Out of the Silent Planet

Title: Out of the Silent Planet (30/39)
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Plot driven smut, Darkfic, Romance, Drama, Angst...
Warnings: M/F, Bondage, slight non-con, voyeurism, oral, anal, Dom/sub issues, Dark!Draco, and HBP spoilers.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts - Hermione Granger fulfills Severus Snape's final wish, to journey to Japan to ‘retrieve' something of importance. Set eleven years after HBP.
Author's Notes: This is my first DM/HG ficlet, so please be kind to the newbie! The title of this fic is taken from C.S. Lewis' book, first in the Perelandra Chronicles.

Many thanks to kazfeist for improving this chapter!


Out of the Silent Planet
Chapter Thirty – Of a child and words spoken in hushed voices



It was only a week after dinner at Rowena’s Respite with Draco Malfoy as guest that Millicent went into labour. Frank Phineas Longbottom was a wriggling bundle of brown eyes and a thick thatch of black hair, but to Hermione, it was the first time she would actually see and hold a product of love from two of her dearest friends.

Even though Hermione knew that Harry and Ginny had had their own children, she had never been in attendance at their births, ‘having been able to hold the child only moments after its birth… or hug it at its birthday… or coo at the child when it began to fuss.

Millie was laughing weakly as Frank began to gurgle at Hermione, the dark little eyes fixed upon the slight wave in Hermione’s hair.

“Look at those wide eyes…what are you looking at Frank?” Hermione cooed, gently rocking the blue bundle in her arms at the side of Millie’s bed.

Neville was sitting on the other side of the bed, brushing out his wife’s ebony hair that had come undone at some point during labour and had become tangled during her exertions.

“Isn’t he just so lively for a newborn?” Millie chuckled softly, her face flushed, and her voice weaker than usual.

The birth had been relatively easy, even if it was the first child, but birthing Frank had taken a lot of fire out of the usually brilliant Millie. Neville tried not to show too much of his concern, besides, he couldn’t get over the fact that he was now a father.

“His eyes are just moving every which way, looking at everything,” Hermione laughed, “and he’s got one hell of a grip!”

“He should, he is half of me and mine,” Millie smirked, glancing at her husband with a loving eye.

Hermione could not help but sigh, moving to give Millie back her beautiful son. Frank was perfect in Hermione’s eyes, and the child was not even her own.

Sitting in the vacant chair at Millie’s left, Hermione could not help but smile, even though tears were threatening to well up in her amber eyes. Just watching the three Longbottoms was too gorgeous and all too painful.

Hermione sighed again, noticing that the Apothecary ward was silent now, all the Healers and nurses retiring since Millie had safely delivered the Longbottom heir. It was mid-afternoon, and snow was falling heavily outside, strange for Wizarding London.

“Go home, Hermione, you look as tired as I feel, luv,” Millie whispered, moving to take her friend’s hand in her own.

“And miss all the excitement?” Hermione chuckled tiredly.

“Go on, Neville is going to pop back home to pick up a few things for the night. I will probably be going home in the morning at any rate.”

Hermione nodded. “Is there anything I can do for either of you?” Hermione asked earnestly.

Millie glanced at Neville who smiled broadly.

“Be Frank’s godmother?” Neville asked meekly.

Hermione blinked, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Millie…I…I…”

“You cannot say ‘no,’ Hermione, besides, there is no one else I would ever want for Frank’s godmother,” Millie whispered, tears gathering in her weary eyes.

“Well…yes! Of course I will be Frank’s godmother…gods, Millie…I could never say no,” Hermione sniffed, her tears falling down her cheeks, half from love of the three people at her side, and half out of her own vain self-pity.

“Good…now…next week we will have a gathering…and a binding, so you’d better free up your social calendar, luv.”

Hermione laughed through her tears, her nose beginning to drip obscenely…

* * *

The Daily Prophet had a large notice on the Lifestyles page about Frank’s birth, including a short article on the number of children born in Wizarding Britain being on the decline since the baby boom immediately after the War. Hermione could only snort when the paper listed statistics and the growing concern in the Ministry that the population of Wizarding Britain was going to be on a steady decline for the near future. There had been talks of passing Marriage Laws to boost the growth of magical children born, but it had quickly been squashed by the Wizengamot as an infringement of personal rights and civil liberties.

However, Hermione was delighted to read that the Prophet was glad to receive little Frank Longbottom, and wished the family well.

Hermione had secluded herself as much as possible in her office at work, not bothering with much of the buzz surrounding Frank’s birth. It was not as if she were unhappy that Millie and Neville finally had their first child; it had more to do with Hermione feeling a bit envious of her friend’s happiness. She knew it was wrong to feel envy, but she could not help but feel that, once again, her own friends had left her behind. First Harry and Ginny…now Neville and Millie…

A knock on her door roused Hermione from her thoughts, and she turned her office chair back toward her desk from where she had been gazing out the large windows at her back.

“Enter.”

Hermione tried to make herself look busy…even if it was a secretary; she did not need people to think she was sulking. So when the door opened and Yuki Matsumoto entered, Hermione could not help but feel her heart sink slightly.

“Are you skiving off teaching, Yuki?”

Dressed in black robes that were too much like Severus’, Yuki moved to sit in the chair before Hermione’s overflowing desk.

“Classes are over for the day, and I thought I would catch you at work since you are not answering my owls or my Floo calls…” he said softly with a hint of accusation.

Hermione smirked, Yuki was only trying to be kind, she knew, but all the same she did not want to be bothered.

“I’ve been swamped with paperwork…and by the time I make it home it is far too late for any one to be calling.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Hermione blinked.

It was true, she had been avoiding him, and it had much to do with the fact that Millie had mentioned seeing Yuki and Draco speaking at the gala many weeks before. She had waited for Yuki to bring it up…to mention that he had seen Draco, but he never did.

“Honestly Yuki, you know better than to think that. I’ve just been too busy, that’s all. I barely made it to see Millie and the baby!”

Yuki narrowed his eyes, but smiled amicably. “I hear that you’re to be little Frank’s godmother.”

Hermione smiled, truly smiled. “Next week they’re having a ceremony, but I’m beginning to wonder who is going to be the godfather.”

“Well, they didn’t ask me, but why would they? I think Millie hates me.”

Hermione smirked, but did not say a word. ‘Hate’ was such a strong word, but it was true to say Millie ‘distrusted’ Yuki.

They spoke a bit longer before Hermione began to tire of it, and she quickly made the excuse that she needed some time to finish a report before the office staff were to go out for the day.

It was a lame excuse and Hermione could see that Yuki was a bit put out, but she graciously showed the dark man the door and allowed him to press a kiss into her knuckles. Her patience and her state of mind were beginning to shorten her tolerance of the man.

Yuki had never been anything but kind…and it only added to her discomfort. The insinuations, the subtle touches, and glances had begun to add up, and Hermione shivered slightly as she leaned back in her office chair. The kinship had begun to wear thin. It reminded her of Ronald Weasley and the disaster that had been their short-lived relationship. Ron, though she still loved the man, was wanting a wife, and Hermione knew she would never be ready to be breeding mare for a clan of more Weasleys…

It was clear that Yuki Matsumoto’s interest ran more toward the romantic, perhaps even the sexual, and Hermione could only repress making a childish face of disgust at the thought.

Yuki Matsumoto was sufficiently handsome, sufficiently intelligent, but he was not…

Hermione let her face fall into her hands.

…not Severus, and not Draco…

* * *

The invitation came two days later by owl, and Hermione motioned to the treats on the windowsill of the front window of the cottage as she read the embossed words.

The party was set for two in the afternoon the following day, and that no formal dress was required. In the corner of her invitation, Millie had scribbled that Hermione was to come early to discuss the binding ceremony with them. Minerva was to prescribe the rites, placing Hermione as the godmother and Ron Weasley as the godfather…

Ron… Millie had Owled Hermione only the day before, expressing her concern that Hermione might be uncomfortable with Neville’s choice for Frank’s godfather. Hermione immediately called by Floo, laughing so hard that she was nearly in tears. Ronald Weasley being Frank Longbottom’s godfather did not bother Hermione in the least. In fact, Hermione was sure that Ron was ecstatic. Never once did Harry ever ask for Ron to be the godfather to his children although they had been best friends for so many years…

Ron… It had been a very long time since Hermione had even bothered to send an owl, and she wondered if Ron was well…or married yet.

After a string of girlfriends, Ron simply could not settle down. He was an eligible, successful bachelor. The apparent curse of Weasley poverty seemed to be broken with the Weasley twins’ business years before, and now with Ron’s ownership of two Qudditch teams and several Quidditch supply stores. Ron had always had a head for tactics and stratagems, and Hermione was happy for Ron and his application of his talents to the business world. Ron was, finally, where he wanted to be, financially, and never again would he or his family suffer the insults of the richer Pureblooded families by wearing second-hand robes.

All the same, it had been a long time since Hermione had set eyes on her old friend. In part, she was nervous to see him again, and in part, she was anxious to be able to see how well he had done with himself. Ron had known of Hermione’s partnership with the Longbottoms, and it seemed that her kinship with Millicent Longbottom nee Bulstrode did not concern Ron in the least. The last time Hermione had seen Ron, it had been at a Ministry function many years before, and at that time Ron had been civil and distant. Hermione wondered how Ron would receive her at the naming ceremony.

That night, Hermione laid out a set of light blue robes, the collar lined thinly with white ermine pelt. She settled on a pair of low heels that matched the robes, and a long white silk shift for underneath. The clothing was not too formal nor too casual, and Hermione found the colours fitting for a celebration of a birth of a child, Neville and Millicent’s child in particular.

Settling into her large and lonely bed, Hermione went to sleep with a smile on her face. She had resigned herself to possibly never having children of her own, and to be the godmother of a Pureblooded child was historic for a Muggleborn witch like herself. However, it was more than that, she knew; it was the love of her friends that had given her the responsibility of being a godmother, and there was nothing in the world that would stop her from protecting the child of the best friends she had in her world.

* * *


The snow falling upon the Scottish Highlands was not the same type of snow he knew in Japan, but the effect was the same. The bare hillocks were washed clean with white, and the Black Lake was frozen just along the shore. It had been years since Draco Malfoy had seen Hogwarts in winter, and no matter how long he surveyed his memories, he could not remember a happy fragmentary thought of winters at school. Christmases were usually spent at the Manor or at the house in Monte Carlo, and there was only one memory when he had spent a Christmas at Hogwarts, and perhaps that was the best memory of that holiday he could remember. No Lucius, no silent mother, no subdued celebration in private, and no impersonal parties to cater to Lucius’ connections in the Ministry. It had been second year, and the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets had all the students in a rapture. Only after the fact did Draco learn that his father had been responsible for the fiasco and near death of Ginny Weasley. Then there was fourth year and the Yule Ball…and seeing Hermione Granger unlike she had ever been before, on the arm of Viktor Krum. That had been a particularly horrible holiday…

As he lightly traversed the snow covered road to the main gates of the school, Draco kept his head down, banishing his memories, the heavy black travelling cloak making him appear more like a wayward Dementor than a man. Dementors delighted on feasting on the happiness of others, and in some way, Draco wished he could suck some joy into himself. When at the gate, he was met by the much-aged Argus Filch, and Draco lifted his cowl only a fraction to address the man.

“I have come to pay my respects to the grave of Albus Dumbledore,” Draco said softly, his voice raspy from inhaling too much winter air and from his trek up from Hogsmeade.

Argus Filch, who had been sneering at the prospect shooing away an unwelcome guest, shrank away at the sight of the eyes beneath the cowl. He hastened to open the gate and fell against the gatepost as Draco swept past. Filch watched, as the dark-clad figure seemed to float across the snowy grounds, toward the lake and the white sepulchre near the shore. Filch never forgot a face or a name, but in his fright, he was not exactly sure if he had admitted a ghost of a Malfoy long dead, or if it had indeed been the boy who had fled that horrible night with the murderer of Albus Dumbledore. Regardless, Filch straightened himself the best he could and scurried across the grounds toward the castle to inform the Headmistress. The children who were in the castle for the holidays were in no danger, but a Malfoy on the grounds was surely something about which the Headmistress would want to know.

Draco, meanwhile, thought little of the old caretaker, only splinters of vague memory billowing up into the forefront of his mind and wisping away almost instantly. No, Draco had no reason to think much upon the caretaker, not when he had something to say to the remains of the wizard who had somehow believed that he could surpass his heredity. And when he reached the grave, Draco paused to note that the white stone had been charmed to retain its beauty by letting no snow settle upon it and that the flowers, a mixture of striped red, yellow, blue and green lilies, were charmed to bloom eternally about the base of the stone. Draco stepped closer, past the bounds of the enchantment and into a warm bubble of air. Pushing back his cowl, Draco looked down to the top of the grave and the gold scrolled name and dates incised into the stone.

“I…” Draco began his voice now hoarse from the cold. “I should thank you, Headmaster. But then again, I almost want to spit on your grave for the things you did not do to stop me.”

Draco let his fists, flesh, and metal, curl in their black gloves, but he did not move, his silver eyes peering down into the stone coldly.

“You knew everything from the very beginning, and yet you did nothing. I have moved past hating you, and hating Potter, but why… why didn’t you save me like you did Potter? Why couldn’t you save Severus? Why couldn’t you save my mother? Those are the things I would kill to know now.”

Draco let his breath billow out in a white cloud, the icy air in his lungs warming in the bubble of heat about the grave.

“But I guess I never will know…will I?”

Draco stood silently, his eyes tracing the words on the stone absently. He wished he could confront the man face to face, like he had all those years ago on the Tower.

“There is so much I wish I could ask you, old fool. But I suppose it is best I do not know, not now…”

“Mr. Malfoy,” a voice sounded at his back, but Draco did not turn.

“Headmistress, I suppose you are here to escort me off the grounds?” Draco growled, pulling his cowl back over his pale hair.

Minerva McGonagall stepped next to Draco, not hesitating to glance at the turbulent eyes now in shadow. “Anyone here to pay their respects to Albus is free to do so. The War is over and I know you would not harm the students who seek knowledge here.”

“Thank you.”

They stood in silence for a long while, both witch and wizard gazing down at the white and pristine marble.

“It is good to see you well, Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva intoned in little more than a whisper, too afraid that the emotion in her voice would be too clear if she spoke louder.

“And you, Headmistress, I truly am glad.”

“Are you?”

Draco turned slightly to regard the older woman dressed in a heavy tartan cloak, crumpled hat and doe skin gloves. “Severus always spoke highly of you, despite the House you championed. And I… I am glad that the War spared you.”

“And you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco let a chuckle pass his lips, “I had no part in the War, and even if I did, I still don’t know upon which side I would have fought”

Minerva stiffened for a moment and then smiled, turning her old eyes back to the grave. “Oh, but I think Albus did…”

Draco let his arms fold across his chest in a motion that Minerva found unsettling. It was as if Draco Malfoy were hugging himself tightly to stifle hesitation and doubt.

“He saved me from being a murderer, yes, but he did not save me from the Dark…”

“I am sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I have spent over half my life torturing myself over the decisions Albus made, and after so long I can only trust that he was making the right choice.”

Minerva paused and glanced at Draco again, only seeing his chin from under his cowl.

“I did not agree with many of Albus’ choices, and if I had had my way you would never have…”

Draco snorted, “There is no use to dwell upon the ‘what ifs,’ Headmistress. Just know, to at least to quell your ‘tortures,’ that I would have never fought next to the Dark Lord, nor would I have fought for your Order. I would have fought for myself, and for those I cared about, as few as they were. Hindsight or no, Albus Dumbledore could have done much better by me. I do not hate the man, nor do I owe him a bit of sympathy or regard. I live for the now, and now, I felt like telling the old fool how much he still owes me.”

Minerva smirked. She knew all too well that Draco Malfoy was correct in thinking that Albus Dumbledore owed him something. Albus owed so many people, Harry Potter and Severus Snape being two others. But as she watched Draco Malfoy begin to walk away, she knew that Albus owed the boy all.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Minerva called at Draco’s back.

Draco turned, unsure whether he should continue to converse with the old woman.

“You are going to the Longbottoms, are you not?”

Draco nodded; it had been his original intention in coming up to the Highlands.

“May I escort you?” the Scottish witch asked with a mischievous gleam in her aged and yellowed eyes.

* * *

When Hermione arrived at Rowena’s Respite, it was to the clamour of upraised voices and the scrape of furniture across the ancient wooden floor.

“You bastard!” a male voice roared from the parlour, followed immediately by Minerva McGonagall’s harsh voice belting out a Stunning Hex.

Hermione doffed her cloak, and ran toward the parlour, her brain filled with fear for little Frank and Millicent. However, when she skidded on her low heels into the room she was greeted by the sight of an unconscious Ronald Weasley laying half on the floor, half on a divan, an irate Minerva, a cowering Neville and a laughing Millicent with sleeping baby, and a handful of guests pressed against the walls out of the line of fire. Among the throng, standing just behind Minerva was none other than a smug Draco Malfoy, arms crossed before his chest, laughing so hard that tears were gathering at the corners of his silver eyes.

“M-Millie?” Hermione gasped, stepping over Ron toward her friend, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh, H-Hermione! You just missed a sight!” Millicent laughed, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with mirth.

Hermione stood agape before her friend as Neville and Draco hoisted Ron up into the divan and left the large ginger-haired man to flop back into the furniture. Neville seemed horrified and immediately began apologizing to the guests and then to Draco. Hermione glanced at the pale man out of the corner of her eye and moved to step closer to Millicent.

“What happened?” Hermione whispered as the party seemed not to miss a beat and conversation broke out again.

“Oh, Ronald Weasley and his usual temper, I’m sure you know more about it than I do, Hermione,” Millicent giggled, rocking Frank in her arms gently. The babe did not seem to notice the stir of the twenty-odd people in the large parlour, nor did Augusta Longbottom’s portrait seem to notice, engaged in talking to what appeared to be one of Neville’s relatives.

“Did he…” Hermione began, suddenly lowering her voice to a concerned whisper. “Did he hex anyone?”

“Draco…almost. As soon as Ron saw Draco he went ballistic! It was hilarious, Hermione. Draco was quite amused, it seems, and then Minerva stunned the git.”

Hermione nodded, glancing toward Ron’s unconscious form and the dishevelled state of his fine velvet robes. She felt a giggle bubble its way up and quickly she smacked a hand across her mouth lest it escape. But the ridiculousness of the situation drained away as Hermione watched Draco Malfoy cross the room and begin speaking to an elderly wizard, apparently a distant relative of both Neville and Draco.

“You invited Draco?” Hermione asked quietly, moving to face the room at Millie’s side.

“Is that a problem?” Millie asked airily, switching Frank from one arm to the other. Hermione blinked at Millie’s question and turned her eyes toward Draco’s back.

“No…it’s only…”

“Don’t worry, Hermione… He’s the closest thing I have left to family, and if you haven’t noticed most of the guests are Neville’s family. He won’t…” Millie began, but trailed off, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Won’t what? Won’t bother me?” Hermione whispered more to herself than to her friend.

“He won’t be a problem, that’s all. I-I’m sorry, Hermione, it was a last minute idea to invite him, I just thought…”

“It’s fine, Millie, just awkward.”

Millicent nodded, catching Neville’s eye. It was nearly two.

* * *


When Ron Weasley regained consciousness, he blushed redder than Hermione could ever remember. Apologizing to the party, Ron tried slipping away unnoticed when Minerva caught him by the ear and dragged him back into the parlour.

“I am not so old that I could not subject you to a special detention with Mr. Filch, Ronald Weasley!” Minerva chided, positioning Ron before a small dais in the parlour where the naming and bonding ceremony was to occur.

Ron did not protest, all too familiar with Minerva’s wrath and the weight of her promised punishments. However, Ron blushed when he found himself standing next to Hermione, as if suddenly aware of her presence.

“’ullo, Hermione,” he said with a degree of embarrassment.

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, more worried about where Draco Malfoy was in the room to fully acknowledge her old friend.

“You look wonderful.”

Hermione blinked; Ron’s voice as honest as she ever remembered, but deeper and more mature. She regarded him with a light smile, taking in his face, his shaggy ginger hair, and the considerable height advantage he had over her. Ron had grown into his body, having been so gangly when they were in school and during the War. He was so much like Bill, sans the scars, but much more rugged in appearance. Hermione was sure that there was a queue of women waiting to bed or wed him.

“You look well, Ron.”

Ron smiled and Hermione felt her chest tighten. It had been too long, and a simple smile brought back so many wonderful memories…and slowly, more horrible memories.

“I’ve been getting along. Neville told me that you…uh…had a treatment on your leg. Are you doing well?”

Hermione nodded slowly, the atmosphere suddenly becoming awkward again. The issue of her maimed leg had been a major point of their falling out, mostly from Hermione’s side of the relationship.

“Can you believe that Malfoy is here?” Ron whispered, leaning in close to Hermione, familiarly close.

“Millie told me that you tried to hex him?” Hermione whispered back as the party began to organize into chairs provided by the Longbottoms’ elves.

“Stupid, I know. But I cannot believe that Millie invited the git! I know he’s been exonerated or whatever, but still… Malfoy, here, at Frank’s naming ceremony?”

Hermione sighed. Ron, apparently, had not changed much at all.

“He’s like family to Millie, Ron. Besides, he’s paid his dues, and as far as I know he’s on the straight and narrow,” Hermione whispered with a forced and unconcerned air.

“It’s better to keep an eye on him, Hermione. You never know what the crazy bastard might do.”

“And I’ll keep my eye on you, Ronald Weasley, you are known all too well for your ‘hex-happy’ attitude toward him.”

Ron grinned sheepishly and squeezed Hermione’s shoulder. “Ever the fair-minded Hermione.”

Hermione tried to smile, but found that she could not. Ron was a decent man, caring, and protective of those he cared for, but Hermione knew now that he was no different than he was all those years ago. It saddened her that she would probably never find a means of truly reconnecting with her old friend. As he had stayed the same, she had changed by leagues. Their relationship had ended badly, but it seemed that Ron was more forgiving toward her than to Draco Malfoy.

It was only a minute more before Minerva called for the ceremony to begin. Hermione pushed all thoughts of the past from her mind, and let thoughts of the future, little Frank Longbottom’s future, filter in.

* * *

The ceremony was beautiful and all in attendance agreed that Frank Longbottom’s welcome into the Wizarding world was a fortuitous one. The party was dwindling down after much talk amongst family, friends, tea, punch, and food. By four o’clock only Minerva and Hermione were left in the parlour, Millicent upstairs laying the baby down in the nursery, and the men, consisting of Neville, Ron, and surprisingly, Draco Malfoy, in the study. Through the party, Ron had seemed to make a shaky truce with his old ‘enemy,’ and soon the two men were talking business. Hermione was still wary, waiting for Ron to start bellowing at Draco again and hexes to be exchanged. But what made Hermione sit in the parlour with unease was the fact that Draco did not seem to acknowledge her presence at all. She knew it was to be expected, but it did not quiet the storm of emotions raging in her chest.

“Hermione, dear, you’ve been so quiet today. Are you well?” Minerva asked, passing Hermione a hot cup of tea. Hermione took the cup and saucer with a small smile.

“I am fine, Minerva, just tired, I suppose.”

Minerva eyed her former pupil sharply.

“Draco Malfoy came with me today.”

Hermione glanced up sharply from her tea at mention of Draco’s name.

“I met him at Albus’ grave. I was surprised to see him there, of all places. But in some way, I expected it.”

Hermione lowered her head and went to stirring the milk into her tea.

“He has grown up. I know that may sound silly, but I had thought the boy lost to us completely.”

Minerva continued, watching Hermione speculatively from the rim of her tea. Gauging Hermione’s mood had always been so easy for Minerva, and as the aged witch watched the younger, she could see only turmoil in the young woman. Minerva had not been privy to as much information as Millicent concerning Hermione’s travels to Japan and Draco Malfoy’s sudden return to Britain, but Minerva knew enough about life to deduce a few points on the matter. It pained Minerva to see Hermione so conflicted; it was so unlike the girl.

“Mr. Weasley’s actions earlier were not unexpected, but it was still a bit of a shock to the guests. Poor Neville nearly fainted when Ron burst in, hexes flying. Only a nasty hex will teach Mr. Weasley what for…Weasleys are not known for their mild temperaments when they feel threatened.”

Hermione smiled at her mentor’s words, glad to hear the beginnings of laughter in the older woman’s voice.

“Mr. Malfoy acted as coolly as any Malfoy would, I suppose. I see now that Draco is not his father; he did not say a word to aggravate Mr. Weasley, nor did he raise a hand to defend himself. I only hope that my feelings about how Mr. Malfoy has changed are correct.”

Hermione let her eyes focus on her tea again. She was still stirring the cup, and suddenly realized she had been stirring ever since Minerva had passed her the tea and begun speaking. The thought of Minerva’s words about Draco’s ‘hand’ only made Hermione even more uncomfortable.

Slowly, the conversation turned, much to Hermione’s relief, and before long, Minerva was excusing herself, idly wondering what had become of Millicent and if she needed help with Frank. Hermione smiled as Minerva slowly moved out of the parlour, shutting the door behind her. Hermione sat in silence, finishing her tepid tea and setting it on the service resting on an ottoman between the chairs in which she and Minerva had been sitting, next to the fire. Hermione rose stiffly, and stretched. The house was silent, and peaceful. She wondered if she could slip away unnoticed and Apparate back to the moors, so exhausted did she feel, and, suddenly, depressed. Seeing Ron again had brought a moment of cheer, but in the end, Hermione had felt empty. But it was not only Ron; it had been Draco as well.

Draco appeared to be in good health, moving about the party with an approachable expression and conversing with such polite intensity that he held the attention of all those in his immediate range, everyone, except Hermione. He had not approached her, had not come closer than ten feet of her, and for some reason the vacuum that existed between them was crushing her spirits on what should have been the most joyous of days.

Hermione sighed and moved to a window, glancing out at Neville’s enchanted garden. Little Frank Longbottom had a wonderful home in which to grow and wonderful parents who would attend to every need and want. Hermione tried to smile at this thought, but her inner darkness was far too consuming. She rested her forehead against a cool pane of glass and closed her eyes. She could not imagine how she would ever be able to find a happiness as great as Millie and Neville’s; there was no one in her life who could ever give her those precious moments of joy or a precious and beautiful child. Hermione sighed again, savouring the sobering coolness of the glass against her skin.

The sound of the parlour door opening did nothing to make Hermione open her eyes. It was Millie and Minerva coming from upstairs, Frank tucked into his crib. However, the footfalls upon the floor were singular and far too heavy. It was Ron coming to say his goodbyes, making promises to keep in touch. Or it was Neville, coming to find Millie…

“Granger.”

Hermione’s breath stopped in her lungs. The voice was like ice: not a greeting, not a summons…it was a voice of flat acknowledgement and nothing more.

Finding her breath again, Hermione opened her eyes, the darkening garden blurred through the breath-fogged pane. She did not turn, too afraid of the expression that might greet her. Hermione knew it would not be a welcoming face.

The sound of the door shutting and of footfalls startled her, and when she turned, Hermione visibly jumped to find Draco Malfoy at her left elbow, peering down at her with glacial cold intensity.

“M-Malfoy. I…” Hermione began, but could not continue, her senses full of him, senses that were forcing her close to a swoon. But slowly, and delicately, Hermione straightened, mastering herself. She gazed up at the man with a mask of polite acknowledgement, but, despite her best efforts, Hermione could feel that mask cracking and tears trying to form in her eyes.

“It is good to see you,” she whispered, her voice near to shattering.

He said nothing, but continued to peer down at her, his eyes moving over her body as if assessing her worth.

“Have you been well?” she asked, trying to ignore the true pain he was inflicting in her body with his eyes.

“Well enough,” he whispered in return.

His whisper was not one of secrecy, and she wondered if he whispered as not to startle her. Hermione knew that if she were to hear the full power of his voice she would literally crumble.

“I-I’m glad. We had been concerned.”

“We?”

“M-Millie, Neville, and I…” Hermione trailed off, unable to meet his gaze any longer. Her body was failing her, and she swayed on her feet. And when she swayed dangerously toward the window, Draco caught her, his hands still gloved as they had been when she first noticed him at the party. His grip was sure and he held her shoulders, so tiny did they seem in his large hands.

Hermione nearly fainted, swaying even in Draco’s grasp, falling into his body. He allowed her, her cheek resting against the silk of his shirt just above his heart. Hermione sobered at the sound of his heartbeat, it was not nearly as restrained as the rest of him. And in this, Hermione found an ounce of satisfaction.

He smelled just as he had the last time she remembered being so close to him, but he seemed to radiate heat as if there was a furnace just beneath the surface of skin, sinew, and bone. It was comforting, but fleeting, as he pushed her away, still holding her shoulders, peering down at her again, his face still impassive.

“I-I’m sorry, Malfoy, I don’t know what came over me,” Hermione whispered, her strength returning, along with it a new-formed anger that was billowing out from some dark place inside. She twisted to be free of his grasp, but when her best effort to shrug him off failed, Hermione bowed her head to look at the expensive dragon hide of his boots.

“Look at me, Granger,” he whispered, his voice penetrating every pore, hypnotic and subtly demanding.

Hermione raised her chin and gazed at him, her anger boiling up into her brain, finally.

“What is it that you want, Malfoy?” she hissed, her voice still no louder than a whisper.

He said nothing, but stared down at her, his eyes gleaming despite the growing darkness outside. He seemed to be searching for something in her eyes, but what, Hermione could not discern. It was irritating to her now, no longer unsettling. Her anger turned to fury as he continued to stare at her. Draco Malfoy was not trying to pry into her mind as he once had during that winter in Japan, but Hermione wondered if now, after so long with something as dark and undeniably powerful as the ‘Arm of Vulcan’ if he needed to…

The fury abated as he held her at arms length, and Hermione began to shiver from the intimacy of his gaze. She could almost weep; she could almost throw herself into his arms and beg him to be something more than an uncomfortable memory. She could almost plead for him to love her, to be someone she could treasure and give her soul, her love, her life to…but Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy, and he could never be those things to anyone, let alone Hermione Granger.

“You are so…” Draco whispered, but trailed, blinking and glancing out the window.

“W-What am I, Malfoy?” Hermione whispered in return, her shivering becoming a full body tremble. Her trembling only tightened Draco’s hold on her, and slowly he pulled her toward him, but did not embrace her.

Hermione could only watch the twitch in his cheek, the indecision in his eyes, and somehow she felt stronger. She was not alone, somehow, not alone in her tumult of feelings, not alone in being at a loss in what to say or do.

“You are so stupid, Granger.”

Her heart, everything that had been drawn taut inside her suddenly broke and tears spilled down her cheeks.

“That’s all you have to say to me, Malfoy, that I am stupid?” she whispered, letting her head fall to her chest, not bothering to raise a hand to wipe away her bitter tears.

Draco released her, causing Hermione to stumble backward and into the back of one of the parlour armchairs. She caught herself, leaning back into the chair, letting her agony make her shoulders quake and her tears fall from the line of her jaw and chin. Draco turned to the window, seeing their reflections in the glass, the sun having set and the candles automatically lighting in their wall sconces.

“I am no better, Granger, if that is any consolation,” he said above a whisper, his voice laced with resentment.

“It isn’t,” Hermione whispered, to afraid to speak any louder unless she broke into a full sob.

“I came here knowing full well that I would see you.”

Hermione sighed, “You saw me at the Ministry gala.”

Draco’s pale head lowered, imitating Hermione’s original position by resting his forehead against the glass. “I did…and Matsumoto.”

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “And you did nothing.”

Draco chuckled darkly. “Why would I? What would it have mattered to me?”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly and she hastily wiped her tears from her swollen eyes.

“What indeed? Why are you even talking to me now, Malfoy? Why bother?”

Draco stood up to his full height and turned to face Hermione, the reaction of his gaze meeting hers causing Hermione to move suddenly around the chair, putting distance between them. His eyes were wrong, hard yet molten, silver and gold, swirling together in some maelstrom of magic and emotion.

“Because you are mine.”