A sharp, insistent knocking shattered the fragile quiet of the night, jolting them from a sleep laced with exhaustion and unease. Draco stirred first, blinking away the haze of half-formed dreams as his fingers instinctively sought his wand, a reflex carved into him by years of war. The knocking came again, more urgent this time, a discordant intrusion in the hush of their secluded world.
With a questioning glance at Hermione, he rose, muscles tense with apprehension. He moved toward the door with silent precision, wand poised. Hermione followed closely, her own grip tightening around her wand.
"Who in Merlin's name could be knocking at this ungodly hour?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He shook his head, a sliver of unease threading through his features. "Stay behind me, love," he murmured, his voice steady despite the disquiet gnawing at his gut.
He cracked the door open just enough to see, and relief rushed through him like a sudden exhale. Standing in the moonlit doorway were Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, their expressions etched with concern.
Pansy rolled her eyes, though the flicker of worry in her gaze betrayed her. "For Salazar's sake, you two look like you've just seen a Dementor."
Blaise smirked, though his usual dry amusement was softened by something more genuine. "Apologies for disturbing your beauty sleep, but we thought it was time for a little intervention, wouldn't you agree?"
Theo, the quietest of the trio, surprised them both with an uncharacteristically broad grin. "Figured we shouldn't let you lovebirds hoard all the trauma. Sharing is caring."
Draco exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and gratitude in his voice. "You lot have impeccable timing, as always," he muttered, stepping aside. "Come in. But next time, send a bloody owl first."
A faint smile tugged at Hermione's lips, the first in what felt like days. As she stepped back to let them inside, she arched a brow. "It's good to see you all. But why exactly are you here?"
Pansy shrugged, her bravado wavering just enough to reveal something more genuine. "News travels fast, Granger," she said, voice softer than usual. "We heard. And we were worried."
Blaise nodded, his gaze flickering between Draco and Hermione. "We've all danced with our own demons," he admitted gruffly. "And sometimes, the only way to keep from drowning is to let someone pull you back."
Pansy reached out, squeezing Hermione's hand—an offering of solidarity, no words needed. "Like it or not, you're family now. And we protect our own."
What a charming little band of the emotionally maimed .
The pre-dawn gloom gradually gave way to the golden glow of morning, casting long streaks of light across the cottage floor. The hours passed in a strange, comforting rhythm—clinking teacups, murmured reassurances, laughter that bubbled up unexpectedly between the cracks of old wounds.
Memories unfurled like old parchment—mischief made and secrets whispered, battles fought and scars left unseen. Their shared history wove itself into something unbreakable, a tether binding them not just as survivors, but as something more: a family forged in war and tempered in love.
As the sun climbed higher, stretching its light into forgotten corners, Hermione felt a shift. The weight that had threatened to consume her felt just a little lighter, steadied by the hands that held her up. They weren't alone in their darkness.
And together, they'd find their way back to the light.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life found a rhythm that was both familiar and quietly transformative. The countryside, with its rolling hills and whispering trees, wrapped around them like a balm, softening the edges of old wounds. The ghosts of their past still lingered, hovering at the periphery of their dreams, but they no longer faced them in silence. Therapy became more than just a necessity—it was a sanctuary, a place where they could untangle the knots of grief and trauma together, learning the language of healing in each other's presence.
But their journey wasn't solely defined by sorrow. Lightness began to creep in, tentative at first, then more assured. Laughter echoed through their home as they revisited memories untouched by war, reclaiming the joy that had once seemed irretrievable.
Small moments took on greater meaning—Hermione waking to the scent of fresh tea, Draco absently tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she read, the two of them curled up by the fire, lost in the shared silence of a well-loved book. The weight they carried hadn't disappeared, but it no longer felt unbearable.
Healing was not a straight path, but a winding road marked by stumbles and victories alike. Some nights, the past clawed its way back, dragging them under, but they always surfaced—together. With each step forward, the hold of old scars loosened, the shadows receding inch by inch.
Life, once a battlefield, was slowly becoming something gentler. And in the quiet refuge of their cottage, amidst the flickering warmth of their love, they were finally beginning to feel at home.
Life is like a pipe, and she flowed through like a tiny knut rolling up the walls inside.
Healing became their shared mission, a journey neither had to walk alone. Their therapist, Healer O'Connor, guided them through their buried pain, peeling back layers of fear and guilt. Therapy sessions became a crucible, where raw honesty replaced guarded silence. Draco spoke of the suffocating weight of his family's expectations, the guilt that gnawed at him for his past choices. Hermione confessed the nightmares that haunted her, the weight of war, and the soul-crushing guilt of taking a life—even Lucius Malfoy's.
Words that had once festered unspoken now found release, their pain acknowledged not just by the therapist but by each other. In vulnerability, they found a deeper connection, the walls they had built brick by brick crumbling into something softer—understanding, trust. It wasn't seamless. There were tears, anger, and setbacks, but with every confession, they chipped away at the barriers that had kept them apart. Slowly, painfully, they were learning to see each other for who they truly were, not just reflections of their past.
Their love, once fragile, found strength even in the darkest moments. Draco, once stoic, surprised Hermione with breakfast in bed, a quiet gesture of devotion. She, in turn, left notes tucked into his potions journals, small affirmations to remind him of how far he had come. They sought solace in the countryside, walking hand in hand through meadows and crisp autumn forests, where silence spoke louder than words. Their love, tested and scarred, endured—not without struggles, but always with the determination to keep moving forward.
Their friends became their foundation, steady and unwavering. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo were no longer just childhood acquaintances; they were family, bound by something stronger than blood—shared survival, shared redemption. Their visits brought laughter and warmth, a much-needed counterbalance to the weight of healing. They reminisced about Hogwarts, their past rivalries softened into something almost fond. But beyond nostalgia, they created new moments—nights spent huddled by the fire, comfortable silences filled with quiet understanding, whispered dreams of the future. Even when the past threatened to drag them under, they were never truly alone.
Luna, Neville, and Ginny became a constant presence, weaving light into Hermione's darkest days. They visited nearly every afternoon, bringing with them the latest gossip, absurd conspiracy theories, and stories that had Hermione laughing despite herself. With Luna's dreamy wisdom, Neville's steadfast kindness, and Ginny's fiery determination, they refused to let her drown in solitude. Piece by piece, their friendship reminded her of who she had once been—and who she could become again.
One evening, as they sat curled up by the fireplace, she turned to him, her voice quiet but certain. "I never thought we'd make it here," she admitted.
He squeezed her hand, his smile small but filled with everything he couldn't put into words. "Me neither. But I'm grateful we did."
The road ahead would not be easy, but they were no longer afraid. They had each other. And that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A crisp autumn breeze sent golden leaves swirling at their feet as they approached Nott Manor. The grand estate, nestled in the rolling countryside, radiated a quiet elegance, its grey stone softened by the vibrant blooms of late-season roses. Their fragrance hung in the air, sweet and nostalgic, mingling with the crispness of the season. For a moment, the world outside their whirlwind of emotions stilled, offering them a rare sense of peace.
Naturally, both Hermione and Draco were impeccably dressed. Gone were the days of threadbare robes and ill-fitted uniforms. Hermione's tailored Valentino pantsuit struck the perfect balance between sophistication and ease, the rich fabric hugging her frame in all the right places. Beside her, Draco exuded effortless refinement in a sleek Valentino suit, its sharp lines emphasizing his broad shoulders and aristocratic poise.
Inside, the manor hummed with warmth and celebration. Laughter drifted from the grand living room, golden light spilling through the open doors. Waiting at the entrance, Luna stood like an ethereal vision, her flowing white dress shimmering in the afternoon sun. Her soft curls framed her face, and as she spotted them, her expression brightened into pure, unfiltered joy.
"Mimi! Draco!" she called, her voice lilting with delight as she practically glided toward them. "So glad you could make it!"
Draco, usually reserved, found himself smirking at Luna's boundless enthusiasm. "Luna," he greeted, his voice a low rumble. "We wouldn't miss it. Congratulations."
Theo appeared beside her, his grin wide and easy. "Draco! About time. We were beginning to think you two got lost in the maze." He clasped Draco's hand in a firm shake, the unspoken camaraderie of old friendships flickering between them. "Thanks for coming. It means a lot. Now, get inside—the party's waiting."
The grand hall, once an imposing space of towering ceilings and vast emptiness, now pulsed with warmth and festivity. Deep green banners, embroidered with shimmering silver creatures resembling mischievous Nifflers, draped elegantly from the rafters. Balloons in emerald and gold floated lazily, caught in the soft breeze drifting through the open windows. The air vibrated with conversation and laughter, a melody of joy that settled like a comforting weight in Hermione's chest.
Her sharp eyes, always attuned to the details, traced the handmade decorations that adorned the room—intricately folded paper owls perched atop mantelpieces, delicate fairy lights woven through enchanted ivy, and miniature mandrake cakes nestled between bowls of sugared plums. Every touch spoke of thoughtfulness, of love poured into even the smallest details.
As they moved deeper into the celebration, Hermione spotted Blaise and Pansy in quiet conversation near a table brimming with brightly wrapped gifts. A small smile curved her lips as she gave them a subtle wave.
"Look at all of this," Hermione whispered to Draco, wonder lacing her voice as her gaze swept across the room. "It's absolutely enchanting."
Draco, taking in the vibrancy around them, let a rare, genuine smile tug at his lips. "Luna's outdone herself," he admitted, tilting his head toward the floating silver Nifflers. "The decorations are… rather whimsical."
As if summoned, Luna appeared, her ethereal presence glowing with quiet delight. Without missing a beat, she led them toward a cozy alcove where a familiar figure sat in a plush armchair. Neville, his face aglow with an unfamiliar, tender joy, cradled a sleeping baby in his arms.
Nestled in a meticulously hand-stitched crib, the tiny figure of Lysander lay undisturbed by the revelry around him, his breaths slow and steady, lost in the peaceful oblivion of slumber. As Hermione and Draco approached, Neville looked up, his smile widening in recognition.
"Hermione, Draco! So glad you could make it," he greeted, his voice infused with warmth. His gaze then shifted down to the bundle in his arms, his expression softening. "This little one seems to be conserving all his energy for when the real celebrations begin."
Even asleep, Lysander bore an unmistakable resemblance to his parents—his delicate features and wispy blonde hair were undeniably Luna's, yet the faint smattering of freckles across his tiny nose was pure Theo. The air filled with hushed admiration, an almost reverent silence settling over the group as they gazed at the sleeping infant.
"Isn't he just perfect?" Pansy murmured, her usual sharpness softened by rare affection.
"He really is," Hermione agreed, her voice barely above a whisper as she took in the impossibly small fingers curled into tiny fists. "Congratulations, Luna. And you too, Theo."
Luna's radiant smile grew. "Thank you," she said, her voice laced with quiet joy. "He's brought so much light into our lives."
Lysander Nott. The most beautiful baby boy Draco had ever seen.
Holding Lysander was an unfamiliar yet oddly grounding sensation. The tiny weight in Draco's arms, so delicate and impossibly small, sent a tremor through him—something deep, primal, and entirely unexpected. He had spent his life commanding control, dictating outcomes. Yet here, with this fragile life nestled against his chest, he was utterly powerless, his world reduced to the steady rhythm of an infant's breath.
A strange, almost aching longing stirred within him. So this is what it felt like—to be a father. Not just a title or an expectation, but a visceral, unshakable instinct. A need to protect, to shelter, to ensure that nothing in the world ever so much as brushed against this tiny, perfect being with cruelty. It was an alien emotion for a Malfoy, raised in a legacy where power reigned above sentiment, where strength was measured in dominance, not tenderness.
And yet, as he gazed down at Lysander's peaceful face, something within him shifted. The rigid walls he had built over the years cracked, making room for something softer, something he hadn't realized he craved—connection, love, something greater than ambition.
His gaze flickered to Hermione, who watched him with quiet understanding. In her eyes, he saw the same realization reflected, the unspoken acknowledgment that this moment had unraveled something within both of them. Neither spoke, but they didn't need to. Some truths didn't require words.
When? The question clawed at the edges of Draco's mind, relentless and insistent. How long before Hermione carried his child? Before she swelled with their heir, radiant and breathtaking, the embodiment of everything he had ever wanted but never dared to voice aloud?
Merlin, he could already picture it—her curves softer, her belly round with their legacy, his mark on her in the most undeniable way. She would look ethereal, untouchable, and yet—so completely his.
The idea of Hermione, heavy with his child, was almost too much. He'd worship her, every single inch of her. Devotion wouldn't even begin to cover it. He'd spend every waking moment ensuring she felt nothing but pleasure, nothing but the absolute certainty that she was adored, desired, treasured.
As the afternoon unfolded, Hermione and Draco moved effortlessly through the gathering, laughter and conversation weaving around them like a warm embrace. Draco found himself deep in discussion with Theo and Blaise about the intricacies of fatherhood—Blaise teasing Theo about sleepless nights, while Theo, practically glowing with pride, defended the unparalleled joys of parenthood. Meanwhile, Hermione sat with Luna and Pansy and Ginny, their conversation drifting from careers to life changes, to the quiet transformations that came with love and time.
The sterile scent of baby powder mingled with the faint traces of vanilla and fresh linen as her gaze settled on Draco. He was cradling Lysander with a tenderness that made her chest tighten. His hands—so steady, so sure, hands that once cast hexes without hesitation—held the infant with a reverence she hadn't expected. His expression was unreadable, yet there was something unguarded about the way he looked down at the baby, as if seeing a future he hadn't allowed himself to dream of.
A warmth bloomed low in her belly, spreading through her limbs like a slow-burning fire. Merlin, she hadn't expected this. The sight of Draco holding a baby—their best friend's baby—made something primal stir inside her, something deep-seated and terrifyingly visceral.
She was not a woman prone to impulsivity. She planned, analyzed, and approached life with careful consideration. Motherhood had never been a defined part of that plan. And yet, watching him now, the way his strong arms supported the tiny life against his chest, the way his thumb absently traced soothing circles on Lysander's back, the way his normally sharp features softened into something achingly gentle—fuck.
She clenched her thighs together instinctively, heat pooling low and insistent. Seeing Draco with a baby was making her embarrassingly wet.
She bit her lip, willing herself to focus on something—anything—else, but it was impossible. A part of her, the logical, rational part, whispered that this was simply a response to the intimate, domestic image before her, a glimpse into a potential future she hadn't dared to consider. But the deeper, darker part of her, the one ruled by something far more instinctual, knew the truth.
She wanted this. And Merlin help her, she wanted it with him.
Ginny and Blaise kept the group entertained, their animated storytelling weaving through bursts of laughter and teasing jabs. Their effortless camaraderie was infectious, drawing smiles even from Draco, who usually remained an amused observer. Theo, ever the meticulous host, ensured drinks were topped up and plates never went empty, though his attention frequently drifted towards Luna and Lysander, his eyes soft with unguarded affection.
Luna, radiant with joy, listened intently to her friends, occasionally offering her signature whimsical observations that left the group in stitches. The afternoon breeze carried their laughter across the gardens, sunlight filtering through the trees in warm, golden patches.
Theo's fleeting moment of bliss shattered when he caught sight of the beast—Lady Lemongrass—gracefully leaping into Lysander's crib. His heart stopped mid-beat as he surged forward.
"BEAST, OFF. NOW." His voice sliced through the tranquil air, alarm sharpening every syllable.
The pug, utterly unfazed, responded with a slow, unimpressed blink before nestling closer to the sleeping baby, exhaling a loud, dramatic sigh as she made herself comfortable.
Theo's hand hovered, ready to pluck her away, but Luna's fingers curled around his wrist. "My love, look," she murmured, eyes alight with quiet amusement. "She's just keeping him warm."
Theo hesitated, watching as Lady Lemongrass curled protectively around Lysander, her tiny, snoring body a cocoon of warmth. His irritation warred with reluctant acceptance. As much as he loathed the creature, she had claimed their son as her own.
Resigned, he stalked back to the garden, where Pansy was enjoying a glass of wine, perfectly at ease.
"Parkinson," he began, pinching the bridge of his nose, "your creature has decided she's my son's personal guard. Kindly remove her before she imprints on him."
Pansy, without looking up, smirked over the rim of her glass. "What's got your knickers in a twist, Nott? Afraid they'll be besties?" Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
Theo scowled. "I just want him to have a peaceful nap. Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh, Theo," Pansy sighed dramatically. "That is peace. You're not the only one obsessed with the baby, you know."
Theo grumbled under his breath, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
He was, without a doubt, an obsessive father in the making. His meticulous attention to Lysander's every move—every breath, every tiny stretch—had not gone unnoticed. It became the evening's greatest source of amusement, with his friends mercilessly teasing him at every turn. But when Luna pulled him in for a deep kiss, effectively silencing him, the laughter softened into something warmer. Love, unshakable and unspoken, was written all over his face.
As the golden hues of twilight stretched across the sky and guests began to take their leave, Hermione stood by the window with Luna, watching the last slivers of daylight melt into the horizon.
"Thank you for having us, babe," she murmured, her voice laced with sincerity. "This was truly beautiful."
Luna smiled. "I'm just glad you were here, Mimi."
His presence materialized behind her, his touch instinctively finding the small of her back. "Ready to go, love?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
She nodded, leaning into his warmth. "Yes, let's go home, dearie."
As they exchanged parting hugs with Luna and Theo, a quiet sense of gratitude settled over Hermione. These people—her friends, her family—had walked through the fire with her. No matter how dark the road had once seemed, she was surrounded by love, and for the first time in a long while, the future felt light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once inside the cottage, the air shifted. Draco's gaze turned sharp, predatory, his hunger unmistakable as his eyes roamed over her. He studied her like a man starved, tracing the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips. The heat of his stare sent a shiver down her spine, anticipation pooling low in her belly.
With agonizing slowness, he undid the first few buttons of his shirt, each movement deliberate, calculated. The crisp fabric parted, revealing the taut lines of his chest. He rolled his sleeves up to his forearms, his muscles flexing beneath the dim light. Every action, every breath, crackled with tension, thickening the air between them.
Her pulse hammered as she licked her lips, suddenly hyper aware of the way he was watching her. She had been eyeing him all night, but she hadn't thought he'd noticed.
"On your knees." His voice was low, commanding—ice laced with fire.
A flicker of hesitation passed through her, but the dominance in his gaze unraveled her. She sank to her knees on the plush carpet, looking up at him through her lashes.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He loomed over her, his smirk sharp enough to cut. "The way you watched me all night? The way your thighs pressed together when I held that baby?" He let out a dark chuckle. "Getting soaked just from the thought of me being a father."
Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment and arousal intertwining. She gasped as his fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His grip was firm, possessive.
"Draco, please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I was such a good girl for you."
He hummed, pleased, his thumb grazing her bottom lip. She looked like a goddess on her knees for him—his perfect, obedient wife.
Slowly, he pulled himself free, letting the weight of him rest against her waiting tongue. His voice was velvet and sin. "Show me how good you can be."
Her lips parted without hesitation, taking him in, her mouth warm and willing. She hollowed her cheeks, her tongue teasing along his length, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her as she worked him with practiced devotion, each motion coaxing a sharper response.
"That's it," he murmured, his grip tightening, pleasure thickening his voice. "Such a perfect mouth."
She moaned around him, the vibration sending a shudder down his spine. His breaths grew heavier, his control unraveling as she took him deeper, her pace quickening, her tongue dragging along every sensitive inch. His hips jerked, his pleasure evident in the low, guttural sound that escaped his throat.
She closed her eyes, savoring the weight of him, the intoxicating taste of power and possession. And when he finally broke, spilling onto her tongue with a ragged curse, she swallowed every drop, her hands resting on his thighs, steadying herself as he shuddered beneath her touch.
He stared down at her, his breathing uneven, his grip still firm in her hair. His voice was husky, laced with reverence and need. "That's it, love," he said, his fingers tangled in her hair. "You're such a good girl."
He groaned as she moaned around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine. The sight of her—lips wrapped around him, eyes dark with desire—nearly undid him.
"Fuck, doll," he gritted out. "You're going to make me cum."
She met his gaze, her eyes gleaming, and gave a small nod, never breaking rhythm. The tight heat of her mouth, the slick glide of her tongue—it was overwhelming.
"Please," she murmured, her voice muffled against him, desperate. "I need to taste you."
With a sharp curse, he came undone, his hips jerking as he spilled down her throat. She took it all, swallowing every drop, her gaze never leaving his.
"Fuuuck, that was mind-blowing," he rasped, his legs unsteady.
She licked her lips and smiled up at him, utterly wrecked yet looking like a goddess.
His little whore. His little wife. His life. His guiding light.
Still catching his breath, he helped her to her feet, pulling her into a searing kiss. The taste of himself on her lips only reignited the hunger in his veins.
"I need you," he murmured against her mouth, his hands roaming, tracing every curve. "I need to make you feel just as good."
One hand cupped her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple through the fabric. She arched into him, a needy whimper slipping from her lips.
He smirked, trailing kisses down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. His fingers made quick work of her bra, freeing her breasts to the cool air. He latched onto a nipple, sucking hard, his other hand kneading the soft flesh.
"Draco," she breathed, her fingers twisting in his hair. "Please—put your mouth on me."
He wasted no time. Lifting her effortlessly, he carried her to the bed, laying her down with reverence. His eyes drank her in, every inch of flushed skin, every shuddering breath.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said, voice thick with reverence.
She blushed under his intense gaze, her anticipation thrumming through her veins. She watched as he stripped, the sight of his lean, muscled body making her stomach tighten with desire.
"Merlin, I see you every day, and it's never enough," she admitted, her eyes hungry as they devoured him.
He grinned wickedly, settling between her legs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, dragging them down her thighs, leaving her bare before him.
He exhaled sharply, his gaze darkening. "Hmmm. Such a pretty little cunt."
Heat flooded her face at his words, but any embarrassment vanished the moment he dipped his head between her legs. His tongue swiped through her folds, slow and deliberate, savoring her. Hermione gasped, her hips instinctively lifting to meet him.
He started with teasing flicks over her clit, his tongue circling before sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth. A choked moan escaped her lips. He groaned against her, the vibrations shooting straight through her.
He slid a finger inside her, curling it perfectly to stroke that spot that had her back arching off the bed. He added another, his movements in sync with the relentless pace of his tongue.
"Oh, fuck—Draco," she gasped, her thighs trembling.
He felt her walls flutter around his fingers, her body winding tighter and tighter. His cock ached, painfully hard, but he wasn't done with her yet.
"When you come," he murmured, sliding up her body, "it's going to be around my cock."
He guided himself to her entrance, teasing her with the thick head before slowly pushing in, stretching her inch by inch. A strangled moan tore from her throat as he filled her completely.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his grip on her hips tightening.
She clutched at his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin. "Draco—move. Please."
He obeyed, thrusting slow and deep, dragging out every bit of pleasure. Her breath hitched, every roll of his hips sending sparks through her.
"You feel so good, my love," he rasped.
"So do you," she moaned, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him deeper.
He quickened his pace, his thrusts harder, more desperate. The room filled with the sound of their bodies moving together, the sharp gasps and low moans mixing with the fire crackling in the distance.
He reached down, his fingers finding her clit again. He circled it, pressing just right, making her whole body tense.
"Come for me, doll," he commanded, his voice rough, dark.
She shattered, a strangled cry escaping her lips as waves of pleasure crashed through her. Her cunt clenched around him, pulsing, squeezing, and suddenly—warm liquid coated his cock.
Draco stilled, his eyes wide. "Holy fuck," he groaned, his voice laced with pure, unfiltered lust. "That… was the hottest thing I've ever seen."
The shock of it only drove him closer to the edge. His thrusts became erratic, his body seeking release.
"I'm going to fill you up," he growled, his breath ragged.
"Please," she whispered, voice wrecked. "Come inside me."
That was all it took. With a deep, shuddering moan, he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside her, his body trembling as pleasure overtook him.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their mingled breathing, heavy and sated.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her against him, his lips pressing lazy kisses to her damp skin.
"Well," he finally murmured, amusement coloring his voice, "that was new."
She let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah. It was."
He smirked against her hair. "I might need to make you do that again."
She rolled her eyes, but the satisfied flush on her cheeks gave her away.
In the warm, quiet aftermath, they tangled together, limbs entwined, bodies still humming with pleasure. Sleep found them easily, their hearts still beating in sync, a silent promise of everything they had yet to explore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The soft glow of sunrise painted golden stripes across her face, her lips curling into a drowsy smile as she nestled closer to his warmth. Sleep still clung to her voice as she murmured, "Mon coeur, I think it's time to visit my parents. It's long overdue."
The words lingered between them, stirring unspoken emotions. The memory of Luna and Theo, cradling their newborn in a cocoon of love, tugged at something deep within her. A pang of longing, sharp and aching. Sensing the shift in her mood, he turned to face her, concern creasing his brow.
"Are you sure, love?" His voice was cautious, gentle. "We've talked about this, and things haven't exactly been…" He hesitated, searching for the right words.
"Easy," she finished, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "I know. But they're my family, Draco. I can't keep running from them."
His fingers tightened around hers, his touch solid and grounding. "Then we'll go together," he promised. "You don't have to face this alone."
She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Before we go, I need to tell you why I did it. Why I wiped their memories. It's haunted me for so long, and I want you to understand."
He shifted, his thumb brushing soothing circles over her knuckles. "Whenever you're ready, love. I'm listening."
She inhaled shakily, her fingers clenching around his. "During the war, after everything ended, I realized I couldn't leave them vulnerable. They had no idea what was happening in our world—no way to defend themselves if Voldemort's followers came looking for revenge."
He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "You did it to protect them."
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes. I erased every trace of me. Every memory. Sent them to Australia, safe and unaware. They forgot they ever had a daughter."
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. "That must have been unbearable, my love."
A sob hitched in her throat. "It was the worst thing I've ever done," she choked. "I didn't even get to say goodbye. When I went back, they were strangers. They didn't recognize me, didn't remember Christmas mornings, birthdays, bedtime stories. I walked into my childhood home as a ghost, watching them live a life where I never existed. And in their forgetting, I lost a part of myself, too. A part I don't think I'll ever get back."
He held her tighter, his voice fierce with emotion. "You did what you had to do to keep them safe. That's what matters."
"But knowing doesn't mend a broken heart, does it?" she whispered.
He didn't answer—he knew there was no easy response to grief like this.
She traced absent patterns on his arm, her voice distant. "Dad's alright. But Mum… She's polite on the phone, distant. Like I'm a stranger. 'How are you, dear?' Like she's asking about the weather. No warmth, no 'I love you.' Just a few forced calls a month. A cell phone replacing the embrace I'll never have again. We haven't even seen each other since the wedding."
He clenched his jaw, his heart twisting at the pain in her voice. That must have been like stepping into all nine circles of Hell at once.
She exhaled shakily, her breath ghosting against his skin. "Thank you for listening. You mean everything to me."
His arms tightened around her, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Always, love," he murmured, his voice thick with unspoken vows.
Like Demeter and Persephone. Searching for her parents felt like descending into hell just to find them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The morning light filtered through the Grangers' living room, casting long, golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. Yet, the warmth of the sun did little to thaw the tension thickening the air. Unfamiliarity loomed between them, an unspoken chasm widened by years of lost time and severed ties.
Draco cleared his throat, the sound abrupt in the weighted silence. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger," he began, his voice measured but tense. "Thank you for having us. It's… a pleasure to finally meet you." His grey eyes flickered between them, searching for warmth, or at the very least, acknowledgment.
David nod was stiff, his expression unreadable. "Likewise, I suppose."
She shifted uncomfortably, her hands twisting in her lap. "Dad, I know this is a lot. But Draco and I…" She hesitated, her voice uncertain. "We found something neither of us expected. And trust me, it wasn't easy."
Her mother let out a long sigh, her features etched with worry. "Hermione, love, this isn't just about Draco. It's about everything. The secrecy, the war, the fact that for years we barely knew what was happening to you."
Draco clasped his hands tightly together. "I understand, Mrs. Granger," he said, his tone low but firm. "And I'm truly sorry for everything you've had to endure because of the world Hermione and I come from. But I need you to know—I love your daughter more than anything, and I will do whatever it takes to make her happy."
Jane's sharp gaze softened just slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to believe him. "I want to trust that, Draco. But trust isn't built in a single afternoon."
Draco inclined his head. "I understand. And I'll give you all the time you need."
David cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "So," he said, studying them both carefully, "how did this happen? How did you two… come together?"
Hermione met Draco's gaze, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips. "It's a long story, Dad."
He let out a quiet chuckle. "We didn't exactly start on the best terms."
David raised an eyebrow. "I remember."
Hermione exhaled, bracing herself. "But things changed. He was there for me in ways no one else was. When I needed someone most, he stood beside me."
He turned to Jane, his voice steady. "Mrs. Granger, Hermione is the most brilliant, resilient woman I've ever known. She fought for a better world when most would have turned away. To have her by my side is something I'll never take for granted."
Jane regarded him carefully, her expression torn between skepticism and something softer. "Hermione, do you truly believe Draco has changed?"
She didn't hesitate. "Yes, Mum. He's not the boy you remember from my stories. He's grown. He's… good."
He squeezed her hand, offering her a reassuring smile. "I'm trying to be."
A silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable but no longer suffocating. David rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "Well," he said slowly, "we'll have to see how things go. But Hermione, we believe in you. And we want you to be happy."
Relief flooded her chest, her throat tightening. "Thank you, Dad."
He cast a glance at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece before speaking again. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger," he said carefully, "I understand this is a lot to process. Perhaps some time and space to reflect would be best. We don't want to rush you into anything."
Jane sighed, nodding. "That might be for the best. But, Hermione, our door is always open."
She stood, swiping at her eyes. "Thank you, Mum. Dad."
He followed, offering a respectful nod. "We appreciate your time."
As they stepped onto the porch, Hermione let out a slow breath, a cautious sense of hope swelling within her. Maybe, just maybe, this was the first step toward healing.
Back in their penthouse, the weight of the visit lingered between them. She perched on the sofa, absently tracing the rim of her wine glass while he poured his own.
He handed her the glass, his gaze searching hers. "Are you alright, love?"
She took a sip, sighing. "I think so. Just… processing."
He sat beside her, their knees touching. "It was a lot."
"Yeah," she murmured. "They're wary. They don't trust me fully yet. And I don't blame them."
He nodded, swirling the wine in his glass. "They haven't forgiven you for what happened."
She let out a hollow laugh. "Forgiven me? I'm not sure they even understand why I did it."
"They will," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "In time."
She tilted her head against his shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth of his presence. "I miss them. I want them in my life."
He pressed a kiss to her temple. "And they will be. We just have to give them space."
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the city filtering through the windows, a steady reminder that life moved on, no matter how tangled the past remained.
He squeezed her hand. "We'll figure it out."
She turned her face to his, offering a small, grateful smile. "Together?"
"Together," he echoed, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.
Despite the uncertainty, despite the wounds still needing to heal, Hermione knew one thing for sure—she and Draco had already conquered so much. Whatever came next, they would face it side by side.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fire crackled ominously in Draco's office, casting flickering shadows that stretched and curled like specters across the walls. The rich scent of aged whiskey mingled with the heavy tension settling between him and Blaise, the air thick with something unsaid, something dark.
Blaise leaned forward, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "Draco, I've got something on Weasley. Something big. I always knew the bastard was bad news, but this..." He exhaled sharply, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. "This is another level."
Draco swirled the amber liquid in his glass. His grip on the crystal tightened ever so slightly. "Spit it out, Blaise."
Blaise's lips curled into a humorless smirk, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Turns out our dear Weasley wasn't exactly a saint when it came to his past relationships." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "More like a fucking tyrant."
Draco's hand stilled. The faint clink of ice against glass was the only sound in the room. "Abusive?" His voice, low and lethal, slithered through the silence.
Blaise inclined his head slightly, his expression hardening. "Not the throw-a-punch type, but worse in some ways. Insecure, jealous, and controlling as hell. When his exes didn't fall in line, he'd lock them in a room to 'teach them a lesson.'" His tone was laced with disgust.
A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched. Then, without warning, the crystal glass in his hand shattered, shards embedding themselves into the plush carpet below. The firelight caught the jagged edges, making them glisten like predatory eyes in the dim room.
Blaise barely flinched at the sudden explosion of violence. He merely leaned back in his chair, watching as Draco slowly stood, his face a mask of restrained fury.
"Tell me everything," Draco demanded, his voice barely more than a growl.
Blaise didn't hesitate. "It wasn't just physical, though Merlin knows that's bad enough. He played mind games, isolated them, made them doubt their own sanity. Gaslighting, manipulation—the whole fucking arsenal. And the worst part?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "The bastard bragged about it. Like it was some sort of strategy to keep them obedient."
The room fell deathly silent.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his breathing sharp and controlled, though barely. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of past interactions, fleeting moments where Hermione had gone quiet at the mention of Weasley, the times she had brushed off concerns with a forced smile.
His wife. His Hermione.
The woman he adored—brilliant, strong, fiercely independent—had once been trapped under that man's control. A slow, consuming fire built in his chest, a rage so profound it threatened to consume him whole.
"Hermione..." he whispered, the name laced with both fury and something dangerously close to fear.
Blaise met his gaze, his own dark with unspoken promises. "You know what needs to be done."
His lips curled, his teeth bared in something between a snarl and a smirk. "Oh, believe me, I do."
The fire crackled, as if in approval.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sun bathed the gardens of Parkinson Manor in golden light, illuminating a scene straight from a fairy tale. Wisteria draped elegantly from the archways, its lavender blooms swaying in the breeze, while roses of every hue lined the stone pathways, filling the air with their heady fragrance. The guests, adorned in their finest, murmured in anticipation as Neville and Pansy prepared to exchange vows.
Hermione and Draco stepped into the enchanting scene, their presence commanding attention. Hermione's Valentino gown, a flowing cascade of lavender silk, moved like liquid moonlight, the soft shimmer perfectly complementing her unruly curls. Draco, ever composed, matched her in a tailored suit of deep charcoal with a subtle sheen of violet threading through the fabric—an unspoken testament to their unity.
The ceremony began, and as Neville stood at the altar, shifting nervously in his dress robes, all eyes turned to Pansy. Draped in emerald silk, she was a vision of poise, her every step radiating confidence and grace. Yet, beneath her composed exterior, Hermione could see the telltale flicker of vulnerability—the kind that only came when one stood at the precipice of forever.
The moment Pansy reached Neville, the world seemed to hush, the vows they exchanged resonating with a depth that made even the most hardened hearts soften. Hermione, overcome with emotion, stole a glance at Draco. His normally guarded features were uncharacteristically tender, his silver eyes reflecting something unspoken. On impulse, she reached for his hand. He responded instantly, fingers entwining with hers, the squeeze of his grip a silent reassurance.
The vows were sealed with a kiss, and the gardens erupted in cheers. The joy was infectious, spilling effortlessly into the reception, where laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the air.
As twilight descended, fairy lights blinked to life, casting a warm, intimate glow over the revelry. A live band took the stage, their melody weaving through the evening like a spell. Draco led Hermione onto the dance floor, his hand resting at the small of her back, guiding her effortlessly. The world blurred at the edges as they moved together, their rhythm effortless, their bodies in perfect sync.
"You're staring," she murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice.
He smirked, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Am I? Can you blame me?"
She laughed, tipping her head back as he spun her. In that moment, with the stars twinkling above them and the distant hum of celebration, Hermione felt weightless—untethered from the burdens of their past, if only for a little while.
As the evening waned, they found themselves in a quiet alcove of the garden, the glow of lanterns casting soft halos around them. Hermione leaned against his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his sleeve.
"It was a beautiful day," she mused.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice a low murmur. "It was."
She exhaled softly, her gaze drifting towards the newlyweds, now locked in their own private moment of bliss. "It gives me hope," she admitted, the words feeling both foreign and freeing.
His fingers tightened around hers, his expression unreadable. "Hope?" he echoed.
She turned to face him fully, searching his gaze. "For us. For everything."
A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes—the way they darkened with something deep and unfathomable—told her everything she needed to know.
"Hope," he murmured, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "More than I ever imagined."
In the hush of the night, surrounded by the distant echoes of laughter and the warm flicker of candlelight, they stood together, their hands clasped in an unspoken promise. Whatever the future held, they would face it side by side.
" Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."
Fuck they were so desperately in love it's sickening .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There they were—another routine Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't routine at all.
Ron had brought Lavender.
The moment they stepped in, Pansy's gaze locked onto them like a predator spotting its prey. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in sheer disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. Lavender's outfit was not just a poor choice—it was a personal attack on brunch fashion itself.
"Absolutely not," Pansy muttered, leaning toward Neville with the kind of scandalized expression one reserved for witnessing a crime. "Is she trying to look like an overripe banana? Because that shade of mustard yellow is offensive." She flicked her manicured nails toward Lavender's dress in disgust. "It's like she lost a duel with a thrift store discount rack."
Neville made a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh, she was just getting started.
"And clogs?" she hissed, barely able to contain her horror. "Merlin's saggy left—are those actual clogs? Who in their right mind pairs an expired condiment dress with Dutch footwear? Someone needs to Obliviate this entire outfit from existence."
Ginny, catching Pansy's scathing expression from across the table, smirked. She was already enjoying the roast. "Come on, Pans, maybe she's going for 'quirky.'"
Pansy scoffed, her expression dripping with aristocratic disdain. "If that's quirky, then I'm a Muggle-born. That's not a look, Red, that's a cry for help." She shook her head, genuinely offended. "I've seen house-elves with more coordinated outfits. The Malfoy peacocks dress better than this."
Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked but wisely stayed out of it. Blaise, on the other hand, was openly entertained. "I mean, it's bold," he offered, trying to keep a straight face.
"Bold?" Pansy repeated, aghast. "No, Blaise, war crimes are bold. This is blinding. I swear, Ron must have hexed his own eyes shut before leaving the house. That's the only explanation."
Luna, ever the diplomat, tilted her head. "I think it's nice," she said dreamily. "She looks like a sunflower."
"She looks like a sunflower that drowned in pumpkin juice," Pansy shot back. "And was then stomped on by a herd of centaurs."
Ginny snorted so loudly she had to pretend to cough into her napkin. Even Theo, normally the picture of polite indifference, muttered a low, "Merlin's beard," as he eyed Lavender's ensemble.
And then, just when Pansy thought her patience had reached its limit, Lavender flounced toward their table.
"Morning, everyone!" she chirped, radiating oblivious confidence as she took her seat beside Ron. The mustard monstrosity of a dress swayed with her movements, assaulting Pansy's vision with every ripple.
Pansy plastered on the fakest smile known to wizardkind. "Lavender, darling," she purred, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness, "I adore your outfit. It's just so... daring."
Lavender beamed. "Oh, thanks, Pansy! It's vintage!"
"Ah, yes," Pansy said, her voice smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very... timeless." She took a languid sip of her mimosa, pausing just long enough to deliver the killing blow. "Practically prehistoric."
Ginny collapsed into silent, shaking laughter. Ron, ever the human embodiment of confusion, glanced at Lavender's dress as if only just realizing it might be offensive to all five senses.
Lavender, still smiling, blinked. "Oh, well—"
"I mean," Pansy continued, tone syrupy, "not everyone can pull off looking like an old Hogwarts tapestry. It's a statement, really. What statement, though, I can't quite figure out."
Blaise covered his mouth to muffle his laugh. Neville shifted uncomfortably but made no move to intervene. No one was saving Lavender from this.
Draco casually set down his teacup. "I think what Pansy's trying to say," he drawled, eyes glinting, "is that your bravery truly knows no bounds."
Pansy leaned back, looking utterly pleased with herself as Lavender finally, finally, started to look uncomfortable.
Maybe next time, she'd think twice before showing up looking like a regrettable Potions experiment.
If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, then Lavender Brown was a nails-on-a-chalkboard migraine in human form. Sitting next to her at brunch felt like some cosmic punishment—Hermione would have rather been locked in a room with Peeves, or worse, forced to tutor Crabbe and Goyle in advanced Arithmancy.
Trapped at the table with Lavender's endless stream of frivolous gossip, Hermione felt a familiar, simmering resentment bubble beneath her practiced poise. Draco, for all his arrogance and contradictions, was at least intellectually engaging. Lavender? A walking, talking Witch Weekly column with the emotional depth of a teaspoon.
She let her gaze drift to her china cup, pretending to be utterly captivated by the delicate floral patterns. Merlin, she'd rather be analyzing runes scratched onto a troll's arse than enduring another second of this.
Lavender's voice, shrill and unrelenting, prattled on, each word scraping against Hermione's patience like a dull blade. Every forced laugh, every vapid anecdote about her latest beauty charm or 'accidental' run-in with someone famous, felt like slow, torturous decay of Hermione's remaining brain cells.
She let her mind wander—complex spell theories, the satisfaction of unraveling ancient magical texts, even the adrenaline of battle during the war—all infinitely preferable to this. But no, she was here, stuck in the brunch purgatory of Lavender Brown's company.
And frankly, she'd rather be interrogating Bellatrix Lestrange.
A sudden, sharp pang of hunger dragged Hermione back to reality. She forced herself to take a bite of her food, though the bland taste paled in comparison to the acrid bite of irritation sitting heavy on her tongue. Across from her, Lavender's voice droned on, rising and falling like a particularly grating concerto—pretentious, overdone, and impossible to tune out.
Lavender Brown, a human embodiment of a discount perfume sample, lazily pushed her eggs around her plate, her every movement calculated, every word dripping in saccharine condescension. Thinly veiled barbs laced her compliments, subtle little jabs at Hermione's place among them, a game of social warfare Lavender was far too eager to play.
"Alright, Granger," Lavender drawled, her manicured nails tapping a slow, taunting rhythm against the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still scraping by on those modest Ministry wages, or has Malfoy finally started footing the bill? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather... plebeian."
Her voice was honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with predatory amusement as they raked over Hermione like she was something unfortunate that had stumbled onto her designer rug.
Hermione, ever the picture of grace under fire, offered a saccharine smile that could curdle milk. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though I find designing my own home much more rewarding than, say, spending my time on the floo to Witch Weekly for a feature that never quite seems to come." Her tone was sweet—syrupy, even—but sharp enough to draw blood.
Lavender's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, tilting her head. "I bet. It must be thrilling to live in such a... historic place."
The insinuation was clear. Hermione felt her grip tighten around her fork, but she refused to take the bait. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."
Her expression darkened, her lips curling at the edges. "Oh, please, Granger, drop the noble act. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost... pathetic."
A slow, simmering anger settled in Hermione's chest, but she smoothed it down, lifting her glass to her lips with practiced poise. "Lavender," she said with a cool finality, "I appreciate your deep concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should find something more engaging to discuss. Like your latest heartbreak? I hear they last about as long as your dye jobs."
Ginny let out an abrupt cough—more of a choked laugh—while Pansy casually stirred her mimosa, not bothering to hide her smirk.
Draco, however, had heard enough.
"Lavender," he interjected, his voice like velvet-lined steel, "I believe this conversation has run its course."
Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
"Friends," Hermione thought dryly, stabbing a piece of toast with unnecessary force. If this was friendship, she'd rather spend an evening alone in Knockturn Alley.
But then Draco's expression shifted, his usual cool indifference sharpening into something colder, something lethal. His fingers flexed against his glass before he placed it down deliberately.
His voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate. "I would strongly advise your husband to mind his wandering eyes during the meal," he murmured, his gaze locking onto Ron's with deadly precision.
The air thickened, a weighted silence settling over the table like the hush before a storm. The once lively hum of conversation died—drinks half-sipped, utensils frozen mid-motion. Every breath in the room felt measured, cautious.
Draco leaned back lazily, but his grip on the silver knife remained firm. His fingers curled around the handle with a practiced ease, the blade catching the light as it twirled in his hand with a slow, rhythmic flick. Not careless. Not idle. A message. A warning. A predator deciding whether the hunt was worth his time.
Ronald's face, already tinged with red, lost its color in a slow, humiliating drain. His Adam's apple bobbed with a thick swallow. His eyes darted, as if scanning for an escape, but there was no out. No one dared interfere. Not with Draco Malfoy sitting there, a knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.
"Perhaps," he continued, his voice deceptively light, "you should consider keeping your focus on your plate instead of staring at something you can't have. Because if I catch that filthy gaze lingering on my wife again..." He trailed off, the knife spinning one final time before landing flat against the table with an ominous thud.
The promise of pain hung in the air, thick and inescapable.
Ronald's throat worked as he cleared it, his voice thin, forced. "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"
He silenced him with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if dismissing an insect. "Save it, Weasley. I know exactly how you used to look at her. I remember every pathetic, yearning glance, every time you treated her like some backup plan. And here you are again, looking at what's mine."
His voice was low, deadly. Each word laced with poison, sinking deep.
" Some habits die hard ," he mused, tilting his head in feigned thought. "But some creatures? They never change at all." His lips curled into something that was almost a smile. Almost. "A leopard can't change its spots, can it?"
Ronald's fists clenched, but his silence betrayed him. He knew better than to engage. Everyone at the table did.
She placed a hand on his arm—a silent plea. A tether keeping him from fully baring his fangs.
"Draco," she murmured, her voice calm, though the tension in her grip was unmistakable.
His eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, his expression softened. But then, slowly, he turned back to Ron, his amusement darkening into something more possessive.
"She is mine," he said, voice quiet but lethal. "She belongs to me. To look at. To talk to. To touch. She means nothing to you now, and she never will again."
The next words dripped from his lips, a whisper of pure malice.
"I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. So get over her. Go home to that whore of a woman you call a wife, and don't ever let your eyes land on mine again."
The weight of the words sank like iron. The world stood still.
Ronald opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Without warning, Hermione stood. In an instant, she grasped Draco's wrist, and with a sharp crack of Apparition, they were gone—leaving only the lingering chill of his words in the stunned silence they left behind.