance, a characteristic she knew all too well, had reached an intolerable peak. His jaw was set, his silver eyes flashing with a defiant arrogance that spoke of an unshakeable refusal to cooperate. All logical arguments, every reasoned plea she had attempted, had bounced off him like Bludgers off a Shield Charm. She had exhausted her patience, her diplomatic efforts utterly futile against his unyielding will.

A cold, determined resolve settled over her. There was, she realized with a sinking but firm conviction, only one recourse left to her, a single, drastic measure that would compel his compliance. Without another word, her wand, a slim vine wood, was out and pointed directly at him. A silent, swift incantation formed on her lips, and a flash of scarlet light erupted from the tip of her wand, striking Draco squarely in the chest.

The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Draco's body stiffened, every muscle locking into an unnatural rigidity. He swayed for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise and a touch of genuine fear, before toppling over like a discarded puppet. The Full Body-Bind Curse, flawlessly executed, rendered him utterly immobile, his limbs locked against his will.

A quick flick of her wand, and with another silent incantation, she invoked a powerful levitation charm. Draco's rigid form rose slowly, albeit undignified, into the air, hovering several feet above the ground. He remained stiff and unresponsive, a helpless, floating figure, his face a mask of indignation that was now, finally, powerless.

With a determined set to her own jaw, Hermione began to guide him, forcibly but efficiently, through the winding corridors of Hogwarts. His unmoving form drifted beside and slightly behind her, a stark testament to her unwilling but necessary measures. Her path was direct, leading them both unerringly towards the Headmaster's office, where she intended to make a full report of his infuriating and now utterly silent resistance.

"We must save him! He's just a child, like us; it's our duty to protect him!" Hermione declared the moment she gently placed Draco's incapacitated but conscious body into a creaking, old wooden chair. Her voice, usually composed and logical, was laced with an urgency that bordered on desperation. The war had changed them all, but it had also, perhaps, deepened their capacity for empathy, even for those who had once been their adversaries.

Her eyes, bright with unshed tears and a fierce determination, locked onto Dumbledore's. "Please, Professor," she pleaded, before the Headmaster could even begin to pass judgment—a judgment Draco, after years of enduring it, now felt he rightfully deserved. He slumped in the chair, his pale face a mask of shame and exhaustion, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to sleepless nights filled with terror and regret. He expected the condemnation, the look of disappointment that had become so familiar, not just from the adults around him, but from himself. Yet, Hermione's passionate defense, a voice he had once mocked and ridiculed, was a jarring, unexpected balm on his wounded soul. It was a plea not for clemency for a Death Eater, but for a lost boy, a child caught in a war far too grand and gruesome for any of them.

Immobilized by her spell, Draco watched in terror as Dumbledore rose to his feet after Granger relayed everything Draco had confessed. He was unable to move, defenseless.

It was a standoff, a silent battle of wills in the cavernous office. The air crackled with a tension so thick it could be cut with a spell. Professor Albus Dumbledore, the legendary Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood before them, his usual twinkle notably absent from his eyes. Hermione Granger, usually the picture of decorum and deference, had her wand drawn, its tip glowing faintly with a restrained power. She aimed it squarely at the wizard who had, until this moment, been an unassailable bastion of authority.

"Don't move another step, Headmaster," she commanded, her voice surprisingly steady, though a tremor of adrenaline ran through her. Her grip on her wand was tight, knuckles white. She had weighed the consequences, understood the enormity of her actions, yet a fierce conviction burned within her.

Draco Malfoy, who had initially observed the scene with a mixture of shock and disdain, felt an unfamiliar sensation stir within him. He had always viewed Granger as an annoying, know-it-all Mudblood, a constant thorn in his side. He had despised her Gryffindor audacity, her unwavering loyalty to Potter. But as he watched her now, defying the most powerful wizard of their age, alone and unafraid, something shifted within him. An unwavering loyalty to her began to bloom in the barren landscape of his prejudiced heart. It was an unexpected, almost bewildering sensation, a warmth spreading through his chest that he hadn't known was possible. He found himself, for the first time in his life, wanting to stand by her side, to face whatever came next. He was, to his own astonishment, on her side.

“Not another step closer or I’ll hex you.” Granger threatened, her voice a low, dangerous growl that Draco had never heard from her before. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the people in this cursed castle, it was Granger, the Gryffindor know-it-all, the one he’d tormented for years, who had taken a decisive step. She had positioned herself between him and Dumbledore, her back ramrod straight, shielding him with her own body. A shield. She was protecting him. The sheer audacity, the unbelievable selflessness, twisted something in his gut. He watched her shoulders, tense and ready, as if preparing for a battle that wasn’t hers to fight. His mind reeled, trying to reconcile this image with the girl who meticulously organized her study notes and always had a book clutched in her hand. This wasn't the Granger he knew, but a fierce, protective lioness, ready to defend a wounded cub. And that cub, to his utter bewilderment, was him.

His grey eyes met Dumbledore's, and a tear escaped, tracing a path down his face. At that moment, the door opened. Granger, still positioned between him and Dumbledore, turned sharply to glimpse the person who had just entered the Headmaster's office.

"Don't even think about hurting him, or I'll hex you as well," Hermione warned Severus as he slowly approached.

"Put your wand away, silly girl. No one in this office intends to harm Draco. We want to protect him, and despite all his fuss, whining, and resistance to my offers of help, he's thankfully turned to you."

Understanding Draco's earlier warnings about the prejudices against him, Hermione kept her wand raised, unwilling to trust them.

Severus and Dumbledore then sat down and revealed the truth: Severus was a triple agent, his true loyalty lying with Dumbledore and Harry. Dumbledore confessed that he was dying, cursed by a moment of weakness and a horcrux. He explained that everything the Dark Lord desired would also protect Draco, and that Severus would be the one to orchestrate Dumbledore's death to spare Draco. False memories would be implanted by Severus, making it appear that his mission had been successful.

Only then would he and his family be safe again—or, more precisely, not murdered by Voldemort for failing to complete the mission.

Severus would instruct Draco in occlumency and legilimency, guiding him in the intricate art of being a triple agent. Together, they would aid Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the vital mission to destroy Voldemort's horcruxes, and ultimately, Voldemort himself.

Hermione's gaze was sharp, unwavering, as she finally released Draco Malfoy from the intricate magical binds that had held him captive. Her decision was not born of mercy alone, but a calculated trust, meticulously built upon the assurances given by Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore. They had, in turn, laid out their plan with a precision that had finally satisfied her rigorous standards.

The details had been thorough, encompassing every conceivable vulnerability. Severus, with his characteristic gravitas, had outlined the protective enchantments, the safe houses, and the layers of secrecy that would shield Malfoy from the wrath of the Dark Lord and his followers. Dumbledore, ever the master strategist, had elaborated on the broader strategic implications of Malfoy's cooperation, emphasizing the vital role he would play in their unfolding resistance.

Hermione had cross-examined them both, questioning every contingency, every potential flaw. She had extracted promises, not just of protection, but of unwavering commitment to Malfoy's safety. Only when she was utterly convinced, when the intricacies of their defense and the sincerity of their resolve had reached a critical mass, did she finally trust. Her confidence stemmed not just from their words, but from her deep understanding of their capabilities, knowing that if anyone could protect him, it was these two formidable wizards.

It was this profound trust, born of meticulous planning and unwavering commitment, that allowed her to believe Draco would not flee. The fear that had once driven him, the very terror that had led him down such a perilous path, she now believed, would be overshadowed by the formidable shield of protection Severus and Dumbledore had pledged to erect around him. Her release of him was an act of faith, a calculated risk, but one she was now convinced was essential for the greater good.

Draco refused their assistance unless his chosen family—the Greengrass sisters, Nott, Zabini, and Pansy—also received protection. They, too, were victims, treated as harshly, if not worse, due to their families' ties to Voldemort's inner circle. Like him, they faced the imminent threat of being forced to bear the Dark Mark. These were good people who, like Draco, did not desire such a life; their harsh exteriors were merely a product of self-preservation and hurt.

He demanded an oath of allegiance to his friends, ensuring their protection regardless of his own fate.

He wanted them to know and them to be trained and included, that was the price of his obedience. He believed that true loyalty wasn't just about following orders, but about fostering understanding and capability within his ranks. It was a calculated risk, a deliberate choice to empower those around him, even if it meant sharing knowledge that had long been guarded. He understood that a united and well-informed force was far more effective than a blindly compliant one. This deep-seated conviction stemmed from a past where ignorance had led to devastating consequences, a lesson etched into his very being. The weight of his past failures, and the desire to prevent their recurrence, fueled his decision to embrace transparency and inclusion. It was a steep price, one that demanded patience and a willingness to relinquish some control, but he was prepared to pay it, knowing that the long-term rewards of such an investment would far outweigh the immediate costs. For him, obedience wasn't merely an act of submission; it was a pact, a sacred agreement that demanded more than just his unwavering loyalty – it demanded the upliftment of all who served alongside him.

Draco exhaled a long, ragged breath, a sigh of relief as Dumbledore and Severus accepted his terms. He had expected to wait at least a week for them to act, but the Headmaster summoned them immediately.

With the combined and strategic efforts of Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Astoria Greengrass, the Horcruxes — the dark magical artifacts tethering Lord Voldemort to immortality — were meticulously tracked down and destroyed within a mere few months. This swift dismantling of his anchors to life led to a rapid and decisive end to the Second Wizarding War. Voldemort, stripped of his ability to cheat death, was ultimately vanquished, bringing an era of terror to a close.

In the aftermath, the remaining Death Eaters, who had served as his loyal enforcers, were systematically apprehended and brought to justice. However, a critical and unforeseen flaw emerged within the meticulously executed plan. Draco, Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Astoria, the very individuals instrumental in bringing about Voldemort's downfall, now faced the daunting prospect of prosecution themselves. Their past actions, carried out under the immense duress and manipulative influence of Voldemort, were under scrutiny. Unlike previous conflicts where Albus Dumbledore's powerful political and moral standing might have swayed the tide in their favor, his untimely death left a critical void. Without his guiding hand or influential voice to argue their case, securing an acquittal or a pardon for their coerced deeds became an almost insurmountable challenge. The very heroes who saved the wizarding world found themselves ensnared in a legal quagmire, their sacrifices threatening to be overshadowed by the specter of their past.

The Wizengamot had declared a "new world" for wizarding society, one with zero tolerance for Death Eater activity. Consequently, their past actions, even those committed as children or under duress, would be met with no leniency.

Draco's savior, Granger, refused to back down. She fought in the stands, not just for him, but for his chosen family. Her status as the Golden Girl ensured she would be heard, but even that would get them so far.

Draco held the hands of the Greengrass sisters as the Wizengamot concluded their deliberations, preparing to deliver the sentences. The head of the Wizengamot announced that, despite the duress they had experienced and their pivotal role in Voldemort's swift downfall with minimal casualties, no leniency would be offered. Instead, they faced an ultimatum.

The cold, damp walls of Azkaban, a fortress of despair, loomed in their minds, a decade of soul-sucking Dementors and utter isolation. This was one of the two stark paths laid before them, a punishment designed to break even the most resilient of witches and wizards. The alternative, however, was a peculiar form of banishment: ten years in the mundane, non-magical world, known to them as the muggle realm. This was not a reprieve, but rather a different kind of imprisonment, one where their very essence – their magical abilities – would be utterly suppressed, bound by powerful enchantments until the day of their permitted return. The choice was a torment in itself, weighing the known horrors of Azkaban against the unsettling unknown of a magic-less existence amongst those who understood nothing of their true nature. Each option promised a profound loss, a decade of their lives consumed by either the depths of despair or the quiet erosion of their magical selves.

Astoria nearly collapsed onto Theodore's shoulder, while Daphne and Pansy looked utterly nauseated. The situation was dire. At just 17, they faced the prospect of wasting their twenties no matter what decision they made.

Draco's impassioned plea cut through the despair that had begun to settle over them, a stark reminder of their foundational truth: they were, above all else, family. He articulated with unwavering conviction that to surmount the formidable challenges that lay ahead, their unity was not merely an advantage, but an absolute necessity. Every alternative they had painstakingly considered, every strategy debated, ultimately led them back to a single, inescapable conclusion: only exile offered a path that preserved their sacred bond. It was the sole option that guaranteed they would remain a cohesive unit, facing adversity shoulder to shoulder, rather than crumbling into fragmented individuals.

A profound silence fell upon the gathering, punctuated only by the heavy breaths of those present, as Draco's words resonated in their hearts. Then, as if a singular thought had passed through them all, a collective decision solidified. Without a moment's hesitation, without a single dissenting voice, they unanimously chose to embrace ten years of exile. This was not a decision born of fear, but of an unshakeable commitment to each other, a testament to their deep-rooted love and loyalty. They would endure the hardship, the separation from their familiar world, and the unknown trials that awaited them, all together, as an unbroken family. Their collective resolve was a powerful declaration: their family would not just survive, but thrive, through this shared ordeal.

Chapter Text

The six individuals, their faces etched with a mixture of relief and trepidation, were permitted to leave the courtroom and return to their respective homes. The collective sigh of relief was almost palpable, as the dreaded sentence of Azkaban had been averted. However, their freedom was not absolute; the Wizengamot, in its austere wisdom, granted them a mere 48 hours to settle their affairs. This brief reprieve was a stark reminder of the uncertain future that loomed.

For some members of the Emerald Pack, the concept of "settling affairs" held little emotional weight. Years of ostracization by their families had severed emotional ties, leaving behind a landscape of indifference. Their goodbyes, if they could even be called that, were devoid of tears or heartfelt embraces, reduced to the simple, almost mechanical, act of packing their meager belongings. These individuals, hardened by past rejections, faced their impending departure with a stoic resolve, their focus solely on the pragmatic necessities of their new reality.

Draco Malfoy faced a unique challenge, unlike his pack mates, as he had three significant, emotionally complex goodbyes ahead of him. The most unexpectedly poignant of these was with Granger. Their relationship, unexpected by both, had been forged in the crucible of shared danger and mutual respect. Their parting would be more than a mere formality; it would be a moment of profound significance, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had irrevocably altered their lives. The thought of leaving her, even temporarily, gnawed at him, a stark contrast to the detachment he had once meticulously cultivated.

Draco understood her self-reproach over their sentence, her inability to have done more to save them. He had witnessed the ultimatum's impact in her eyes, seeing them well with tears as her face paled, even taking on a sickly green hue.

He was accosted the moment he exited courtroom ten, pulled by the arm through a nondescript side door. The door clicked shut, and he found himself in what appeared to be a small waiting room.
"Draco," Hermione wailed, throwing herself into his arms and clinging to him as sobs wracked her body.

Draco's heart clenched at her cries. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and buried his face in her wild curls, closing his eyes. He wanted to savor this moment, this scent—bergamot, vanilla, and the faint, familiar smell of books and parchment. It was his favorite.

"I—I'm sorry, I tried. They just—" Hermione started, but Draco cut her off by pressing his lips to hers.

Once Hermione seemed to have processed her guilt over their shared sentence, Draco gently pulled back from their embrace, his touch lingering for a moment before fully releasing her. Their eyes met, and she was struck by the intensity of his gaze. His bright, unoccluded grey eyes, usually shielded by a mask of indifference or a flicker of disdain, were now entirely open, reflecting a profound vulnerability. It was then she realized the depth of his presence; he wasn't just physically there, but emotionally so. He had intentionally lowered his carefully constructed walls, those defenses he had meticulously built over years to protect himself from the world, allowing himself to feel every raw and unedited emotion of that pivotal moment with her. The unspoken understanding that passed between them was heavy with the weight of their shared past, their complicated present, and the uncertain future that lay before them. In his gaze, Hermione saw not just his feelings, but a reflection of her own, a mirror to the complex tapestry of their intertwined fates.

"No tears, love," he whispered, his hands gently caressing her face, erasing the paths of the falling tears. "No tears.”

Hermione nodded silently. "They could have at least granted you parole, considering everything you risked to help end the war."

Draco’s gaze drifted from Hermione’s eyes, settling on a portrait across the room. “They could have,” he conceded, “but consider the aftermath. More Death Eaters would have attempted to evade their sentences. There would be corruption and riots from those who felt our punishments were too lenient.” He returned his focus to her beautiful brown eyes, his features softening as he wove his fingers through her hair. “I refuse to live in a world that continues to judge me, Hermione. I want them to see me for who I truly am: redeemed, having accepted my just punishment for my actions, despite all I risked to help in the end. I desire a fresh start, free from masks, legacies, or names to uphold.”

Hermione knew the truth in Draco's words; she was the only one with whom he truly let his guard down, revealing his vulnerabilities and speaking his innermost thoughts.

"Hermione, I've never loved anyone as I loved you. Our time together, Salazar, I was so incredibly fortunate to have every minute, every second of it," Draco began.

"I love you, Draco," Hermione said, her voice thick with barely suppressed tears.

He kissed her softly, then rested his forehead against hers. "As I love you." After a moment of silence, he spoke again. "I know it's unfair to ask you to wait, so I won't. I couldn't bear the thought of you being sad and alone. So please, if you find someone, if you have the chance to love and be loved, don't hold back."

She shook her head slowly, a silent denial of his words or perhaps the reality of their situation. Her arms tightened around him, a desperate embrace as if trying to merge their bodies into one, to somehow ward off the inevitable. She buried her face against his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt a small comfort against the turmoil raging within her. Each breath he took was a gentle vibration against her cheek, a fragile reminder of his presence, of their shared moment in a world that felt increasingly uncertain.

"Hermione, my love, please," he implored, gently lifting her chin with his index finger to meet her gaze. "For my sake. I want you to truly live. If, upon my return from exile, you are still unattached, I would be more than honored to court you, cherish you, and love you with my whole being. But I forbid you from waiting for me. I refuse to let you suffer on my account."

"Oh, Draco," Hermione sobbed. "I hate all of this for you."

Before their time together drew to a close, a quiet plea escaped Draco's lips, a request that held a fragile hope within its words: he asked her to stay the night, not for any expectation of intimacy, but simply as a gentle, drawn-out farewell. He desired nothing untoward, no clandestine tryst or stolen moments of passion. His yearning was far simpler, yet profound: to spend his final two days within their shared world, cradling her close as they drifted into sleep and waking to the soft presence of her in his arms. He yearned to truly know the feeling of holding her, to memorize the shape of her against him, to inhale the scent of her, just in case fate, in its cruel capriciousness, decreed that a future opportunity, a second chance, might never arise again. It was a plea born of a deep-seated fear of absence, a desire to etch her presence into his very being before the inevitable separation.

Hermione unhesitatingly accepted Draco's invitation. He promised her a proper dinner at the manor, followed by his undivided attention, and then they would fall asleep in each other's arms, only to wake and repeat. These memories, he vowed, he would bottle up in a Pensive, reliving them daily until his return.

"It's a date," Hermione confirmed, a smile breaking through her tears. "I'll make sure to dress up for the occasion."

As they parted, Draco consulted his timepiece, pulling it from his pocket to check the hour. He had one regrettable stop to make before his date with Hermione: a visit to his father in Azkaban.

The echoes of war had barely faded, yet the wheels of justice were already turning with an almost predetermined momentum. Lucius's trial marked not merely the beginning of a new legal chapter, but the very first case to be brought before them after the devastating conflict had finally concluded. It was as if every moment of the preceding hostilities had been a prelude, a tense anticipation building towards this precise moment. Their meticulous arraignment plans, conceived and refined even amidst the chaos of war, were deployed with chilling efficiency the instant the armistice was signed. There was no hesitation, no delay; the machinery of accountability, it seemed, had been greased and ready to grind into action, with Lucius at its immediate and stark focal point.

The Malfoy name, a name once whispered with reverence and a touch of fear, a name that had for centuries been synonymous with immense power, immeasurable wealth, and an almost untouchable status within the wizarding world, was among the first to be targeted in the wake of the new regime. This strategic move was not merely about individual justice; it was a carefully calculated blow against the old order, a powerful statement delivered with stark clarity.

Lucius Malfoy, the patriarch of the family, a man whose silver-blonde hair and haughty demeanor had long been a fixture in the highest echelons of magical society, was arrested with unprecedented swiftness. This was no quiet, clandestine affair. It was a public, symbolic act, meticulously orchestrated to broadcast a clear message to the nascent magical world order.

His apprehension served as a potent demonstration that the rules had fundamentally changed. It unequivocally declared that no individual, regardless of their ancestral legacy, their vast financial resources, or their former influence, was beyond the reach of this new, unyielding justice. The era of impunity, where wealth and connections could shield one from the consequences of their actions, was irrevocably over. Criminal acts, whether overt or covert, would now be answered for with the full force of the law, and a person's financial standing, once a powerful buffer, would no longer serve as a shield against accountability. The fall of the Malfoys was intended as a stark, unforgettable lesson for all who had benefited from or participated in the injustices of the past.

Not every transgression committed before the council was met with the most severe punishment of a life sentence. In fact, a significant and progressive shift in judicial philosophy had taken hold. The governing council, driven by a forward-thinking and pragmatic approach, actively sought reform within their penal system. They were acutely aware of the intrinsic value of magical bloodlines and were genuinely unwilling to jeopardize such a vital resource through overly harsh and often counterproductive sentencing.

The ultimate, overarching goal of their justice system was not merely retribution, but rather comprehensive rehabilitation. This foundational principle guided their decisions, leading to a revolutionary policy: every sentence, regardless of the severity of the crime, was capped at a maximum of ten years. This ensured that individuals, even those who had committed serious offenses, would eventually be reintegrated into society, their magical abilities preserved and their potential for positive contribution still intact. This approach fostered hope and offered a path to redemption, rather than condemning individuals to an inescapable fate.

After a decade of isolation and intensive rehabilitation within the Ministry's secure facilities, a comprehensive hearing would be convened to determine if the individual was deemed safe to re-enter the wider magical community. This hearing, presided over by a panel of senior Ministry officials, including representatives from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would meticulously review the individual's progress, psychological evaluations, and any demonstrable evidence of genuine remorse and a commitment to reform.

Should the panel rule in favor of conditional re-entry, the individual would then embark on a rigorous five-to-ten-year parole period. During this time, they would be placed under the direct supervision of a Ministry-appointed sponsor, carefully selected from the newly established Dark Arts Auror division. This division, formed specifically to monitor and rehabilitate former practitioners of dark magic, comprised highly trained Aurors with specialized expertise in the nuances of dark magic and the psychological profiles of those who have strayed from the light.

The sponsor's role would be comprehensive and demanding, acting as a live-in monitor for the duration of the parole. This arrangement would necessitate the sponsor residing with the parolee, ensuring constant oversight and immediate intervention if any signs of recidivism were detected. The only exception to this continuous monitoring would be during the parolee's designated work hours, which would also be subject to strict Ministry approval and regular inspections. Every aspect of the parolee's life – their magical activities, social interactions, correspondence, and even their leisure pursuits – would be meticulously observed and documented. This intensive surveillance regime was designed not only to prevent any reoffending but also to provide a structured environment conducive to sustained rehabilitation and the gradual reintegration of the individual into society, albeit under the Ministry's unwavering vigilance.

"I'm here to see Malfoy," Draco informed the visitation officer, handing over his wand.

Draco sighed, a heavy, familiar weight settling in his chest. His mind, ever a battleground of unwanted memories, drifted back to his last visit with his father in Azkaban, an event that had occurred between his fourth and fifth years at Hogwarts. The memory was stark, the chill of the Dementors still seeming to cling to him, the despair of the prison a suffocating shroud. It was shortly after this harrowing experience, with his father's broken form and bitter words still echoing in his ears, that he had been compelled to receive the Dark Mark. The image of the serpent and skull, seared into his left forearm, brought a fresh wave of revulsion. It was a decision he would never have made on his own, a choice forced upon him by fear and circumstance, regardless of the war's outcome. He had been a child then, desperate for approval, terrified of the consequences of defiance, and manipulated by forces far more powerful than himself. The Mark was a brand, not of loyalty, but of unwilling servitude, a constant reminder of his lost innocence and the path he had been irrevocably set upon.

In their fourth year, after the Triwizard Tournament concluded with Cedric Diggory's death and the whispers of the Dark Lord's return, Draco Malfoy had a meticulous plan. He, along with Blaise, Theodore, Pansy, and the Greengrass sisters, intended to flee the country. Their destination was abroad, a place where they could escape the burdens their families had imposed upon their lives through their association with Dark Wizards.

The Malfoys, a family renowned for their wealth and ancient lineage, possessed a multitude of properties scattered across the globe, each one a testament to their enduring power and influence. However, Draco knew with chilling certainty that none of them offered the sanctuary he desperately sought. To remain in any of their grand estates, even those in the most remote corners of the world, would be to invite the immediate scrutiny of the British Wizarding World. Their reach was extensive, their network of informants vast, and his face, for all its privilege, was now synonymous with the betrayals and atrocities of the war.

Theodore Nott, though equally wealthy in his own right, possessed only a single, ancestral property within Britain. While it was a formidable estate, its solitary nature made it an obvious target for anyone seeking him out. His reclusive nature and known aversion to the estate, which he actively avoided like the plague, only served to highlight its significance as his sole British base. He lived in a perpetual state of anticipation, waiting for the day he would be informed of his parents' demise, a prospect he had once spoken of with a disturbing blend of hope and resignation, never to be mentioned again.

Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and her younger sister Astoria, for all their pureblood heritage and social standing, had nothing of their own. Their lives had been largely spent under the protective (or perhaps stifling) wings of their families, primarily the Malfoys and the Zabinis, during holiday seasons and extended visits. Their lack of independent means meant they were always reliant on others, making them even more vulnerable and less likely to provide any true refuge.

This left them with Blaise Zabini’s numerous properties, a sprawling collection of villas and estates carefully distributed across the sun-drenched landscapes of Italy and the vibrant regions of Spain. Blaise, ever the shrewd and cautious one, had ensured his assets were not concentrated in a single, easily traceable location. These foreign holdings, less scrutinized by British Ministry officials and with a more transient, international clientele, offered their best chance at a temporary, if not permanent, disappearance. It was a perilous gamble, but given their increasingly desperate circumstances, it was the only option that promised even a flicker of hope for remaining hidden in the shadows.

His world crumbled the instant he received the Dark Mark. Embedded with tracers, the Mark prevented Death Eaters from deserting. Only Voldemort and his blood relatives, both equally dangerous, possessed the ability to track an individual through it. Despite the peril, the others remained, unwilling to abandon Draco to a life in hiding. Their loyalty to him was as fierce as his was to them.

Draco stepped into the private visiting room, where his father, Lucius, was already seated at the table. Lucius's expression revealed his surprise, clearly not expecting his son to be the visitor.

Lucius rose, his hands clasped behind his back, and gestured to the chair opposite him. "You came?" he breathed, still in disbelief, as he nodded to his son.

"Naturally, I did," Draco retorted, sinking into the offered chair, "but my reasons were entirely self-serving."

Lucius hesitated, then slowly resumed his seat. Though his posture remained that of an aristocrat, the arrogance and haughtiness that once defined him had vanished, replaced by a striking humility.

Draco watched his father, a sneer on his face, as he crossed his leg at the ankle. The silence between them was palpable before Draco finally broke it, remarking, “Humble looks good on your father.”

Lucius sighed, his palm twitching almost imperceptibly. Draco, however, noticed the movement. Lucius closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. "Alright, son, lay it on me." He knew this conversation was inevitable—the one where Draco would articulate every single one of his father's failings.

He saw the conversation building the moment they stood across from each other in the courtyard at Hogwarts, when everyone thought Harry Potter was dead and Voldemort had told everyone to choose his side or die. The air was thick with the dust of battle and the heavy scent of despair, a tangible shroud over the devastated grounds. The triumphant jeers of the Death Eaters echoed against the shattered walls, a stark contrast to the stunned, grief-stricken silence of the Hogwarts defenders.

There his son stood, a figure of stark contrast against the backdrop of chaos. His appearance, normally a testament to meticulous perfection, was now a portrait of disarray. His usually impeccably styled platinum hair was in wild disarray, matted with sweat and dust, falling haphazardly across his forehead. His aristocratic face, usually composed and aloof, was covered in a gruesome mixture of sweat, fresh blood, and grime, streaks of dirt further obscuring his pale features. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were vacant, a chilling sign of how intensely he was occluding, desperately trying to shield his mind from the horrific reality unfolding around him. Yet, even with such rigorous mental protection, every now and then a subtle tremor would pass through his frame, a tell-tale sign that his carefully constructed mask was faltering, just slightly, revealing the raw, undeniable fear that gnawed beneath the surface. His son was scared, truly, deeply scared, and the sight sent a cold, sharp pang through him.

The final hours of the war had etched an unimaginable, profound, and lasting wound upon him.

The moment he called his son to his side, hoping to spare him, their eyes met. But Draco looked away, choosing death over joining him. It was Narcissa's pleading call, a testament to their bond, whatever its worth, that ultimately drew him to them.

With the Department of Mysteries incident, the last vestiges of respect his son had for him vanished, their bond irrevocably severed. He hadn't grasped the full weight of it until the Longbottom boy attempted to decapitate Nagini, only to be thrown back by Voldemort's blast. It was then that Harry Potter revealed he was alive, and without a moment's hesitation, Draco—his own son—rushed forward, calling Harry's name and tossing him his own wand.

His son, a traitor to the Malfoy name, had turned against his family and their lifelong beliefs. As he watched, his son ran from Potter towards Neville, pulling another wand from his pocket. A Death Eater fired curses their way, but his son cast a shield charm, protecting himself and Neville.

He was then joined by the muggle-born witch he had once complained about in his early Hogwarts years, taking her hand. They worked together flawlessly: he maintained the shield while she levitated Longbottom to safety, allowing him to recover.

"This is our last encounter for at least a decade," Draco stated. "My hearing concluded today, and I've received my sentence."
Lucius's heart sank at his son's words.

“Azkaban?”
Draco slowly shook his head, his gaze fixed on his father's. "My family and I all received ultimatums: ten years in Azkaban or ten years of magical exile. The six of us chose exile so we could remain together."

"F-family," his father stuttered.

Draco nodded. “Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Astoria, and Daphne,” he listed, a smile gracing his lips. “Together, we form the family we never truly had.”

"Draco, magical exile! Do you comprehend what you're putting yourself through? And living among Muggles—" Lucius started, utterly horrified by the idea.

Draco slammed his hands on the table, his gaze piercing his father. "Of course, I know, no thanks to you. As I said, exile offers us a reprieve from all of this"—he gestured around the room—"and for the first time in our lives, we'll be able to live without the judgment, ridicule, and horrid expectations we faced here. Believe it or not, I'm mostly excited."

Lucius's silver-blonde head, usually held with such aristocratic disdain, sank heavily into his hand, propped up by a forearm that trembled ever so slightly. The visiting room felt suddenly charged with a palpable tension. His voice, though still imbued with its characteristic drawl, held a note of weary desperation. "Draco," he began, the name a sigh and an accusation all at once, "you're doing this just to spite me. This entire, ludicrous charade. Think, for Merlin's sake, about what you're doing. Think about the ramifications, the consequences, the sheer unadulterated folly of it all." He lifted his gaze, his pale eyes, usually so sharp and unyielding, now clouded with a mixture of disbelief and genuine paternal concern, though he would sooner die than admit the latter. "You are jeopardizing everything we have built, everything I have sacrificed. All for... what? A momentary act of rebellion?"

"I did think it all through, Father! Every single agonizing moment, every crushing regret, every ounce of shame that comes with the Malfoy name!" Draco's voice, usually a carefully controlled sneer, cracked with raw emotion as he practically launched himself to his feet. He effortlessly towered over Lucius, his shadow falling ominously across his father's startled face. "I'd rather lose my magic permanently—every last spark of it—than remain in this gilded cage you call a world, where I'm nothing more than an outcast, a pariah, all because of you and that cursed Malfoy legacy."

His chest heaved with a fury that had been simmering for years, finally boiling over. "You set me up for failure from the moment I drew my first breath! Drilling that pureblood superiority nonsense into my brain, poisoning my thoughts with your archaic prejudices. You taught me to despise anyone who wasn't exactly like us, to look down on Muggles and 'Mudbloods,' to believe we were inherently superior. And for what? So I could stand here today, utterly alone, with a name that invokes fear and disgust in equal measure?"

Draco's eyes, usually a cold grey, now blazed with a desperate, wounded light. "And let's not forget the emotional neglect, shall we? That must have done some serious, irreparable damage to me mentally. The constant pressure, the impossible expectations, the complete absence of genuine affection. All of it, a suffocating blanket woven from your ambition and your fear of losing face. You never taught me how to love, how to connect, how to be anything other than a miniature version of you. And now, I refuse to carry that burden any longer."

Lucius scoffed, "Emotional neglect? Really, Draco? Spare me the theatrics."

Draco leaned into Lucius's personal space, his hands gripping the arms of his father's chair, his face mere inches from his own.

“From a very young age, I was deprived of crucial emotional support, a void that ensured I never developed healthy mechanisms for processing my feelings. The expectation was always that I would display no emotion, effectively stifling any natural expression of joy, sorrow, or fear. When I was a child, comfort was a foreign concept; I was never soothed during moments of distress. Instead, my aunt, with a twisted sense of discipline, subjected me to what I can only describe as torture. Her stated aim was to forge strength and tolerance, but the reality was a brutal upbringing that stripped away my innocence and left deep, unhealed wounds.

“Any semblance of affection I received was not genuine; it was strictly transactional, a cold exchange for compliance or a specific outcome. There was no warmth, no unconditional love, only calculated interactions. This upbringing has left an indelible mark. My therapist was genuinely astonished that I managed to avoid becoming a sociopath, given the extreme conditions I endured. In her professional opinion, she believes I exist on a precipice, a mere hair's breadth away from such a profound detachment. The proximity to this emotional void is a constant, unsettling shadow in my life, a testament to the profound and damaging impact of my formative years.”
Straightening up, Draco returned to his seat, crossing his leg at the ankle as he once again faced his father. "Father, please forgive my outburst. It's something I'm actively addressing in therapy." He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I have a lot of work ahead, but I'm not the lost cause I was once made to believe. My girlfriend... ex-girlfriend... my friend, she has immense faith in me and believes I can improve. And I believe her."

Lucius fixed his son with a disdainful look, his eyes rolling. "Malfoy men do not discuss their feelings, and we certainly do not engage in therapy."

Draco inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling in a controlled rhythm. The familiar sting of frustration still pricked at him, a dull ache just beneath his sternum, but he refused to let it take hold. He meticulously counted, "Breath in - 1…2…3…4…5 - breath out 6…7…8…9…10." Each number was a small victory, a deliberate step away from the volatile reactions that had plagued his past. He could feel the tension, a tight knot in his jaw, slowly begin to unravel with each measured exhale.

This breathing exercise was repeated three more times, each cycle bringing a greater sense of calm, a firmer grasp on his own volatile emotions. Only when the last lingering echoes of his anger had receded, leaving behind a clear, albeit still somewhat weary, mind, did he finally acknowledge his father. Lucius Malfoy sat before him, an imposing figure of disapproval, his foot tapping a restless rhythm against the floor.

"I apologize," Draco stated, his voice steady, devoid of the defensive edge it would have carried mere moments before. He met his father's cool gaze without flinching. "I've been practicing to react less impulsively when I'm triggered." It was a confession, but also a declaration of intent, a quiet rebellion against the ingrained Malfoy tendency for explosive, often destructive, outbursts. He knew the path to genuine change was long and arduous, but he was determined to walk it, one controlled breath at a time.

"So, your ex-girlfriend, or whatever she is... the Muggleborn?"

Draco's nod, accompanied by a grin, sent his father to the brink of despair. The current Malfoy patriarch -only because his father was serving an azkaban sentence- was disgracing their name at every turn: betraying the Dark Lord, associating with "blood traitors" and Muggleborns, dating a Muggleborn, and choosing Magical Exile as his punishment.

A perverse, almost electric joy surged through him, a dark and potent current that threatened to overwhelm his senses. The thought of utterly disappointing his father, of shattering the carefully constructed facade of their shared ambition, was intoxicating. It wasn't merely a fleeting fantasy; it was a craving, a deep-seated hunger for destruction that had festered within him for years. He yearned for more than just a silent rebellion; he craved the explosive release of truth, the unburdening of every secret, every transgression, every bitter resentment. He would confess everything – not out of remorse, but out of a desperate need to tear down the gilded cage of expectation and finally, gloriously, be free.

With a relieved sigh, Draco leaned back in his chair, a grin playing on his lips. "Did I ever tell you about Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?" he asked his father. "During my sixth year, when I was tasked with killing Dumbledore because of your failure—I wasn't exactly in my right mind then, was I?" He chuckled to himself. "Barely sixteen, and I was expected to assassinate the man renowned for defeating Grindelwald. Clearly, the Dark Lord anticipated my failure, just so he'd have an excuse to kill me and punish you, as if you cared about me for anything other than lineage."

Lucius listened to his son in silence, his face stoic.

"I'd escape to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom for a proper cry. No one ever bothered that bathroom because its resident ghost was always weeping and randomly flooding it. That's where I'd hide.

The day I became a triple agent, she found me—the girl I had tormented with the ignorant ideas you instilled in me. She noticed something was wrong, sought me out, and made sure I was okay. She held me in her arms while I cried, in the most pathetic way, father. Truly pathetic."

Lucius's eyes narrowed, two slivers of glacial blue, as he glared at his son, the younger man standing defiant, shoulders back and chin set. A tense silence stretched between them, thick with years of unspoken words and simmering resentment. The flickering firelight in the room cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, making the scene feel even more dramatic, a silent play unfolding for an unseen audience.

"You would have disowned me if you had seen me when she stumbled upon me in the bathroom," Draco chuckled darkly, a hollow sound that lacked any genuine mirth. His gaze was fixed on some distant, painful memory. "I was on the floor in the fetal position, crying, with snot, tears, and drool smeared across my face. It was a complete and utter breakdown, the kind I never thought I'd allow myself to have, certainly not where anyone could see." He paused, a flicker of something softer, almost reverent, crossing his features. "And Hermione, gods, I fucking love her. Hermione just sat next to me and comforted me. There was no judgment in her eyes, no disgust, just a profound, unwavering empathy. She didn't try to fix me or tell me to pull myself together. She simply was there, a warm, solid presence in my chaotic world."

Draco's voice softened further as he recounted the tender moments. "Eventually, I ended up with my head in her lap, still in hysterics, and she wrapped her arms around me and held me. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt monumental. Her touch was gentle, her embrace firm, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly safe, truly seen, truly cared for without condition." He sneered at his father, the earlier softness replaced by a bitter fury. "Did you know that hug from a Muggleborn, of all people, was the first time I had ever been hugged? Not even Mother hugged me. She loved me in the way she knew, the way you expected of her. Naturally, it was too formal, impersonal, detached. A dutiful peck on the cheek for appearances, perhaps, or a stiff hand on my shoulder, but never the genuine warmth, the raw human connection of an embrace. And it took a Muggleborn, the very person you taught me to despise, to show me what that even felt like. Hermione, with her unfailing kindness and her unwavering strength, gave me a piece of myself I didn't even know was missing."

"I did you a favor. If I hadn’t set boundaries, she would have softened you, and soft Malfoys become worm food."

Draco rose slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, and began to pace. He paused several times before his father, his gaze darting from his father's face to the floor before he resumed pacing.

"You know," he began, looking up at his father as he continued to pace, "it's ironic. If I hadn't been exiled, I would have courted, gone steady with, and eventually married her. My choice to be exiled, to lose my magic and live among the muggles, is the sole reason I broke it off with her, telling her I didn't want to force her to wait for me."

"I would have devoted every moment of my life to loving her, building a life that defied every archaic Malfoy tradition, even with the Malfoy name still clinging to us. Imagine it: a sprawling, vibrant home, not the cold, austere manor I grew up in, but one filled with laughter, the scent of her favorite books, and Muggle contraptions that would make my ancestors faint. I would have systematically destroyed every ancestral portrait—not with some elegant, wand-waving magic, that would be too dignified for their bigotry. No, I'd have found some gloriously messy, Muggle way: perhaps a sledgehammer, or even, dare I say, a giant can of bright pink paint, just to make a point that their legacy held no sway over us. Each defaced canvas would be a testament to our new beginning.

And our children, Hermione's and mine, would have been many. Half-bloods, all of them, a joyous rebellion against the suffocating purity and elitism of my family. None of them would be burdened by the ridiculous Malfoy-Black naming conventions, no constellations, no historically significant latin names among them. In fact, I’m certain I would have loved to see Hermione’s face, a mixture of surprise and genuine delight, when I suggested naming them after characters from the Muggle classic literature books I often watched her devour during our shared library moments. We’d debate the merits of each name, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, my heart swelling with an affection I never thought possible. Charlotte, perhaps, for her quiet strength; Emma, for her vibrant spirit; James, for a touch of mischievous charm; Oliver, for a sense of enduring hope. Draco smiled at the vivid thought—all their children with strong, meaningful Muggle names, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the Malfoy traits of white-blond hair, pointed features, and those infamous, calculating grey eyes. They would be entirely their own, a beautiful, brilliant new lineage built on love, intelligence, and a resolute rejection of everything my family once stood for."
Draco stopped pacing, turning to confront his father, consumed by the desire for everything with Hermione.

"I intend to marry her. If she remains single upon my return, I will take her hand, and our union will signify more than just personal happiness. You know, Father, I believe we'll forge a new, revolutionary path, one that shatters generations of tradition. Instead of her adopting my name, I'll proudly take hers. As Hermione and Draco Granger, we will definitively end the Malfoy legacy—a legacy stained by prejudice, darkness, and a history I no longer wish to be a part of. And in its place, we will initiate the Granger legacy—a legacy built on intellect, courage, kindness, and all the virtues we can truly be proud of, a legacy that will echo through generations, signifying a new era of our family's history."

Lucius cried out like a wounded animal, quickly rising from his chair only to collapse to his knees before his son, his hands clasped in supplication.

"Draco, consider your words. Nine centuries, nine!" Lucius appeared on the verge of a heart attack.

"As the current Head of Malfoy Manor and the entire Malfoy name and legacy," he hissed, his voice laced with a venomous sweetness that belied the cutting edge of his words. He paused, allowing the weight of his declaration to settle, his eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. "I make this promise to you, father: The day I begin dismantling the Malfoy name's very existence, you will not only receive progress reports, but you will witness its demise in the most public and humiliating fashion imaginable."

A slow, predatory smile stretched across Draco's lips, the thought of his father's impotent rage a delicious prospect. "In fact, I will do one better: I will personally deliver the story of this progress, piece by agonizing piece, to every major wizarding paper, and they, in turn, can publish it to the entire public." He pictured the headlines, the whispered conversations, the collective gasp of the wizarding world as the once-unshakeable Malfoy dynasty crumbled into dust.

"Every property, from the sprawling estates to the most humble of ancestral cottages, every business, from our investments in Borgin and Burkes to the smallest, most obscure holdings, every piece of gold that once bore the proud, pristine Malfoy name – all of it will become an asset under the name Granger." The final word was spoken with an almost reverent affection, a promise to the woman who had, in her own quiet way, inspired this magnificent, vengeful masterpiece. It would be a complete and utter erasure, a phoenix rising from the ashes of Malfoy's downfall, but this phoenix would bear the name of his wife, a testament to a new beginning forged from the bitter end of an old, dying world.
"Imagine it, father, truly imagine it—Malfoy Inc. eradicated!" Draco cackled hysterically. "Granger Inc. sounds so much better. Oh, just imagine the thought of us having so many kids, father. All of them looking every bit like their mother, and having her last name passed on for eternity, the Malfoy name long forgotten."

Lucius was on his knees, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he clutched desperately at his chest. His usually composed features were contorted in a mask of agony, eyes bulging and bloodshot as if he were on the verge of succumbing to a violent illness. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his pale forehead, and his breathing was shallow, ragged gasps that tore at the silence of the room. He swayed precariously, his powerful frame suddenly fragile, threatening to collapse entirely. Whatever torment gripped him, it was clearly profound, threatening to overwhelm his very being.
"Actually," Draco announced, his voice carrying a newfound resonance that spoke of ambition and a desire to redefine his legacy, "I believe I might immortalize the Malfoy name, but not in the way anyone would expect." He paused, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he imagined the shock and perhaps even grudging admiration of his pureblood peers. "Perhaps a foundation for at-risk youth. A genuine endeavor, not just a performative gesture for public consumption."

He then raised his hands, flourishing them in a grand arc, as if conducting an invisible orchestra of change. His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, softened with a hint of genuine conviction. "I think Theodore might be interested in a collaboration," he mused aloud, envisioning Nott's quiet intellect and his own strategic prowess merging for a common good. The idea was still nascent, a delicate bloom in the fertile ground of his evolving perspective, but it held the promise of something truly significant.

With a final, decisive flourish, Draco declared, his voice ringing with a blend of confidence and burgeoning purpose, "The Malfoy-Nott Foundation For At-Risk Youth." The words hung in the air, a testament to a future he was determined to sculpt, a future where the Malfoy name would be synonymous not with darkness and prejudice, but with hope and opportunity for those who needed it most. It was a declaration of intent, a quiet revolution stirring within the heart of a man once burdened by a name, now poised to transform it.

Draco was enthusiastic about the concept of establishing a sanctuary for children who had experienced neglect, harm, or unsafe living conditions. This haven would offer them the choice of temporary or long-term residency. It would serve as a refuge for children like Theodore, who suffered abuse from his father, providing a safe alternative during holidays so they wouldn't be forced to return to abusive homes.

A true haven would be established for children like him—children who had endured the trauma of being raised with horrific, often cult-like, beliefs. These were the forgotten ones, neglected and failed in every conceivable way by the very individuals entrusted with their upbringing and care.

At this sanctuary, the staff would be meticulously chosen for their profound compassion, unwavering love, and attentive nature. They would be more than just caregivers; they would be excellent listeners, patiently offering the profound love, gentle guidance, and consistent support that these deeply wounded children so desperately needed to begin healing and reclaim their childhood.

It would be unmappable and so thoroughly protected by ancient magic that every child within its bounds would remain safe.

"Yes, it's perfect," Draco thought as the vision materialized in his mind.

"W-what is perfect? Draco, I implore you, let us discuss this. Do not jeopardize nine centuries of our family's legacy because I proved to be an inadequate father to you. I beg of you," Lucius pleaded once more.

"Father, don't worry, I won't tear down the Manor. In fact, I believe we might need to expand it within the next two decades; it would be the perfect location for the Malfoy-Nott Foundation." He clapped his father on the shoulder and pulled out his pocket watch, his eyes widening at the time. "It was a wonderful visit, catching up and all. Now, I really must return to the Manor. I have a final date with Hermione, and I need to send an owl to the Prophet to ensure this is published before my exile."

As Draco reached for the door, a sudden, guttural grunt ripped through the oppressive silence of the room. His father, Lucius Malfoy, stumbled backward, a hand clutching desperately at his chest, his face contorted in a grimace of pain. Draco paused, his hand still hovering inches from the cheap wood, a flicker of something unreadable in his usually aloof grey eyes. He didn't turn fully, merely glanced over his shoulder, his gaze falling upon his father's struggling form. Lucius’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each one a harsh, tearing sound in the otherwise still air.

A sigh, long and exaggerated, escaped Draco’s lips. It was a sound heavy with disdain, a familiar weariness for the constant drama that seemed to cling to his father like a second skin. He slowly, almost deliberately, took a step back from the door, his eyes narrowed as he observed the elder Malfoy's labored breathing, the sudden pallor that had overtaken his usually aristocratic features. There was no immediate concern in Draco's expression, no rush to aid, only a cold, calculating assessment.

"What the bloody hell is going on with you?" Draco sneered, the words delivered with a venomous edge that cut through the strained quiet. He took another step closer, his gaze unwavering, a challenge in his eyes. The question was less an inquiry and more an accusation, a demand for an explanation for this inconvenience and, in Draco's mind, entirely unnecessary display of theatrics. The air between them crackled with a tension thicker than the expensive velvet curtains adorning the windows at the manor, a palpable mix of disdain, resentment, and a chilling absence of filial affection.

"M-my h-heart. My heart," Lucius gasped, his voice a ragged whisper as he clutched desperately at his chest. A searing, crushing pain had erupted within him, radiating outwards like a wildfire, stealing his breath and blurring his vision. His fingers, trembling uncontrollably, dug into the fabric of his shirt, seeking some anchor against the terrifying sensation that threatened to consume him whole. Each beat of his heart felt like a hammer striking against a fragile bell, echoing a frantic, irregular rhythm in his ears. The world around him, moments before vibrant and alive, now receded into a distant hum, replaced by the deafening throb inside his own body. He stumbled, his legs suddenly weak and uncooperative, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow, trickling down his temples. Fear, raw and primal, clawed at his throat, a silent scream trapped within his chest as the agony intensified.
Draco subtly tilted his head, his silvery eyes, usually alight with a sharp intelligence or a hint of disdain, now carefully studying his father. Lucius Malfoy, a figure accustomed to an aura of chilling control, stood before him, a fleeting, almost imperceptible tremor in his hand betraying an inner turmoil Draco rarely witnessed. A flicker of shock, swiftly followed by a wave of pure, unadulterated amusement, widened Draco's eyes, momentarily banishing their customary narrowness. It was a rare, almost unprecedented sight – Lucius, even for a moment, appearing anything less than perfectly composed.

"No fucking way, are you seriously having a heart attack, father? A fucking heart attack?" Draco's laugh was dark, the irony not lost on him. Dying a "Muggle death" was considered a pureblood shame; pureblood wizards typically succumbed to old age, not common ailments like heart attacks. They believed only a weak wizard, someone of lesser blood, could die in such a way. And yet, that was precisely what was happening to his father.

"Draco—" The name was a guttural, desperate plea, choked and unfinished. Lucius Malfoy, a man whose life had been defined by calculated cruelty and an unwavering belief in his own superiority, buckled at the knees. The air, thick with the acrid scent of ozone and the lingering fear of battle, seemed to crackle around him. His eyes, usually cold and imperious, widened in a moment of pure, unadulterated terror and dawning realization. The intricate silver snake on his cane, once a symbol of his power and influence, clattered against the flagstones, a hollow, final sound.

He crumpled, a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, to the cold, unforgiving floor. The elaborate robes, once immaculately tailored, twisted around him, no longer concealing the frailness beneath. A gasp, ragged and incomplete, escaped his lips, a final exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime of dark choices. His eyes, fixed on some unseen point, clouded over, the spark of life extinguished as quickly as it had ignited.

Unmoving. Unbreathing. He was dead. The silence that followed was not one of peace, but of profound, unsettling finality. A once formidable presence, a figure who had cast a long, dark shadow over the wizarding world, was now nothing more than a fallen, empty shell. The echoes of his last, unfinished word hung in the air, a testament to a life ended abruptly, without reprieve, and with the name of his son on his lips.

Draco advanced with deliberate, measured steps, circling his father's body like a predator assessing wounded prey. A slow smile spread across his lips as he paused.

"Bloody hell, that really just happened. Hmm…" Draco's voice trailed off, a strange mix of disbelief and detached curiosity in his tone as he leaned down. He pressed his palm firmly against his father's expensive silk robes, right over where Lucius Malfoy's heart should have been. A chilling silence met his touch; nothing. Not even a faint, struggling thrum echoed beneath his fingers. Lucius Malfoy, the imperious, unyielding patriarch, was utterly still.

"Fuck… Fucking hell!" Draco rose to his feet, the expletives tearing through the otherwise unnervingly quiet room. A sharp, almost manic laugh escaped him, a sound utterly devoid of grief, yet tinged with a dark, unsettling realization. He ran a hand through his perpetually artfully disheveled blond hair, a sudden, morbid thought striking him. "I need to start meditating more; last thing I need is croaking in my 40s like this old codger."

He glanced back at the prone, lifeless form of his father, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. With a flourish of his hand, he threw up a crisp, defiant V-sign at the late Lord Malfoy's body – a gesture of ultimate disrespect and liberation. A deeper, more genuine cackle burst forth from him then, echoing eerily in the silent room. Without another backward glance, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, rapping his knuckles sharply against it. The sound, stark and final, signaled the unambiguous end of his visit – and the beginning of a new, unsettling chapter.

The door swung inward with a groan, revealing Draco's pale, drawn face. He gestured vaguely towards the room, where a figure lay slumped in a heap across the stone floor. "The fucker," Draco began, his voice devoid of its usual sneer, replaced by a brittle edge, "had a heart attack during our conversation."

The air in the room was still thick with recent arguments. It seemed the patriarch, Lucius Malfoy, had been unable to stomach the casual disregard with which his son had proposed shattering centuries of pureblood tradition. Draco, in a moment of rebellious fervor or perhaps genuine conviction, had floated the idea of marrying a Muggle-born witch and, to add insult to ancestral injury, adopting her "common" surname. The very thought, a deliberate affront to the hallowed Malfoy lineage and its carefully cultivated purity, had proven too much for the elder Malfoy's constitution. The weight of nine centuries of aristocratic pride, coupled with the shocking irreverence of his only heir, had seemingly triggered a fatal, explosive reaction within him, leaving him a motionless testament to the unyielding power of tradition and the devastating impact of its perceived betrayal.

Chapter Text

Upon his return to the imposing gates of Malfoy Manor, a sense of calculated anticipation settled over Draco. The vast, shadowy halls, usually filled with an air of cold formality, now seemed to hum with an unusual energy. Without a moment's hesitation, he sought out the house-elves, their small, wizened faces reflecting his command. "Prepare exceptional meals," he instructed, his voice resonant in the quiet, "Hermione Granger will be my guest for the next two days." The words, spoken with a precise, almost imperious tone, sent a ripple of subdued activity through the ancient manor. The house-elves, accustomed to his every whim, scurried off to meticulously arrange the finest ingredients and most exquisite dishes.

Having issued his directives, Draco retreated to his private chambers, a haven of opulent solitude. The day's events, a complex dance of politics and clandestine arrangements, had left him feeling both drained and invigorated. A long, hot shower washed away the lingering traces of the outside world, the steam coiling around him like a protective shroud. As the water sluiced over his skin, he contemplated the intricacies of the next forty-eight hours, each detail meticulously planned in his mind. He emerged refreshed, the lingering tension in his shoulders eased, he felt a renewed sense of purpose, ready to navigate the uncharted waters of Hermione Granger's visit to Malfoy Manor.

He made a deliberate choice for his attire, selecting tapered charcoal trousers that offered a modern, streamlined silhouette. These were perfectly complemented by a crisp white slim-fit button-down shirt, its fabric immaculately pressed and providing a sharp contrast to the darker trousers. To further elevate the ensemble, he added Y-back suspenders, their classic design hinting at a sophisticated, old-world charm.

For his footwear, he opted for sleek Chelsea boots crafted from what appeared to be exotic dragon-hide, their polished surface catching the light with every movement. These added an unexpected touch of luxury and boldness to his otherwise understated outfit. Finally, to complete his meticulously curated look, he adorned his French cuffs with his newest acquisition: a pair of striking black DG monogrammed cuff links, their subtle gleam serving as a final flourish of personal style. Every element, from the cut of his trousers to the intricate detail on his cuff links, spoke of careful consideration and an unwavering commitment to refined elegance.

After Draco deemed his neck-down appearance satisfactory, he began meticulously styling his hair, a ritual he enjoyed. He uncapped a jar of his favorite pomade, the subtle scent of sandalwood filling the air as he worked a small amount between his palms. With practiced movements, he slicked his blonde strands back, ensuring every hair was perfectly in place. The pomade, a special blend he'd discovered at a small artisan apothecary in a shop in muggle London when on a date with Hermione, held his hair impeccably without ever hardening, a quality he deeply appreciated. This allowed his hair to maintain its natural, soft texture, inviting to the touch rather than rigid.

His hair, now a sleek, brushed curtain that fell to just below his neckline, was longer than he had ever worn it before, a testament to a recent decision to embrace a more relaxed, yet still refined, aesthetic. His bangs, however, remained too short to be incorporated into the slicked-back style. They fell artfully, framing his face and softening the otherwise sharp lines of his coiffure.

Finishing his hair, Draco took a step back from the vanity, his gaze sweeping over his reflection in the full-length mirror. A satisfied smile played on his lips, a silent acknowledgment of a job well done. He added a simple watch, one that Hermione had gifted to him on his 17th birthday, a final touch, ready to face the day with confidence.

He gazed at his reflection, truly seeing himself for the first time since the encounter in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Where once there was only profound hatred and contempt, now, meeting his own eyes, a profound sense of peace settled upon him. A burgeoning pride for what was to come filled him, ready for the future.

A loud crack echoed through the room, drawing his gaze to his house elf. The elf bowed, announcing that the requested items were now in the library and, moreover, Granger had arrived.

After thanking the elf, which apparated with a crack, Draco was left alone with his reflection. He sighed nervously, nodded at himself, and then apparated to the foyer, where ancient wards indicated her presence.

Hermione stepped forward, breathing Draco's name, and embraced him.

Hermione's cream-colored silk dress, with its tastefully low neckline, beautifully showcased her collarbones, drawing Draco's gaze.
Draco moved Hermione at arm's length, stepping back to properly admire her. Hermione's blush deepened under his gaze, prompting Draco to sigh and clear his mind of tempting thoughts.

"Dinner should be ready," he announced, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her hand as he laced his fingers through hers. A gentle squeeze affirmed their connection, and he nodded over his shoulder, a silent invitation for her to follow. The scent of roasted herbs and something subtly sweet, perhaps a baked apple dessert, wafted from the direction of the basement kitchen, promising a comforting meal after a long day. Hermione smiled, a warmth spreading through her at his thoughtful gesture, and allowed him to lead her towards the Formal dining room, anticipating not just the food, but the shared quiet moments that accompanied it.

Draco pulled out her chair, tucked her in, and then seated himself beside her. Immediately, plates of food and filled goblets appeared before them.

Hermione picked up her fork, exclaiming, "Wow, this looks amazing, Draco."

Draco smiled as his index finger traced her jawline.

"First of five courses," Draco purred, his eyes fixed on hers, a predatory glint within their depths. "Amuse-bouche, a prosciutto and fig salad." The delicate plate, a miniature work of culinary art, was placed before them, the vibrant green of arugula contrasting with the deep crimson of the prosciutto and the subtle sweetness of the figs. He then lifted his goblet, the crystal catching the ambient light, swirling the prosecco under his nose, breathing in its bright, effervescent notes before taking a long, contemplative sip. "Ahhh, and a prosecco to pair. A crisp, dry vintage from the Veneto region, if I'm not mistaken." He watched her closely, a hint of a challenge in his gaze, as if daring her to find fault with his house elves' meticulous selections.

Upon finishing the amuse-bouche – each bite a carefully orchestrated symphony of salty, sweet, and peppery notes – Draco signaled his readiness for the next course by crossing his fork and knife precisely on his plate. It was a silent gesture, a mark of impeccable table etiquette, refined and almost imperceptible, yet instantly understood by the attentive house elves.

Their dishes were cleared almost instantaneously, leaving no trace of the previous course. In its place, a rich, velvety butternut squash bisque, a vibrant orange hue, paired with a viognier, suddenly appeared in an elegant, shallow bowl at the center of the charger plate. The aroma of roasted squash and warm spices wafted tantalizingly, promising a comforting yet sophisticated experience. The viognier, a full-bodied white wine with notes of apricot and honeysuckle, was a perfect counterpoint to the creamy soup, its subtle acidity cutting through the richness.

Next was the main course, a perfectly seared lamb steak, blushing pink in the center, accompanied by a glossy, dark red wine jus. The presentation was exquisite, a testament to the house elf's artistry. Before cutting into his steak, Draco took a sip of the accompanying wine, a deep, ruby-red liquid that coated the glass with promise. A slow, contented sigh escaped his lips. “This is one of Blaise’s. A Syrah from the Rhône Valley. Its peppery notes and robust body are ideal with the lamb.” His tone held a subtle pride, as if presenting a rare and coveted treasure, revealing a glimpse into his personal world of refined tastes and connections.

Hermione took a sip of her wine, a blush rising on her cheeks. "Although I enjoy an occasional glass of wine, I wouldn't call myself an enthusiast."

Draco raised his glass to Hermione, a mischievous grin on his face. "It seems I've bested you in the subject." He then revealed that Zabini, whose vast vineyards spanned Italy, France, and Spain, was the source of all his wine knowledge.

Blaise Zabini, a name synonymous with unparalleled winemaking expertise, meticulously cultivated a legacy that enriched his family over the last year. His innate talent for discerning the subtle nuances of spirits and wine, combined with a deep-seated fascination for the ancient art of potion-making, served as the fertile ground from which his incredibly successful ventures blossomed.

Under the prestigious banner of "Zabini’s Reserves," Blaise introduced two distinct and equally celebrated lines that captivated palates across both the mundane and magical worlds. "The Seventh Heir" was his masterful collection of spirits, renowned for its exquisite craftsmanship and potent, often enchanting, qualities. Complementing this, "The Black Rose" offered a sophisticated range of wines, each bottle a testament to Blaise's meticulous attention to detail and his profound understanding of viticulture. Both lines quickly became hallmarks of quality and luxury, solidifying Blaise's reputation as a true visionary in the world of fine libations.

He flourished his hand with a theatrical sweep, and from the shimmering air, a wine bottle materialized as if spun from moonlight and shadow. He presented it to her with a delicate, almost reverent flourish, the glass catching the ambient light. "This bottle," he began, his voice a low, resonant murmur, "is designed to feel substantial in the hand, to whisper tales of mystery and elegance."

As they both admired its sharp, almost predatory silhouette, the edges catching and refracting light, he continued, "It's something that looks as though it truly belongs nestled within the locked liquor cabinet of an ancient manor, perhaps behind a secret panel, among forgotten elixirs and potent potions."

A knowing smile played on his lips. "And look closely," he urged, gesturing for her to take it. "If you tilt the bottle ever so slightly, allowing the light to play across its surface, a subtle, almost clandestine pattern emerges. Intertwined roses and sinuous snakes become visible, woven into the very fabric of the deep black label. It’s a detail, you see, that only reveals itself to those who truly seek it, a secret whisper you only notice when you draw near." The dark liquid within seemed to shimmer, promising untold delights.

Draco and Hermione continued their conversation throughout their five-course dinner. By the time they finished, the grandfather clock in the corner chimed, signaling it was well past 9 p.m.

He rose with a graceful, almost imperceptible movement, his gaze unwavering as he met Hermione's eyes. With a gentle pull, he drew back her intricately carved chair, the soft scrape of wood on stone barely audible in the hushed silence of the room. He extended his hand, his fingers long and elegant, and Hermione, a small smile playing on her lips, accepted it without hesitation. The warmth of his touch was a familiar comfort, a silent promise of the adventures that awaited them.

He drew her into a tender embrace, a fleeting moment of intimacy that spoke volumes of their shared understanding and deep affection. Then, with a faint pop and the sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube, they disapparated, leaving the grand hall behind. They reappeared in an instant, the sudden rush of cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth they had just left. They stood on the sprawling, slate-tiled roof of the manor, bathed in the soft glow of the moon and a myriad of distant stars. Dominating the center of the rooftop, a magnificent, gleaming brass telescope stood sentinel, its polished lens reflecting the celestial tapestry above, beckoning them to explore the mysteries of the cosmos.

"Wow, this is brilliant!" Hermione beamed as Draco adjusted the telescope with a flick of his wand.

"Here, take a peek." Draco murmured, guiding her to the telescope and stepping back, allowing her to look.

Hermione pressed her eye to the telescope's lens, her gaze fixed on a brilliant constellation. "Oh, it's your namesake. Draco—" Her voice caught as his hands gripped her waist.

"Just south of my constellation," Draco began, his long fingers tracing her waist, a playful shiver running down her spine at his touch. His voice, a low rumble, filled the quiet expanse around them, weaving tales of the celestial sphere. "You'll find another: Lyra. It was created and placed in the sky by the god Hermes, whose name has a feminine derivative in Hermione." He paused, his gaze meeting hers, a knowing glint in his eyes. "A name, perhaps, that resonates with a certain bright witch we both know." A soft chuckle escaped her lips, the allusion to their shared past hanging in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the intricate tapestry of their lives, entwined with the myths of the stars.

Hermione struggled to concentrate, her heart quickening as Draco leaned closer, his warm, minty breath caressing her ear. "The name meaning messenger," he whispered, before groaning softly. His lips grazed her neck, then pressed a light kiss to her clavicle. "Miss. Granger, tell me, do you believe in fate?"

Hermione's knees buckled, threatening to give way completely, but Draco's grip on her kept her upright.

Draco chuckled, the sound a low rumble against her ear as he pressed a tender kiss to the delicate curve of her lobe. In one fluid, effortless motion, he swept her into his arms, her weight negligible to him. With a familiar twist in the air, a sign of their magical transportation, they apparated, not to just any part of the sprawling Malfoy Manor, but to the second landing of the family's renowned library.

The library was a breathtaking sight, a testament to centuries of Malfoy history and wealth. Towering shelves of dark, polished wood stretched to the vaulted ceilings, laden with countless volumes bound in leather, some ancient and others more recently acquired. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, leather, and a hint of the crisp, clean magic that permeated the very foundations of the estate. Moonlight streamed in through grand, arched windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air and casting long, dramatic shadows across the opulent space that wasn’t caught in the candle light.

At the center of this majestic landing, a grand maple colonial mahogany desk awaited them. Its surface, a rich, deep red-brown, was meticulously carved and gleamed under the ambient light. It was not merely a decorative piece, but a working surface, currently covered with an array of items. Various missives, some sealed with official-looking wax, others open and displaying neat script, were scattered across one corner. A thick, leather-bound portfolio binder, its contents undoubtedly important, lay beside them. And prominently displayed, almost as if waiting for their arrival, was a thick parchment envelope, its edges crisp and its seal intact, hinting at contents of significant import.

Draco's heart quickened as he observed her face contort, scrutinizing the numerous objects laid out on the desk. He understood her silent questions about their significance and his reasons for bringing her there.
He took her hand, his touch warm and reassuring, and pressed several tender kisses to her knuckles, a silent promise in each soft brush of his lips. His gaze, filled with a gentle warmth, met hers as he slowly, carefully, guided her into a large, plush armchair. The fabric, a rich velvet, seemed to embrace her as she settled, the deep cushioning offering a comforting sink. He then took a seat beside her, the soft creak of the leather as he leaned back the only sound in the otherwise quiet room, his presence a steady anchor in the soft light.

"I visited my father yesterday," he started, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to catch in his throat. He paused, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point, a profound weariness etched onto his features. "And I killed him."

Hermione's face, usually so composed, contorted in a mixture of shock and dawning horror. She turned to him sharply, her eyes wide, frantically searching his face for any hint of a jest, a morbid prank she desperately hoped it was. A cold knot of fear tightened in her stomach.

He saw her reaction, the silent plea in her eyes for him to retract the impossible statement, and a faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "I didn't do it directly; he had a heart attack caused by what I told him." The words were delivered with a chilling matter-of-factness that only deepened her unease.

A crease formed between his eyebrows, a testament to the turbulent thoughts warring within him. "I said so many things." His voice trailed off, lost in the echoing chambers of his memory, replaying every cutting word, every raw accusation that had tumbled from his lips. He remembered the tremor in his father's hand, the sudden pallor that had washed over his face, the way his breath had hitched. It had been a torrent of years of unspoken resentment, of bitter truths and painful revelations, all unleashed in one devastating volley.

And then, unexpectedly, Draco chuckled. It was a harsh, humorless sound, devoid of mirth, more a ragged expulsion of air born of despair and a strange, perverse relief. He didn't know whether to scream or laugh, to weep or rage. The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the ghost of that chilling chuckle, leaving Hermione to grapple with the horrific weight of his confession.

“You arse, Draco Malfoy, you scared me,” Hermione gasped, shoving his shoulder. “I thought you might end up in Azkaban.” She pressed a hand to her chest, taking several deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

He apologized with a boyish grin, a charming flicker in his eyes that always disarmed her. "And I love that you would have cared enough to fear for me, rather than fear me," he added, his voice softening, a genuine warmth replacing the playful teasing. It was a sentiment that touched Hermione deeply, a recognition of her loyalty and affection that few others truly understood. Her response, however, was another firm, yet affectionate, swat to his shoulder. It was her way of acknowledging his sincerity while also chiding him for the reckless behavior that had prompted her concern in the first place. The playful violence, a familiar dance between them, spoke volumes of their enduring bond, a silent language of care and exasperation.

Draco chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the quiet office. He reached a slender hand, adorned with a signet ring, to the top of his polished mahogany desk, retrieving a thick, leather-bound portfolio. With a flourish, he held it up for Hermione to see, the gold-embossed lettering gleaming under the soft light of the enchanted lamps.

Hermione leaned forward, her brow furrowed in curiosity, her eyes scanning the elegant script. "The Draco-Nott Foundation for at-risk youth?" she read aloud, a hint of surprise in her voice. She looked up at him, a question forming on her lips, her gaze a mixture of intrigue and something akin to a silent challenge. The name, a powerful alliance of two ancient wizarding families, spoke volumes, and the cause, a stark departure from their shared past, promised a fascinating story.

She picked up the portfolio and began to read as Draco elaborated on the concept that had come to him during a rant to his father. He was unsure which of his ideas had been the final straw, but the stress he caused had led to his father's fatal heart attack.

"Draco, this is brilliant."

Draco smiled faintly. "I also sent a less formal proposal to Nott. He actually agreed and then put all of this together. The man is a genius – something many people don't notice about him because he's so theatrical and unserious most of the time, but damn."

Hermione gave him an an inquisitive look.

"While it may appear that you and I were the top students in our graduating class, securing the first and second positions respectively, the reality is far more intricate and, frankly, disturbing. Our seemingly superior academic standing was a direct consequence of his deliberate and calculated manipulation of the system. He intentionally sabotaged his own grades, meticulously ensuring that he landed precisely in third place. This wasn't due to any lack of ability or genuine academic struggle, but rather a chillingly precise act of rebellion, designed solely to spite his father. His intellectual capacity, when fully unleashed and not constrained by such schemes, is truly unsettling in its depth and scope. It's a level of genius that borders on the unnerving, a mind capable of such intricate planning and execution, even when the goal is self-sabotage for personal vendetta."

Hermione's face paled at the mere idea of being academically surpassed; it was obvious that, had it not been for Theodore's vindictive and self-destructive behavior, she would have been.

"I'm serious. The only offense he was ever charged with, the one that led to his exile, was constructing a time-turner that he used to journey into the future, pirating Muggle music for our common room parties."

Hermione gave him a disbelieving look, clearly expecting more to the story.

"Okay, and then there was that time with the muggle bloke who apparently made the movie The Titanic. Theo despised the ending so much that he confronted the guy, erased his memory of it, and implanted a new, different ending in his mind."

Hermione scoffed, "That's bullshit. You're just yanking my chain now."

Draco's laughter filled the air, a genuine, unburdened sound. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and sincerity. "I swear it," he insisted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Honestly, he even left little breadcrumbs, calling cards, if you will. Every single time he forced us to watch that wretched Muggle film on his… contraption," he shuddered dramatically at the thought of the television, "he'd pause it. And then, with an almost maniacal glee, he'd point out each and every one of them."

He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "There are 37 calling cards, in case you're wondering," he added, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Thirty-seven carefully placed clues, hints, and outright blatant Easter eggs that he swore only he, in his infinite Muggle-loving wisdom, could possibly discern. It was a torture, I tell you, a sheer, unadulterated torture."

Draco tensed, feeling the wards announce a new arrival. Before he could speak, Theo's voice cut through the air, a song-like declaration: "Prince Theodore has arrived!"

Chapter Text

The two watched, a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation on their faces, as Theodore practically skipped across the library's lower level. His usually composed demeanor was utterly absent, replaced by a buoyant energy that seemed to defy the quiet solemnity of the ancient building. He weaved between towering bookshelves, his light steps barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the moonlight beams that pierced the windows. A mischievous grin spread across his face, clearly enjoying the spectacle he was creating.

Then, with a flourish that was entirely characteristic of his flamboyant personality, he spun on the balls of his feet, a blur of motion, and apparated. The air shimmered, a faint ripple disturbing the still atmosphere, and his body materialized impressively in a sitting position on the very edge of the large, mahogany desk directly before them. His legs swung playfully, his eyes twinkling with uncontainable mirth as he surveyed their reactions. He had, as always -from Draco’s knowledge-, managed to make an entrance that was both dramatic and undeniably theatrical.

"Okay, I'm beginning to understand," Hermione said, acknowledging the subtlety of Theodore's brilliance.

Draco rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Theodore, we're about to spend the next decade together, so why exactly are you here?"

"Because you summoned me," he stated, his voice resonating with an almost bored certainty. "A rather clever, if I do say so myself, adaptation of a technique I gleaned from Ole Voldy. You see, that particular dark wizard, in his infinite paranoia, had the rather ingenious idea of embedding a tracker, a magical homing beacon if you will, directly onto his own name. Thus, whenever his moniker was uttered by one of his devoted, or terrified, followers, he would instantly be alerted, or, in some cases, even manifest. A convenient way to keep tabs on his little fan club, wouldn't you agree?"

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "I, in my own pursuit of... efficiency, decided to apply a similar principle. Only, instead of my own rather formidable name, I chose something a tad more... symbolic. The name 'Titanic.' Quite fitting, wouldn't you say, given my particular purview?"

He paused, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes. "There was a slight, shall we say, teething problem in the initial stages of this grand experiment. A rather significant oversight on my part, I must confess. It appears that the human fascination with that particular maritime disaster, or rather, the cinematic portrayal of it, runs quite deep. People, you see, are rather prone to discussing the movie 'Titanic.' They wax lyrical about its supposed grandeur, its epic scope, and, most perplexing of all, they often declare their profound adoration for the ending, describing it, with astonishing regularity, as the most romantically happy and emotionally fulfilling thing they've ever witnessed."

A weary sigh escaped him. "You can imagine the logistical nightmare this presented. In those early days, I was being summoned, quite literally, all the time. Every gushing review, every tearful recollection of Jack and Rose's final moments, every casual mention of the film's title, would invariably pull me, often quite inconveniently, from whatever divine or mundane task I happened to be attending to. It was, to put it mildly, an exhausting period of constant manifestation."

Hermione questioned, "Happily Romantic?" She glanced at Draco before turning back to Theodore. "I've seen the movie a handful of times; the ending isn't happily romantic, it's sad. I cry every time Jack dies—"

Theo offered a knowing look.

"OH MY GOD! You didn't!" Hermione exclaimed.

"My love, he truly did. I've already told you he disliked the ending." Draco sighed, a hint of annoyance in his voice at Theo's interruption.

Theodore, a mischievous glint in his eye, sprawled across the desk on his stomach, his hands propping up his chin. His feet playfully swung back and forth in the air, a silent testament to his relaxed demeanor. "The ending was far too melancholic," he declared, a hint of dramatic flair in his voice. "I grew weary of weeping every single time I watched it, so I took matters into my own hands and changed it. The reviews now are significantly more favorable than they ever were before. Here, take a looksie." With that, he fluidly sat upright, a miniature portable DVD player magically appearing from his pocket. With a theatrical flourish of his hand, as if wielding a wand, the device expanded to its normal, viewing size.

Draco rolled his eyes, growling. "Theo, we're engaged in highly critical and time-sensitive matters that—"

"He always carries that in his pocket, doesn't he?" Hermione asked.

Theodore threw his hands up in a gesture of exaggerated surrender, his eyes rolling dramatically as he chose to ignore her pointed question. "Fine," he conceded, a sigh escaping his lips. "I'll fast-forward. We can skip all the romantic build-up, the dancing, the dinner parties, the whole forbidden love affair. I'll take us straight to the good stuff— Jack and Rose in the icy ocean."

He checked his watch with another theatrical groan. "That's only the last ten or twenty minutes of the entire epic, right? As soon as it's over, I'll be gone. You won't even see my dust. And I won't, under any circumstances, answer any of her inevitable questions about 'the changes I made.' My lips will be sealed." He crossed his arms, a picture of determined, if slightly petulant, resistance.

Draco, an annoyed expression on his face, flourished his hand to the portable DVD player. He turned it on, fast-forwarded to the scene of them fighting for their lives in the Northern Atlantic, and then sat back.

Draco observed Hermione as she watched the unfolding scene: a man had climbed onto Rose, his weight steadily pulling her down, threatening to drown her. Hermione's eyes suddenly widened, snapping up to Theo before darting back to the small screen in disbelief.

Hermione began to speak, but Theo interrupted, reiterating his refusal to answer any questions. She closed her mouth, smirked at Theodore, and then faced Draco.

”Why the FUCK am I staring at Jack Dawson with Theo’s face instead of Leo’s?” She snapped at Draco, “even more, how am I remembering that this isn’t the original?” She thought that second part to herself even though she spoke it out loud.

Draco groaned, burying his face in his large hands. "Fucking loopholes," he muttered, "fucking genius bastard." He then waved a hand at Theo, gesturing toward Hermione, and added, "It would be a lot quicker if you explained it yourself."

"Another tally for me, just like taking candy from an oversized aristocratic baby," he declared, flourishing his wand. A large chalkboard materialized, displaying his name alongside five others. Draco, Astoria, Daphne, Pansy, and Blaise each had fewer than ten tallies, while Theo's name boasted over two hundred, a number Hermione quickly deduced from the grouping.

"Okay, darling," Theo began, turning to her with a giddy expression, his eyes sparkling with an almost mischievous delight. "To answer all your questions, and I can tell from your wide-eyed stare there are many: Yes, I do carry this with me everywhere. It's truly a fantastic conversation starter, wouldn't you agree?" He gestured vaguely at the air around them, though it was clear he was referring to the profound shift in reality she had just come to terms with.

"You remember the ending wasn't the original," he continued, a subtle shift in his tone hinting at the deeper magic involved. "That's because I created the time-turners with a bit of blood magic, you see. It wasn't just a simple mechanical device; it could be intertwined with blood before each trip. Adding blood to the time-turners before my trips allowed those with whom the blood belonged – meaning, of course, you, my dear – to remember both the original, dreary timeline and the new, improved reality. A little failsafe, if you will, to ensure someone would appreciate my efforts."

A playful smirk touched his lips then, and he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And, you're staring at my face instead of his because even after I made all the changes, after I meticulously rewoven the threads of the movie to my liking, something still felt inherently…missing. An emptiness, a void that no amount of perfectly arranged movie ending remake could fill. It only took me three months, three agonizingly dull months of rewatching that movie that was almost perfect but not quite, to realize the answer was blindingly, laughably obvious: ME. This movie needed my wit, my charm, my undeniable presence to truly shine. And so, there I am." He finished with a flourish, a theatrical bow that made his already impeccable suit ripple, his grin radiating pure, unadulterated self-satisfaction.

Draco grimaced and shrugged as Hermione looked at him. "It's quite possible your role in the Titanic film is what led to your capture," Hermione added.

Theo remained utterly unfazed by the revelation, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "Yes, I know," he conceded, his voice a low, even tone that betrayed no hint of apprehension. "I actually wanted to be caught."

He paused, a glint of sardonic amusement in his eyes as he gestured casually to himself. "The Department would never, in a million years, have apprehended me if it weren't for yours truly sending an anonymous tip with the most damning evidence. I practically gift-wrapped my entire operation for them." His gesture expanded, encompassing not just himself but the entire, elaborate charade he had meticulously constructed.

"And just for good measure," he continued, a theatrical flourish accompanying his words, "I also included a strongly worded letter. You know, to truly leave no doubt. A letter suggesting they make an example of me once the war concluded. A powerful deterrent, I thought, for any other would-be dissenters." The implication was clear: this capture was not a defeat, but a calculated, deliberate move in a much grander scheme, one entirely orchestrated by Theo himself.

Draco suddenly choked, a violent cough wracking his body. “You fucking did what!”

Theo scowled. "I knew they'd make an example of us after the war. I mean, come on, 'frequent flyer to the future' – did you honestly think I wouldn't gather intel? The exile was always a constant in every visit, but I was never caught. You know me, fear of missing out."

"You're a walking contradiction, a dumbass genius," Draco muttered, his voice a low growl laced with a mix of frustration and bewildered affection. “I never would have asked you to throw away your future for us, Theo, to metaphorically follow us off a cliff. What were you thinking?" His words hung in the silence, punctuated only by the crackle of a dying fire in the hearth. Draco stopped, turning to face Theo, who was still laying across the desk on his stomach, only now he was staring blankly at the dancing flames. The question was less an accusation and more a desperate plea for understanding, an attempt to grasp the impossible loyalty that had led Theo to this precipice.

Suddenly, Theo sat bolt upright and pushed away from the desk. He didn't hesitate, covering the small distance that separated him from Draco in a few swift strides. Reaching Draco, Theo gently took his hands, his touch warm and firm. He looked deep into Draco's storm-grey eyes, garnering a look of confusion from him. "You jump, I jump, remember?" Theo whispered, his voice soft but resolute, the words echoing Rose's famous declaration from the classic film Titanic, a poignant reminder of their shared history and unwavering loyalty.

Draco pushed his ornate, high-backed chair away from the polished mahogany desk, the legs grating with a harsh, protesting shriek against the ancient stone floor of the library. The sound echoed in the vast, high-ceilinged space, momentarily silencing the gentle rustle of books floating across the expanse, charmed to sort and return themselves to their spots amongst the magical shelves. He rose with an abruptness that spoke of exasperation, his posture stiff with a carefully cultivated disdain that only his closest friends could truly decipher.

“Nope, I just can’t with you,” he declared, his voice a low, throaty growl, laced with a familiar blend of annoyance and grudging admiration. He didn't even bother to glance at Theo, knowing full well the self-satisfied smirk that would be plastered across his friend's face. Instead, Draco turned his back, seeking refuge against the cool, iron railing of the balcony that offered a panoramic view of the library's bustling bottom floor from the comfort of the desk, a labyrinth of towering bookshelves and hushed reading nooks.

For a moment, he stood rigid, shoulders squared, but then a tremor began, a subtle shiver that started deep within and quickly escalated into violent shaking. A choked chuckle, low and disbelieving, broke free from his lips, rapidly blossoming into a cascade of boisterous, unrestrained laughter that shattered the quiet decorum of the library. He threw his head back, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings, drawing curious, then amused, glances from Theo and Hermione.

“I fucking hate you so much, Theo!” he declared, the words ripped from him between gasps of laughter, his voice thick with an emotion that was a potent cocktail of genuine fury and profound, almost painful, amusement. He shook his head vigorously, attempting to dislodge the tears that were now welling in his eyes, blurring his vision. “That was good, really fucking good.” The admission was grudging, a testament to the sheer brilliance of Theo’s latest provocation, whatever it had been. Draco wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, the laughter still bubbling inside him, but a sudden, almost imperceptible shift began.

Abruptly, with a practiced ease that was both chilling and impressive, Draco recomposed his face. The wide, unrestrained grin vanished, replaced by a mask of cool indifference. His eyes, moments ago sparkling with mirth, darkened slightly, the lightness fading to be replaced by a deeper, more serious glint. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, a subtle clench that signaled a change in his mental landscape. He had begun to occlude, drawing a veil over his thoughts and emotions, his mind already shifting from the playful banter to something far more guarded and impenetrable. The moment of vulnerability, of genuine, unbridled laughter, was over.

Theo, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle shifts in Draco's demeanor, the almost imperceptible flickering of his eyes, and the slight tightening around his jaw—all tell-tale signs of a wizard attempting to occlude. A wry smirk played on Theo's lips as he considered the irony of Draco's newfound discipline. Deciding to leave them to their unspoken business, Theo offered a polite, if somewhat mischievous, "Good night, you two," before apparating away with a soft pop and a faint scent of ozone.

The sudden silence in the library was thick with unspoken tension, broken only by the sound of a book shifting against a shelf. Draco and Hermione stood frozen for a beat, the echo of Theo's departure hanging in the air. Their eyes met, a spark of shared understanding, then disbelief, then pure, unadulterated amusement flickered between them. It was Hermione who broke first, a small giggle escaping her lips, quickly followed by Draco's deep, rumbling laugh. Soon, the corridor was filled with the sound of their unrestrained mirth, a sound that, for a moment, chased away the shadows of their complicated past and uncertain future.

"Please, Draco, can we keep him? He's absolutely brilliant!" Hermione pleaded.

After their shared laughter over Theo's playful antics subsided, a sense of renewed focus settled over the group as they turned their attention back to the formidable portfolio laid out before them. This wasn't just another project; it was a colossal undertaking, a venture that promised both immense challenges and equally significant rewards. The preliminary estimates alone painted a picture of its scale: at least five years would be required to meticulously finalize all the intricate legal aspects, a process that demanded unwavering attention to detail and a deep understanding of complex regulations. Concurrently, the extensive remodeling phase, encompassing everything from structural overhauls to aesthetic refinements, would also need to be completed within that ambitious timeframe. It was a commitment that would test their resolve, their ingenuity, and their collective ability to navigate a multi-faceted project of this magnitude.

"Darling, I've been thinking, and you're precisely the person I want to lead this entire project, should you be interested."

Hermione eyed him, making a face. "So this is really happening?" she pressed, unsure if he was speaking hypothetically.

Draco nodded, a grim, determined set to his jaw. "Yes, Theo is knee-deep in the development of the missives, meticulously crafting each word, and simultaneously laying out the intricate ten-year plan to finally launch this ambitious project. He's not just thinking about the immediate future, either. He's already creating detailed blueprints for the inevitable expansion, anticipating every possible growth trajectory and ensuring we're prepared for it."

He paused, his eyes meeting Hermione's with an intensity that spoke volumes. "We truly desire this, Hermione. More than you can possibly imagine. This isn't just some fleeting fancy or a temporary diversion. After all," he added, a dark, almost chilling undercurrent to his voice, "I didn't inadvertently cause my father's fatal heart attack for nothing." The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the sacrifices and the profound, irreversible changes that had paved the way for this very moment. This project was not merely a venture; it was a testament, a legacy forged in the ashes of his past, and he was unwavering in his commitment to see it through.

"But what did you tell him that caused all this? The heart attack couldn't have just been about the Manor plans, could it?" Hermione asked.

Taking a deep breath, Draco began, a throaty chuckle escaping him. "Okay, bear with me, because I haven't practiced this speech." He continued, "While visiting my father, I realized that, more than anything, I wanted the Malfoy lineage to end with me. I didn't want to carry on the traditions and the name. The only problem is, I also wanted to marry you and have children with you."

"Draco," Hermione started, her eyes widening as she reached for his hand and clasped it in hers.

"Then I realized I could have both, but it required a change." He opened the desk drawer, pulled out the first box, and revealed a black brooch in the shape of an interlocking 'DG'. He then turned the box for her to see it more clearly.

Hermione lifted the brooch from its velvet recess. The interlocking 'DG' was crafted from a matte, brushed black metal that seemed to absorb the room's dim light, yet it possessed a subtle, dark allure. This wasn't an ostentatious piece; instead, tiny, brilliant-cut black diamonds nestled within the letters' bold, architectural lines. These jewels didn't glitter like ordinary gems but held a deep, understated sparkle, reminiscent of a miniature, star-strewn midnight sky.

"It's beautiful," Hermione breathed, carefully returning the brooch to its velvet-lined box.

"I hope I'll have a reason to wear it." He slid the box back before pulling the next one from the desk drawer and opening it.

Inside, a burnished silver signet ring gleamed. Its circular face was a masterwork of intricate detail, featuring an open book at its heart—a clear emblem of knowledge with pages seemingly holding untold stories. Above it, an elegant, stylized 'G' was crowned with a single, unblinking star, a north star reminding them of their fate drawn out in the night sky.
The scholarly crest was softened by delicate cherry blossom branches, their blooms a testament to life and beauty. Beneath it, a simple banner bore the family motto, "Amor et Sapientia" – Love and Wisdom – etched in clean, enduring Latin. More than just an heirloom, it was a promise and a creed, a tangible reminder of the two pillars, heart and mind, upon which the Granger lineage would be built, a legacy openly displayed for all to see.
He placed the box alongside the first, then retrieved another from the desk. The library's dim lights reflected off the polished, ornate surface of the small, creamy ivory box he held carefully. Unlike the expected dark, heavy wood, this one was delicate, adorned with intricate silver filigree that hinted at old-world charm. A tiny, almost invisible gleaming silver clasp secured the lid. He took a steadying breath, the scent of lavender oil from the box mingling with his anticipation.
The matching lid lifted with a soft, almost reverent click, revealing a plush, dove-gray velvet lining. Nestled perfectly within, a single spotlight illuminated a ring that shimmered with an ethereal glow. The band, made of warm, rich gold, was intricately sculpted with flowing patterns that mimicked blossoming vines. The magnificent oval-cut amethyst, its deep and enchanting lilac hues, was the captivating center stone, cradled by a halo of brilliant, sparkling diamonds that caught every available sliver of light. Smaller diamonds also traced the shoulders of the gold band, adding to its exquisite brilliance. A subtle yet clear inscription, "Mr. & Mrs. Granger," a promise etched in metal, was visible on the inside of the band.
He held it out, a ring silently gleaming, a symbol of his love, mirroring the hopeful wonder in her gaze.
"From the moment I realized I wanted to be selfish and ask for your hand, the vision of your ring was already clear in my mind. It was never about the size of the diamond or the rarity of the gem, but about finding something that perfectly encapsulated your brilliance, your strength, and your unparalleled beauty. I never even considered the Malfoy or Black family jewels; they simply weren't worthy of being presented to the lovely Hermione Jean Granger. Those dusty relics, steeped in centuries of questionable history and even more questionable intentions, held no appeal. They were a testament to a past I was desperate to leave behind, a past that had no place in our future. My love for you, Hermione, demands something new, something untainted, something forged in the pure fire of our connection.

Hermione, marry me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a tremor running through his usually steady hands. "I know I told you not to wait, that my past was too dark, too complicated for a witch as luminous as you. But if you allow me this selfishness, this one desperate plea for a future I desperately crave, I would be honored not only to take your hand but to take your name. Let me shed the weight of a legacy I never truly wanted, and instead, let me embrace the glorious potential of a future built with you. Together, we can forge our own legacy—the Granger legacy. Our children will carry your name, our name, for what I hope will be centuries longer than the Malfoy name. A legacy built not on ancient bloodlines or inherited power, but on love and wisdom, on kindness and courage, on intellect and unwavering devotion—something truly to be proud of, something that will outshine any ancient name and stand the test of time, a beacon of what two people, truly in love, can achieve."

Hermione's eyes welled up with silent tears as she gazed in stunned silence at Draco. He was on one knee, holding out the most exquisite ring she had ever laid eyes upon. This proposal, a moment she could never have conceived in her wildest dreams, was everything she had ever imagined.

The happiest moment of their lives was overshadowed by the inevitable: in less than 48 hours, Draco would be exiled for ten years. After his hearing and sentencing, he had pulled her into the room, insisting he didn’t want her to wait, to be lonely and hurting—a temporary pain Hermione was more than willing to endure for a lifetime with him.

His previous suggestion—that she find someone new to make her happy while he was gone—had shattered her. Now, with his proposal, he had forged a shared future, creating a legacy for them to build. Her joy would have been absolute, were it not for the impending ten-year exile he faced.

Hermione noticed Draco's expression of unease, realizing she hadn't answered him yet. "I understand if you refuse. After all, only hours ago, I told you I wanted you to find happiness and love with someone else, knowing I'd be gone. It's a long time to wait—"

"Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to put the ring on my finger, future Mr. Granger?" Hermione teased, extending her hand to him.

Draco gasped, quickly wiping away a tear. He plucked the ring from the ornate jewelry box and placed it on her finger. "Salazar, I fucking love you," he whispered, pulling her into his arms. He peppered kisses all over her face. "So much." His lips then met hers hungrily, a desperate groan escaping him. "I am the luckiest man in the entire world."

He swiftly lifted her, placing her on the desk before stepping between her thighs. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger," Draco groaned, his lips finding hers. "I can't wait to be your husband."

Hermione's fingers trailed down his stomach, coming to rest on his belt buckle. Her gaze met his, a seductive grin playing on her lips. "Are you going to make me wait ten years to make love to me?" she whispered.

Chapter Text

Without hesitation, Draco wrapped his arms around her, the familiar sensation of apparation washing over them as they turned on the spot, the world momentarily blurring before reforming. They landed softly in his room, the air still and quiet. The room was dimly lit, bathed in the ethereal silver light that seeped through the half-drawn curtains, casting long, dancing shadows across the elegant furnishings. Dust motes, caught in the sliver of moonlight, seemed to sparkle like tiny, forgotten stars.

Hermione, still reeling from the sudden shift in surroundings and the intensity of the moment, felt her hands brush against something firm and unyielding. It was his hardened length, a jolt of pure electricity coursing through her at the unexpected contact. Draco gasped, a sharp, ragged sound that echoed in the quiet room, his entire body tensing incredibly before her. A wave of heat radiated from him, a raw, undeniable desire that mirrored her own. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken longing and the promise of what was yet to come.

This wasn't their first time in such close proximity, where words became superfluous. Yet, tonight held a distinct quality—softer, more delicate, perhaps because she had just accepted his proposal. In a mere couple days, however, he would depart, leaving her for a decade.

Draco's eyes, momentarily closed in a flicker of unguarded emotion, reopened with a subtle, yet profound, darkening. The shift was almost imperceptible to an untrained observer, a mere tightening of the muscles around his pupils, but to Hermione, it was a clear and unmistakable sign. She observed the unmistakable indication of him occluding, his mental defenses snapping into place with the practiced ease of long years of necessity. The brief vulnerability, whatever thought or feeling had caused him to momentarily drop his guard, was now carefully locked away, hidden behind layers of carefully constructed indifference. His gaze, once holding a glimmer of something she couldn't quite decipher, now held the opaque, unreadable quality of polished stone.

Draco's hand hesitated near Hermione's, as if a slight touch might shatter her. "You always do that," Hermione murmured, a faint smile gracing her lips.

“Do what?”

“Hold back right before you don’t.”

Draco chuckled nervously, the sound a brittle, reedy thing that did little to mask the sudden surge of anxiety in his chest. His gaze, usually so self-assured, flickered uncertainly over her face, searching for any hint of impatience or disappointment. "I don't want to rush things," he admitted, the words tumbling out a little quicker than he intended. He took a hesitant step closer, then thought better of it, his hands clenching at his sides. The truth was, she meant too much to him. Far too much to risk ruining whatever fragile, precious thing they were building between them with a premature move. The thought of jeopardizing it sent a cold shiver down his spine, a stark contrast to the warmth her presence usually brought. He valued her, cherished her even, in a way he hadn't thought himself capable of. And that, more than anything, made him incredibly, terribly careful.

Hermione tilted her head, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and awe. "You can't possibly think you could ruin it, that's impossible."

For a moment, they stood motionless. Then, Draco's fingers found Hermione's, a hesitant touch that grew firm. Their hands intertwined perfectly, like a thought finally given voice. The familiar current, an endless pulse of electricity, thrummed in the air between them.

"Nothing's ruined, see?" Hermione whispered, leaning in closer.

"No," Draco whispered into her hair. "Everything just... changed."

Their foreheads touched, and the room's silence enveloped them. There was no haste, no pressing need—only the gentle cadence of two souls who, long before this instant, had already chosen each other countless times in their hearts.

When Draco finally kissed her, it was not with their usual passion. Instead, it was a tender, shy, and slightly awkward kiss, as if they were both rediscovering how to breathe. Hermione smiled into his touch, her fingers gently tracing the line of Draco's jaw, as if committing a sacred form to memory.

A gentle breeze slipped in through the slightly open balcony door, causing the curtains to dance and the light to ripple over their skin. In that moment, time seemed to halt, caught in the delicate pause between one beat of the heart and the next breath.

The world around them, with all its worries and woes, dissolved into an ethereal blur, replaced by a profound and overwhelming sense of warmth. It was a warmth that seeped into their very bones, radiating from the intimate closeness they shared, a silent understanding passing between them that spoke volumes more than any words could. An undeniable, deeply rooted love, both fierce and tender, hung in the air, a palpable force that bound them together.

Hermione, her eyes still locked with his, her breath catching in her throat, signaled her consent with a soft, almost imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of trust, of surrender, of a shared destiny finally unfurling before them. Draco, his own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his hands trembling ever so slightly, reached out. His fingers, usually so precise and controlled, now shook with a mixture of reverence and anticipation as he gently took the delicate hem of her dress.

Slowly, with an agonizing tenderness, he began to lift the shimmering fabric. Each inch it rose revealed more of her, a silent unveiling that was both chaste and incredibly sensual. His fingertips, feather-light, brushed against the smooth skin of her thighs, tracing an unspoken path upwards. Then, as the dress continued its ascent, they grazed her waist, a fleeting touch that sent shivers down her spine. He moved with the utmost care, his gaze never leaving hers, as he meticulously, almost reverently, removed the garment, allowing it to fall softly to the floor, a discarded symbol of the world they were leaving behind. In that moment, only they existed, suspended in the intoxicating embrace of their shared emotion.

Draco's intense gaze swept over her, a possessive fire igniting in his eyes as he devoured every inch of her form. She stood before him, a vision of ethereal beauty, clad only in a delicate matching white lace bra and underwear set that barely concealed the curves he would soon get to know so intimately. A low murmur escaped his lips, a guttural sound filled with raw desire and ownership. "Beautiful… Perfect… Mine," he breathed, the words a sacred vow as his mouth descended, claiming hers in a fervent, all-consuming kiss.

His lips moved with an exquisite blend of tenderness and hunger, tracing a scorching path along her jawline, each touch sending shivers down her spine. He lingered at the sensitive hollow of her throat, teasing and tasting, before finally settling at the tantalizing precipice of her cleavage, where the intricate lace of her bra gave way to the soft swell of her skin. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, thick with anticipation and the promise of what was to come, as his hands, strong and gentle, began their slow, deliberate exploration.

Hermione, with a surprising swiftness born of their shared urgency, began to shed Draco's clothes. Each item of fabric, now discarded, joined her own garments on the floor in a scattered heap, forming a silent testament to their escalating desire. Their lips, already connected, deepened their fervent kiss, a searing contact that grew more unrestrained, more demanding with every passing second. Draco, with an inherent strength and a primal urge, lifted them both with an effortless grace, never once breaking the intoxicating lock of their mouths, as he moved them towards the waiting expanse of the bed. The world outside their fervent embrace ceased to exist, replaced by the escalating rhythm of their breaths and the undeniable pull of their bodies.

Draco gently placed Hermione on her back amidst the plush pillows, his body instinctively guiding him closer, a silent invitation to kiss and tease her. Their connection, still nascent yet undeniably potent, felt like a long-awaited destiny. During their Hogwarts years, before their relationship had even blossomed into the tumultuous, passionate affair it was becoming, whispers and rumors occasionally circulated about Draco's female conquests. The most persistent of these fables painted him as an incredible kisser, a master of seduction whose lips held a magical allure. Furthermore, he was fabled to be highly skilled with his hands and mouth when it came to oral sex, a whispered legend among the more gossipy students. Yet, beneath the veneer of this cultivated bad-boy reputation, Draco was, in fact, still a virgin—a status he had never felt the need to change, primarily because no one had ever truly stirred his soul enough to make him desire to share such an intimate part of himself. Until now. Until Hermione.

He reveled in the act of giving oral pleasure, his lips and tongue a masterful instrument of delight, and his snogging sessions were legendary for their passion and intensity. Yet, a peculiar boundary always remained firmly in place: he never allowed a woman to return the favor. Reciprocation, whether through oral sex, manual stimulation, or the intimacy of intercourse, was strictly off-limits. Each day, after ensuring his partner's complete satisfaction within the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts, he would discreetly retreat to a private space to find his own release. The vulnerability that accompanied his orgasm was a feeling he deeply disliked, a sensation he vigilantly guarded against. Consequently, no woman had ever been a witness to that intensely personal moment; his climax remained a solitary, unseen experience.

Her voice clipped and rushed, Hermione confessed, "I've never had sex before." She blushed crimson, averting her eyes from his.

Draco's touch was feather-light as his index finger traced the delicate curve of her jawline, a silent invitation for her to meet his gaze. When their eyes finally locked, a profound understanding passed between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of the moment's significance. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble that seemed to soothe the nervous flutter in her chest. "I'm a virgin too." A small, almost imperceptible grimace flickered across his face, a fleeting battle of vulnerability playing out in his expression as he grappled with his next words. "And while my first time might be embarrassing, perhaps short-lived," he continued, a wry humor entering his tone, "I love that we get to experience this together. I also want to apologize in advance because I might not last long." The admission hung in the air, raw and honest, stripping away any pretense and laying bare his genuine apprehension and his profound desire for this shared intimacy to be perfect, even with its anticipated imperfections.

Hermione's lips grazed his, but Draco resisted, pulling back as she tried to draw him near.

"I've pleasured women before," he began, his voice deepening as his gaze locked onto hers. "I'd like to please you, if you'd allow me." His eyes then raked over her body, a subtle lick of his lips conveying his unspoken desire, which Hermione instantly understood.

"Yes, please. I want you, your touch. I want everything."

He nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken desire that hummed between them. His eyes, dark and intense, held hers for a long moment before he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a hungry, almost desperate kiss. His tongue, a bold explorer, swiped at her bottom lip, a silent plea, begging for access, for a deeper connection.

A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she happily parted her lips, an eager invitation. Her tongue, equally fervent, met his, a dance of passion that elicited a low, guttural groan from deep within his chest. He dove into her, not just with his kiss, but with his entire being, kissing heatedly, as if trying to consume her, to melt into her until there was no distinction between them. The world around them faded, leaving only the intoxicating sensation of their entwined bodies and the urgent rhythm of their hearts beating as one.

He groaned, a guttural sound that tore from deep within his chest, as he thrust his hips forward, pressing his swollen erection insistently against her. The raw friction, the exquisite pressure of their bodies meeting, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through him, stealing the air from his lungs. "Fuck," he rasped, the single word a desperate plea, a guttural exclamation of need and the intense physical sensation that threatened to consume him whole. Every nerve ending in his body was alive, humming with an urgent desire that bordered on agony, a delicious torment he never wanted to end.

Hermione whimpered, a soft, involuntary sound that escaped her lips as his desire, hot and insistent, ignited a searing inferno deep within her core. Her hips, as if possessed by a will of their own, instinctively arched upwards, pressing closer into him. A breathless plea, a mere whisper of his name, escaped her. "Draco… please," she breathed, her fingers, trembling slightly, tangling in the silken strands of his hair, pulling gently as if to anchor herself to the storm he was creating within her. The air between them crackled with an electric tension, thick and heavy with unspoken desires and the raw, undeniable hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long.

Draco pulled back slowly, his body still close, leaning over Hermione as his long, platinum blond bangs framed his face, shadowing his intense eyes. His gaze, a burning inferno of desire, was heavy upon her, and he watched her with an almost predatory hunger. He licked his lips, the slight movement a clear indication of his burgeoning need, never breaking eye contact.

With a fluid motion, he sat up, pulling Hermione effortlessly with him until she was cradled against his chest. His fingers, long and elegant, began a slow, deliberate journey, trailing from her fingertips, up the delicate skin of her arms, and to her shoulders, each touch a spark of fire. All the while, his gaze remained fixed, almost possessively, on her chest, his eyes devouring the sight.

Then, with a practiced ease that bespoke of both urgency and care, his deft fingers moved to the fastenings of her bra. He quickly, yet gently, unclasped it, his eyes never leaving hers as he watched hungrily, almost reverently, as the lace fabric fell away from her breasts, revealing their soft curves to his ardent gaze. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a primal sound of satisfaction.

"My gods," he groaned, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and burgeoning desire, as he gently lowered Hermione back against the plush pillows. His gaze, dark and possessive, was utterly captivated by the subtle, intoxicating ripple of her breasts, a soft undulation caused by the delicate movement. The sight was a living sculpture, each rise and fall a silent testament to the passion that had just consumed them. A low, guttural murmur escaped him, a sound of profound satisfaction, "Better than I could have ever dreamed." His hand, almost involuntarily, moved to stroke himself over the confining fabric of his briefs, a stark reminder of the potent hunger that still coursed through him, a hunger for more, for every inch and every moment of her. The scent of Hermione's arousal hung heavy in the air, a sweet, musky perfume that promised further indulgence, further surrender. He wanted to drown in it, to lose himself entirely in the intoxicating reality of her, in the profound, undeniable truth that she was finally, gloriously, his.

His mouth found the tender skin of her neck, raining kisses, sucking, and nipping, drawing groans of pleasure from Hermione. She bucked in response as Draco inhaled the sweet scent of her arousal, knowing she would be utterly soaked by the time he reached her most intimate parts.

His lips, hot and insistent, descended from her mouth, tracing a path down her throat, each gentle graze sending shivers through Hermione’s entire being. A soft gasp escaped her as his touch reached the sensitive hollow of her collarbone, a place he lingered, pressing slow, wet kisses that ignited a trail of fire on her supple skin. The scent of him, a heady mix of expensive cologne and aroused male, filled her senses, blurring the edges of her reality.

He moved lower still, his warm breath fanning across her chest before his lips finally closed around her nipple, a possessive, exquisite claim. A strangled cry, a sound she barely recognized as her own, escaped Hermione’s lips as she arched to meet him, her back bowing slightly, an unspoken invitation for more. He suckled slowly, a rhythmic, hypnotic pull that tugged at her core, his tongue occasionally flicking the erected nub, a playful torment before returning to the deep, satisfying suckling. Each action sent a jolt of pure pleasure through her, a wave that threatened to overwhelm her senses.

Hermione responded with a series of low, guttural moans that vibrated in the air between them, each one a testament to the profound pleasure he was eliciting. These sounds, a symphony of her surrender, made Draco’s cock twitch with every breath, a powerful, insistent throb against the confines of his trousers. He could feel the anticipation building, a delicious tension that promised an explosive release. He knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and saddened him, that after he had finished pleasuring this beautifully spectacular woman, after he had driven her to the brink of ecstasy and sank himself deep inside her, it would end swiftly. The fleeting nature of their illicit encounter was a bitter truth, yet he pushed it aside, focusing solely on the exquisite moment. He just wanted to finish her off first, to bring her to the absolute peak of her pleasure, as any gentleman should. The thought of her shattered pleasure, her body trembling and sated beneath him, was a powerful motivator, a testament to his desire to truly possess her, even if only for a brief, stolen moment before the inevitable.

Lower still he went, his exploration a sensual torment, until his gaze, dark and hungry, locked onto the pristine white lace of her panties. They were a fragile barrier, barely concealing the trembling heat beneath. She was, as he had imagined, completely drenched, a testament to the raw power of his touch. A wave of primal satisfaction washed over Draco. He sighed, a deep, guttural sound that spoke volumes of the sweet intensity of her arousal, a melody that resonated through his very being.

He buried his nose in the delicate gusset of her panties, inhaling deeply, drawing in the intoxicating scent of her desire. It was a potent perfume, a heady mix of musk and honey that clouded his senses and fueled his own escalating need. His tongue, a wicked instrument of pleasure, flicked out, a single, tentative swipe across the delicate fabric, sending a jolt of pure electricity through her. A soft moan escaped her lips, a sound that spurred him on, encouraging him to delve deeper into the intoxicating world of her unspoken desires.

Hermione tightened her grip in Draco’s hair, pulling him forcefully against her as she began to move her hips against his face, silently begging for more. Draco responded with a throaty groan, his tongue seeking more of her despite the barrier of her panties, as he began nipping at her.

"Fuck, I need more!" he groaned, his voice a low, primal rumble that vibrated through her, setting every nerve ending alight. His long, strong fingers, usually so precise and controlled, were now frantic, tearing the delicate, supple fabric from her body with a raw urgency that thrilled her. The lace, once a soft barrier, now lay in tatters around them, a testament to the escalating passion.

"I’ll get you new ones," he apologized, his words breathy, punctuated by ragged pants. He wasn't truly sorry, though; the glint in his eyes spoke of a hunger that mirrored her own. "As many as you want. The fanciest panties, even ones made from unicorn hair." He promised, his gaze devouring her, lingering on the flushed skin and trembling curves now fully exposed to him.

He wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, pulling her in with a force that left no room for resistance, pressing her against his hard, aroused body. The scent of their mingled desire filled the air, intoxicating and overwhelming. Without a moment's hesitation, he dove into her, his mouth a searing brand against her core. He lapped at her, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure, flicking and sucking at her juicy bits through his own guttural moans, each sound a testament to the exquisite torment and ecstasy he found in her. Her hips bucked involuntarily against him, a silent plea for more, for everything he was offering and more.

He feasted on Hermione, who was tender, swollen, and juicy. Her arousal soaked his face as she ground down against him, highly responsive to his lapping.

"Oh," she moaned, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her lips as a wave of exquisite pleasure washed over her. Each deliberate, rhythmic flick of his tongue against her clitoris intensified the sensation, building a delicious pressure within her. Draco's oral skills were, without a doubt, exceptional. He possessed an innate understanding of her body, a precise touch that left her breathless and yearning for more. He clearly savored his "dessert," treating her with a profound, almost reverent attention. He devoured her with a gluttonous passion, his hunger palpable and exhilarating. He buried his face so deeply between her thighs that she could feel the gentle brush of his hair against her inner skin, the warmth of his breath, and the insistent pressure of his mouth. At times, the intensity of his ministrations was such that he seemed to struggle for breath, a small, endearing detail that only heightened her arousal and made her feel utterly consumed, utterly desired.

"Draco—oh," she gasped, her breath catching in her throat, a fragile sound lost in the sudden, terrifying rush. Her body, once rooted and steady, now felt like a leaf in a tempest, accelerating with a force that stole the air from her lungs. The ground beneath her vanished, replaced by an dizzying expanse that seemed to stretch into an unknown abyss. Then, without warning, the acceleration ceased, replaced by an abrupt, visceral thrust. She was no longer just falling; she was hurled, catapulted over an invisible edge, a sensation that tore through her with the intensity of a physical blow. The world erupted around her, not in a gentle unfolding, but in a profound, earth-shattering explosion that reverberated through every fiber of her being, a cataclysmic release that left her utterly breathless and adrift in its wake.

Hermione's body was a taut bowstring, every muscle rigid with anticipation. Her legs, entwined around Draco's head, pressed him more firmly into her as a primal urge consumed her. A tremor began deep within her core, escalating into a full-body shiver as she rode the wave of her orgasm, a raw, almost desperate release. A sudden, hot gush drenched Draco just as he instinctively tried to pull away, but she was a statue, every fiber of her being locked in the throes of her climax, savoring the exquisite, fading sensation. A final, weak shudder rippled through her, and a shaky breath escaped her lips. Her limbs, once so fiercely coiled, fell limply to her sides, granting Draco the freedom to finally surface, his face flushed and a little dazed.

"Fuck!" he gasped, surfacing and panting, his face drenched in her cum. A glistening sheen around his mouth made it look as if he'd just devoured a juicy, forbidden fruit, its sweetness clinging to his every pore. His eyes, dark with a primal hunger, locked onto hers, a silent testament to the raw intensity of their coupling. "I thought I was going to suffocate when you came, Hermione. My gods, that was utterly brilliant and so incredibly hot. So unbelievably sexy."

He dipped his head back down, drawn by an irresistible magnetism to her now swollen, sensitive, and gloriously wet sex. With a tender reverence, he began to lick away her juices, savoring each drop as if it were the most exquisite nectar. A low hum rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction. "I fucking love your taste—so sweet," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper against her heated skin. "Like honey and sin all rolled into one. I could drown in you, Hermione, and happily so." He continued his intimate ministrations, his tongue a sensual dance of pleasure, ensuring every last drop of her release was honored and devoured, leaving her breathless and quivering for more.

A tired smile graced her face as Hermione ran her fingers through Draco's hair, gently grinding her hips against his face again while he cleaned her with his tongue.

"I apologize for the waterboarding," she said playfully.

Draco's lips curved into a slow, predatory smirk, his silver eyes, sharp and intense, bore into hers, holding her captive. He leisurely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a deliberate, almost taunting gesture that sent a shiver down her spine. "Darling," he purred, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the air between them, "your intensity as you came on my face, almost suffocating me, was incredibly, undeniably sexy." He leaned closer, his gaze never leaving hers, a dark, possessive glint in their depths. "I nearly came in my briefs, right then and there. Which," he added, a hint of frustration lacing his tone, "is precisely why I'm not buried inside you right now, taking you with the same fervent abandon."

He straightened up slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "I need a moment to," he paused, searching for the right words, "er, come down... to collect myself." His eyes, however, still burned with an unquenched desire. "To regain some semblance of control so I don't fill you with my cum the instant I'm inside you, as much as that very thought is driving me utterly insane." He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling. "Because when I finally do claim you, I want it to be a slow, exquisite torture for both of us, not a frantic, uncontrolled release. You deserve more than that, and so do I."

Draco rolled onto his back, pulling Hermione with him so she rested on his chest, her head nestled against him. The scent of her shampoo, a faint apple blossom, filled his senses, a comforting anchor in the heady aftermath of their shared passion. He gently stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands, each touch a silent promise. His lips had found hers once more, a tender re-affirmation of their connection, before he moved up her body. He pressed soft kisses along her jawline, down her throat, marveling at the delicate pulse fluttering beneath his lips. Hermione, in turn, shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her as she pressed closer, her arm snaking around his waist, her fingers tracing the lean line of his back. The world outside their intimate bubble had faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the undeniable thrum of their hearts beating as one.

"I won't tease you for finishing so quickly, Draco," Hermione murmured, stifling a yawn.

"I wouldn't mind if you did; your pussy is exquisite, like a juicy piece of watermelon. You were so wet and messy." He shivered, "Gods, I'm getting worked up again. I might need a cold shower before I jump into you."

Hermione pressed her lips to his neck, eliciting another tremor, which she chuckled at. "My soon-to-be-husband, we have all day tomorrow. Let's not dwell on how quickly you... arrive. After all, if you don't make love to me soon, you'll be making love to a corpse, because I am tired."

Draco glanced at the wall clock, his eyes widening as he realized it was almost midnight. Not wanting to make love to an unconscious person, he gave a crooked smile, kissed her nose, and rolled them over so he was on top again.

He trembled, a tremor that originated deep within his core and vibrated through every nerve ending, preparing for the inevitable. The air in the room, thick with anticipation and the scent of her subtle perfume, seemed to hum with the weight of the moment. He was about to lose his virginity to Hermione Granger, the woman he loved with a fierce devotion that had only deepened with each passing year, each shared secret, each whispered dream. She wasn't just his girlfriend, not merely a fleeting romance, but his fiancée.

On her left hand, nestled against her skin, she wore his ring, a promise of their future as husband and wife. It was a tangible symbol of their commitment, a silent vow of the life they were building together, brick by brick, memory by memory. In his mind, he could already see their future unfolding, a tapestry woven with shared laughter, quiet evenings, and the profound joy of raising a family. He envisioned her, a decade from now, her eyes sparkling with the same intelligence and warmth, as the mother of his children. Children who, he hoped, would bear her likeness, inheriting her sharp wit, her compassionate heart, and perhaps even a hint of her unruly, glorious hair.

The thought, both exhilarating and terrifying, consumed him. He was about to penetrate her, to bridge the final physical distance between them, connecting on the most primal, ancient, and profound level of love. It was a moment of vulnerability and ultimate trust, a sacred union that would forever alter the landscape of their relationship, deepening their bond in ways he couldn't yet fully comprehend. His breath hitched in his throat, a mixture of nerves and overwhelming desire. This wasn't just about physical release; it was about the complete surrender of two souls, intertwining to become one.

She raised her hand, tucking his hair behind his ear, and whispered, "Love me, Draco. Claim me." A soft smile graced Hermione's lips.

Giving in to his primal urges, he exhaled a shaky breath as he reached between her legs. He aligned himself with her slick folds, his erection throbbing. Draco's gaze remained locked with hers as he slowly rolled his hips forward, pressing into her.

He gripped her curly hair, the dark strands coiling around his fingers, anchoring him as he began. His slow, deliberate thrust was an act of exquisite torture, inch by agonizing inch, as he entered her. She was incredibly wet, her slick warmth enveloping him, and so unbelievably tight that the sensation was almost unbearable. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he fought to control himself, every muscle tensed, desperate not to climax prematurely and lose this breathtaking intensity. The air in the room crackled with an unspoken urgency, their combined breaths ragged and shallow, a symphony of rising desire.

He repeatedly had to pause, taking deep breaths, each one a desperate attempt to suppress the overwhelming urge that threatened to consume him. His muscles were taut, trembling with the effort of holding back, of denying his body the release it so vehemently craved. After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality closer to ninety agonizing seconds, he finally achieved his goal, fully burying himself within her warmth.

His breathing was heavy, ragged, each exhalation a gasp for control as he stilled, every fiber of his being focused on her. His eyes, dark and intense, were locked on hers, a silent plea and a fierce determination warring within their depths. Deep within her, his cock twitched, a painful, angry demand for the release he was so cruelly denying it. Draco's jaw flexed, a muscle working furiously beneath his skin, again and again as he trembled above her. Every nerve ending screamed, every instinct urged him forward, but he held back, holding on with every fiber of his being, his will a fragile dam against the rising tide of his desire. The strain was immense, a palpable tension in the air, as he fought a silent battle, his body screaming for surrender while his mind clung to control.

He gasped, a groan escaping his lips. "I don't think I can do it." He rushed out, muttering, "Fuck... Herm-Hermione, I'm..." He squeezed his eyes shut, a deep crease forming between his brows as he held his breath.

He felt an unholy pressure throbbing at his core, screaming and shoving against his will. It fought him like a rabid animal desperate to escape its cage. He knew he was losing this battle, yet at his very essence, he couldn't—wouldn't—give up without a fight.

His expression grew desperate, head swimming from the lack of oxygen he held so tightly. His muscles were taut and aching from the intensity of his shaking. As his vision blurred and began to blacken, his body betrayed him, forcing a deep, involuntary breath that shoved him over the edge, losing his battle.

He groaned, thrusting into Hermione and trying to bury himself deeper. "I'm going to cum," he slurred just before the pressure released, bursting forth angrily. He roared, completely undone.

His body moved instinctively, hips bucking into her with each powerful release. He held Hermione tighter, his face buried against her neck, as her moans, whimpers, and roars of pleasure filled his ears.

The overwhelming sensation receded as quickly as it had seized him. His ears throbbed with his pulse, his heart hammered, and his throat was tender from the cries he had made at the peak of his release. A deep ache settled in his body, a testament to the battle he had fought and lost against the swift onset of his climax.

He peppered Hermione with kisses before carefully rolling off her, detaching himself, and settling back against the pillows. He then drew her against his chest.

"That was quick, and frankly, a bit embarrassing," Draco said with a chuckle, his face flushing crimson in the unseen darkness.

Hermione yawned and snuggled closer. “Honestly,” she murmured, “I found it incredibly attractive. The way you had to fight so hard to keep from cumming just from inserting yourself inside me.”

Draco cleared his throat, a cough quickly following her confession. "I certainly hope this doesn't become a regular occurrence. What kind of man would I be, habitually climaxing the moment I penetrate my future bride?"

Hermione smirked against his chest. "It would make you mine, knowing that your love for me is so intense it renders you powerless, melting into putty within me, completely without choice."

Draco chuckled, a scoff escaping him first. "So you enjoy that, do you?"

Draco felt Hermione's shrug. "I enjoy the power I have over you, knowing I can reduce you to a trembling, lovesick fool, practically coming in your pants from my touch."

“Ahh, she wants to make me cum in my pants like I’m a bloody third year.” Draco mocked.

"No, not now. I'm too tired." A soft sigh escaped her lips, betraying the weariness that clung to her like a shroud after a long, arduous day. Yet, even as the words left her, a mischievous glint flickered in her eyes, a playful challenge bubbling beneath the surface of her fatigue. With a deliberate, teasing slowness, she reached down, her fingers closing around him. The sudden, electrifying contact sent a jolt through him, his cock thickening and lengthening under her gentle but firm grasp, eliciting a sharp, involuntary gasp that hitched in his throat. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, pleased by the immediate and undeniable effect she had on him.

"Perhaps tomorrow," she purred, her voice a low, husky whisper that promised untold pleasures. "Tomorrow, when we're both refreshed and brimming with energy, we can truly discover how well you fare against me. A proper contest, you might say." Her grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent affirmation of her challenge. "Maybe we'll even create our own chalkboard, a permanent record of our little game, to tally every single time I make you lose control, every time I make you cum in your pants." The unspoken promise hung in the air between them, a thrilling invitation to a battle of wills and desires, where the only prize was unadulterated pleasure and the ultimate surrender to passion.

Draco groaned, a low, guttural sound, in response to her vulgar language. "My gods," he muttered, "you are truly going to be the end of me."

"Mmm, there go your clean briefs."

Draco sighed, lamenting, "I'll have to buy new briefs then. They never feel as soft after I've come in them."

Hermione's eyebrow rose in the darkness, a silent question he couldn't perceive. "You've done it before?" she probed, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Draco shrugged. “A lot more than I am comfortable with admitting, but sure yeah, lets have the conversation since I know you will never let it go now that you know.”

“How many times?” She pressed.

“More than ten, less than thirty. I stopped counting after the tenth time.” He admitted.

“Whens the first time it happened?”

Draco's confession came in a rush, his voice muffled by the strands of her hair as he buried his face against her, as if seeking to hide the raw honesty of his words. "Honestly," he began, a tremor in his voice, "since third year, I've always been sexually aroused by you. It was a constant battle, a perpetual tension I carried with me. I constantly had to tuck myself in whenever you were near, because your presence alone, the mere proximity, made me desperately need a cold shower or two just to bring myself back to a semblance of normalcy."

He paused, a faint blush creeping up his neck at the memory. "Remember when we were by the stone henge, and you caught me making fun of Hagrid about the hippogriff?" He could still picture it with vivid clarity – the biting autumn wind, the ancient stones, and her furious gaze. "I was already aroused by you then, the usual undercurrent of desire that always simmered beneath the surface when you were around. And then you punched me."

A shudder ran through him, a mixture of remembered pain and an undeniable thrill. "The moment your fist connected, I came so hard in my pants. That's why I ran off instead of standing my ground, instead of escalating the fight as I usually would have. I was mortified, but also… completely overwhelmed." His blush deepened, a genuine heat spreading across his face. "Fuck, it still turns me on thinking about it. That moment, that single, unexpected jolt, provided me with every orgasm I had until the next time I came in my pants because of you." He pulled back slightly, his eyes, still a little unfocused with the intensity of his admission, meeting hers. "It was both humiliating and exhilarating, a secret I've carried for years."

“When was the next time?” Hermione asked, curiously.

“Our first real kiss. It happened in the library, a place usually reserved for quiet study and hushed whispers, not the fiery exchanges that often characterized our early interactions. I can't even recall what we were arguing about now, some trivial point, I'm sure. But you, as usual, just wouldn't stop talking. Your voice, even when raised in a heated debate, always had this particular cadence that both infuriated and captivated me. And your presence alone was enough to stir something deep within me, a restless energy that simmered beneath the surface.

Between the argument and your incessant chattering, a sudden impulse, unbidden and overwhelming, seized me. I kissed you. It was a desperate, almost aggressive kiss, meant to shut you up, to silence the torrent of words spilling from your lips. And it worked—perhaps a little too well.

The moment my lips met yours, the argument dissolved, replaced by an electric charge that arced between us. You didn't just passively accept it; you responded with an intensity that took my breath away. You shoved me, hard, against a bookshelf, the sudden impact sending a jolt through me as I stumbled, then landed on the cool, hard floor. Before I could even register the surprise, you were on top of me, a fierce gleam in your eyes. You kissed me back, not gently, but with a raw, demanding passion that mirrored my own.

Your hands were in my hair, pulling, deepening the kiss until I felt dizzy with it. And then, as if my self-control wasn't already at its absolute limit, you straddled my lap. The friction, the soft press of your body against mine, sent a wave of exquisite torment through me. You started grinding against me, slowly at first, then with an increasing rhythm that stole what little breath I had left.

After that, I didn't stand a chance. My thoughts scattered, replaced by a singular, burning need. Every brush, every subtle movement of your hips, intensified the delicious agony. After your fifth pass, the world narrowed to that single, undeniable sensation, and I exploded, hot and desperate, into my pants. The library, the argument, everything vanished, leaving only the aftermath of that first, unforgettable, devastating kiss.”

“Hm, five? I wonder if I can beat my record.”

Draco chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through Hermione, who was still perched comfortably on his lap. "I've had you on my lap so often," he began, a playful glint in his silver eyes, "I might be a little desensitized now. You might need at least ten more rounds to truly get a rise out of me." He punctuated his teasing with a soft yawn, a clear sign of the late hour and the exhaustion that was finally catching up to him. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to the top of Hermione's head, the familiar scent of her shampoo a comforting anchor in the quiet room. "It's interesting," he mused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow as he considered her earlier confession, "that you find my humiliation a complete turn-on. I’m genuinely curious to understand the psychology behind that, one day, when we have more time and I'm not quite so… pleasantly depleted."

After exchanging "I love yous," a soft quiet settled over them, a peaceful calm that only true intimacy could bring. They drifted into a gentle slumber in each other's arms, the rhythm of their breathing eventually synchronizing. As the night played through deepening shadows, thoughts of their shared love intertwined with dreams of the distant future they had promised to share. Each tender touch, every whispered word, and the unspoken understanding between them were carefully tucked into the recesses of their minds, serving as a comforting prelude to the dreams that would soon unfold. The world outside faded into insignificance, leaving only the warmth of their embrace and the profound certainty of their connection to accompany them into sleep.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly, spilling gold across the walls and tracing the outline of two forms still half tangled in sleep. The world outside had woken already — the distant sounds of a bird calling from somewhere unseen just outside the open balcony door — the constant shifting of wards that announced the movements and locations of the manors occupants to the Patriarch, but here, it was quiet. Sacred.
Hermione stirred first, blinking against the soft light. Draco’s arm was draped loosely across her waist, heavy and warm, their breathing steady in that easy rhythm of someone utterly at peace. For a while, Hermione didn’t move. She just watched — the faint rise and fall of Dracoi’s chest, the way their hair caught the sunlight, turning it to soft white fire.
Something about the stillness made her heart ache — not with sadness, but with the overwhelming truth of it all. How real this felt. How fragile and infinite love could be at the same time.
When Draco’s eyes finally opened, they met hers with that slow, sleepy smile that always unraveled her.
“Morning,” Draco murmured, a soft sweet smile forming on his face.
Hermione laughed softly. “Barely.”
Draco shifted closer, brushing a strand of curly hair from Hermione’s cheek. “You look like something out of a dream.”
“Maybe we still are,” Hermione whispered. “The world feels too quiet for real life.”
Draco’s thumb traced lazy circles on the back of her hand. “If it’s a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”
They lay there for a long while, saying nothing. It wasn’t silence exactly — it was a language all its own. The kind that lives in shared breaths and small touches, in the way one person’s heartbeat steadies the other’s.
Eventually, Hermione turned on her side, her voice soft but certain. “You know, it scares me a little,” she admitted. “How much I feel.”
Draco smiled, faint but sure. “Good. Me too.”
The honesty between them — quiet, unpolished — was its own kind of magic. It wasn’t the kind that flared like lightning. It was the steady glow that lingered after, the warmth that stayed even when the world moved on.
Hermione reached for Draco’s hand again, their fingers fitting together in that same effortless way they always did. “I don’t ever want to stop choosing this,” she said.
Draco squeezed her hand, their eyes soft, voice barely a whisper. “Then we won’t.”
The morning light shifted again, brighter now — wrapping them in something whole and golden. Outside, the room life went on. But for Hermione and Draco, the moment stretched, weightless and infinite. Two souls, awake in a world that felt quietly remade around them.
A tap on the slightly cracked balcony door drew their attention from one another and with a groan Draco waved his hand, wandlessly opening it further to allow in his beautiful eagle owl. It crossed the room to their side in a few flaps of its wings and perched on the bedside table next to him, holding out his leg patiently.
Draco was swift in untying the note from its leg and sending it off with an owl treat before giving his attention entirely to the note. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his back against the headboard and looked at the wax seal that secured the note.
“House Nott. This is from Theo.” He murmured and broke the seal, quickly unfolding the letter.
He read the letter not once but twice before a large grin formed across his lips, his perfectly straight white teeth gleaming through. He could always count on Theo to be two steps ahead of him, and this was one of the many reasons why.
“We need to get up and shower.” Draco began as he pulled himself from the bed, tossing the letter on the table.
Following suit, Hermione climbed out of bed, taking a brief moment to stretch out her limbs. She winced slightly, feeling tenderness and soreness in parts of her body she didn’t know she could.
“Why? What’s going on?” She said as Draco disappeared into the bathroom.
She plucked the letter from the bedside table and read it.

Draco,
You have an appointment in Gretna Green in an hour. Your outfits have been chosen and I dropped them off with your house elf this morning, you shall find them in your closet, front and center. Do not be late. I had to pull a lot of string to secure this last minute appointment.
Secondly, the Daily Prophet is sending someone shortly before 10 am to do an interview on the Malfoy Patriarch and the direction you are going with the family. They want to do a special issue that will be released right before dinner. A Malfoy/Granger special.
Lastly, the family lawyer will be coming by with all the articles for the project as well as everything that will be needed to add Hermione to the accounts and the family magic so she can make work on the Malfoy-Nott project during our absence. Don’t forget to sign the magical power of attorney just in case she needs it in your absence while things are processing.
Theo Nott

Hermione made a face, rereading the letter. The last two items made sense easily enough as the funding would be coming directly from the Malfoy vaults. Though, the first item mentioned in the letter didn’t go into many details outside of it being an appointment in Gretna Green.
Draco called her from the bathroom where she could hear the shower running and she replaced the letter back on the bedside table before joining him. They made short work of their hygiene - taking turns drying each other off once they were out of the shower.
Draco disappeared into the oversized closet while Hermione used a beauty charm to detangle, separate and comb through her curls leaving them sleek and tamed. Once she had finished brushing her teeth she joined Draco.
“I couldn’t find my dress from yesterday and I forgot to bring clothes so I will need to stop by my place to-” Her voice trailed off when she noticed a long white vintage dress hanging in front of her.
Draco, who was dawning a crisp tuxedo, sitting on a bench in the center of the closet to put on his shoes, glanced up and smiled at her, his bangs falling in front of his face.
“Gretna Green,” she breathed, in disbelief. “We are getting married? Today…Now?”
Draco tied his shoes and stood up, joining her side, brushing his index finger along her jaw. “Technically in less than twenty minutes, so you need to get dressed. A house elf will be in to do your hair and help you while I go take care of a few things before we leave.” He took her hand into his and brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving her own.
The old blacksmith's shop at Gretna Green smelled of cold iron, damp stone, and the wild, sweet scent of the Scottish countryside blowing through the open doorway. It was ancient, romantic, and a world away from the opulent halls of Malfoy Manor or the hallowed spires of Hogwarts. Hermione clutched the small bouquet of wildflowers Draco had pressed into her hands, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had agreed to elope, to have this one, perfect day with him before the inevitable tomorrow. She expected it to be just them, the officiant, and the anvil that had sealed countless secret unions.
She was not expecting guests.
To her profound shock, standing beside a nervous-looking Draco were Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, both looking impossibly sharp in tailored Muggle suits. Pansy Parkinson, her usual sneer replaced with a soft, genuine smile, stood with Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. They were all breathtaking in dresses of emerald silk, dusky rose lace, and deep sapphire velvet. None of them wore white. It was a subtle, profound gesture of respect.
But it was the woman standing beside her son, her silver-blonde hair pinned in an elegant chignon, who truly stole Hermione's breath. Narcissa Malfoy. She was the picture of aristocratic grace in a pale grey dress, her expression unreadable but for the faint tremor in her hands.
The ceremony was a blur of heartfelt words and ancient vows spoken over the ringing clang of a hammer on the anvil. When the officiant, a kindly old wizard with a thick Scottish burr, finally smiled and declared, "I now present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!" a polite ripple of applause went through their small audience.
"Ahem," Draco said, his voice clear and steady. He squeezed Hermione's hand, a proud, brilliant smile gracing his features. "Actually, it's Mr. and Mrs. Granger."
Silence. The officiant blinked, confused. Blaise raised an eyebrow. But it was Narcissa's reaction that held the room captive. Her perfectly composed mask shattered. A strangled gasp escaped her lips, and her grey eyes filled with tears as the weight of his words landed. The Malfoy line, a lineage she had been conditioned to preserve above all else, was ending. With her son. Willingly.
A new line, the Granger line, was beginning.
"The Malfoy name comes with a legacy of darkness, of pain and prejudice," Draco explained, his gaze sweeping over their friends before landing on his mother. "I want no part of it. The history of that name ends with me. Today, I am creating a new legacy, with the love of my life." He turned to Hermione, his eyes shining with a love so potent it made her knees weak. "My future is with her. Our future is as the Grangers."
Narcissa wept. Not the silent, dignified tears of a pure-blood matriarch, but the shuddering, heartbroken sobs of a mother. Stepping forward hesitantly, she broke a lifetime of conditioning. She reached not for her son, but for his bride. Her arms, surprisingly strong, wrapped around Hermione in a fierce, trembling embrace. It was the first time Hermione had ever seen her offer affection so openly.
"Welcome to the family, Hermione," Narcissa whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
She then turned to Draco, pulling him into an equally tight hug. "Oh, my son," she cried, "to know you leave us tomorrow..." She pulled back, her eyes searching Hermione's. "Will you be joining them? In the Muggle world? You are, after all..." She trailed off, the words 'Muggle-born' left unspoken but hanging in the air.
Draco shook his head, stepping in to answer for his wife. "No, Mother. Hermione has more important work to do here."
"More important than her husband?" Narcissa asked, a flicker of the old Malfoy matriarch showing.
"She will be getting our foundation off the ground," Draco explained gently. "The Malfoy-Nott Foundation. She'll be running it in my absence. She can only visit me once every six months. Her focus needs to be on what matters most." He took a deep breath before delivering the final blow. "The foundation's headquarters will be Malfoy Manor."
Narcissa swayed, her face paling. The dismantling of their ancestral home. It was too much. "Draco, no..."
"It will become a safe haven for at-risk youth," he continued, his voice passionate. "A place to prevent other children from being trapped in dark, loveless homes. To give them a chance to be better than what they are born into."
The fight went out of her. The anger, the grief for her home, it all crumbled away, replaced by a raw, painful understanding. She collapsed against her son, her composure utterly gone. "They forced you," she sobbed into his chest. "What we made you do... what I let him do to you... I failed you, my boy. I failed you as a mother." She looked up, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes shining with an immense, heartbreaking pride. "But I am so proud of you. So proud of the man you chose to be when you walked away from them. I am proud of this path, of this wonderful, brilliant woman you have married, and of the future you are building to protect others."
Draco's own composure finally broke. He cried in his mother's arms, years of pain and regret washing away with her words of absolution.
As the small party began to prepare to leave, giving the newlyweds their final moments before a honeymoon that would last less than a day, Narcissa took Hermione's hands in hers. "I will not stand by," she said, her voice firm with new purpose. "While my son is away, I will offer you any assistance you require. I will help you build this foundation, Hermione. You will not be alone."

The drawing-room at Malfoy Manor felt like a battleground of aesthetics. The dark, imposing portraits of generations of Malfoys still hung on the walls, their sneers seemingly fixed on the overflowing bookshelves and stacks of Muggle novels that had taken up residence. It was a room in transition, much like its occupants.
Rita Skeeter, her acid-green robes clashing violently with the room's silver and black decor, sat perched on the edge of an ornate chaise, her Quick-Quotes Quill hovering menacingly over a notepad. Beside her, a much younger, visibly nervous reporter clutched his own pad.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger," Rita began, her voice a syrupy purr that set Hermione's teeth on edge. "The wizarding world is... agog. An enemy-to-lovers narrative for the ages! Tell us, how does one go from childhood nemesis to this... domestic bliss?"
Draco, looking relaxed in a tailored black suit, draped an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "The war changed everyone, Rita. In our sixth year, when I defected, I realized the world wasn't as black and white as I'd been raised to believe."
"And Hermione was one of the few people who saw that," he continued, looking at his... wife. The word was so new, so precious. "She saw a terrified boy, not just a Death Eater's son. In the middle of everything, that understanding became a friendship."
Hermione picked up the thread. "We worked together tirelessly, doing what we needed to bring down Voldemort. I saw his passion for correcting injustices, and he saw... well, he saw me." She smiled. "The romance blossomed from there. It wasn't a sudden change, but a slow, steady realization that we made each other better."
"How touching," Rita cooed, the quill scribbling furiously. "But one must ask about the rather large, ten-year elephant in the room. Your exile, Mr. Malfoy. It begins tomorrow. How can a budding romance possibly withstand a decade of separation?"
Draco shared a look with Hermione, a silent communication that spoke volumes. He smirked, the old Malfoy arrogance flaring for a moment, but this time it was aimed at Rita, not the world.
"Well, Rita, that won't be a problem," he said conversationally. "You see, an hour ago, Hermione and I were married at Gretna Green."
The quill clattered onto Rita's notepad. The younger reporter choked on a sip of water.
"M-married?" Rita stammered, her professional composure cracking. "But then... Miss Granger—Mrs. Malfoy—can join you!"
"She could," Draco agreed smoothly. "But she won't. As my wife, she'll be permitted to visit, but we've agreed she'll only come every six months."
This was a contradiction Rita's gossip-addled mind couldn't compute. "But... why? If you're so in love, why choose to be apart?"
"Because Hermione has a far more important project to oversee," Draco announced, his voice ringing with pride. "This house, Malfoy Manor, will soon cease to be an ancestral home. It is being repurposed as the grounds for the new Malfoy-Nott Foundation, a sanctuary for at-risk youth."
Flashes from the photographer's camera illuminated the stunned faces of the reporters.
"You're giving away your ancestral home?" the young reporter squeaked. "But... where will future Malfoys live?"
Draco's smirk vanished, replaced by a solemn gravity. "There will be no future Malfoys. The line, and the dark history that comes with it, ends with me."
The room was electric. Rita, sensing the scoop of a lifetime, leaned forward. "No children then, Mr. Malfoy? You and Mrs. Malfoy have decided against an heir to break the line?"
"First," Draco said, his voice sharp and clear, "you will address my wife by her proper name. It is Hermione Granger." He paused for effect. "And my name is Draco Granger."
He held up his hand, letting the light catch the new signet ring on his finger. The younger reporter squinted, noting down the details. It was a beautiful crest, beneath it, etched in elegant script, were the words Amor et Sapientia. Love and Wisdom. Draco then adjusted his cuffs, revealing elegant silver links shaped into the initials 'DG'. He gestured proudly to the large, custom-made broach pinned to Hermione's robes, a larger, more detailed version of their new Granger family crest.
"I want nothing more in this world than to have children with Hermione," Draco said, his voice softening as he looked at her. "And we will have many, but they will not be Malfoys. They will not be raised with the weight of that name, with its bigoted traditions and loveless expectations. They will be raised as Grangers."
He stood, pulling Hermione to her feet and wrapping an arm around her waist, a formidable, united front.
"We are building a new lineage," Draco Granger declared to the stunned reporters. "A lineage we can be proud of. And it all starts today. With us."

The morning sun streamed weakly through the tall windows of the Malfoy—no, Granger—Manor drawing room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The atmosphere was a strange cocktail of exhaustion, nervous energy, and the lingering scent of old parchment from the freshly delivered Daily Prophet. The dinner special on the Grangers ended up becoming a breakfast special as much was divulged during the interview that it took well into the evening to write it up into a proper current event for the paper. Copies of the newspaper were scattered across a coffee table, the sensational headline, "MALFOY NO MORE!", emblazoned above a moving picture of Draco and Hermione standing proudly together.
Pansy Parkinson let out a low whistle, rereading a passage for the third time. "Skeeter actually managed something resembling journalism. I'm impressed. 'A powerful witch tasked with dismantling a dark legacy'... she makes you sound like a warrior queen, Hermione."
"She makes us sound like a scandal," Blaise Zabini drawled from an armchair, though a ghost of a smile played on his lips. "Still, it's better than being on the front page for the usual reasons." He caught Draco's eye. "Showing off the cufflinks, Granger? A bit theatrical, even for you."
Draco, who was meticulously fastening the 'DG' links onto his crisp shirt cuffs, simply smirked. "It was for emphasis, Blaise. One has to be clear with the press."
Hermione, curled up beside him on the sofa with a cup of tea, felt a warm bloom of pride. Seeing their new reality in print, stark and bold, made it feel incredibly real. "I think it's perfect," she said softly, tracing the new crest with her finger. "Amor et Sapientia. Theo, it's brilliant."
Theodore Nott, looking uncharacteristically pleased with himself, gave a slight bow. "It was my honor to design the founding crest for the House of Granger."
The lighthearted moment was interrupted by a sharp crack of Apparition from the hallway. A moment later, Harry Potter entered, dressed in the official dark red robes of an Auror. His expression was serious, a folder tucked under his arm.
"Morning," he said, his eyes briefly flicking to the newspapers before settling on Draco. "Everything's in place. We're scheduled to depart in one hour. We just have to finalize the logistics." He opened the folder. "Finances, first. The Ministry needs to account for the Gringotts transfer. How much are you taking with you?"
"Ten million Galleons," Draco stated calmly.
Harry's pen froze. "Ten... million?"
"It's being converted to pounds as we speak," Draco clarified, ignoring the shocked looks from everyone but his wife. "I don't expect to use even a quarter of it, Potter. It's a security measure. Ten years is a long time. Worst-case scenarios must be accounted for."
Harry swallowed, making a note. "Right. And residence? The Ministry can appoint a property if you haven't secured one."
"Unnecessary," Draco said. "I have a place. My father acquired a Muggle manor in the countryside years ago. He intended to convert it, but the war... intervened. It's remained untouched, fully Muggle in every way. It's large enough for all of us."
Harry's head snapped up. "'All of us'?"
"Yes," Draco said, gesturing to the room. "Nott, Zabini, Parkinson, and the Greengrass sisters will be living there with me. We're going into this together."
Harry frowned, flipping through his papers. "Exiles aren't typically permitted to cohabitate..."
"There's no law against it unless specifically stipulated in the sentencing," Draco countered smoothly. "I checked. Your own department's charter, subsection four, paragraph twelve. Exiles are permitted to form support communities to 'encourage positive reintegration and mental fortitude.' The Ministry wants us to thrive, don't they? To become functioning members of Muggle society? We'll do that better together than wasting away in five separate flats."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, a flicker of something—begrudging respect, perhaps—in his eyes. He knew he'd been outmaneuvered. He closed the folder with a sigh.
"Fine," he said. "The manor it is. Just provide the address for the official record." He turned his gaze to Hermione, his expression softening. "Are you ready for this?"
Hermione nodded, her hand finding Draco's. "As I'll ever be." She looked at the proud, defiant headline on the table, at the man beside her who had given up his name and his world for a better future, and at the friends who were choosing solidarity over solitude. This wasn't just an exile; it was the start of their new legacy.
The air in the Ministry holding room was sterile and cold, smelling of old parchment and the faint, sharp tang of ozone left by magical transit. It was a place of endings and beginnings, and for the six former Slytherins gathered, it felt distinctly like the former. Draco Granger, his hand clutching Hermione’s so tightly his knuckles were white, stared at the opposite wall, refusing to meet anyone's gaze but his wife's.
They had been married for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours of stolen moments, whispered promises, and a love so fierce it felt like a physical force. Now, it was over, for a time.
"Ten years," Blaise Zabini murmured, his voice a low, smooth rumble that did nothing to hide the tension in his shoulders. He stood with the effortless grace he always had, but his eyes were dark and restless. Beside him, Theodore Nott had a hand on his arm, a silent pillar of support. The Greengrass sisters, Daphne and Astoria, stood together, their identical expressions of composed fear a testament to their pure-blood upbringing.
Only Pansy Parkinson seemed truly broken. Her face, usually a mask of haughty confidence, was pale and blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and vacant. She hadn't said a word in an hour.
Harry Potter cleared his throat, his Auror robes making him seem older, more severe. "Alright," he said, his voice gentle despite the grim task. "It's time." He held a velvet-lined box. Inside lay six identical talismans: discs of polished obsidian, cool to the touch, with a single, complex silver rune etched into their surface.
Hermione squeezed Draco’s hand. "I love you," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.
"I love you more," Draco whispered back, finally turning to face her. He brushed a stray curl from her cheek. "Six months. Then you can visit. But you have to promise me, Hermione. You focus on the Foundation. Don't let this… this exile… derail what we're building. It's too important."
The Malfoy-Nott Foundation for at-risk youth was their shared dream, a way to atone, to build something good from the ashes of their past. It was his penance, and her passion. "I promise," she choked out.
Harry approached them first. "Draco," he said, the name still feeling slightly foreign without 'Malfoy' attached. He took out the first talisman. "This will be permanently affixed over your sternum. It will connect directly to your magical core. The rune is a suppressor. It doesn't destroy your magic, it simply renders it dormant, folding it in on itself until it's inert. Think of it like a key turning in a lock. Your core is the lock; this is the key that closes it."
Draco nodded, his jaw tight. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
"The process is… unpleasant," Harry warned. "You will feel it leave. The corresponding talisman, the one that can unlock it, will be kept in a secure vault here at the Ministry. Any attempt to remove this one without it will be… catastrophic. Do you understand?"
"I understand, Potter," Draco said, his voice strained.
Hermione held his hand as Harry placed the cold obsidian against Draco's skin.
"Coresco Dormio," Harry incanted, his wand tip glowing with a soft, white light as he touched it to the talisman.
Draco gasped, his whole body going rigid. It was a visible sensation. The ambient magic in the room seemed to rush towards him and then halt, repelled. He described it later as a feeling of being hollowed out, a vital organ scooped from his chest, leaving a cold, aching void. The talisman glowed silver for a moment before sinking slightly into his skin, the edges fusing seamlessly with his flesh until it looked like a strange, dark tattoo.
Hermione felt a sympathetic jolt through her own magic, a phantom pain for what he had lost. Tears finally spilled down her cheeks as she watched the light fade from his eyes, replaced by a flat, mundane exhaustion.
The process was repeated for the others. Each reacted differently. Theo grunted and clenched his fists. Blaise’s mask of indifference cracked for a single, agonized second. The Greengrass sisters wept silently. Pansy simply flinched, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek as the last vestige of her connection to the world she knew was severed.
When it was done, Harry held out his arm. "The Portkey is ready. It will take you directly to the property."
One by one, they touched his arm. Draco gave Hermione one last, desperate kiss. "Six months," he breathed against her lips.
"Six months," she promised.
With a nauseating lurch, they were gone.

Chapter Text

They landed in the grand, marbled foyer of a sprawling manor house in the English countryside. It was beautiful, filled with priceless Muggle art and antique furniture, but it was utterly silent. The air was dead, lacking the familiar hum of ambient magic that permeated every corner of the wizarding world. It felt like a tomb.
Pansy finally broke. A gut-wrenching sob escaped her, and she stumbled back, sliding down a silk-wallpapered wall to collapse in a heap on the floor. "He didn't come," she wept, her voice raw with heartbreak. "He didn't even come to say goodbye."
The others watched, helpless. They had all lost their magic, but Pansy had clearly lost something more.
The air shimmered, and Harry and Hermione appeared. Harry gave the room a cursory glance. "Everything is in order. The wards are set. No magical signatures can be detected from here, and no one from the magical world can locate this address. It's officially off the map. Hermione," he said, his voice softening, "I'll leave you to it. I have to file the report."
Hermione nodded, her eyes fixed on the devastated group. "I'll see you back at the flat."
With a quiet pop, Harry was gone. Hermione spent the next hour trying to help them settle, showing them how the Muggle appliances worked, her heart aching with every mundane explanation of a kettle or a light switch. Draco followed her like a shadow, his hand always finding hers, a silent, desperate connection.
It was as she was explaining the television that a frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed from the massive oak front door.
Everyone froze. Draco instinctively moved in front of Hermione, his body tense. "Who could possibly know we're here?" Theo asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"I don't know," Hermione said, drawing her wand. "Stay back."
She cautiously approached the door and peered through the peephole. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She undid the locks and pulled the door open.
Neville Longbottom stood on the threshold, looking utterly dishevelled. His robes were askew, his face was flushed, and he was panting as if he'd run a marathon.
"Hermione! Am I… is she…?" he gasped, looking past her.
"Neville? What on earth are you doing here? How did you find us?"
"I was late!" he explained in a frantic rush. "There was a problem in the greenhouses at Hogwarts, a Venomous Tentacula got loose during my walkthrough with my replacement. By the time I got to the Ministry, you were all gone! They wouldn't give me the address, said it was sealed under the Exile Act. I had to… well, I had to Confund the records clerk. Just for a moment! Is she here?"
His eyes finally found the person he was looking for. Pansy had risen to her feet, her face a canvas of shock, hope, and utter confusion.
"Pansy," Neville breathed, his gaze softening completely.
"Neville?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He closed the distance between them in three long strides. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I ran all the way from the Apparition point. I wasn't going to let you go alone. I told you."
"I thought… I thought you changed your mind," she sobbed, fresh tears streaming down her face, but these were not tears of sorrow.
"Never," he said, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs wiping away her tears. "Ten years, a hundred years, it doesn't matter. A world without you in it isn't one I want to live in. Magic or no magic."
Gushing with a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, Pansy threw herself into his arms, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a collapsing world. He held her just as tightly, burying his face in her hair.
"You came," she cried into his shoulder, her voice muffled but filled with an indescribable relief.
"Of course I came," he murmured, his voice thick with love. "I'm not going anywhere."
Draco watched them, a small, sad smile on his face. He looked at Hermione, his wife, the magical, brilliant woman he couldn't touch for six months. At least someone in their gilded cage wouldn't have to be alone.
The manor was cold. Not just from the lack of magical warmth, but from the oppressive, dusty silence of a place long abandoned. Stripped of their magic by the talismans now permanently cool against their skin, the group felt the mundane weight of the world settle upon them like a shroud. The first night was a fraying of nerves, a slow-burning panic that Theodore Nott was trying to combat with ruthless efficiency after Hermione had left.
"Daphne, Astoria, you'll take the east wing rooms. Blaise, the one overlooking the gardens," Theo announced, pointing to a meticulously hand-drawn floor plan. "Pansy, you and Neville can take the master suite on the second floor. Draco—"
"Enough, Theo," Draco snapped, his voice echoing in the cavernous entry hall. He'd been staring out a grime-caked window at the encroaching twilight, his fists clenched. "Stop ordering everyone around. This isn't a military campaign."
"It's about survival," Theo retorted, not looking up from his chart. "Someone has to take control, and since we can't 'scourgify' this mess, we need a plan."
"I don't need you to plan my life!" Draco's voice rose, cracking with a frustration that had been simmering all day. He turned from the window, his grey eyes flashing. "I don't need you to control everything!"
The argument escalated with frightening speed, fueled by fear and helplessness. Words became shouts, and shouts became a shove. Draco pushed Theo, sending his floor plan scattering across the dusty marble. Theo lunged back, grabbing the front of Draco's shirt. It was a clumsy, graceless Muggle altercation, all brute force and fury.
"That's enough!" Neville's voice boomed as he and Blaise surged forward, prying the two apart. Blaise held a struggling Theo by the arms while Neville put himself squarely between them and Draco.
"Get off me!" Draco roared, shoving at Neville's chest. He pointed a trembling finger at Theo. "You! You aren't even supposed to be here! You threw away your entire future, your magic, your life... for what? Because, in your own words, you had a 'fear of missing out'!"
Theo wrenched himself free from Blaise's grip, his face pale and contorted with a pain that went far beyond the scuffle. "I DID IT TO SAVE YOUR LIFE, YOU ABSOLUTE GIT!" he screamed, the sound raw and broken. "BECAUSE YOU SAVED MINE!"
The hall fell into a stunned silence. Draco stared, his anger deflating into pure confusion. "What... what are you talking about?"
Theo’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a soul-deep weariness. "The time-turner, Draco. The trips to the future... I wasn't just looking for loopholes. I was checking on you." He swallowed hard. "Every time. Every single future I saw, even the ones where you and Hermione were happy, where you were married... you didn't make it."
Draco shook his head, a cold dread creeping up his spine. "That's not possible."
"You killed yourself," Theo said, the words hanging in the dead air. "Every time. About a half a year in. The guilt... over your father's death, everything he made you do... it ate you alive."
"No," Draco whispered, his eyes wide with denial. "I would never... I wouldn't do that to her. I would never hurt Hermione like that."
"You didn't do it of sound mind!" Theo's voice grew desperate, pleading for him to understand. "You were drinking, heavily. You were alone in the house one night because you didn’t want to go out with us, a moment of weakness, of crushing guilt. You made a vertical cut on your wrist."
Pansy let out a strangled sob.
"When you realized what you'd done," Theo continued, his own eyes welling with tears, "it was too late. There was no magic to save you. The talisman blocked it all. Hermione's wedding band... you'd had it charmed to alert her if your life was in danger. She came, Draco. She Apparated right to the front gate and found you... bleeding out on the floor of your study."
Draco stumbled back, his face ashen.
"She held you," Theo's voice cracked. "You told her you loved her. You told her you were sorry. And that's when she told you... that she was pregnant. That you were going to be a father." A tear tracked its way through the dust on Theo's cheek. "You died in her arms, knowing about the child you would never meet."
A collective gasp went through the room.
"After that," Theo said, his voice barely a whisper, "everything fell apart. Hermione... she was broken. We all had to take care of her, because she wouldn't do it herself, but it wasn’t enough, she lost the baby and then she took her own life. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't sit back and watch that future play out when I had the power to stop it. So I got myself caught. I got myself exiled. To save you all."
Draco just stared, shaking his head in silent, horrified disbelief.
"You don't believe me," Theo stated flatly. "Fine." He turned to Neville. "Get the Pensieve."
Neville, his own face a mask of grief, nodded and slipped out the front door and beyond the barrier before he disapparated with a soft pop, returning a moment later with a familiar shallow stone basin. Theo stepped forward, his expression resolute. "Neville, help me."
With Neville's wand aimed at his temple, Theo closed his eyes. Shuddering silvery threads of memory were pulled forth—flickering images of a desperate Hermione, a blood-soaked floor, a funeral under a grey sky. Draco watched, mesmerized and terrified, as Theo deposited them into the swirling basin.
"Watch," Theo commanded.
Hesitantly, Draco leaned over the Pensieve and plunged his face into the liquid memory.
The room held its breath. No one moved. They only watched Draco's rigid form, his back ramrod straight as he witnessed the future that could have been. An eternity seemed to pass before he pulled back with a choked gasp, his face sheet-white and streaked with tears.
He stood there for a long, silent moment, the horrific images replaying behind his eyes. He finally looked at Theo, not with anger, but with a profound, weeping understanding.
"You saved her," Draco whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You saved our child." He took a stumbling step forward. "You saved me."
He closed the distance between them and pulled his friend into a fierce, desperate hug, burying his face in Theo's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "Theo, I'm so sorry."
Theo hugged him back just as tightly, and in the cold, dark hall of their gilded cage, the two friends wept for a future that would never come to pass.
The longest six months of Draco Granger's life were measured in mundane, magic-less moments: the endless scrubbing of dusty floors, the frustrating attempts at cooking on a gas stove, the quiet, aching nights staring at a sky devoid of owls. He and the others had fallen into a routine, a strange domesticity born of shared exile, but a piece of him remained in a state of suspended animation, waiting.
He was standing by the front gate, the cold iron biting into his palms, when he felt the faint magical tremor that signaled an arrival at the designated Apparition point just beyond the property line. His heart hammered against his ribs. He’d known the day, the hour, the very minute she was due, but seeing her solidifying form at the end of the long gravel drive still stole the air from his lungs.
She was wearing a simple blue dress, and her hair was tied back in a loose braid. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. As she walked towards him, a radiant smile on her face, his world tilted on its axis. It wasn't just her smile, or the love shining in her eyes. It was the gentle, unmistakable swell of her stomach.
The sight struck him with the force of a physical blow. This was it. The future Theo had saved. The child he’d almost never known. The wife and unborn child that was lost to grief of him dying. The denial he still harbored in the darkest corners of his mind evaporated in the bright afternoon sun. It was real.
By the time she reached the gate, tears were streaming down his face. He fumbled with the latch, his hands shaking too much to work it properly. Hermione simply smiled and reached over, unhooking it with ease. The moment it swung open, he collapsed to his knees before her, his arms wrapping gently, reverently, around her waist as he pressed his face against the curve of her stomach.
A choked sob tore from his throat. He felt the firm warmth of her belly against his cheek, the faint, fluttery movement from within, and he broke. All the fear, the guilt, and the overwhelming, terrifying love poured out of him. "I'm sorry," he wept, his voice muffled by the fabric of her dress. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry."
He kissed her stomach, then again and again, his lips brushing over the new life they had created. He tilted his head back, his tear-filled eyes meeting hers, and she reached down to cup his face, her thumb wiping away his tears.
"Draco, stop," she whispered, her own voice thick with emotion. "You have nothing to be sorry for. And you weren't the only one able to be there for us."
He looked at her, confused.
"Your mother," Hermione explained, a soft, genuine smile gracing her lips. "She's been there from the very first day. She was with me at St. Mungo's for the first scan. She's the one who fusses over what I'm eating and makes sure I'm not overworking myself at the foundation. She's been... incredible."
Draco stared at her, stunned. His mother, the proud Malfoy matriarch, doting on her Muggle-born daughter-in-law? The thought filled him with a wave of respect and gratitude so profound it left him breathless.
"Now, get up, you silly man," Hermione said, pulling him gently to his feet. "I have something for you." She reached into her bag and pulled out a roll of official-looking parchment, sealed with the emblem of the Ministry of Magic. "I've been busy, too. It took a lot of arguing and citing precedent, but I got it."
He took the document, his brow furrowed as he broke the seal. He read the dense legal text, his eyes widening with every line. It was an official addendum to his sentence.
"...upon the commencement of active labor by his wife, Hermione Jean Granger, the subject, Draco Lucius Granger, will be magically transported to her side... a grace period of one week (seven standard days) post-parturition is granted for familial bonding..."
"When I go into labor, the parchment will act as a Portkey and bring you to the hospital birthing room that is currently reserved for me," Hermione confirmed, her eyes shining. "You'll be there, Draco. And you'll have a week with us."
Joy, pure and blinding, surged through him. He would be there. He wouldn't miss the birth of his child. He pulled her into a fierce, loving embrace, burying his face in her hair. "Thank you," he breathed.
But as the initial euphoria subsided, the cold reality of the words sank in. One week. A single week to be a father, a husband, a family, before being torn away for another six months for the next ten years. The heartbreak was a physical ache in his chest.
"I'll miss everything," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Their first words, their first steps..."
Hermione pulled back, her expression determined. She took his hand and placed it firmly on her stomach. "No, you won't," she said, her voice full of the unwavering conviction he loved so much. "You'll see all of it. Every night after the baby is asleep, I'm going to pull the memories from my mind and save them for you. Every bath time, every smile, every single milestone."
"Hermione, the talisman..."
"The addendum also came with a very specific clarification on the rules," she said, a clever glint in her eye. "You are forbidden from performing magic. Viewing a memory in a Pensieve doesn't count. It's technically not your magic. It's a legal loophole, Draco, and it's consequence-free. When you come home, our child's entire life will be waiting for you. I promise."
As he stood, Hermione’s eyes swept over him, a warm, appreciative smile on her lips. He looked so different in Muggle attire—a soft grey jumper that had seen better days and simple, dark jeans. He looked solid, real, stripped of the aristocratic armor of his wizarding robes. He looked like her husband.
Draco carefully guided her towards the manor, one arm protectively around her waist, the other holding her hand, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. His adoring gaze never left her face. When they reached the wide, stone porch, he stopped, turning to face her fully under the afternoon sun. His free hand came to rest on her belly, his palm splayed possessively over the life within.
"Gods, you are so beautiful," he breathed, his voice full of awe. "You are the most incredible person I have ever known, Hermione Granger. I am the lucky man in any world to be your husband and to have your name." He crooned, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her stomach. "I can't wait to hold our baby. Have you been thinking of names? I've got a list from before, when I knew I wanted children with you, but didn’t want traditional Malfoy/Black names, but I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl..."
Hermione’s smile widened, a secret, brilliant light in her eyes. She placed her hand over his. "It's girls, Draco."
His rambling stopped. He looked from her stomach to her eyes, his own wide with shock and dawning joy. "Girls?" he whispered.
She nodded, her smile somehow growing even brighter. "Identical twin girls."
He stared at her, speechless, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face before he leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss. When they finally broke apart, he led her inside. The heavy oak door swung open to reveal the entire household gathered in the entryway, their faces breaking into wide smiles at the sight of her. Pansy, Daphne, Astoria, Blaise, and Neville were all there.
But it was Theo who stood at the front, his expression one of profound relief and reverence. His eyes were fixed on her stomach, a large, genuine smile spreading across his face as he looked upon the very future he had sacrificed his own to save.
From the moment she crossed the threshold, Hermione was enveloped in a flurry of gentle, solicitous care. Pansy immediately conjured a comfortable armchair into the tea room, while Daphne fetched a soft cashmere blanket. Neville insisted on carrying her small overnight bag, and Astoria bustled about preparing a pot of raspberry leaf tea. Draco found himself momentarily sidelined, a flicker of fond irritation passing through him as his own plans to dote on his wife were eagerly co-opted by their friends.
Later, while the group chatted animatedly, Blaise and Theodore retired to the kitchen. The two had discovered a surprising talent for Muggle cooking, and the scent of herbs and simmering wine soon filled the manor. When dinner was called, Draco escorted Hermione to the formal dining room. The long-forgotten table was now gleaming, set with polished silver and graced with an astonishingly delicious-looking spread: Coq au vin, golden fondant potatoes, a savory quiche, vibrant ratatouille, and a glistening tarte tatin for dessert.
Draco pulled out Hermione’s chair, helping her settle in before taking the seat beside her. He served her plate first, carefully selecting the best portions, before preparing his own. He filled a goblet for her with a mixture of apple cider and sparkling water, then placed his hand on her stomach, where it remained for the entire meal.
The friends watched, their hearts full. The fierce, possessive love Draco had for his wife and unborn children was a tangible thing, a warmth that filled the entire room.
"So," Pansy said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Have you two decided to find out the gender? Or are you waiting for a surprise?"
Draco looked at Hermione, a slow, proud smile spreading across his face. "Hermione was kind enough to let me in on the secret earlier," he said. He paused, looking around the table at his friends. "We're having girls. Identical twins."
A wave of delighted exclamations swept the table.
"Twins!" Astoria clapped her hands. "Oh, that's wonderful! We must think of names! Something celestial! Andromeda, Lyra, Cassiopeia..."
Draco listened, but then glanced at Hermione, a silent question in his eyes. She gave him a subtle, encouraging nod. "Actually," he said gently, cutting through the excited chatter. "We were thinking of starting a new tradition. For the Granger family." He looked directly at Hermione, his voice soft with devotion. "With my wife's permission, of course, I was hoping we might name our children after heroines from classic literature."
Hermione beamed, her face glowing with love. "I think that's a perfect tradition to start."
The idea was met with instant enthusiasm, and a lively debate began. Names were thrown out—Elizabeth, Jane, Catherine, Jo. Finally, Hermione looked at Draco, her eyes shining.
"What about Shakespeare?" she suggested. "For the cleverest, strongest women I've ever read."
Draco's face lit up. "Helena," he said instantly. "From A Midsummer Nights Dream."
"And Juliet," Hermione added, her hand covering his on her stomach. "From Romeo and Juliet."
They looked at each other, the decision settling between them, perfect and right.
"Helena Jean Granger," Draco declared, honoring Hermione's mother.
"And Juliet Narcissa Granger," Hermione finished, honoring his.
Theo raised his glass of wine. "To Helena and Juliet," he said, his voice thick with an emotion that everyone in the room understood. "May their futures be bright."
And they all toasted, a small, strange, beautiful family, to the new lives that had saved them all.

Chapter Text

The lingering warmth of the celebratory dinner followed them as the happy chatter of their friends finally dwindled. Pansy and Neville had disappeared upstairs, their hands linked, a quiet, private joy settling over them. Theo, Blaise, and the Greengrass sisters had retired to the drawing-room with a bottle of wine, their voices a low, comforting murmur in the cavernous house. Hermione leaned into Draco's side, treasuring the simple contact. Her weekend visit was a precious, fleeting bubble of time, a brief reprieve from the reality of his ten-year magical exile in the Muggle world.
Draco led her to the manor’s library. It was the one room he and Theo had managed to make truly comfortable, clearing the dust-sheeted furniture to reveal worn leather armchairs and a grand, unlit fireplace. He settled her onto a chaise lounge, fussing over her with a tenderness that was still so new, so raw. He tucked a cashmere blanket around her legs and knelt before her, his hands, as if drawn by their own gravity, returning to the swell of her stomach.
He pressed his ear against the taut skin, a look of intense concentration on his face.
"What are you listening for?" Hermione asked, her fingers weaving into his soft, blond hair.
"Their plots," he murmured, his lips curving against her dress. "They're quiet. Too quiet. Probably planning how to keep you awake for the next decade." He shifted, pressing a soft kiss to her navel. "Hello in there, little witches. It’s your father. Do try to be kind to your mother, won't you? She's got the world to save."
Hermione laughed, a warm, rich sound that filled the cold room. "They're fine, Draco. Just sleeping."
"I wonder…" he mused, his palm sliding in a slow, reverent circle. "Will they have your impossible hair? Merlin, I hope so. I hope they have your curls, and your eyes, and your insufferable know-it-all brilliance." He looked up at her, his grey eyes softening with a love so profound it made her breath catch. "Or they could have my unfortunate face. As long as they're healthy. As long as they look at you the way I do."
"They'll be a perfect blend, Draco," she whispered, cupping his cheek. "And undoubtedly as stubborn as both of us combined. We'll be in for a terrible time."
"I can't wait," he breathed.
He stayed like that for a long moment, simply kneeling before his wife and their unborn children, memorizing the peace of the moment. The quiet stillness reminded him of all the work they were doing, all the futures they were trying to build, not just their own.
"This... us... it's all I've thought about," he said, his voice low. "But there is the other project. The other baby, so to speak. How are things progressing with the Malfoy-Nott Foundation?"
Hermione’s expression shifted, her sharp, professional focus clicking into place. She loved this part of him—the man who, even when stripped of his magic and his name, still felt the drive to build, to atone.
"It’s going incredibly well, actually," she reported. "The renovations at the Manor are nearly complete. Your mother has been... a force of nature. She’s overseeing Pansy’s interior designs for the new residential wings. You'll be pleased to know there isn't a single peacock in sight. It's all warm colours and comfortable, durable yet tasteful furniture."
Draco let out a small, huffing laugh. "Miracles do happen."
"The last of the dark artifacts were cleared by the Ministry task force last week," she continued. "And the lawyers have finalized the charter. The Wizengamot ratified it without a single objection. The board is set, and the initial funding is already in the foundation's new Gringotts account."
"Good," Draco interrupted, his voice firm. "On that—I want it on record. For every galleon donated, I want to match it three times over from the main Malfoy vault. Make sure the lawyers know. This cannot fail."
"Draco, that's..." she started, stunned by the amount, "...that's incredibly generous. Of course. I'll have them draft the addendum. But that's not even the best part. We are, somehow, wildly ahead of schedule."
"Ahead?" he asked, frowning. "What does that mean? The last projection I saw said it would take nearly ten years to get it properly staffed and running, to overcome the stigma of the Manor."
"That's what we all thought," Hermione said, a proud, excited smile spreading across her face. "But the response has been... overwhelming. We're on track to open the doors in two years, maybe less, Draco. Not ten."
His jaw literally dropped. "Two?" he whispered, shocked. "How is that even possible?"
"The Wizengamot ratification pushed us forward," she explained, her voice quickening with enthusiasm. "We're already accepting preliminary applications, even without the facilities being open. We've had dozens of self-inquiries from teens who've heard about it and want a place. And we're working with Child Magical Services on recommendations for younger children—ones needing well-wizard checks who are pending removal from their homes but are too young to sign up themselves."
"So... it's already working," he said, the words thick with awe. He closed his eyes, a profound wave of relief washing over him. Malfoy Manor—a place of such darkness, of his own personal torment—was being reborn as a sanctuary. "Two years." He pressed his forehead to her stomach. "A new start. For all of us. For those kids that need… want a better home. One full of love. One where they know they are loved and not conditionally. Faster than I ever dreamed."
He looked up at her, his mind clearly working. "Hermione, your idea... about saving your memories of them for me. It's... it's everything. It's the only thing getting me through the thought of the next six months." He paused, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. "I want to do the same. For them."
Her brow furrowed. "For Helena and Juliet?"
"Yes," he said, his voice thick with a new, urgent purpose. "That first week I have with you—with them... I want to save every moment. Every nappy change, every time I hold them, every time I rock them to sleep. I want to save the memories of me talking to them, telling them how much I love them. And then every visit afterwards."
He met her gaze, his own shining with unshed tears. "They're going to grow up with me as a ghost, Hermione. A man who's there for a week and gone for six months, for ten years. They're going to have questions. They might even... they might even resent me." The fear was raw in his voice. "But if I save these memories for them, from me... they'll never have to doubt. You can show them. They'll be able to see their father, to hear my voice, to know... to know... that I have adored them since before they even took their first breath. They’ll always know I was there even when I couldn’t physically be."
Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes, and she pulled him up, her arms wrapping around his neck as he stood. "Draco," she wept softly, "that is the most beautiful, thoughtful thing I have ever heard. Of course. We'll do it. They will never have a moment of doubt. I promise you."
He held her, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of old parchment and her own unique, sweet smell. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since she arrived finally, truly, released. She wasn't going into labor tonight. The parchment Portkey in his pocket remained just a simple roll of parchment. Tonight, she was just his.
"Come on," he murmured, pulling back just enough to kiss her forehead. "You must be exhausted. You're carrying two."
He guided her from the library, his arm a solid, possessive weight around her waist. He walked her to the master suite that Pansy and Neville had so graciously insisted they take for the night. The room was cold, the fire in the grate long since turned to embers, but the bed was piled high with blankets.
He helped her out of her dress and into a soft cotton nightgown she’d brought, his hands gentle and reverent on her changing body. He pulled back the covers, and she slid in, the cold sheets making her gasp. He quickly stripped down to his trousers and a thin t-shirt and climbed in behind her, pulling her back against his chest.
It was an instant, perfect fit. He wrapped his body around hers, one arm protectively over her, his hand splayed wide on her stomach, feeling the solid, reassuring weight of their daughters. He nuzzled her neck, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, her hair, the shell of her ear. There was no desperate, frantic passion; this was something deeper, quieter. It was the profound intimacy of a husband and wife, a shared breath in the darkness.
"I love you, Hermione Jean Granger," he whispered into the stillness of the room. "More than I ever thought it was possible to love anything."
She placed her hand over his, her own small and warm. "I love you, Draco. Now get some sleep. You're going to need your rest if you intend to keep up with me and your two daughters."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he held her tighter. For tonight, there was no exile. There was no Ministry, no gilded cage. There was only the warmth of his wife, the steady beat of her heart, and the quiet promise of the two lives held safely within her. It was, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, a perfectly loving night.
Draco woke before the sun, a habit he’d developed in the magic-less silence of the manor. In the absence of magical ambient noise, every creak of the old house, every rustle of leaves outside, was magnified. But this morning, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of his wife.
He didn't move. He lay on his side, his arm heavy and warm across her middle, his hand splayed possessively over the firm swell of their daughters. He watched the pale, grey light of dawn slowly illuminate her face, tracing the line of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the stubborn set of her mouth, even in sleep.
This was, he thought, a unique and exquisite form of torture. To have her here, warm and real in his arms, and to know it was only for a matter of hours. His ten-year sentence had never felt more cruel, or more real, than it did in this small, stolen pocket of domestic peace.
He felt a faint, fluttery movement under his palm, and a slow smile spread across his face. At least one of their daughters was an early riser. He leaned in, his lips brushing her hair. "Good morning, my loves," he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath.
Hermione stirred, her nose wrinkling before her eyes slowly opened. They were fuzzy with sleep, and for a moment, she looked utterly content, a soft smile on her lips as she focused on him. "Hi," she mumbled.
"Hi," he whispered back, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on her stomach.
Then, reality dawned. Her smile faltered as she remembered where she was, and more importantly, what day it was. Sunday. The end of her visit.
"Don't," he said, seeing the look in her eyes. "Not yet. We're still here. It's not time yet."
He kissed her, a long, slow, morning kiss that tasted of sleep and a desperate, shared longing. He poured every ounce of his love, his fear, and his gratitude into it. When he finally pulled back, they simply held each other, the silence of the room charged with everything they couldn't say.
Breakfast was a subdued affair. The whole house seemed to feel the impending separation. Pansy made a valiant attempt at cheerfulness, detailing Neville's latest, surprisingly successful foray into Muggle gardening, but the conversation felt thin. Draco sat beside Hermione, his knee pressed to hers under the table, his hand never leaving her arm, her back, or her hand. He served her food, poured her juice, and hovered so closely that Theo finally rolled his eyes.
"For Merlin's sake, Draco," Theo said, though his voice was gentle. "She's just eating toast. You don't need to guard it."
"Shut up, Nott," Draco replied without any heat, his focus remaining entirely on his wife.
All too soon, it was time. Hermione stood, and the others gathered in the foyer, their goodbyes quiet and heartfelt. Pansy hugged her tightly. "You take care of yourself, and those little girls. We'll... we'll see you soon. In a way."
Draco took her small overnight bag from Neville and walked her out the front door, down the long, gravel drive. The air was cool, the sun bright. It felt like a perfectly normal day, which only made the goodbye harder. They stopped just shy of the property line, the invisible barrier that separated his cage from her freedom.
He set the bag down and turned to her, his hands coming up to cup her face. His grey eyes were turbulent, a storm of fear and love. "You have the parchment?" he asked, his voice rough.
"I have it," she said, her own voice thick. She touched the pocket of her coat. "It's right here. It will work, Draco. I promise."
"The moment... the second you feel anything, you go straight to St. Mungo's. You don't wait. You don't try to file one last brief, or answer one more owl. You go."
"I will," she smiled, tears welling in her eyes. "I'll be fine. Your mother is on high alert. She's practically sleeping on my doorstep."
"Good," he breathed. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. "I love you. I love you so much it physically hurts. And I love them," he whispered, his hand dropping to her stomach. "More than they will ever know."
"They'll know, Draco," she wept, her hands clinging to his shirt. "We'll show them the memories. They will know."
He kissed her, a desperate, shattering kiss that was meant to last him six months. It was a kiss of promises, of shared hope, of the agonizing injustice of their separation. He poured all of his desperation, his love, his atonement, into it.
"I'll see you when they arrive," he finally managed, pulling away.
"I'll see you then."
She gave him one last, watery smile, picked up her bag, and took the single step across the property line. With a final look back at the man who was her entire world, trapped behind an invisible wall, Hermione Granger turned on the spot and Disapparated with a soft pop.
Draco stood there, staring at the empty space where she had been. The silence that rushed in was deafening. He felt the cold iron of the gate under his hand, the only thing he could touch that she had. He stood there for a long, long time before the weight of the next six months settled on his shoulders, and he slowly turned to walk back to the empty house.
The weekend visit faded into a painful, cherished memory. The weeks that followed were a unique form of torment for Draco. He existed in a state of suspended animation, every moment spent waiting. He, Theo, and Neville had thrown themselves into the physical labor of the manor, repairing crumbling stone walls, painting rooms, and tending the overgrown gardens, all without a drop of magic. The work was grueling, and it was the only thing that kept Draco from going mad.
Every night, he would sit in the library and stare at the addendum from the Ministry, the parchment now worn at the creases from how often he'd taken it out to read. Upon the commencement of active labor...
It had been four weeks. Hermione was now past her due date. Every day that passed, the knot of fear in his stomach tightened. What if it didn't work? What if the magic failed? What if she was in trouble and he was stuck here, useless?
"It's Hermione, Draco," Theo had said, for what felt like the hundredth time that very morning, as he found Draco pacing the length of the library. "She’s triple-checked every rune, every line of the spellwork. It will work."
"She's late," Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Twins are often early, not late. What if something's wrong?"
"Or," Pansy said, leaning against the doorframe, "they're just as stubborn as their mother and are refusing to come out until they've finished a particularly interesting chapter."
Draco shot her a dark look, but the attempt at humor did nothing to ease his tension. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He was just... waiting.
Miles away, in her office at the Malfoy-Nott Foundation, Hermione let out an exhausted sigh and rubbed the small of her back. She was, quite frankly, miserable. She felt less like a heavily pregnant woman and more like a small planet. Narcissa had, as promised, been an absolute tyrant of care, and Ginny had forcibly relocated her to a quiet office in the Foundation's new wing, where she was supposed to be "organizing donor files" but was mostly just... sitting.
"That's it," Ginny said, appearing in her doorway with a firm look. "You're done. Go home, 'Mione. Put your feet up. Stare at a wall. Anything but this."
"I just have to finish this one correspondence," Hermione mumbled, dipping her quill. "It's for the application from that girl in..."
She stopped. Her eyes went wide. She had felt twinges and aches for days, but this was different. This was not a twinge. This was a deep, powerful, undeniable clench that started low in her back and wrapped around her entire middle, stealing her breath.
Ginny saw the look on her face. Her own eyes widened in excitement. "Was that...?"
Hermione held up a finger, breathing through it. As the feeling subsided, she nodded, her face pale. "That... yes. That was one."
"Right!" Ginny snapped into action. "How far apart?"
"How should I know? It was the first one!" Hermione snapped, already feeling overwhelmed. And then, not thirty seconds later, another one seized her, stronger than the last. She gasped, gripping the edge of her desk. "Oh. Okay. That was... close."
"Right. Very close. We're going," Ginny said, grabbing Hermione's bag. "St. Mungo's. Now."
"The parchment," Hermione panted, fumbling for her coat. "Ginny, I need... wait..."
But she never finished the thought. As she stood, the second contraction at its peak, the rolled-up parchment in her coat pocket suddenly flared with an intense, blinding gold light.
Draco was in the library, holding the Ministry addendum, when it happened.
One second, it was just a piece of aged parchment in his shaking hand. The next, the official seal of the Ministry of Magic burned hotter than a furnace. The parchment burst into golden flames that didn't burn, and the magic erupted from it, latching onto him with the force of a physical blow.
"THEO!" he roared, his voice ripped from his throat as the unmistakable, violent hook of a Portkey yanked him from behind his navel.
The library, the manor, his entire gilded cage, dissolved into a nauseating, chaotic spin of color and pressure. He landed—not stumbled, but crashed—onto a hard, sterile floor, the smell of antiseptic and powerful magic flooding his senses.
He was momentarily blind, disoriented, his magic-starved senses overwhelmed.
"He's here! By Merlin, it worked!" a voice shouted. "Healer, the husband is here!"
Draco blinked, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He looked up and his world snapped into focus.
She was there. Not ten feet away, lying in a hospital bed, her face pale and damp with sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. And she was smiling at him, a smile of such profound relief and love that it cracked his heart open.
"You're late, Granger," she panted, her knuckles white as she gripped the side of the bed, her body already tensing for the next wave. She held out a shaking hand to him. "They're on their way."
He didn't walk; he scrambled, falling to his knees at her bedside, his hand seizing hers like a drowning man. The sterile room, the hovering Healers, all of it faded away. There was only her.
"I'm here," he breathed, pressing his lips to her knuckles, tears of raw, blinding joy streaming down his face. "I'm here, Hermione. I'm right here."

Chapter Text

The room was a vortex of controlled chaos. Bright, sterile-smelling, and buzzing with a level of magic that made Draco’s magic-starved senses scream in protest. Charms he couldn't see zipped through the air—monitoring vitals, easing pain, assessing the babies. After six months of dead, Muggle silence, it was a deafening, overwhelming roar.
But he heard none of it.
His entire universe had compressed to the woman on the bed, her face pale and damp, her knuckles white where she gripped his hand.
"Right, Mr. Granger, you're here. Excellent," a brisk, no-nonsense Healer said, not even looking at him. "Stand up, man, and support her back. This is moving fast."
Draco scrambled to his feet, his limbs feeling clumsy and disconnected. He moved behind Hermione, helping her sit up, his arms wrapping around her as she arched off the bed, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat. The sound terrified him. It was a sound of pure, animalistic pain, and it ripped through him with a sympathetic agony.
"I've got you," he breathed into her hair, his own body trembling. "I'm right here. You're doing it, Hermione, you're incredible. I'm right here."
"It... hurts... Draco!" she gasped, her nails digging into his forearms.
"I know, I know. I've got you," he repeated, the words a useless, desperate litany.
"That's it, Mrs. Granger!" the Healer called out. "A big push on this one. I can see the head! Give us everything you've got!"
Hermione bore down with a scream that seemed to shatter the very air in the room. In that terrible, beautiful moment, Draco’s mind flashed, unbidden, to Theo's memory: a blood-soaked floor, a broken Hermione, a future of silent, empty grief.
He banished it with a violent shake of his head. This was not that future. This was the one they had earned. This was the one Theo had saved. This was their future, and it was loud, and painful, and real.
"PUSH!" the Healer commanded.
Hermione gave one final, earth-shattering cry, and then, a new sound sliced through the room.
It was thin, furious, and utterly miraculous. A wail.
"We have a girl!" the Healer announced, her voice bright. "She's perfect. Time of birth, 10:42 PM."
Draco collapsed against the headboard, choking on a sob he didn't know he'd been holding. He was weeping, fat, hot tears of relief and a joy so profound it was almost painful. He kissed Hermione's temple, her sweaty hair, her cheek. "You did it, love," he cried, his voice thick. "She's here. She's okay."
Hermione fell back against him, her chest heaving, her eyes fluttering shut. "One more," she panted, her voice a reedy whisper.
"She's right on her sister's heels," the Healer confirmed, her focus already shifting. "Alright, Mrs. Granger, I know you're tired, but your second daughter is impatient. Let's meet her."
The next few minutes were a blur of motion, pain, and encouragement. It was faster this time, a frantic, desperate rush. Draco barely had time to register what was happening before Hermione tensed, gave another powerful, determined push, and a second, distinct cry joined the first.
"And another girl!" the Healer declared, laughing. "10:46 PM. Just as beautiful and just as loud as her sister. Congratulations."
The tension in the room didn't just ease; it evaporated. The buzzing magic seemed to quiet, replaced by the sound of two crying newborns and the low, efficient murmurs of the medi-witches cleaning them. Draco slid from the bed to his knees, his legs giving out completely. He rested his head on the mattress beside Hermione's arm, his entire body shaking with the aftershock of the most terrifying and beautiful hour of his life.
"They're here," he whispered, the words catching in his throat. "They're safe. You're safe."
"We're safe," Hermione corrected, her hand finding his hair, her fingers weak but steady.
A kind-faced medi-witch approached them, two small, identical bundles wrapped in soft, pink blankets. "Healers have checked them both. They are healthy, strong, and have excellent lungs," she said with a warm smile. "Would you like to hold your daughters, Mr. and Mrs. Granger?"
Hermione nodded, her arms lifting weakly. "Draco..."
He stood, his hands shaking so violently he was afraid he'd drop one. He felt clumsy, too large, a creature of sharp edges in this room full of soft, new life. The witch gently placed one bundle into Hermione's waiting arms, then turned and settled the other into Draco's.
He looked down.
His world, which had been spinning in a chaotic vortex, came to a sudden, perfect, silent stop.
A tiny, red, scrunched-up face stared back at him, her eyes squeezed shut. She had a surprising tuft of dark, damp fuzz on her head. She was so small, so impossibly fragile, he was terrified to even breathe. And she was his. His.
He looked at Hermione, who was gazing at the baby in her arms with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. "Helena Jean," she whispered, her voice cracking with love.
Draco looked back down at the tiny, perfect, seven-pound miracle in his own arms. His heart felt like it was physically breaking and reforming, larger and stronger than before. "And Juliet Narcissa," he finished, his voice barely audible.
He leaned over, careful of the precious bundle he held, and pressed a kiss to Hermione's lips. It was not a kiss of passion, but of reverent, soul-deep gratitude. The Healer murmured something about giving them a moment, about post-natal checks, about moving them to a recovery room.
Draco didn't hear her. His one-week grace period, his seven precious days, had officially begun. But as he stood in the magical, antiseptic-scented room, his wife safe and his two daughters breathing the same air he was, the next ten years of exile felt like a distant, powerless shadow.
He was here. He was a husband. And, against all odds, he was a father. He was, finally, home.
The transition from the bright, frantic delivery room to the private recovery suite was a disorienting, blissful blur. The magic in the air settled from a roar to a hum. The room was warm, the lights were low, and the only sounds were the occasional soft, snuffly breaths from the two identical bassinets wheeled in beside the bed.
Hermione was settled against a mountain of pillows, her eyes heavy-lidded with an exhaustion so profound it was almost a euphoria. Draco hadn't let go of Juliet. He’d sat in the hard-backed visitor's chair, his expensive Muggle clothes rumpled and damp, and just... stared. He'd stared for a full hour, his world reduced to the seven-pound weight in his arms.
A medi-witch, the same kind one from before, bustled in. "Alright, let's get these little ladies properly introduced to their mother, shall we? They'll be getting hungry."
Draco felt a sudden, sharp pang of... something. Awkwardness. He was an intruder. This next part was for Hermione, a sacred, maternal magic he had no part in. He made to stand, to hand Juliet over, but the witch just smiled.
"No, you stay, Mr. Granger. You're part of this, too. You can learn to support her."
He watched, mesmerized and feeling utterly useless, as the medi-witch guided Hermione, showing her how to hold Helena, how to encourage her to latch. There was a moment of fumbling, a small cry of frustration from Helena, and a wince of pain from Hermione, and then... quiet.
Draco watched his daughter, his tiny, brand-new daughter, feed from his wife. The intimacy of the moment was staggering. It was the most natural, elemental thing he had ever witnessed, and it struck him with the force of a revelation. This was the future Theo had saved. This was the family he had almost destroyed.
"Your turn," the witch said gently, turning to him. "Let's get Juliet settled while her sister finishes." She showed him how to swaddle the baby snugly, how to support her head, how to hold her against his chest.
"I'll... I'll break her," he whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands, which could brew a perfect Draught of Living Death and cast a wordless impedimenta, felt like clumsy, brutal things.
"You won't," Hermione murmured, her eyes shining at him over Helena's fuzzy head. "She's stronger than she looks."
The medi-witch guided his arms, placing Juliet against his chest. "There. Skin-to-skin is wonderful for them. Just hold her. Let her hear your heart."
She bustled out, leaving them in a soft, private bubble. Draco was rigid, his entire body locked in terror of crushing the tiny creature. But then Juliet, as if sensing his tension, let out a small, contented sigh and snuggled deeper into the fabric of his shirt.
His heart didn't just melt; it evaporated.
He looked at Hermione, who was now sleepily rubbing Helena's back. They swapped a look of pure, terrified, unadulterated bliss.
"She has your hair," he whispered, his finger tracing a tiny, damp curl that was already springing up by Juliet’s ear. "This... this defiant, bushy little curl. Merlin help me."
Hermione laughed, a tired, watery sound. "And they have your chin. Both of them. And that imperious little nose. Poor girls, they'll be insufferable."
"They'll be perfect," he corrected, his voice thick.
They sat in the comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft suckling of one daughter and the snuffly breathing of the other. Finally, Hermione's eyes began to close, her body slumping in exhaustion.
"Sleep," Draco ordered, his voice soft but firm. "I've got them."
"You need to sleep, too," she mumbled.
"I'm not wasting a second of this week sleeping. Go on. I'll... I'll just watch them."
She gave him a look of such profound love that it almost brought him to his knees again. She surrendered to the exhaustion, her breathing evening out within moments, Helena still cradled against her.
Draco, however, was wide awake. He was thrumming with an energy that was part adrenaline, part magic, part pure, terrified joy. He was a father. He was a father of two.
He carefully maneuvered Juliet to his shoulder, patting her back in the clumsy way the witch had shown him. After a few moments, a comically small burp echoed in the quiet room. He grinned, a wide, foolish, unguarded expression he didn't even recognize.
"That's my girl," he whispered.
He settled her back in his arms, and just as he did, Hermione stirred, her grip on Helena loosening. With the stealth of a man defusing a curse, Draco rose and gently, gently, scooped his other daughter from his wife's arms. Hermione didn't even stir.
He sat back down in the armchair, a daughter nestled in the crook of each arm. He was trapped, blissfully, perfectly trapped.
He looked from one tiny, sleeping face to the other. Helena Jean. Juliet Narcissa.
"Hello," he whispered into the darkness, his voice cracking. "I'm... I'm your father. I know I'm not... I won't be around. Not for a while. But I want you to know... I want you to always know... that from the very first second, I..." He had to stop, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. "I have loved you more than my own life. I will always love you."
He looked at their peaceful faces, at the rise and fall of their tiny chests. He looked at his wife, safe and sleeping nearby. He felt a sudden, sharp panic. The clock on the wall was ticking. This moment was already slipping away, becoming the past.
"Hermione," he whispered, his voice urgent, though he didn't wake her. "I need the Pensieve. I need it now. I have to save this. I have to save this feeling."
He sat there for the rest of the night, not moving, his arms aching, his heart fuller than he ever thought possible. He watched the sunrise paint the sterile room in hues of pink and gold, and he burned every single second of his first night as a father into his memory, waiting for the world to wake up so he could save it forever.
Day two of his seven-day grace period began with a quiet knock. Draco hadn't slept. He’d spent the hours watching his daughters sleep in their bassinets, counting their breaths, his heart lurching with every tiny squeak and sigh. When a Healer came in for the morning checks, he’d peppered her with so many anxious questions about their temperature, their color, and their breathing that she’d finally laughed and pronounced him a "perfectly normal, terrified new father."
Hermione was awake, propped up in bed and looking remarkably more human after a few hours of sleep. She was attempting to brush her hair when the door opened.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the doorway. She was dressed in elegant, understated grey robes, but her usual immaculate composure was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on her son.
For a moment, no one moved. Draco stood, his hands clenched at his sides. He hadn't seen his mother in six months. He'd only heard of her strength, her help, her transformation, through Hermione.
"Draco," she breathed. Her voice broke on his name.
She didn't walk; she surged forward. Draco met her halfway, and his mother's arms, which had always been so formal, so reserved, wrapped around him in a fierce, trembling hug. She clung to him, her head buried in his chest, and he felt the dampness of her tears through his shirt.
"My son," she wept, her voice muffled. "My beautiful, beautiful boy."
"I'm alright, Mother," he said, his own voice thick as he held her tightly. "I'm alright."
She finally pulled back, her hands cupping his face, her eyes scanning him as if to memorize every line. "You're a man," she whispered, a watery smile on her lips. "This... this terrible time... it's made you a man."
Her gaze then slid past him, to the woman in the bed. Her expression softened into one of profound, unadulterated gratitude. "Hermione," she said, walking to the bedside. She took Hermione's hand—the one not tangled in her hair—and squeezed it. "You... you saved him. You saved us all. And you've brought..."
Her eyes finally fell on the two bassinets. A fresh wave of tears welled. "Oh," she breathed, her hand flying to her mouth as her mind caught up to the reason why she was there. "Oh, my."
"Would you like to hold them?" Hermione asked softly.
Narcissa just nodded, speechless. Draco moved to the bassinets, his heart swelling. He scooped up the bundle nearest him.
"This," he said, his voice brimming with a pride that was new and startling to him, "is Helena Jean Granger."
Narcissa took the baby with practiced, reverent hands, gazing down at the sleeping face. "She's... she's a Malfoy," she whispered, her thumb stroking the baby's cheek. "That nose. That chin. Oh, you poor, dear girl." She gave a small, choked laugh.
"And this," Hermione said, nodding to the other bassinet, "is Juliet Narcissa Granger."
Narcissa's head snapped up, her eyes locking with Hermione's. The unspoken weight of the name settled between them—a bridge, a pardon, a new beginning. Draco gently lifted his other daughter and placed her in his mother's other arm.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in the center of the hospital room, holding her two half-blood granddaughters, and wept. "Thank you," she said to Hermione, her voice breaking. "For her name. For... everything. You have given our name a new, beautiful beginning."
Draco watched them, a knot of pure, aching joy in his throat. His mother. His wife. His daughters. Here, in this room, his broken family felt whole.
And then, the joy was pierced by a sharp, cold realization.
He was here. His mother was here. But Theo was not. Pansy, Neville, Blaise... his family in that cold, Muggle house... they were not. They were trapped, just as he had been. They couldn't come. They couldn't see this.
"Mother," he said, his voice suddenly urgent, cutting through the emotional haze. "I need you to get me a Pensieve. A hospital-grade one, the best they have. And I need it now."
Narcissa, ever-efficient even through her tears, nodded. "Of course."
Within the hour, it was there. A shallow, beautifully carved stone basin sat on a table, pulsing with a faint, blue light.
Hermione watched, her eyes knowing, as Draco uncorked a small, crystal vial. He closed his eyes, his expression one of intense concentration. He wasn't just recalling a memory; he was reliving it. He pulled the silvery, shimmering thread from his temple.
"What is that one?" Hermione asked softly.
"The delivery room," he said, his voice rough. "The moment... the moment I landed. Seeing you. Hearing Helena cry for the first time."
He deposited it in the vial. He pulled another. "Juliet," he whispered. "Holding her. Her weight. The... the smell of her. That little tuft of hair."
He pulled a third, a longer, more complex strand. "Last night. Holding them both in the chair. My promise to them."
He corked the vial, the silver memories swirling inside like a captive galaxy. He pressed it into his mother's hand. Her palm was cold.
"Mother, I need you to go. Not home. Go to the exile manor. The address is with my solicitor, filed under my name."
Narcissa's eyes widened. "Draco, I—"
"You are the only one who can," he said, his voice raw with a desperate plea. "I can't leave this hospital. And they can't come here. They are trapped in that Muggle world. But... I need him to see, Mother. I need Theo to see what he saved. I need him to see them."
He gripped her hand, the vial pressed between their palms. "Please. Show them. Show them what all their sacrifice was for. Show them my daughters."
Narcissa looked at the vial, at the swirling silver proof of her new family line. She looked at her son, his face a mask of love and desperation. She nodded, her aristocratic resolve settling back into place, now tempered with a new, fierce, grandmotherly purpose.
"I will go now," she said. "They will see. I will tell them..." She smiled, her eyes on the bassinets. "I will tell them the new Granger line is in good hands. And has excellent lungs."
She kissed him, then Hermione, and with one last, loving look at her granddaughters, she was gone.
Draco turned back to Hermione. The room was quiet again. He looked at the clock on the wall. 11:00 AM. Day two of seven. And a seventh of his precious, allotted time was already gone. Time, he realized, was a far crueler jailer than the Ministry of Magic.
The silence in the exile manor was no longer just quiet; it was a hollow, ringing void. Draco was gone. His sudden, magical departure—the flash of golden light, the violent crack of the Portkey—had been a brutal reminder of their own powerlessness. They were happy for him, deliriously so, but his absence left a gaping hole. The house felt colder, the Muggle reality more oppressive.
Theo was in the library, staring at the empty space where Draco had been pacing obsessively for the last month. He was trying to feel relief, but all he felt was a gnawing, superstitious dread. He'd seen the bad future. He had no way of knowing if the good one had truly come to pass.
"Theo?" Pansy's voice was soft from the doorway. She and Neville stood there, their hands linked. "Staring at the spot won't bring him back or make the news come faster."
"I know," Theo said, his voice flat. "I just... I need to know. I need to know it worked."
"It's Hermione," Neville said, his voice a low rumble of confidence. "It worked."
A sharp, frantic pounding echoed from the massive oak front door.
The three of them froze. It wasn't a Muggle knock. It was the distinct, magically-amplified sound of an Apparition arrival just beyond the wards, followed by an urgent, human fist on the wood. Blaise and the Greengrass sisters appeared from the kitchen, their faces pale and anxious.
"No one should be here," Blaise said, his voice low as he grabbed a heavy iron fireplace poker.
"It can't be Hermione, she's..." Pansy trailed off, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, gods. What if something went wrong?"
Theo's blood ran cold. He shoved past them, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't care about rules or safety. He ripped the door open.
Narcissa Malfoy stood on the threshold.
It was her, but not her. Her regal composure was shattered. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her silver-blonde hair was slightly mussed, and she was clutching a small, crystal-stopped vial and a familiar shallow stone basin. She was radiating an aura of such profound, joyful magic that it almost knocked them backward.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" Neville stammered, his hand instinctively reaching for a wand that wasn't there.
"Theo," she breathed, her eyes locking on him. Her voice was thick and trembling. "Draco sent me."
Theo's knees went weak. "He... is he... is she...?"
"She's fine," Narcissa said, a sob escaping her. "They're all fine." She pushed past him, her gaze sweeping over the dusty, magic-less room. She placed the Pensieve on a central table with a solid, definitive thud.
"He wanted you to see," she said, her voice growing stronger. "He said... he said you needed to see what you saved."
She un-corked the vial, her hands shaking. The silver, swirling threads of memory seemed to glow in the dim hall. With a steadying breath, she poured them into the basin. The liquid light of the memories illuminated the room, swirling with images of a bright, sterile room and the sound of a strong, steady heartbeat charm.
Theo stared at it, his face ashen. He was terrified. "I... I can't."
"Yes, you can," Pansy whispered, her hand gripping his arm. "We'll go with you."
One by one, they gathered around the table. Pansy, Neville, Blaise, Daphne, and Astoria. Theo was the last. He took a shuddering breath and, as a group, they leaned forward and plunged their faces into the light.
They weren't in the cold manor anymore. They were in a room thrumming with magic. They saw Draco crash-land, his face a mask of raw terror. They saw Hermione, pale and sweating but so incredibly, fiercely alive. They were there as she held his hand, as her cries of pain echoed in the room.
And then they heard it.
A thin, furious wail.
Pansy let out a muffled sob, her hand finding Neville's in the shared memory. They watched the Healer lift a tiny, perfect, red-faced baby. A girl. She's perfect.
They felt Draco's knees buckle, heard his choked, weeping sobs of a joy so pure it was almost violent. They watched, breathless, as the scene repeated, as Juliet joined her sister, as the room filled with the sound of two healthy, crying babies.
But the memory wasn't over. Draco's voice, thick with emotion, cut through the scene. Helena Jean Granger. And then Hermione's. And Juliet Narcissa Granger.
The scene shifted. They were in a quiet, dark room. They saw Draco, his face illuminated by the dawn, holding both his daughters, one in each arm. They were so small, the bundles almost lost against his chest. They heard his voice, a raw, broken whisper.
"Hello... I'm your father... I want you to always know... that from the very first second... I have loved you more than my own life. I will always love you."
One by one, they pulled back, gasping, their faces streaked with tears.
Blaise was leaning against the wall, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. Daphne and Astoria were clinging to each other, weeping silently. Pansy was sobbing openly into Neville's chest, and Neville himself was wiping his eyes, a wide, trembling smile on his face.
Theo... Theo had staggered back to a chair and fallen into it. He was bent double, his head in his hands, making a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. It was the sound of a tension that had been strangling him for nearly a year finally breaking.
It was real. The blood, the grief, the empty, broken future—it was gone. Erased. Replaced by a noisy, messy, beautiful one. He had saved them. He had saved all of them.
"He's a father," Theo finally choked out, looking up at Narcissa, his eyes shining. "He did it."
"You did it, Mr. Nott," Narcissa said, her own tears flowing freely. She placed a hand on his shoulder, the gesture a shocking, profound comfort. "My son... Draco... he wanted you to know. He will never, ever, be able to repay you. But he will spend the rest of his life trying."
She looked around at the small, broken, exiled group, who were all now smiling through their tears, sharing looks of profound, communal relief.
"They are beautiful," she said, her voice clear and proud. "And the Granger line is in very good hands."
She retrieved the vial, leaving the Pensieve on the table as a silent, understood gift. With a final, grateful nod to all of them, she walked to the door.
"Tell him..." Theo called out, his voice hoarse. "Tell him we're okay. And tell him to use every single second of that week. We'll hold down the fort."
Narcissa smiled. "I will."
She stepped out, and with a soft pop, she was gone.
The group stood in the cold, dusty hall. The house was just as silent, just as magic-less as it had been ten minutes before. But everything had changed. The oppressive, hollow dread was gone, replaced by the faint, lingering echo of two baby girls crying. It was the sound of hope.