A Pound of Flesh

For DM and HG, who showed me the way back to my words, and to all of you, who loved them enough to keep coming back for more.


Chapter Thirty: Second Chances

October gave way to November, and November to December. Christmas passed, and then the New Year, and Hermione spent both in the company of Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Christmas was spent at the Burrow, New Year’s Eve at Harry and Ginny’s flat, surrounded by his teammates, Ginny’s fellow Healer trainees, and scores of friends from Hogwarts.

A few days after Christmas, at George and Angelina’s wedding, Ron had suggested they get back together, but Hermione had not agreed. On New Year’s Eve, she had allowed one drunken kiss to occur and that was all it took to convince her that getting back together with Ron was a really bad idea.

On New Year’s Day, Hermione began to pack up her flat. She wasn’t moving for two weeks yet, but she’d been so busy in between dealing with a full-time job, brushing up for university, and trying to get Draco his day before the Wizengamot, she figured she ought to pack while she had the chance.

Her flat was chilly; in spite of the cheery fire in her hearth, the old flat was full of drafts that tickled the back of her neck and caused her to shiver. She pulled a fuzzy red blanket from the back of her sofa and wrapped up in it, bringing the worn fleece up to her face and inhaling. The scent was gone from her bed now; at last she’d been forced to wash the sheets and blankets. The pillows, too, had lost the comforting smell of Draco, but this one blanket still retained his aroma, though it was only a matter of time until it faded as well.

Hermione was amazed and a little dismayed by the vast inventory of her possessions once she began to shrink things and put them into boxes. Her collection of books alone was staggering, and as she sorted through her shelves, she found multiple copies of several books on Transfiguration and Charms. It dawned on her that she’d purchased copies of books she’d already owned just to avoid looking for them in her trunk. How wasteful. She set the duplicate books to the side, deciding she would donate them to Hogwarts.

After a few hours spent sorting through her books, Hermione grew restless and wandered to the kitchen, where she pounded on the window frame to unstick it, and then she raised the sash and stepped out onto her fire escape into the ankle-deep snow.

It was an overcast, cold day, with low-hanging clouds that threatened to drop more snow on the city. Hermione tugged the blanket around her shoulders up to cover the exposed skin of her neck, and then leaned against the railing. She looked down at the courtyard, the pristine layer of snow broken by a set of footprints circling the frozen fountain. As she gazed down at the yard below, her mind began to wander. As it often did, it wandered to Draco.

Hermione had not heard from the man in question since he’d walked out of her flat for the last time more than two months ago. Once she’d found his flat empty, she’d not tried to find him. He knew how to reach her, if he ever decided to contact her again. Her hope for that happening diminished by the day, but perhaps he just needed time to sort everything out and once he had, he’d let her know he was okay.

After the initial shock of finding him gone, and the subsequent two weeks of walking around like a human raincloud, Hermione dragged herself out of the funk that had overtaken her. It had not been an easy task, but it was easier to pretend to be happy than to deal with the constant attempts of her friends to cheer her up.

After pretending for a while, she discovered it wasn’t so hard to fake her smiles, and then a while after that, she realized that she didn’t need to pretend as often anymore. She had a purpose and a plan, and with something to look forward to, getting out of bed wasn’t such a task in the mornings.

Her plan was to get the Wizengamot to hear the deceased Draco Malfoy’s case and convince them of his innocence, or at least to pardon him of his crimes. Then she meant to move to France, near Douaumont, and study Advanced Charms and Transfiguration, with a concentration on Spell-Building, at the Lumière Blanche Institut d'Avancé Magicks.

The plan seemed straightforward enough in her head, but she had not expected it to be so difficult to bring Draco’s case to the attention of the Wizengamot. First, she’d had to convince the Chief Warlock that the case was worth hearing, and then there’d been a rash of more important cases that needed to be looked to first, and so while the Chief Warlock had at last agreed to hear Draco’s case, there was the matter of getting his trial scheduled.

If the Wizengamot ever got around to hearing Draco’s case, Hermione was to be his advocate, as nobody else would defend him. She hoped the trial would happen before she resigned from the MLE and moved to France. The Lumière Blanche Institut did not, as a practice, take on students halfway through the school year, but they had been glad to make an exception for Hermione. If she had to, however, she’d put her studies on hold. She’d put them off this long; a little while longer wouldn’t hurt.

When Hermione started to shiver, she straightened and made to go inside, but just as she did, she saw a snowflake drifting down from the sky. She waited and watched as more flakes joined the first, swirling and blowing in the icy wind. She reached out and caught one on the tip of her finger and watched as it rested a moment before the heat of her skin caused it to melt. She wondered if it was snowing where Draco was.

***

Hermione was dreaming, she knew. But it was a good dream, and she wasn’t ready to wake up.

The bed dipped as Draco climbed in next to her. He crawled up the length of her body, and he was whispering, but she couldn’t make out the words ghosting off his lips. She lay still and let him stretch out over her, his warm, welcome weight pushing her down into the mattress.

Draco hovered over her, silken strands of blond brushing her cheeks. His fingertips touched her lips, smoothed her brow. His head dropped, and he placed a trail of kisses on her neck.

She wanted to touch him, but she knew if she moved, he would vanish, so she held still and let him touch her.

“I miss you,” she breathed into the night.

“Shh,” he hushed, a soft puff of breath against her lips. “I’m here now.”

The urge to feel him under her hands was too much to bear, and she raised a hand to run through his hair, and just like every other time she dreamed this dream, Draco vanished and she woke alone in the dark.

***

Several days later, Hermione made her way across the MLE offices to her desk, still shaking snow from her cloak. She’d just had her customary Thursday lunch date with Ginny and Luna, who had blushed prettily and held out her left hand to show the small diamond ring that Dean had given her. They were well suited for each other, she thought. She was happy for them and not bitter in the least, she was relieved to note. Her happiness for them was only colored by the longing to have that type of happiness herself.

Susan joined her at the desk moments later, her hair ruffled and a scowl on her face. She pointed an accusing finger at Hermione. “This is all your fault,” she grumbled.

With good humor, Hermione smiled. “I’m sorry. Hutchinson making your life difficult again?” In preparation for Hermione’s departure from the MLE, Susan was training Sam Hutchinson, a new recruit to the Hit Squad, and she was not impressed with the man who was to be her new partner.

“You just have to run off to university and expand that big brain of yours, and you’re leaving me stuck here with the world’s thickest recruit.” Susan flounced down into her chair, pouting.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione repeated, grinning.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know.”

“He’s a nightmare. I don’t know how he passed the entrance exams. I think his father must have pulled some strings or something.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.” Susan sat up in her chair, a plan forming on her face. “Listen, I know I said I thought it was a good idea for you to go to university, but don’t you think you could, you know, just stick it out for a little longer? Until tall, dark and dumb over there has another partner?” She jerked her head in the direction of Hutchinson, who had squeezed his enormous, bulky frame into a standard size Ministry issued chair and was attempting to read a backlog of folders that needed to be filed away. He looked like an elephant squeezed into a clown car. Hermione wondered if he was a distant relative of Hagrid’s.

“Sorry.” Hermione shrugged out of her cloak and hung it over the back of her chair. “I’ve already scheduled my courses and my landlord has already found new renters for my flat, and I’ve put a deposit down on a little cottage at the university. The only thing keeping me here is the Malfoy trial.”

“I know,” Susan grumbled. “But why not one of the other recruits? Why him?”

Before Hermione could answer, an out of breath clerk from the courtrooms appeared next to her desk, panting. Startled, Hermione jumped back in her seat.

“Afternoon’s case canceled. Wizengamot’s free. Chief Warlock says now’s your chance,” the clerk wheezed. “The witnesses are being gathered.”

Hermione stopped breathing for a moment, and everything seemed to freeze. After all this time, she was being given the opportunity to plead Draco’s case. Sudden terror gripped her. What if she screwed this up for him too?

Then Susan jumped up and propelled Hermione out of her chair, shaking her into action. “Go!” she said. “Don’t let them change their minds. Go! I’ll make sure they find Harry.”

Hermione stood for another moment, swaying in shock, and then everything started moving again. She ripped open the lap drawer of her desk and pulled out the copy of Draco’s Ministry file, and then she bolted for the lifts, shouting to Susan over her shoulder, “Floo Ginny. Harry’s probably at practice. She’ll know how to find him!”

The courtroom, one of the lesser used, smaller spaces, was empty when Hermione burst into it, and for a short, heartbreaking moment, she thought she’d missed her chance. But then the door to the Wizengamot’s chambers opened and the multitude of crimson-robed figures began the slow process of filing into their seats. The seats behind Hermione began to fill with the usual crowd of spectators who hung about the Ministry, waiting for trials such as this one. She spotted a few journalists, and turned away when a photographer for the Prophet snapped a picture of her.

A few minutes later, Harry arrived, still in his Quidditch uniform, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. Susan entered behind him, flanked by Ginny, and surprisingly, Ron, also still in his Cannons uniform. More people she knew began to file in behind Ron: Andromeda, Katie Bell, Professor McGonagall, Madam Rosmerta, and Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy met her eye for a moment; there was something hard and fiery in her stare. Her mouth set in a characteristic frown, Pansy nodded to Hermione and then took a seat in the section reserved for witnesses. Katie Bell and Madam Rosmerta joined her. Professor McGonagall stepped forward to clasp Hermione’s hands with whispered reassurances, and then she took a seat next to Madam Rosmerta.

Harry approached her while Ron and Ginny hung back. “I hope this works out like you want,” he told her.

“Thank you for doing this,” Hermione said, blinking back unexpected tears of gratitude. “I owe you in a big way.”

Harry put a hand on her shoulder and patted it awkwardly. “No. We’re even now.” At Hermione’s confused look, he explained, “After everything you did for me, staying with me and keeping me alive all that time we were… camping, this is the least I can do.”

The Chief Warlock called for the proceedings to begin, and as Harry made his way to his seat beside Katie Bell, Hermione took a fortifying breath. Then she turned to address the Wizengamot.

***

The trial lasted for a day and a half. The witnesses for the prosecution all spoke damningly of Draco; meanwhile, Hermione had Pansy to speak on Draco’s behalf. Then Harry strode to the center of the room and sat down in the chair to face the Wizengamot. The crowd grew hushed as Hermione wove Harry through his six-year relationship with Draco. When Harry spoke of the night Dumbledore had died, the only sound besides his voice in the echoing room was the constant click of a camera.

In the silence that followed when Harry finished his story, Hermione poured Alecto Carrow’s memory into the Chief Warlock’s Pensieve and prodded the iridescent surface to project the image of the memory onto the ceiling overhead. She closed her eyes while the memory played out, not wanting to see it again, but she could still hear, and while Draco screamed and Voldemort laughed, the crowd in the courtroom wept. When the memory ended, Hermione looked at Harry. He was pale, his fingers clenched, white-knuckled, around the arms of the chair.

“Harry,” she said, drawing the crowd’s attention back to her. “Do you think Draco Malfoy should be convicted of the crimes with which he has been charged, based on the testimony we’ve heard and the evidence we’ve seen?”

Harry took a deep breath and flicked his eyes up at the now bare ceiling. “I don’t think I would have done things the way he did, but I’ll never know for sure. My parents were dead before I could remember them. I know if they’d lived, I would have done anything to protect them, though, even if it meant my own life. I would have gone to Dumbledore for help, but I trusted him. Malfoy didn’t have anyone he trusted that he could go to.”

“Harry?” Hermione prodded.

“No. No, I don’t agree with how he did things, but I think it was the only way he knew. I don’t think he should be convicted.” Harry turned in his seat and looked at the Wizengamot. “He’s dead. He’s already paid the price for what he did.”

***

Draco.

Hermione could think of little else as she walked out of the courtroom, still not able to fully grasp what had just happened inside the chamber. Draco had been a constant presence in her mind since she’d stumbled across him in August, and just because he had been gone for over two months, that did not dull the shine of him in her memories.

He was impossible to forget, and she spent her nights remembering. The distinct way different parts of him smelled: his hair a crisp, clean scent; his skin the mixture of lavender oil, soap, and a hint of leather; and his hands, which usually carried the aroma of old books and lotion. The feel of his body pressed against her as she lost herself in him night after night, coming apart for him so he could take his time putting her together again. The ghosting touch of his nimble fingers dancing over her skin, tracing his name into the small of her back. His fascination – love affair – with her mane of hair: how often he would curl next to her on the bed and follow the spirals of curls around and around with his fingers. The way his brows knitted together in a brief moment of concentration when he learned something new. The way he would grab hold of her hand in his sleep and hold it tight against his chest, near his heart.

She never used to believe in soul mates, thinking it some maudlin, silly concept, but now, she thought that perhaps she did.

The bitter tang of his absence was harder to bear today, because now she had no real reason to keep him in her thoughts. She’d fought her hardest to clear his name, and now the trial was over.

It was time to let him go, as she’d promised him she would.

It was harder to let go than she’d imagined, even though he’d left months ago.

***

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Hermione Levitated a stack of wooly jumpers into a box and closed the flaps, sealing and shrinking the box before adding it to the growing pile of boxes on the floor. She glanced at her watch and then at the window, and then took another deep breath and fetched another empty box.

In the kitchen, Ginny dropped one of the pots she was packing with a loud bang, making Hermione jump. “Sorry!” she called, and Hermione put a hand to her forehead, eyes closed, and tried to calm down.

Now that the trial was over, all Hermione wanted to do was pack the rest of her belongings and go away. As she’d told Susan, it had been the only thing keeping her in London, and she was eager to leave the city behind. She was ready to move forward.

At least, that’s what she told herself, making it her mantra of sorts. Even if she wasn’t ready to move forward, it was still necessary.

Ginny, being the good friend she was, volunteered to help Hermione pack while they waited for the special evening edition of the Daily Prophet to arrive. Harry and Ron skived off from the packing, but they promised they’d help her move and unpack.

The spring term at Lumière Blanche Institut started in four days, which did not leave much time for getting settled into her new cottage. Which was why, once the Wizengamot had delivered its verdict, instead of going to have the drink that Ginny and Harry proposed, Hermione had gone back to the MLE offices, resigned, and then come home to finish packing. She figured if she managed to finish most of the remaining packing that night, she could move the next morning.

Hermione packed two more boxes, glanced at her watch half a dozen times, and caught herself staring out the window just as often.

The staccato tapping of an owl beak against glass came from a window in the main room, and Ginny dropped another pot, calling, “Hermione, it’s here!”

Hermione lowered a pile of folded robes into the box and took a deep breath. In a moment, Ginny rushed into the bedroom with the bundled newspaper. Together, they unrolled it, and Ginny read it over Hermione’s shoulder.

Malfoy Heir Posthumously Pardoned

In a surprise move earlier today, the Wizengamot pardoned Draco Malfoy,
son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, in a vote of eleven
to four.

When asked about this decision, Chief Warlock Gregory Grundleson stated
that the Wizengamot was presented evidence showing that the majority of
Malfoy’s crimes were perpetrated under duress. Threats had been placed
on the lives of the elder Malfoys in order to obtain the younger Malfoy’s
compliance.

Malfoy, who was murdered by the Dark wizard Tom Riddle (better known as
Lord Voldemort) on June 13th, 1997, faced an assortment of charges from
his involvement with Riddle’s Death Eaters, including the use of an
Unforgivable Curse, two counts of attempted murder, willful possession of
Dark items, and was involved in the conspiracy to murder Albus Dumbledore,
one of Hogwarts most beloved headmasters and leader of the organization
Order of the Phoenix.

Prior to his murder, Malfoy helped six Death Eaters gain entrance to
Hogwarts castle using a forgotten Vanishing Cabinet he had repaired.
“Voldemort ordered him to kill Dumbledore,” said war hero Harry Potter
during witness testimony.

Potter went on to state that Malfoy had not committed the act; instead,
double agent Severus Snape killed the headmaster. As you’ll recall, we
reported three years ago that Snape was acting on Dumbledore’s orders when
he committed this crime.

Further witness testimony revealed that Malfoy had been coerced into his
criminal activity. “Voldemort threatened to kill Draco’s parents if he failed,”
Potter stated. “Everything he did, he did to keep his parents safe. He didn’t
want to do any of it and he was about to give himself up when Snape killed
Dumbledore.”

War heroine Hermione Granger brought the tragic plight of Draco Malfoy to
the Wizengamot’s attention.

“Even the dead deserve justice,” said Granger, former member of the Magical
Law Enforcement squad, when asked why she would expend such effort to have a
dead man pardoned. Granger was instrumental in bringing Malfoy’s case before
the Wizengamot, and enlisted witness testimony from her friend, Harry Potter.
She admitted that she shared a history with Malfoy, adding, “While it’s true
Draco and I did not get along in school, I believe everyone is capable of
change. Without the influence of his family and Voldemort, I think Draco would
have become a decent person.”

Granger, who resigned from her position on the MLE squad after the Wizengamot
reached its verdict, discovered the truth about Malfoy’s actions while looking
at old case files. “What struck me the most was that he was as much a victim of
Voldemort, if not more, as you or me. I can only imagine how terrifying it must
have been for him. Either commit murder, or have his parents killed for his
inability to take a life.”

When asked about this development, Andromeda Tonks, Malfoy’s sole remaining family,
said, “I’m grateful to Hermione for fighting so hard on Draco’s behalf, and to the
Wizengamot for granting him clemency. He was a scared boy caught in a horrible
situation, and he did not deserve to be punished for his actions.”

Malfoy was the twenty-second wizard to be brought before the Wizengamot for war
crimes, and the only one not convicted for his crimes.


“It’s a good article,” Hermione commented, surprised.

“What do you think Draco will do now?” Ginny asked.

Hermione sighed and folded the paper in half before placing it on top of a stack of miscellaneous belongings she still needed to pack. “I don’t know,” she answered at last. “I don’t even know if he gets the Prophet where he went. He probably has no idea.”

“You could write him to make sure he knows,” Ginny ventured.

For a moment, Hermione entertained the idea. She imagined sending him a clipping of the article, and tried to picture his face when he read it: amazed, surprised. But then when she thought of the letter she would compose to go along with the clipping, her imagination stalled. What could she write to him after everything they’d been through, and after all this time – I love you I miss you I need you please come home – too short a note would make it seem like she didn’t care, and too long a letter would seem desperate.

Dismissing the idea, Hermione heaved a regretful sigh and shook her head. “No. I don’t even know how to get a letter to him, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to hear from me. If he did, he would have let me know somehow that he was okay. He would have found a way to let me know how I could reach him.”

“Do you think he’d come back?”

“I don’t know, Ginny. I doubt it. He’s got nothing but bad memories of this life. Why would he come back?”

“For you.”

Hermione snorted and resumed packing her wardrobe.

Undeterred by Hermione’s silence, Ginny continued, “What’s the harm in owling him to let him know he’s a free man?”

“Because then he might think he has to come back and take up his old life, and he’s better off not being that person anymore.”

“Is that really your choice to make?”

“He’s been through enough,” Hermione stated, putting down a stack of trousers and turning to regard Ginny. “Wherever he is, he’s better off for it. He ran away to get away from this.”

“Sometimes when someone runs away, they do it because they want you to come after them.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hermione grumbled. “What’s the point in that?”

“It means you love them enough to chase after them.”

“I loved him enough to let him go,” Hermione countered. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Ginny looked confounded. After a moment of consideration, she closed her mouth and stared at Hermione.

“Besides,” Hermione continued. “Draco didn’t run away so I would chase after him. He ran away so nobody else would find him. I’m sure he made certain nobody would be able to just owl him up out of the blue.”

“Why would he do that? The only person who would owl him would be you.”

“Exactly.”

“Hermione – ”

“Ginny,” Hermione interrupted. “Why are you pushing this? You hated me being with him. I’d think you’d be jumping for joy that he’s gone and not coming back.”

Ginny gave up her pretense of packing and sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed. “You’re right. I did hate you being with him. I’m still not crazy about the idea of it.”

“Then why – ”

“You glowed when you were with him. And then when he left, it was like that light in you went out.” Ginny held up a hand to forestall Hermione’s protest. “You’re different now than you were before him. Before Draco, it was sort of like you were wandering around blind, even when you were with Ron. It was like you were walking in this haze, doing what you thought people expected of you, like you weren’t even all there. It’s like you were so busy ignoring the past that you couldn’t live in the present.”

Hermione leaned against the end of her bed and closed her eyes. “That’s what Ron said, too.”

“And then Draco came along and made you remember.”

Hermione opened her mouth to disagree, to say that Draco had made her forget, but she realized that wasn’t true. He had made her remember, and he’d made her realize she couldn’t avoid the past, and she shouldn’t want to. He’d taught her, however indirectly, that her past was part of who she was. In Draco’s case, without that part directing him who to be, he’d become someone else, someone better. In her case, trying to ignore the past had made her someone else, someone worse.

“I know it was hard for you,” Ginny continued. “Knowing who he was and not telling him. But you were happy. It was like something inside you turned on. It was like he made you accept all the parts of you, and you were okay with all the parts of Hermione. That’s why I’m pushing it. I want you to be happy again.”

“I’m happier than I used to be,” Hermione defended.

“You are,” Ginny agreed. “But you were miserable before, so anything is a step up from that. I want you to be really, actually happy, not just happier than you used to be. And I know that Draco made you really, actually happy.”

“He did,” Hermione said, unable to keep the wistful tone out of her voice.

“So, why won’t you just write to him, just the once, and see what happens?”

The possibilities, dreams and desires swirled around Hermione for a moment, weakening her resolve. And then she remembered everything that Draco had been through, and how much of what had happened to him had been because of her. There was the chance that he might be happy if he came back, but it was such a small chance. Going back to the life of an orphan, bearing a name synonymous with evil in most people’s minds, ostracized by society and looked upon with suspicion and hatred wherever he went did not sound like a happy life to her. It sounded awful. She started to shake her head.

“Then why did you even bother getting his name cleared, if you don’t intend for him to know?” Ginny asked.

“It isn’t that I don’t intend for him to know,” Hermione said at last. Because, truthfully, she had petitioned to have his name cleared with the hopes that he would come back one day. “It’s entirely possible that he gets the Daily Prophet wherever he went and will read it himself. It’s just that I won’t be the one to write him and beg him to come back. If he comes back, I want it to be his choice.”

***

At the same time, and many, many miles away, a tapping sound roused Draco from an early evening nap. It was dark in his cavernous flat, and he could not place the strange, yet familiar noise. He jerked up from his sofa, reaching into his breast pocket for his wand. The tapping continued, echoing against the vast ceilings and gleaming wooden floors.

Rubbing his face with his free hand, Draco blinked sleep from his eyes and identified the sound as an owl at one of his study windows. It was late in the day for an owl, as only one ever came, and it was the one that brought him his morning paper. He reached behind him, turning on the light, and winced at the sudden brightness.

The owl persisted, and Draco eased off the sofa, his sleep-addled brain trying to make sense of the situation. For a moment, he wondered if Hermione had at last written to him. The thought brought a brief flare of… something – many somethings. Hope. Anger. Despair. Loneliness. Sadness. Longing.

He lit lamps as he crossed the room toward the window where the bird perched, a silhouette against the streetlamps outside. He opened the window and the owl hopped in, a special evening edition of the Prophet clamped in its beak. Momentarily disappointed, Draco took the paper and fished in his pocket for a knut, which the bird accepted before swooping out the window into the night.

Draco looked down at the snowy street below to see if any of the Muggles had noticed, but they were too busy hurrying home from their jobs to look up and see a magical bird delivering post to a wizard.

With a yawn, he wrinkled his nose.

Jobs.

At least he didn’t have to strip anymore.

He’d been living in Amsterdam as Damien King for the last few months, since he left the strip club, and London, far behind. At first, he’d stayed with one of Tom’s friends, riding the sofa for three nights. Then he risked a trip to France, where his mother had kept a vast and private vault apart from the Malfoy fortune. Once he was settled into his large and empty flat, Draco had felt much better about leaving his old life behind. He also didn’t have to work, but after rattling around his flat for two weeks with just memories to keep him company, he found himself growing bored. He’d decided to enroll midterm at a local Muggle university, a feat he accomplished with a little bit of money and a lot of magic, and on weekends, he worked as a barkeep at one of the dance clubs down the street from his flat.

He lived a solitary life, and spent most of his time studying or staring out the window at the people below him, and wondered when life had grown so complicated. Every day he sat at his desk and wrote down whatever happy or sad memories he could recall, weighing each part of Draco Malfoy and each part of Damien King. What he liked, he kept, and what he didn’t like, he discarded. It sounded so easy on paper.

Once the shock had worn off, he’d been grateful to know where he’d come from, who he’d been, and what he’d left behind him. But it was still hard reconciling the two different people that made up who he was. He focused on how they were alike, traits and mannerisms and preferences. Thinking of it like that, it was easier to see that who he’d been as Damien was who he could have been all along, without the life experiences that had shaped him before.

It was confusing. He wondered what life would have been like if he’d chosen not to accept his family’s beliefs as his own. But then he recognized that he had no reason not to accept them. By the time he was old enough to know better, it was all he’d ever known. Nobody had ever given him a reason to think differently.

So Draco wrote down his memories, not wanting to lose them again, and he studied, and he tried not to think much about it. Revising for school and working kept him occupied.

Working at the dance club on weekends gave him the opportunity to mingle with people and ease his loneliness. There was always good music; once in a while they would play one of the songs he’d stripped to, and he would find his body moving on its own. Occasionally, a girl would meet his eye at the bar, perhaps flirt a bit and drop hints. A few even slipped him their phone numbers. Draco was not interested. He didn’t want anybody else. He just wanted Hermione. He longed for her.

He’d kept the pictures, and her shampoo, which he smelled on days when he could no longer recall her exact scent. One of the t-shirts she’d left in his old flat was balled up under his pillow, where he could dig it out after having a vivid dream of her and bury his face in the cottony folds. Now and then, he saw a woman with masses of brown hair ahead of him on the street, and each time, for just a moment, he held out hope that it was her until he caught up to the woman and looked at her face.

Out of everything he missed about London – his friends, his routine, the perfect cup of tea from the café down the street from his old flat, it was Hermione his thoughts always returned to the most.

Without the cloud of alcohol dimming his thought processes, Draco had considered Hermione’s explanation of her actions. He didn’t agree with her actions – he still couldn’t figure out how her Gryffindor mind worked after all this time – but he begrudged that she’d done what she’d thought was best for him. Except for the first time she’d come on to him at the Revue, and he didn’t really blame her for that either. It was the most Slytherin thing he thought she might have ever done. In a perverse way, it almost made him proud.

Rubbing his face again, Draco turned away from the window and glanced around his study. Piles of books, mostly Muggle, were stacked on every available surface. The most prominent of these books were the ones for the courses he was taking at university, stacked on his desk next to a notebook flipped open and full of penciled notes. One book was on the floor next to his sofa, where it had fallen when he had drowsed off while reading it.

The clock on his fireplace mantle showed him he had an hour until he needed to be at work, so Draco settled in at his desk, kicked back in his chair, and unrolled the Prophet, eager as always to see what was going on at home.

He was not prepared for the headline that screamed up at him, nor his own face looking out from a picture on the front page, and almost toppled out of his chair in surprise.

Draco read the article, and then read it again, blinking in shock. He read it a third time, and that was when it began to sink in.

He was free.

The realization left him shaken. He was no longer in danger of ending up in Azkaban if he came out of hiding. The Wizengamot couldn’t change its mind if it was discovered he was alive. He was free and clear.

Draco Malfoy’s life stretched out before him, both glorious and dark with possibilities. It was there, waiting. All he had to do was go back and take it. His familial home, the collective hate of an entire population, his vault, his name, his life.

Hermione.

She was more Slytherin than he would have ever guessed.

***

“I’m here.”

The whisper came out of the dark. She was dreaming again.

Hermione opened her eyes. Draco was standing in front of the window, backlit by the streetlights. She did not move. She would not move this time. She would stay still and he would stay.

He came to the edge of the bed. She could smell him, and it wasn’t the odor of cigarette smoke and stale liquor. It was the warm, musky scent of oil with a hint of lavender and soap.

“You left,” she said, trying not to move her lips, just in case.

“I did. You understand why, don’t you?”

“I do.” She felt like crying. “But I miss you all the same.”

“I’m here now,” he said, leaning over her. Even though the room was dark, there was just enough light coming through her window so his eyes gleamed.

“You’re going to leave again,” she sighed as his lips found her cheek.

“Kiss me,” he said. “Kiss me and I’ll stay.”

Hermione turned her head to meet his lips, but like the slightest gust of wind, he was gone.

***

In the morning, true to their word, Ron and Harry arrived to help Hermione move. Ginny followed them through the door, a whirlwind of red hair as she rushed around, helping Hermione shrink the last of her possessions and fitting them into boxes. Luna and Dean showed up twenty minutes after the others saying they’d slept through their alarm. Hermione felt a swell of love, and then of loneliness. What was it going to be like when she didn’t see these people every day?

A Portkey took them to Douaumont, laden with a dozen containers filled with shrunken boxes and furniture. The cottage was just as small as Hermione remembered, made even smaller by the people milling about, exploring the house.

Ginny organized the unpacking party, and by mid-afternoon, everything was restored to its proper size. Crookshanks darted from room to room, smelling every corner, his bottlebrush tail curved into a question mark.

Dean and Luna took their leave first, saying they wanted to explore the old fort before they caught their Portkey home. Ron left soon after, promising to come back and visit once Hermione was settled. Harry and Ginny lingered for a short while, and Hermione invented reasons for them to stay until at last, everything was where it belonged, and all that remained was to say farewell. She followed them to the Floo, where Ginny hugged her first.

“This is just silly,” she said, wiping away a tear. “It isn’t like we won’t still see you every Sunday, and we’re just a Floo away.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed. “Not that far at all.”

“And you know you’re welcome to come visit us any time,” Harry added. Hermione gave him a hard hug.

“Same here. Bring Teddy.”

“You’re going to do wonderfully,” Ginny reassured. “You’re going to love university.”

“Thank you, Ginny.”

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” Harry said before he stepped in the Floo. “I know how you get with school.”

Hermione laughed as she watched Ginny and Harry swirl away in the green flames. Once they were gone, she wandered her new home, rearranging things and getting acquainted with the space. There was less room than there had been in her flat, but more windows.

As she looked around the cottage, she kept getting the sensation that something was missing, or that she’d forgotten something, but she couldn’t say for sure what it was. The sensation grew and grew until at last, Hermione grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder and tossed it onto her fire. She’d just go back and see if she’d left anything behind.

She stepped out of the Floo into her old flat, coughing up ash, and remembered that she still needed to have it disconnected from the Floo Network. Wouldn’t do for the new Muggle renters to be getting Floo calls intended for Hermione Granger.

She brushed soot from her trousers as she looked around the empty flat, not seeing anything of hers remaining in the main room. The office was empty as well, and all that remained in her bedroom was a pile of rubbish she’d meant to throw away before she moved out. In the bathroom, she discovered her toothbrush, and she snorted to herself, thinking how proud her parents would be – if they still spoke to her – to know she’d come all the way back from France for her toothbrush.

She checked the kitchen and even stuck her head out onto the fire escape, but nothing else of hers remained. Just the toothbrush. She headed back to the main room, not wanting to linger behind in a flat that was technically no longer in her possession.

Hermione drew up short, gasping in shock.

Draco was standing in front of the Floo, his forehead pillowed on his arm on the mantle. He spun around, looking as stunned to see her as she felt to see him there.

He stared at her, face frozen in surprise, eyes wide and lips parted. “You’re here,” he said at last, relief palpable in his tone.

“I’m here,” she replied, amazed that some distant part of herself was still coherent enough to respond. For one moment, she knew she had to be dreaming, except she knew she was awake.

“You’re leaving?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“How did you get in?” Hermione asked, instead of answering.

“Through the door.”

“It was locked!”

“You didn’t answer, and there weren’t any wards.” There was a long pause where it seemed like he was waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he said, “I read what you did for me in the Prophet. I came here to thank you and the place was empty. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I know the feeling,” she said, without meaning to.

He took a slow step in her direction. “I had to leave. You understand. You told me to go.”

“I know.”

“You said you loved me. That’s why you let me go.”

“I did.”

“Are you agreeing with me, or are you saying you loved me?”

“Yes. Both. I still do,” she whispered.

Draco stepped closer, and his fathomless grey eyes glowed. “You are so lovely,” he murmured. “Pictures just aren’t the same.” He reached out a tentative hand and paused, a mere whisper of a breath from her cheek. When she didn’t flinch away, he closed the distance.

The feeling of his hand on her cheek was like fire, like a shock through her whole body. Inside her chest, her heart took off like a butterfly, delicate wings flapping at an impossible speed.

Her breath caught in her choked throat, and she managed to emit a small, strangled sob. “Draco…”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut. “So lovely,” he repeated. When he opened his eyes, Hermione felt her knees grow weak. His eyes sparkled with wonderment and another familiar emotion she didn’t dare believe.

He stepped closer, and his thumb caressed her lips. “You still love me?” he asked. “Even though I’m me?”

Hermione blinked away the blurriness in her eyes, and two hot tears raced down her cheeks. How could he even need to ask?

“Because you’re you,” she breathed.

“Even after everything I – ” he began, but she put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“Yes, even then,” she told him. “Always.”

He kissed her finger and turned his head to the side to speak. “Now ask me,” he said.

“Ask you?” she repeated.

“Ask me if I still love you. Go on, ask.” Two more tears fell from her eyes, and Draco wiped them away. “Don’t cry, Hermione,” he whispered. “Just ask.”

“Do you – ” she began, her voice quaking. “Do you still love me?”

Draco smiled. “Yes. Always.”

“Even after everything that I did – ”

Draco’s arms snaked around her waist and drew her against him. “Even when I didn’t want to, I couldn’t stop,” he admitted. “Always.”

He brushed a tear away from the corner of her mouth, and then his lips were on hers, reverent and joyful and soft.

The kiss was like an ocean crashing upon her thirsty lips, like a blazing sun on her frozen skin. As he moved his lips with hers and pressed himself as close to her as he could manage, it was as though the last few months had never happened, and she was where she belonged once more.

It was a soft greeting, slow and tender. He kissed the corners of her mouth, her upper lip and then the pouty lower lip; meanwhile, one hand rubbed soothing circles on her back and the other skimmed over her hair. She opened her eyes and found him watching her, and then she couldn’t look away. She never wanted to close her eyes again if it meant she got to see Draco looking at her the way he was just then.

He traced the tip of his tongue against her lips and, shivering in delight at the sensation, she parted her lips to grant him entrance. He nibbled on her lower lip, then massaged his tongue against hers. He drew back, inviting her in, and she brushed her mouth back and forth against his lips, lingering when he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat. His tongue darted out and teased her now sensitive lips for just a moment, and her stomach filled with a pleasant swooping feeling that caused her toes to curl as her tongue danced with his.

Draco hugged her then, pulling her even tighter to him. She held onto him, running her hands along his arms and down his back, eager to feel him under her hands again. He buried his face in her hair and took a deep breath.

“I’ve missed this,” he said.

“Me too,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“I don’t ever want to leave you again.”

“Then don’t. Stay with me. Stay, please, stay.”

“I’m never leaving again,” Draco whispered, and he nuzzled her cheek.

He was going to stay. He was going to stay with her.

Hermione pressed her nose to the curve of his neck and breathed him in so that he filled her lungs and her blood with his presence. She never wanted to let go again.

“Would you dance with me?”

“There’s no music.”

His arms loosened around her and he edged back to pull his wand from his breast pocket. One muttered spell later, and a soft tune filled the bare room. Then he gathered her back into his arms.

Hermione followed his lead, swaying to the music. It was the song that they had danced to so many months ago, in the rain.

“Good song,” she said.

“Seemed appropriate,” Draco responded.

“I realized I loved you that night,” she confessed.

“I think I loved you the moment I first saw you at the club,” Draco told her, and then he started to hum along.

At peace, at last, Hermione closed her eyes and let him fill up all of her senses. He was warm, and he felt like coming home. Dancing with Draco, she decided, was one of her favorite things. This was all she needed, for the rest of her days.

As if reading her thoughts, Draco murmured, “Always.”

Hermione smiled and agreed with him. “Always.”

They danced until the song ended, and then they kept dancing.

---

Author's Notes:
Oh, come on. You didn't think I would put them through all of that and then not give them a happy ending, did you?

Epilogue will be posted in about a week.

Finally, reviews = love.