Covered in Crimson
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Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
30
Views:
14,412
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
5
Currently Reading:
2
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
30
Views:
14,412
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
5
Currently Reading:
2
Disclaimer:
I don't own anything in the Harry Potter Universe and I make no money from this work of fanfiction. The plot, however, is mine.
Resolution
The final installment of Covered in Crimson. Please do leave me a note to let me know what you think!
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Present Day
The wait in the courtroom had seemed to go on for a lifetime, especially for the young man whose life hung in the balance. The reality was much more reasonable – two hours and forty-two minutes. When the members of the Wizengamot, excluding Albus Dumbledore who had been a witness for the defense, trooped back into the courtroom, none of their stony faces betrayed the outcome of their deliberations. When each of them had taken their seats, the Chief Warlock rose at the dais and tapped his wand to call the court to order.
“Hear ye, all who are gathered here. We sit in judgment of Draco Abraxus Malfoy, called to account on three hundred and thirty-eight felonies. Will the accused please rise?”
Draco was resolved to not allow himself to topple over as he rose from his seat. He locked his knees and planted his feet at shoulder’s width to stabilize his stance. His solicitor rose beside him, as was customary and proper. Barrister Phillips placed his own shoulder directly behind Draco’s, lending what little strength he could.
“Are you ready to hear our verdict, Draco Abraxus Malfoy?” the man at the dais asked.
Mustering all the dignity that the Malfoy name had once and now again - thanks to his parents’ change of heart – possessed, Draco squared his shoulders and answered, “Yes.”
“You were charged with more than three hundred serious crimes against the Wizarding World, yet we have seen compelling evidence that the ultimate accountability for these heinous acts does not rest with you. We have also seen and heard compelling evidence in the form of eyewitness accounts submitted through statement and affidavit of the harm that those actions have caused to literally hundreds of Muggles, witches, and wizards. We feel that to convict you of these crimes is not morally nor legally appropriate. Yet it is also not appropriate to absolve you of them as though they had never occurred.
“Therefore, the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot find thusly: You are hereby found not guilty on three hundred thirty-seven charges by reason of Unforgiveable magical compulsion. We find you guilty on one count of Physical Assault and sentence you forthwith. You will be expelled from Wizarding Great Britain for a period of three years. You will be stripped of your wand and privilege of magic for one year. You will pay reparations to the families of those harmed in the amount of five thousand Galleons each. You will be required to forfeit access to your family fortune during the three years of your exile and will be required to secure gainful employment. You may not initiate contact with anyone in Wizarding Great Britain with the exception of your parents and your solicitor. You will have one day to set your affairs in order and leave Great Britain. Do you understand your sentence?”
Draco wasn’t certain that he did, but he was nudged by an elbow to his back from his solicitor. He took that as an instruction to answer, and he replied, “Yes, your Honor.” He surmised correctly that anything he’d missed in his fog of shock and relief at not being shipped off to Azkaban would be explained by his counsel and his parents once the formal proceedings were over.
“You are dismissed to begin your preparations, and released to the custody of your parents. You will present yourself at the Ministry of Magic Auror’s Office no later than midnight tomorrow to surrender your wand and accept Portkey travel to the destination of your choice. We hope that you will use the time away from us wisely to heal your own heart and soul, and that you will find some peace for yourself in that effort. Good luck, Mister Malfoy, and may Merlin watch over you. The case of Ministry of Magic versus Draco Abraxus Malfoy is now closed.” The Warlock tapped his dais one final time with his wand to signal the end of the proceedings and more than half of the gallery rose to exit, having seen the result of the case that had drawn their interest.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had sat in rapt attention at each pronouncement made by the Chief Warlock. As anyone who knew him would expect, the senior Malfoy was listening for loopholes and openings through which a Thestral-drawn carriage might fly. There weren’t many, but there was a tiny bit of wiggle room that might make Draco’s life a little more comfortable during his period of expulsion. He signaled the solicitor with a raised hand that they would meet in the pre-arranged location outside the Ministry. From there, the small group would return to Malfoy Manor to set their necessary plans in motion.
Draco, still appearing a bit stunned, followed his counsel mutely and only seemed to show signs of awareness when they met his parents in the sequestered alley two blocks away. His father said nothing, but wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and Apparated to the family home. Narcissa, with Barrister Phillips lightly grasping her offered forearm, followed within seconds.
Ten minutes later, the four were seated around a rectangular ebony wood table and Lucius was offering libations. He’d expected Draco and Phillips to join him in partaking of a glass of Firewhisky, but had been surprised when Narcissa also asked for a glass. It had clearly been a trying day; Narcissa rarely drank anything stronger than elf-made wine.
“How are you feeling about this, Draco?” his father inquired, unable to read his quiet and blank-faced mood.
“I’m not really sure, Father. I’m relieved that I wasn’t sent to prison, but I’m troubled that I’ll be sent away for so long. I’d feel much better if I’d been allowed to stay with you and Mother.”
“Draco, you were exiled from Great Britain, but you were not exiled from your family. The court decreed that you were allowed to initiate contact with us, so you’ll be able to use the Floo to call us, or send us owl post, or visit with us anywhere but here, any time you like,” Lucius explained.
“Are you sure that’s what it meant?” he asked, not sure if he could hope for that much.
“Quite. Barrister Phillips has vast experience with these kinds of legal proceedings and he assures us that this will not be a violation of your sentence.” Lucius looked to the solicitor who eased Draco’s fears by nodding his head in the affirmative and adding a smile of confirmation. “In fact,” he continued, “it seems certain that the court intended for you to maintain contact with us to facilitate your healing and re-acclimation into Wizarding society.”
“It feels like there are a dozen decisions to be made in such a very short time, and I don’t know where to begin, Father,” Draco admitted. “In some ways, I feel like I’m still a fifteen-year-old. I’ve lost so much of my identity, it seems.”
“You’re not entirely off-pitch with that, Son. The effect of the potions you consumed subverted your normal emotional, social, and psychological maturation processes. You were operating not with your own thoughts, decisions, and desires for some very important years. That’s one of the reasons it will be important for us to remain in contact during this time, so that we can provide some guidance and perspective when you need it.”
“As I’m thoroughly certain I will, Father. So, what decisions do we need to make tonight?”
“First, we should talk about where you want to go. It is my understanding that, although you are not allowed direct access to the family cash reserves, you are allowed to use any property that we own outside of Great Britain. Is that correct, Marcus?”
“Yes, Lucius, it is. I would highly recommend, however, that you not use a lavish property, nor should you stuff it with Galleons. Draco’s activities will be monitored to ensure that he is meeting the terms of his sentence, so anything that pushes the envelope of the decree’s intent could send us back to court for a revision. Those are generally not a good thing, so you need to be circumspect about the arrangements that we make now,” he advised.
“Hunh, I was afraid of that. I guess we’ll need to rule out the villa in Italy, the Paris apartment, and the Greek property, then.”
“What about Salem?” Narcissa offered, her eyes alight with the sudden brainstorm.
“Salem? You mean in Massachusetts, in the States?” Draco asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “there is a Black family property there for which I hold the deed. It’s a modest cottage, no more than six or seven rooms if memory serves. It’s on the edge of the Muggle section of town, on the south side of the Wizarding community. It might be just the right thing.”
“But it’s so far,” Draco noted, sounding every bit the fifteen-year-old that his heart believed him to be at the moment.
“Technically, yes, but it would be a relatively simple thing reconnect the Floo for placing calls, and there’s an International Portkey travel point in a section of Logan Airport in Boston, which is just a short Apparation jump away. We could easily visit whenever you want to see us.”
“Marcus, what is Draco allowed to do about funds? I know we’re not supposed to aid him with Galleons, but what about any money that is in his own name?”
“He would be allowed to use funds that have been in his own name for at least one year.”
“That should give you a little breathing room, Son. You have the small inheritance from Grandmère Rosier that became yours on your twentieth birthday. I think that was somewhere around one million Galleons.”
“Don’t forget, Lucius, that Draco must pay his reparations out of his own money. That cannot be paid by you,” Phillips added as a caution.
“What does that total?” Draco asked.
“Well, they identified one hundred eighty-nine families, at five thousand Galleons each. That totals nine hundred forty-five thousand galleons.”
“So that leaves me about fifty-five thousand galleons, total?” Draco asked, panic creeping into his voice. Such a small sum was positively terrifying to consider.
“You will come into a significant additional inheritance next year from Grandpère Malfoy’s estate. From what Marcus has said, it appears that those funds will be held in escrow for you until your sentence is complete. It would make the next couple of years more, uh, lean than what you’re accustomed to, Draco, but you will need to earn some money of your own in that time. That will help with ensuring you won’t starve,” his father said, teasing just a bit. He wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent, after all, which was typically a young person’s largest expense if they left their parents’ home.
“Yes, I’m supposed to work, they said. I have no idea what I’m qualified to do, especially without using magic,” he worried aloud.
“Yes, well, that could be a bit problematic. Is there anything you enjoy doing?” Lucius inquired.
“That’s unrelated to magic?” Draco scoffed.
“Sadly, I suppose that would be a prerequisite, at least for the first year, Son,” the elder Malfoy acknowledged.
“I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug, “I guess I like to read. That doesn’t require magic. But what jobs require reading?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, but I’d imagine that there are some.”
“Father, I know my prospects will be severely limited. Let’s face facts. I have no education credential, no work experience other than killing, raping, and maiming, and no training in any practical skills. I’m going to starve to death,” Draco grumbled dramatically.
His parents exchanged a glance and recognized their son’s immaturity was peeking through. It seemed they might need to play a stronger guiding role in helping Draco to find gainful employment. They’d not been prohibited from assisting the boy in his transition, as far as they knew. The major challenge about which the boy was right, though, was that his prospects were quite limited. He couldn’t work with magic, and knew next to nothing about living as a Muggle. The next twelve months would be hellish.
“Other than reading, what else do you like to do?”
“Eat. Sleep. I don’t know, I apparently haven’t been myself for the last five years. How am I supposed to know what I like and don’t like?” he sulked, his impatience getting the better of him.
“Well, you just recently spent several days living without magic. What did you do? Did you learn anything from that experience?” Narcissa pressed.
Draco rose from his seat at the table and began to pace the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I learned from that experience is that I know just about nothing,” he spat back. “I had to rely on the knowledge of a woman that I had nearly killed, and whom I had always been taught to believe was completely inferior to me, to get through the day without freezing to death. She taught me how to light a fire without magic. She taught me how to use eckeltri.., no, electricity. She taught me how to start a furnace. She taught me how to cook, for Merlin's sake! And all of this after I fucked her to within an inch of her life,” he shouted. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what I like, when I don’t even like me?” He turned his back on the three elders and stared out the window, his body shaking with fear, anger, and self-loathing.
“Draco,” his father said sharply, “I know you’re upset and frustrated, but I’ll thank you not to use such coarse language in front of your mother. You’ve made your point, however,” he finished with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he mumbled mechanically. “I’m sorry for a lot. I’m sorry for what I did to Hermione, because unfortunately, she’s the only victim I can really remember. I’m sorry that the Wizarding world is having to practically start from scratch to rebuild itself, and that I contributed, rather enthusiastically, it appears, to the mess. I’m sorry that my own hands were instruments of death and destruction. I’m sorry that I ever learned a single Dark Arts spell. I’m even sorry that I loved chocolate so much that it got me into this situation in the first place. Right this moment, I’m sorry that I was ever born.” He stalked out of the room.
When Narcissa made to follow him, her husband stayed her with a gentle tug on her arm. “Leave him, dear. He’s had way too much to process for a lifetime, never mind for the day. I’ll instruct the house-elves to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish, but I think we should just give him a little bit of time right now.”
Draco’s body was coursing with pent-up energy and adrenaline. His anger and frustration fed the jittery feelings that made his hands tremble and his knees barely able to support him. He pushed open the French doors leading to the Manor’s courtyard with such force that the glass panes rattled in their frames. He wandered the grounds until he burned off some of the raw nerves that had caused him to snap at the three people who had been trying to do nothing less than help him in mapping out his new life. As the thought dawned on him, he shook his head in self-disgust and made his way back to the room where his parents and solicitor, now engaged in quiet and thoughtful conversation, waited for him to reappear.
“I’m sorry, Mother, Father, Mr. Phillips. I let my temper get the better of me and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. If you’re all still willing, I think I have an idea or two about what I’d like to do.”
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Hermione Granger spent the days after Draco’s trial in continued recuperation from her physical and emotional ordeals, and spared only a thought or two for the man she’d helped avoid an Azkaban sentence. As much compassion as she felt for the man who’d spent his adolescent years figuratively torturing her and his young adult years doing so literally, she was glad to leave Draco’s fate in his own hands while she determined what to do about her own.
Two weeks after Draco’s widely publicized trial and subsequent departure from Great Britain for parts unknown, Hermione had managed to reunite with all of her friends who had been as lucky as she to survive the war in relative good health and humor.
Not one of them had emerged unscarred, but the extent and location of those scars varied dramatically. Harry was still recovering from extensive magical wounds that had taxed the combined magical healing skill of seven of St. Mungo’s most senior medical professionals. They’d even considered calling in help from the Muggle world, until additional tests had confirmed that all of his injuries were magical in nature. His prognosis was improving with every passing day, but he would have a long road ahead to regain his strength. Months of magical therapy lay ahead, but Harry was renowned for his determination. He would not give up on this fight any more than he had on the one against a particularly nasty Dark Wizard. That had turned out in his, and their favor, so Hermione, Ron, and their eclectic collection of friends would not doubt him now.
Ron was a prime example of someone who’d made the remarkable recovery that they all wished for Harry. He had continued to gain his strength and focus in the months leading up to the final confrontation and, with the exception of a slightly sharper temper, was well recognized as the old Ron Weasley.
Neville Longbottom, Hermione’s research partner, had seen little in the way of wand-to-wand battle for most of the long and violent conflict. That changed in the final two weeks when every able witch and wizard was called upon to lend his or her skill to the final push. He had acquitted himself admirably and managed to escape physical injury. The things he’d seen, however, had left him angry and sullen. It would be months before he’d return to his more jovial and lighthearted personality.
Among the most stunning turn of events was the sudden and complete recovery of Luna Lovegood. Her body had been magically sustained for more than four years after an unknown curse had left her catatonic. She woke up with no more fanfare or drama than if she’d just taken a short nap. Healers surmised that whoever had cast her curse had fallen in battle and thereby released her from the persistent unresponsive state.
Ginny Weasley had taken a nasty hex to her legs that had left her with recurring numbness and pain from hip to ankle. Her condition was improving slowly and, though her Healer was optimistic, it was clear she’d have a long and difficult period of recovery.
Hermione was visiting her younger red-haired friend when the next bout of several unexpected waves of melancholy overtook her. She was so emotional these days. Hermione had always been passionate and caring, but rarely gave in to depression; this was uncharacteristic. It also seemed that she had caught a flu from her exposure to the cold, harsh conditions at the cottage, as she’d felt ill for days.
“Hermione, you really should see a Healer about that,” Ginny encouraged.
“I’ll just take more Pepper-Up Potion and I’ll be fine.”
“Why would you think that when the previous ten doses did nothing to help?”
Hermione shrugged, unable to offer a reasonable answer.
“What if Malfoy cursed you with something? If he did it while you were unconscious, you wouldn’t know, and since he can’t seem to remember what he did, he couldn’t even tell you,” Ginny reasoned.
“He didn’t have a wand, Ginny.”
“Not at the cottage, but what if it happened at the Manor, before you left?”
Hermione shrugged again.
“Just promise me you’ll see a Healer, today?” she pleaded, anxious to see her friend’s malaise end.
“Fine, I’ll go, just to shut you up,” Hermione groused.
“Good. Then get out of here and let me get some rest,” Ginny ordered. She rose a bit unsteadily from the sofa on which she was resting, but gave her friend a tight and lasting hug. “Drop by later, if you want, but only if you have a Healer’s report to share.”
“Yes, mother hen,” Hermione relented. “I’ll pop over later.”
Three hours later, it was a stunned and white-faced Hermione Granger who requested entry through the open Floo connection.
“I never even considered the possibility, Ginny,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do?”
“I think you need to speak with the Malfoys, Hermione. They may be able to help,” she suggested. “Draco is their son, and I’m sure they’ll have a thought or two on the matter.”
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At eight o’clock on the next evening, Hermione Granger stood inside the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor, receiving a warm hug of greeting from Narcissa Malfoy and a gracious handshake from her husband.
“I was delighted to get your owl, Miss Granger. Lucius and I are so grateful for your testimony and the compassion and forgiveness that you gave to Draco. It means more than I can say,” Narcissa expressed with her eyes bright from suppressed tears.
“I’m so glad you agreed to see me, Lady Malfoy. I’m afraid that I have a little problem, and I’m in need of your input,” Hermione explained.
“Well, I’m quite certain that I’ll be thrilled to provide anything that you need, dear, but you must promise me something first,” Narcissa replied with feigned severity.
“Of course, if it’s within my power to do,” Hermione answered.
“Stop this ‘Lady Malfoy’ nonsense, and call me ‘Narcissa.’ I insist,” she told her guest. “And my husband is ‘Lucius.’” She pointedly pinned her husband with a look, daring him to contradict her. He wisely nodded in agreement at the younger woman.
“Oh, then please do call me ‘Hermione’ then,” she reciprocated with a smile.
“Shall we move to the sitting room?” Narcissa directed them toward the open door to her left.
Hermione sat on a lovely red velvet armchair, facing the loveseat where the Malfoys had perched side by side. She wrung her hands, unsure about how she’d approach the topic she needed to discuss. Narcissa aided her with her astute observation.
“It’s clear that something is troubling you, dear. Please don’t be worried; just tell us what’s happened.”
Hermione breathed deeply and spoke with eyes downcast. “It appears that there has been an unexpected consequence of what happened here at the Manor between Draco and me,” she began, “and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”
“Miss Granger,” Lucius interrupted, “I want you to know that whatever it is, we will do whatever we can to assist you. After everything you did to show such kindness to our son, we could do nothing less.”
“You may feel differently once I’ve told you, sir,” she answered.
“Nonsense, dear, just tell us. I promise it will be fine,” Narcissa interjected.
“I’ve been to see a Healer, and she’s told me that I’m four weeks pregnant. The child can only be Draco’s.”
Two Years and Eleven Months Later
Hermione was awakened by a tug on her curls. She was stunned that her daughter had managed to crawl up onto the bed; she was only a little over two years old and was barely taller than the bed itself.
“Mummy, wake up!” Louisa whispered.
In an instant, the young mother had wrapped her child in her arms and was peppering her pale cheeks with kisses. “How did you get all the way up here, munchkin?” Hermione asked.
“Mémère helped. She’s over there.” The little girl pointed to where her grandmother was emerging from Hermione’s wardrobe closet with a fluffy white dressing gown in hand.
“Good morning, Hermione. I’ve got to go to Diagon Alley today, and I thought the three of us might go together and do a little shopping,” Narcissa suggested.
“Oh. Sure, I guess that would be a good idea. I do need to get Louisa some new shoes,” she observed.
“You and I also need to have a little chat, dear. You know that Draco will be returning from Salem soon, and there are things that we need to settle before he arrives.”
Hermione sighed. She knew this day would be coming soon, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. The decisions she’d made three years ago, and the promises she’d wheedled out of the Malfoys, would all now come home to roost. She still felt that her strategy had been the best one for all concerned, but she recognized the enormous upheaval it would cause in mere days, at most. She was dreading it, and her expression told the story.
“Now, Hermione, I know this is going to be difficult for all of us, but it’s better that we are united and prepared. I made my feelings clear three years ago, but I acceded to your demands because the alternatives were unthinkable. I’ll have Lucius look after Louisa for a little while so that you and I can talk privately.” Narcissa swept her granddaughter into her arms and left the room in search of her husband.
Meanwhile, Hermione wrapped her dressing gown around her waist and cinched the belt tighter to ward against the chill. The room, however, was not the source of the icy tendrils running up and down her back. She stepped into the large peach marble bathroom and ran the taps in the shower. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, she removed her robe, hanging it on the silver hook just beside the glass doors. She stepped under the hot spray and back in time thirty months.
Her belly was starting to round obviously and rapidly, she noted as the vanilla scented shampoo bubbles made trails over her stretching skin. Sometimes she was still flabbergasted that she’d made the decision to keep this baby, a child who was not conceived in love but in the most horrible circumstances one could imagine. When she’d told the Malfoys about her pregnancy, she was certain that they’d not want her to have their son’s child. After all, she was not a pureblood, and there had not been an acknowledged half-blood Malfoy in recorded family history. She’d expected them to offer her assistance to either terminate the pregnancy or place the child in an adoptive home. She’d been prepared for either possibility. What she hadn’t been prepared for was that both of Draco’s parents had been, although shocked and dismayed at the predicament, quite accepting of her and of the possibility of their child becoming an acknowledged member of the Malfoy family. She remembered with bemusement the look that had passed between the elder couple and wondered for months about what the silent communication had meant. She’d never found out.
They had immediately offered her a place in their home and financial assistance. They told her that they wanted her, regardless of the decidedly difficult relationship with their son, to become at least an unofficial member of the family. They professed their respect and admiration for her and their desire that her child would want for nothing. She had agreed to their proposal for two reasons. First, with her own parents long dead, she had little in the way of a familial support system, and second, she really had no other home of her own. She’d lived at Hogwarts for the past ten years and the war had interrupted her – everyone’s, to be true – education, leaving her without a specific plan for her future. When daily survival is the only goal, career dreams and ambitions tend to fall by the wayside. She had several reservations, however, and made a handful of counter-proposals to which they had finally agreed.
The first was that she must be allowed to have full freedom to move about as she saw fit. She would not be a bird in a gilded cage. Hermione’s second condition was that her friends would be allowed to visit with her at Malfoy Manor unimpeded. Finally, and completely non-negotiable, was her decision that the Malfoys could not share the news of her pregnancy nor her semi-permanent residency at the Manor with Draco under any conditions. They had argued that Draco would inevitably discover the truth at some point. Hermione countered that Draco had enough to worry about with the daunting combination of working and surviving without magic, living far away from family and friends, and the gargantuan task of learning about who he really was in his heart and becoming the kind of man he wanted to be. In addition, she was understandably reluctant to be forced into any kind of relationship with him, and while co-parenting was not an unusual arrangement, the parents had typically had an affiliation of some kind along the way. She and Draco certainly did not fall into that category. When he was done with his exile would be time enough to give him one more burden of which to be aware and to shoulder responsibility. She finally insisted – and they reluctantly agreed – that an Unbreakable Vow be made between them on that point.
When Louisa had been born, the Malfoys had become doting grandparents in the instant they saw her white blonde hair and steel gray eyes. They had also tried to convince Hermione once again to allow them to tell Draco about his daughter. Once again, she refused.
When the tiny girl had taken her first step, Lucius had been there to prop her up as she stumbled. “Pépère” was thoroughly enraptured by the child and her bouncy blonde curls. He’d wheedled Hermione that Draco should have been there to take his daughter’s hand. Once again, Hermione denied him that option.
With Louisa’s first words – in French, courtesy once again of Pépère Lucius – Narcissa had pleaded the case that her boy was missing moments that she knew he would cherish. Hermione felt a fair amount of guilt with that barb, but she again refused to allow it.
When the impish toddler had experienced her first burst of accidental magic – a priceless Ming Dynasty vase its unintentional victim – the Malfoys had been narrowly dissuaded from taking out a full-page announcement in the reconstituted Daily Prophet to proclaim the child a magical prodigy when Hermione reminded them that it would be entirely too possible for Draco to obtain.
In a development that Hermione found unsettling though not unpleasant, they doted on her nearly as much as on their granddaughter. She’d managed to get her wish to know Narcissa better, admittedly under unanticipated circumstances. She had to admit that she had grown fond of them, too, and would find it very difficult when she faced the prospect of not seeing them daily when she and Louisa moved from Malfoy Manor as she planned to do just prior to Draco’s return from his Ministry-imposed exile.
Hermione shook her head to clear away the thoughts of living apart from these people who now treated her as one of their own. She turned off the tap and squeezed the water out of her hair, a task that was no longer as onerous as it once was thanks to a slightly shorter haircut and to Narcissa’s incredible skill with permanent curl-relaxing charms. She quickly dried off and dressed in a comfortable pair of charcoal gray wool trousers and a dove gray v-neck cashmere sweater. She tugged on a pair of black leather heeled boots – hand-tooled and a birthday gift from Narcissa – and donned silver hoop earrings to complete her ensemble. She walked through the east wing’s corridors toward the room that she learned was Narcissa’s favorite; it had quickly become hers, too. The library’s double doors were already open, and her daughter’s grandmother awaited her arrival.
“Hermione, dear, don’t you look lovely!” Narcissa complimented her. She waved a hand toward a chair that was pulled slightly away from the small round table that held their continental breakfast. Hermione nodded her thanks with a smile, selected a flaky croissant and waited as Tuppy prepared a latte for her. After living with a handful of house-elves for nearly three years, she’d learned to relax a little and allow them to do what they loved. It was clear that there were well-treated by the Malfoys now; whatever happened in the past would stay there.
“You wanted to talk about Draco’s return,” Hermione prompted.
“Yes, dear. I think we need to work all of this out before he arrives,” Narcissa repeated her earlier concern.
“Do you know yet when that will be?” Hermione asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t have an exact date. Draco has been working that out with his case officer and he hasn’t yet told me when to expect him. I’m quite certain, though, that it won’t be more than a week.”
Hermione nodded her head in understanding. “I’ve begun to look for an apartment in Hogsmeade. I haven’t found anything suitable yet, but I’ve only seen three or four places. I’m sure something will be available shortly, as the first of the month is only three days away.”
Narcissa sighed impatiently. “I simply do not understand why you insist on moving out. This has been your home – and Louisa’s – for nearly three years. We’ll miss both of you desperately and I’m certain that Louisa will be lost without her Pépère. Won’t you please reconsider your decision and stay with us?”
“I’m sorry, Narcissa, but you know why we can’t stay. Draco will need somewhere to live when he returns and this is his home. I won’t exacerbate an already horribly uncomfortable situation even further by hanging around here with a child he doesn’t know and probably won’t want.”
“You don’t know that, Hermione. He’ll probably fall in love with Louisa in the first ten seconds that he sees her. This manor is so large that you’d never need to run into each other unless you wanted to. We really wish you’d stay,” she pleaded.
Hermione’s resolve was wearing down ever so slightly, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be cajoled or bullied. If she stayed, it would be because she made the decision that it was best for her and her daughter. She hadn’t yet reached that conclusion, and felt fairly certain that she would stick to her original plan to find a small apartment for the two of them. “The best I can do, Narcissa, is to promise that I’ll think about it, but please don’t get your hopes up.”
“That’s better than a flat-out ‘no,’ I suppose,” she sighed again.
“Look, I’m sure we have a few days to work all of this out. Let’s just enjoy our day in Hogsmeade with Louisa. Maybe you and I could even look at a couple of places so that you’d be comfortable with where we’re living,” Hermione offered.
“That’s fine, dear. But I will insist that you allow us to pay for your apartment if you do decide to leave,” Narcissa replied, her voice an odd mixture of warmth and sternness.
“Narcissa…”
The older woman lifted a hand to stop Hermione’s coming protest. “You’ve only just completed your Healer training and it will take you a few months to have enough cash flow to manage everything. Lucius and I will pay for the apartment and for any furnishings you need for Louisa, and that’s final.” Left unspoken was the implication that any bill Hermione incurred while furnishing her new home would mysteriously never arrive in her owl post. Narcissa drove a hard bargain and never lost a battle she felt was worth fighting. The substantial trust funds that had been established for Louisa, with Hermione’s reluctant consent, and for Hermione herself, about which the young woman knew nothing at the moment, went unmentioned.
“Let’s just get Louisa and go. I’d like to stop off at the Apothecary before it closes at noon,” Hermione mentioned.
The two women found Lucius and Louisa splayed out on the floor of her playroom, hundreds of blocks surrounding them in an odd approximation of a castle and moat. They were speaking their own special language, a mix of French, English, and baby talk, when Hermione cleared her throat to gain their attention.
“Pépère builds, Mummy!” Louisa excitedly announced.
“So he does, sweetheart,” Hermione acknowledged. “It looks like Louisa builds too.”
“Yes, Mummy. Me too.” Her blonde curls bobbed up and down along with her head.
“Are you ready to come with Mummy and Mémère? We’re going to Hogsmeade to get you some new shoes.”
“Me loves new shoes!” Louisa agreed.
“I love new shoes,” Hermione corrected automatically.
“Mummy loves new shoes too?”
The adults laughed, but Louisa’s look of confusion made it clear that she didn’t understand their amusement.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours, Lucius. Don’t wait for us for lunch; we’ll probably get something in town,” Narcissa instructed.
“Yes, love. Shall I assume we’ll all be together for dinner?”
“Certainly. Have Tuppy prepare roast chicken tonight,” Narcissa called over her shoulder as the three women left the room to head out for the afternoon. It was still a bit brisk, so the three ladies donned coats, gloves, and hats to ward off the late March chill. Lucius was still sitting on the floor stacking blocks when they activated the Floo five minutes later.
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Draco Malfoy was as happy as he could remember being in his entire life. Today was the final day of his exile from Wizarding Great Britain and he had finally finished packing up the few items he wanted from his life in Salem. It hadn’t been an easy road, but he’d managed first to survive and then to grow. Flourishing, he hoped, would come next.
Within a couple of weeks, he had found employment in a Muggle-owned restaurant that catered to the tourists who flooded Salem, all believing that the lore of wizardry was from a long-dead time in history. He’d picked that as a possibility because it was the one area of the Muggle world to which he’d had even the tiniest exposure, thanks to Granger’s cooking lessons. He hadn’t hated that – had actually found it a bit relaxing and interesting, so he’d decided that the restaurant business would be his refuge. He started as a kitchen helper, clearing tables and washing pots. He earned the rough equivalent of sixty Galleons a week, plus any tips that the more generous wait staff might share. The work was backbreaking and dirty, but Draco dove in with enthusiasm, hoping to gain something akin to satisfaction from his tiny and incremental accomplishments.
Having been blessed with both a sharp intellect and quick wit, the young man quickly made an impression on his supervisors and gained more responsibility. Within three months, he’d been promoted to a waiter’s job and earned an additional forty dollars each week, about eight more Galleons in Wizard money. Tips brought in another fifty dollars, and he was now able to afford to take the bus to work when the weather was bad, as it often was on Massachusetts’ north shore.
He’d found, however, that while he’d had some minor success at work, his personal situation was less stable. He’d been plagued with horrible nightmares since he had arrived in Salem, and he had no idea what to do about it. It had gone on for weeks, and he was beginning to feel the effects of interrupted and reduced sleep. Worse, he didn’t have any idea whether the dreams were simply his imagination or memories that were beginning to resurface after having been repressed for so many years. He finally confided in his father during one late night conversation through the Floo. The following week, Lucius had secured – with Barrister Phillips’ help - permission from the Ministry to pay for Mind Healer visits for Draco. They had approved visits to a Muggle Psychologist if Draco was unable to find a Wizarding equivalent in Salem. Just days later, Draco was fortunate to find a Mind Healer who had also had earned a PhD as a Muggle Psychologist at the renowned and prestigious Boston University. He had been visiting Dr. David Roy for an hour each week for the last two and a half years; he would miss the man’s insights and empathetic ear.
Dr. Roy had helped Draco to rebuild his sense of self and repair his battered self-esteem. He’d given Draco tools to cope with his disappointments and manage his anger. He’d helped the young man to recognize where blame should rest and when to shoulder his share of responsibility. Draco’s nightmares did not disappear completely, but they did trouble him less frequently, and he was finally coming to accept himself as a man who was not flawless, but who had something to offer to the world.
Along his journey of self-discovery, Draco progressed further still in his career at the Grapevine Restaurant. He watched and learned, and soon he was working as a prep chef, spending the day chopping, filleting, stirring, and sautéing. It wasn’t glamorous, and he still only earned less than the equivalent of one hundred Galleons a week, but he felt that he was doing an honest day’s work, and that was the greatest sense of accomplishment he’d ever had. It was enough.
Draco had had another startling surprise in his personal journey. After the first year, he’d petitioned per the terms of his sentence to have his wand and magic privileges reinstated. Since he had met all of the requirements they had placed upon him, the Wizengamot had kept their end of the bargain and returned his thin hawthorn wand along with his right to cast magic. What had been startling was that he’d tucked the wand away in a drawer and used it only rarely. Working and achieving with his hands had become an elemental part of his recovery and healing; he would not take the easy way when he had lessons still to learn.
Now that the time had come to leave Salem, Draco’s joy mingled with the likelihood that he’d miss his adopted home in the historic town of Salem had Hippogriffs dancing in his stomach. His Portkey would be leaving in two minutes, and he’d checked three times to ensure that he’d not forgotten anything. Those Hippogriffs had become prancing Thestrels.
When the Portkey activated, he was deposited at the debarkation spot at the edge of Hogsmeade. It was a lovely day, and he thought he’d stroll through the town center for a few moments to get reacquainted with the shops and purveyors. He wasn’t expected anywhere, so a little walk wouldn’t create any issues.
He walked along the center street, peering in windows and stopping now and again to take a closer look at something that caught his eye. He was nearing the Apothecary when his eye was most definitely caught by a woman standing outside the shop. He wasn’t close enough to be absolutely certain, but from the rear, the woman looked like his mother. But, he reasoned, it just couldn’t be her. She was holding the hand of a small child, no more than two or three years old. He was drawn subconsciously to the woman who so resembled the mother who’d risked everything for him, and he found that he had taken several steps in her direction without even realizing that he’d moved. His eyes widened as the woman turned to profile, and her resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy became more than coincidence.
His other senses began to function and he heard the child speak. “Mémère, where is Mummy? Why is she taking so long?”
The Narcissa Malfoy look-alike smiled at the child, obviously a girl, he noted as the whipping wind sent her little hat flying and her long, blonde curls tumbling to her shoulders. “Look, Louisa, she’s coming now.”
Draco tried not to look. Something told him it would be a very bad idea. But his eyes refused to listen to reason and he followed the direction of the woman’s gaze. The door of the Apothecary swung open and another woman stepped into the sunlight. The little girl shouted an enthusiastic greeting - “Mummy!” – and vaulted into her mother’s arms. This woman was a Hermione Granger look-alike.
Oh, Merlin. No. How can this be? Draco Malfoy felt the blood leave his face and the ability to remain upright desert him in an instant. His knees buckled beneath him and struck the ground with a thud. In that moment, Narcissa Malfoy gasped in shock. In that moment, Hermione Granger met his eyes. In that next breath, the tiny, bright eyes he met were an exact copy of his own.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Present Day
The wait in the courtroom had seemed to go on for a lifetime, especially for the young man whose life hung in the balance. The reality was much more reasonable – two hours and forty-two minutes. When the members of the Wizengamot, excluding Albus Dumbledore who had been a witness for the defense, trooped back into the courtroom, none of their stony faces betrayed the outcome of their deliberations. When each of them had taken their seats, the Chief Warlock rose at the dais and tapped his wand to call the court to order.
“Hear ye, all who are gathered here. We sit in judgment of Draco Abraxus Malfoy, called to account on three hundred and thirty-eight felonies. Will the accused please rise?”
Draco was resolved to not allow himself to topple over as he rose from his seat. He locked his knees and planted his feet at shoulder’s width to stabilize his stance. His solicitor rose beside him, as was customary and proper. Barrister Phillips placed his own shoulder directly behind Draco’s, lending what little strength he could.
“Are you ready to hear our verdict, Draco Abraxus Malfoy?” the man at the dais asked.
Mustering all the dignity that the Malfoy name had once and now again - thanks to his parents’ change of heart – possessed, Draco squared his shoulders and answered, “Yes.”
“You were charged with more than three hundred serious crimes against the Wizarding World, yet we have seen compelling evidence that the ultimate accountability for these heinous acts does not rest with you. We have also seen and heard compelling evidence in the form of eyewitness accounts submitted through statement and affidavit of the harm that those actions have caused to literally hundreds of Muggles, witches, and wizards. We feel that to convict you of these crimes is not morally nor legally appropriate. Yet it is also not appropriate to absolve you of them as though they had never occurred.
“Therefore, the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot find thusly: You are hereby found not guilty on three hundred thirty-seven charges by reason of Unforgiveable magical compulsion. We find you guilty on one count of Physical Assault and sentence you forthwith. You will be expelled from Wizarding Great Britain for a period of three years. You will be stripped of your wand and privilege of magic for one year. You will pay reparations to the families of those harmed in the amount of five thousand Galleons each. You will be required to forfeit access to your family fortune during the three years of your exile and will be required to secure gainful employment. You may not initiate contact with anyone in Wizarding Great Britain with the exception of your parents and your solicitor. You will have one day to set your affairs in order and leave Great Britain. Do you understand your sentence?”
Draco wasn’t certain that he did, but he was nudged by an elbow to his back from his solicitor. He took that as an instruction to answer, and he replied, “Yes, your Honor.” He surmised correctly that anything he’d missed in his fog of shock and relief at not being shipped off to Azkaban would be explained by his counsel and his parents once the formal proceedings were over.
“You are dismissed to begin your preparations, and released to the custody of your parents. You will present yourself at the Ministry of Magic Auror’s Office no later than midnight tomorrow to surrender your wand and accept Portkey travel to the destination of your choice. We hope that you will use the time away from us wisely to heal your own heart and soul, and that you will find some peace for yourself in that effort. Good luck, Mister Malfoy, and may Merlin watch over you. The case of Ministry of Magic versus Draco Abraxus Malfoy is now closed.” The Warlock tapped his dais one final time with his wand to signal the end of the proceedings and more than half of the gallery rose to exit, having seen the result of the case that had drawn their interest.
Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had sat in rapt attention at each pronouncement made by the Chief Warlock. As anyone who knew him would expect, the senior Malfoy was listening for loopholes and openings through which a Thestral-drawn carriage might fly. There weren’t many, but there was a tiny bit of wiggle room that might make Draco’s life a little more comfortable during his period of expulsion. He signaled the solicitor with a raised hand that they would meet in the pre-arranged location outside the Ministry. From there, the small group would return to Malfoy Manor to set their necessary plans in motion.
Draco, still appearing a bit stunned, followed his counsel mutely and only seemed to show signs of awareness when they met his parents in the sequestered alley two blocks away. His father said nothing, but wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders and Apparated to the family home. Narcissa, with Barrister Phillips lightly grasping her offered forearm, followed within seconds.
Ten minutes later, the four were seated around a rectangular ebony wood table and Lucius was offering libations. He’d expected Draco and Phillips to join him in partaking of a glass of Firewhisky, but had been surprised when Narcissa also asked for a glass. It had clearly been a trying day; Narcissa rarely drank anything stronger than elf-made wine.
“How are you feeling about this, Draco?” his father inquired, unable to read his quiet and blank-faced mood.
“I’m not really sure, Father. I’m relieved that I wasn’t sent to prison, but I’m troubled that I’ll be sent away for so long. I’d feel much better if I’d been allowed to stay with you and Mother.”
“Draco, you were exiled from Great Britain, but you were not exiled from your family. The court decreed that you were allowed to initiate contact with us, so you’ll be able to use the Floo to call us, or send us owl post, or visit with us anywhere but here, any time you like,” Lucius explained.
“Are you sure that’s what it meant?” he asked, not sure if he could hope for that much.
“Quite. Barrister Phillips has vast experience with these kinds of legal proceedings and he assures us that this will not be a violation of your sentence.” Lucius looked to the solicitor who eased Draco’s fears by nodding his head in the affirmative and adding a smile of confirmation. “In fact,” he continued, “it seems certain that the court intended for you to maintain contact with us to facilitate your healing and re-acclimation into Wizarding society.”
“It feels like there are a dozen decisions to be made in such a very short time, and I don’t know where to begin, Father,” Draco admitted. “In some ways, I feel like I’m still a fifteen-year-old. I’ve lost so much of my identity, it seems.”
“You’re not entirely off-pitch with that, Son. The effect of the potions you consumed subverted your normal emotional, social, and psychological maturation processes. You were operating not with your own thoughts, decisions, and desires for some very important years. That’s one of the reasons it will be important for us to remain in contact during this time, so that we can provide some guidance and perspective when you need it.”
“As I’m thoroughly certain I will, Father. So, what decisions do we need to make tonight?”
“First, we should talk about where you want to go. It is my understanding that, although you are not allowed direct access to the family cash reserves, you are allowed to use any property that we own outside of Great Britain. Is that correct, Marcus?”
“Yes, Lucius, it is. I would highly recommend, however, that you not use a lavish property, nor should you stuff it with Galleons. Draco’s activities will be monitored to ensure that he is meeting the terms of his sentence, so anything that pushes the envelope of the decree’s intent could send us back to court for a revision. Those are generally not a good thing, so you need to be circumspect about the arrangements that we make now,” he advised.
“Hunh, I was afraid of that. I guess we’ll need to rule out the villa in Italy, the Paris apartment, and the Greek property, then.”
“What about Salem?” Narcissa offered, her eyes alight with the sudden brainstorm.
“Salem? You mean in Massachusetts, in the States?” Draco asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “there is a Black family property there for which I hold the deed. It’s a modest cottage, no more than six or seven rooms if memory serves. It’s on the edge of the Muggle section of town, on the south side of the Wizarding community. It might be just the right thing.”
“But it’s so far,” Draco noted, sounding every bit the fifteen-year-old that his heart believed him to be at the moment.
“Technically, yes, but it would be a relatively simple thing reconnect the Floo for placing calls, and there’s an International Portkey travel point in a section of Logan Airport in Boston, which is just a short Apparation jump away. We could easily visit whenever you want to see us.”
“Marcus, what is Draco allowed to do about funds? I know we’re not supposed to aid him with Galleons, but what about any money that is in his own name?”
“He would be allowed to use funds that have been in his own name for at least one year.”
“That should give you a little breathing room, Son. You have the small inheritance from Grandmère Rosier that became yours on your twentieth birthday. I think that was somewhere around one million Galleons.”
“Don’t forget, Lucius, that Draco must pay his reparations out of his own money. That cannot be paid by you,” Phillips added as a caution.
“What does that total?” Draco asked.
“Well, they identified one hundred eighty-nine families, at five thousand Galleons each. That totals nine hundred forty-five thousand galleons.”
“So that leaves me about fifty-five thousand galleons, total?” Draco asked, panic creeping into his voice. Such a small sum was positively terrifying to consider.
“You will come into a significant additional inheritance next year from Grandpère Malfoy’s estate. From what Marcus has said, it appears that those funds will be held in escrow for you until your sentence is complete. It would make the next couple of years more, uh, lean than what you’re accustomed to, Draco, but you will need to earn some money of your own in that time. That will help with ensuring you won’t starve,” his father said, teasing just a bit. He wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent, after all, which was typically a young person’s largest expense if they left their parents’ home.
“Yes, I’m supposed to work, they said. I have no idea what I’m qualified to do, especially without using magic,” he worried aloud.
“Yes, well, that could be a bit problematic. Is there anything you enjoy doing?” Lucius inquired.
“That’s unrelated to magic?” Draco scoffed.
“Sadly, I suppose that would be a prerequisite, at least for the first year, Son,” the elder Malfoy acknowledged.
“I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug, “I guess I like to read. That doesn’t require magic. But what jobs require reading?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, but I’d imagine that there are some.”
“Father, I know my prospects will be severely limited. Let’s face facts. I have no education credential, no work experience other than killing, raping, and maiming, and no training in any practical skills. I’m going to starve to death,” Draco grumbled dramatically.
His parents exchanged a glance and recognized their son’s immaturity was peeking through. It seemed they might need to play a stronger guiding role in helping Draco to find gainful employment. They’d not been prohibited from assisting the boy in his transition, as far as they knew. The major challenge about which the boy was right, though, was that his prospects were quite limited. He couldn’t work with magic, and knew next to nothing about living as a Muggle. The next twelve months would be hellish.
“Other than reading, what else do you like to do?”
“Eat. Sleep. I don’t know, I apparently haven’t been myself for the last five years. How am I supposed to know what I like and don’t like?” he sulked, his impatience getting the better of him.
“Well, you just recently spent several days living without magic. What did you do? Did you learn anything from that experience?” Narcissa pressed.
Draco rose from his seat at the table and began to pace the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I learned from that experience is that I know just about nothing,” he spat back. “I had to rely on the knowledge of a woman that I had nearly killed, and whom I had always been taught to believe was completely inferior to me, to get through the day without freezing to death. She taught me how to light a fire without magic. She taught me how to use eckeltri.., no, electricity. She taught me how to start a furnace. She taught me how to cook, for Merlin's sake! And all of this after I fucked her to within an inch of her life,” he shouted. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what I like, when I don’t even like me?” He turned his back on the three elders and stared out the window, his body shaking with fear, anger, and self-loathing.
“Draco,” his father said sharply, “I know you’re upset and frustrated, but I’ll thank you not to use such coarse language in front of your mother. You’ve made your point, however,” he finished with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” he mumbled mechanically. “I’m sorry for a lot. I’m sorry for what I did to Hermione, because unfortunately, she’s the only victim I can really remember. I’m sorry that the Wizarding world is having to practically start from scratch to rebuild itself, and that I contributed, rather enthusiastically, it appears, to the mess. I’m sorry that my own hands were instruments of death and destruction. I’m sorry that I ever learned a single Dark Arts spell. I’m even sorry that I loved chocolate so much that it got me into this situation in the first place. Right this moment, I’m sorry that I was ever born.” He stalked out of the room.
When Narcissa made to follow him, her husband stayed her with a gentle tug on her arm. “Leave him, dear. He’s had way too much to process for a lifetime, never mind for the day. I’ll instruct the house-elves to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish, but I think we should just give him a little bit of time right now.”
Draco’s body was coursing with pent-up energy and adrenaline. His anger and frustration fed the jittery feelings that made his hands tremble and his knees barely able to support him. He pushed open the French doors leading to the Manor’s courtyard with such force that the glass panes rattled in their frames. He wandered the grounds until he burned off some of the raw nerves that had caused him to snap at the three people who had been trying to do nothing less than help him in mapping out his new life. As the thought dawned on him, he shook his head in self-disgust and made his way back to the room where his parents and solicitor, now engaged in quiet and thoughtful conversation, waited for him to reappear.
“I’m sorry, Mother, Father, Mr. Phillips. I let my temper get the better of me and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. If you’re all still willing, I think I have an idea or two about what I’d like to do.”
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Hermione Granger spent the days after Draco’s trial in continued recuperation from her physical and emotional ordeals, and spared only a thought or two for the man she’d helped avoid an Azkaban sentence. As much compassion as she felt for the man who’d spent his adolescent years figuratively torturing her and his young adult years doing so literally, she was glad to leave Draco’s fate in his own hands while she determined what to do about her own.
Two weeks after Draco’s widely publicized trial and subsequent departure from Great Britain for parts unknown, Hermione had managed to reunite with all of her friends who had been as lucky as she to survive the war in relative good health and humor.
Not one of them had emerged unscarred, but the extent and location of those scars varied dramatically. Harry was still recovering from extensive magical wounds that had taxed the combined magical healing skill of seven of St. Mungo’s most senior medical professionals. They’d even considered calling in help from the Muggle world, until additional tests had confirmed that all of his injuries were magical in nature. His prognosis was improving with every passing day, but he would have a long road ahead to regain his strength. Months of magical therapy lay ahead, but Harry was renowned for his determination. He would not give up on this fight any more than he had on the one against a particularly nasty Dark Wizard. That had turned out in his, and their favor, so Hermione, Ron, and their eclectic collection of friends would not doubt him now.
Ron was a prime example of someone who’d made the remarkable recovery that they all wished for Harry. He had continued to gain his strength and focus in the months leading up to the final confrontation and, with the exception of a slightly sharper temper, was well recognized as the old Ron Weasley.
Neville Longbottom, Hermione’s research partner, had seen little in the way of wand-to-wand battle for most of the long and violent conflict. That changed in the final two weeks when every able witch and wizard was called upon to lend his or her skill to the final push. He had acquitted himself admirably and managed to escape physical injury. The things he’d seen, however, had left him angry and sullen. It would be months before he’d return to his more jovial and lighthearted personality.
Among the most stunning turn of events was the sudden and complete recovery of Luna Lovegood. Her body had been magically sustained for more than four years after an unknown curse had left her catatonic. She woke up with no more fanfare or drama than if she’d just taken a short nap. Healers surmised that whoever had cast her curse had fallen in battle and thereby released her from the persistent unresponsive state.
Ginny Weasley had taken a nasty hex to her legs that had left her with recurring numbness and pain from hip to ankle. Her condition was improving slowly and, though her Healer was optimistic, it was clear she’d have a long and difficult period of recovery.
Hermione was visiting her younger red-haired friend when the next bout of several unexpected waves of melancholy overtook her. She was so emotional these days. Hermione had always been passionate and caring, but rarely gave in to depression; this was uncharacteristic. It also seemed that she had caught a flu from her exposure to the cold, harsh conditions at the cottage, as she’d felt ill for days.
“Hermione, you really should see a Healer about that,” Ginny encouraged.
“I’ll just take more Pepper-Up Potion and I’ll be fine.”
“Why would you think that when the previous ten doses did nothing to help?”
Hermione shrugged, unable to offer a reasonable answer.
“What if Malfoy cursed you with something? If he did it while you were unconscious, you wouldn’t know, and since he can’t seem to remember what he did, he couldn’t even tell you,” Ginny reasoned.
“He didn’t have a wand, Ginny.”
“Not at the cottage, but what if it happened at the Manor, before you left?”
Hermione shrugged again.
“Just promise me you’ll see a Healer, today?” she pleaded, anxious to see her friend’s malaise end.
“Fine, I’ll go, just to shut you up,” Hermione groused.
“Good. Then get out of here and let me get some rest,” Ginny ordered. She rose a bit unsteadily from the sofa on which she was resting, but gave her friend a tight and lasting hug. “Drop by later, if you want, but only if you have a Healer’s report to share.”
“Yes, mother hen,” Hermione relented. “I’ll pop over later.”
Three hours later, it was a stunned and white-faced Hermione Granger who requested entry through the open Floo connection.
“I never even considered the possibility, Ginny,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do?”
“I think you need to speak with the Malfoys, Hermione. They may be able to help,” she suggested. “Draco is their son, and I’m sure they’ll have a thought or two on the matter.”
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At eight o’clock on the next evening, Hermione Granger stood inside the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor, receiving a warm hug of greeting from Narcissa Malfoy and a gracious handshake from her husband.
“I was delighted to get your owl, Miss Granger. Lucius and I are so grateful for your testimony and the compassion and forgiveness that you gave to Draco. It means more than I can say,” Narcissa expressed with her eyes bright from suppressed tears.
“I’m so glad you agreed to see me, Lady Malfoy. I’m afraid that I have a little problem, and I’m in need of your input,” Hermione explained.
“Well, I’m quite certain that I’ll be thrilled to provide anything that you need, dear, but you must promise me something first,” Narcissa replied with feigned severity.
“Of course, if it’s within my power to do,” Hermione answered.
“Stop this ‘Lady Malfoy’ nonsense, and call me ‘Narcissa.’ I insist,” she told her guest. “And my husband is ‘Lucius.’” She pointedly pinned her husband with a look, daring him to contradict her. He wisely nodded in agreement at the younger woman.
“Oh, then please do call me ‘Hermione’ then,” she reciprocated with a smile.
“Shall we move to the sitting room?” Narcissa directed them toward the open door to her left.
Hermione sat on a lovely red velvet armchair, facing the loveseat where the Malfoys had perched side by side. She wrung her hands, unsure about how she’d approach the topic she needed to discuss. Narcissa aided her with her astute observation.
“It’s clear that something is troubling you, dear. Please don’t be worried; just tell us what’s happened.”
Hermione breathed deeply and spoke with eyes downcast. “It appears that there has been an unexpected consequence of what happened here at the Manor between Draco and me,” she began, “and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”
“Miss Granger,” Lucius interrupted, “I want you to know that whatever it is, we will do whatever we can to assist you. After everything you did to show such kindness to our son, we could do nothing less.”
“You may feel differently once I’ve told you, sir,” she answered.
“Nonsense, dear, just tell us. I promise it will be fine,” Narcissa interjected.
“I’ve been to see a Healer, and she’s told me that I’m four weeks pregnant. The child can only be Draco’s.”
Two Years and Eleven Months Later
Hermione was awakened by a tug on her curls. She was stunned that her daughter had managed to crawl up onto the bed; she was only a little over two years old and was barely taller than the bed itself.
“Mummy, wake up!” Louisa whispered.
In an instant, the young mother had wrapped her child in her arms and was peppering her pale cheeks with kisses. “How did you get all the way up here, munchkin?” Hermione asked.
“Mémère helped. She’s over there.” The little girl pointed to where her grandmother was emerging from Hermione’s wardrobe closet with a fluffy white dressing gown in hand.
“Good morning, Hermione. I’ve got to go to Diagon Alley today, and I thought the three of us might go together and do a little shopping,” Narcissa suggested.
“Oh. Sure, I guess that would be a good idea. I do need to get Louisa some new shoes,” she observed.
“You and I also need to have a little chat, dear. You know that Draco will be returning from Salem soon, and there are things that we need to settle before he arrives.”
Hermione sighed. She knew this day would be coming soon, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. The decisions she’d made three years ago, and the promises she’d wheedled out of the Malfoys, would all now come home to roost. She still felt that her strategy had been the best one for all concerned, but she recognized the enormous upheaval it would cause in mere days, at most. She was dreading it, and her expression told the story.
“Now, Hermione, I know this is going to be difficult for all of us, but it’s better that we are united and prepared. I made my feelings clear three years ago, but I acceded to your demands because the alternatives were unthinkable. I’ll have Lucius look after Louisa for a little while so that you and I can talk privately.” Narcissa swept her granddaughter into her arms and left the room in search of her husband.
Meanwhile, Hermione wrapped her dressing gown around her waist and cinched the belt tighter to ward against the chill. The room, however, was not the source of the icy tendrils running up and down her back. She stepped into the large peach marble bathroom and ran the taps in the shower. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, she removed her robe, hanging it on the silver hook just beside the glass doors. She stepped under the hot spray and back in time thirty months.
Her belly was starting to round obviously and rapidly, she noted as the vanilla scented shampoo bubbles made trails over her stretching skin. Sometimes she was still flabbergasted that she’d made the decision to keep this baby, a child who was not conceived in love but in the most horrible circumstances one could imagine. When she’d told the Malfoys about her pregnancy, she was certain that they’d not want her to have their son’s child. After all, she was not a pureblood, and there had not been an acknowledged half-blood Malfoy in recorded family history. She’d expected them to offer her assistance to either terminate the pregnancy or place the child in an adoptive home. She’d been prepared for either possibility. What she hadn’t been prepared for was that both of Draco’s parents had been, although shocked and dismayed at the predicament, quite accepting of her and of the possibility of their child becoming an acknowledged member of the Malfoy family. She remembered with bemusement the look that had passed between the elder couple and wondered for months about what the silent communication had meant. She’d never found out.
They had immediately offered her a place in their home and financial assistance. They told her that they wanted her, regardless of the decidedly difficult relationship with their son, to become at least an unofficial member of the family. They professed their respect and admiration for her and their desire that her child would want for nothing. She had agreed to their proposal for two reasons. First, with her own parents long dead, she had little in the way of a familial support system, and second, she really had no other home of her own. She’d lived at Hogwarts for the past ten years and the war had interrupted her – everyone’s, to be true – education, leaving her without a specific plan for her future. When daily survival is the only goal, career dreams and ambitions tend to fall by the wayside. She had several reservations, however, and made a handful of counter-proposals to which they had finally agreed.
The first was that she must be allowed to have full freedom to move about as she saw fit. She would not be a bird in a gilded cage. Hermione’s second condition was that her friends would be allowed to visit with her at Malfoy Manor unimpeded. Finally, and completely non-negotiable, was her decision that the Malfoys could not share the news of her pregnancy nor her semi-permanent residency at the Manor with Draco under any conditions. They had argued that Draco would inevitably discover the truth at some point. Hermione countered that Draco had enough to worry about with the daunting combination of working and surviving without magic, living far away from family and friends, and the gargantuan task of learning about who he really was in his heart and becoming the kind of man he wanted to be. In addition, she was understandably reluctant to be forced into any kind of relationship with him, and while co-parenting was not an unusual arrangement, the parents had typically had an affiliation of some kind along the way. She and Draco certainly did not fall into that category. When he was done with his exile would be time enough to give him one more burden of which to be aware and to shoulder responsibility. She finally insisted – and they reluctantly agreed – that an Unbreakable Vow be made between them on that point.
When Louisa had been born, the Malfoys had become doting grandparents in the instant they saw her white blonde hair and steel gray eyes. They had also tried to convince Hermione once again to allow them to tell Draco about his daughter. Once again, she refused.
When the tiny girl had taken her first step, Lucius had been there to prop her up as she stumbled. “Pépère” was thoroughly enraptured by the child and her bouncy blonde curls. He’d wheedled Hermione that Draco should have been there to take his daughter’s hand. Once again, Hermione denied him that option.
With Louisa’s first words – in French, courtesy once again of Pépère Lucius – Narcissa had pleaded the case that her boy was missing moments that she knew he would cherish. Hermione felt a fair amount of guilt with that barb, but she again refused to allow it.
When the impish toddler had experienced her first burst of accidental magic – a priceless Ming Dynasty vase its unintentional victim – the Malfoys had been narrowly dissuaded from taking out a full-page announcement in the reconstituted Daily Prophet to proclaim the child a magical prodigy when Hermione reminded them that it would be entirely too possible for Draco to obtain.
In a development that Hermione found unsettling though not unpleasant, they doted on her nearly as much as on their granddaughter. She’d managed to get her wish to know Narcissa better, admittedly under unanticipated circumstances. She had to admit that she had grown fond of them, too, and would find it very difficult when she faced the prospect of not seeing them daily when she and Louisa moved from Malfoy Manor as she planned to do just prior to Draco’s return from his Ministry-imposed exile.
Hermione shook her head to clear away the thoughts of living apart from these people who now treated her as one of their own. She turned off the tap and squeezed the water out of her hair, a task that was no longer as onerous as it once was thanks to a slightly shorter haircut and to Narcissa’s incredible skill with permanent curl-relaxing charms. She quickly dried off and dressed in a comfortable pair of charcoal gray wool trousers and a dove gray v-neck cashmere sweater. She tugged on a pair of black leather heeled boots – hand-tooled and a birthday gift from Narcissa – and donned silver hoop earrings to complete her ensemble. She walked through the east wing’s corridors toward the room that she learned was Narcissa’s favorite; it had quickly become hers, too. The library’s double doors were already open, and her daughter’s grandmother awaited her arrival.
“Hermione, dear, don’t you look lovely!” Narcissa complimented her. She waved a hand toward a chair that was pulled slightly away from the small round table that held their continental breakfast. Hermione nodded her thanks with a smile, selected a flaky croissant and waited as Tuppy prepared a latte for her. After living with a handful of house-elves for nearly three years, she’d learned to relax a little and allow them to do what they loved. It was clear that there were well-treated by the Malfoys now; whatever happened in the past would stay there.
“You wanted to talk about Draco’s return,” Hermione prompted.
“Yes, dear. I think we need to work all of this out before he arrives,” Narcissa repeated her earlier concern.
“Do you know yet when that will be?” Hermione asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t have an exact date. Draco has been working that out with his case officer and he hasn’t yet told me when to expect him. I’m quite certain, though, that it won’t be more than a week.”
Hermione nodded her head in understanding. “I’ve begun to look for an apartment in Hogsmeade. I haven’t found anything suitable yet, but I’ve only seen three or four places. I’m sure something will be available shortly, as the first of the month is only three days away.”
Narcissa sighed impatiently. “I simply do not understand why you insist on moving out. This has been your home – and Louisa’s – for nearly three years. We’ll miss both of you desperately and I’m certain that Louisa will be lost without her Pépère. Won’t you please reconsider your decision and stay with us?”
“I’m sorry, Narcissa, but you know why we can’t stay. Draco will need somewhere to live when he returns and this is his home. I won’t exacerbate an already horribly uncomfortable situation even further by hanging around here with a child he doesn’t know and probably won’t want.”
“You don’t know that, Hermione. He’ll probably fall in love with Louisa in the first ten seconds that he sees her. This manor is so large that you’d never need to run into each other unless you wanted to. We really wish you’d stay,” she pleaded.
Hermione’s resolve was wearing down ever so slightly, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be cajoled or bullied. If she stayed, it would be because she made the decision that it was best for her and her daughter. She hadn’t yet reached that conclusion, and felt fairly certain that she would stick to her original plan to find a small apartment for the two of them. “The best I can do, Narcissa, is to promise that I’ll think about it, but please don’t get your hopes up.”
“That’s better than a flat-out ‘no,’ I suppose,” she sighed again.
“Look, I’m sure we have a few days to work all of this out. Let’s just enjoy our day in Hogsmeade with Louisa. Maybe you and I could even look at a couple of places so that you’d be comfortable with where we’re living,” Hermione offered.
“That’s fine, dear. But I will insist that you allow us to pay for your apartment if you do decide to leave,” Narcissa replied, her voice an odd mixture of warmth and sternness.
“Narcissa…”
The older woman lifted a hand to stop Hermione’s coming protest. “You’ve only just completed your Healer training and it will take you a few months to have enough cash flow to manage everything. Lucius and I will pay for the apartment and for any furnishings you need for Louisa, and that’s final.” Left unspoken was the implication that any bill Hermione incurred while furnishing her new home would mysteriously never arrive in her owl post. Narcissa drove a hard bargain and never lost a battle she felt was worth fighting. The substantial trust funds that had been established for Louisa, with Hermione’s reluctant consent, and for Hermione herself, about which the young woman knew nothing at the moment, went unmentioned.
“Let’s just get Louisa and go. I’d like to stop off at the Apothecary before it closes at noon,” Hermione mentioned.
The two women found Lucius and Louisa splayed out on the floor of her playroom, hundreds of blocks surrounding them in an odd approximation of a castle and moat. They were speaking their own special language, a mix of French, English, and baby talk, when Hermione cleared her throat to gain their attention.
“Pépère builds, Mummy!” Louisa excitedly announced.
“So he does, sweetheart,” Hermione acknowledged. “It looks like Louisa builds too.”
“Yes, Mummy. Me too.” Her blonde curls bobbed up and down along with her head.
“Are you ready to come with Mummy and Mémère? We’re going to Hogsmeade to get you some new shoes.”
“Me loves new shoes!” Louisa agreed.
“I love new shoes,” Hermione corrected automatically.
“Mummy loves new shoes too?”
The adults laughed, but Louisa’s look of confusion made it clear that she didn’t understand their amusement.
“We’ll be back in a couple of hours, Lucius. Don’t wait for us for lunch; we’ll probably get something in town,” Narcissa instructed.
“Yes, love. Shall I assume we’ll all be together for dinner?”
“Certainly. Have Tuppy prepare roast chicken tonight,” Narcissa called over her shoulder as the three women left the room to head out for the afternoon. It was still a bit brisk, so the three ladies donned coats, gloves, and hats to ward off the late March chill. Lucius was still sitting on the floor stacking blocks when they activated the Floo five minutes later.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Draco Malfoy was as happy as he could remember being in his entire life. Today was the final day of his exile from Wizarding Great Britain and he had finally finished packing up the few items he wanted from his life in Salem. It hadn’t been an easy road, but he’d managed first to survive and then to grow. Flourishing, he hoped, would come next.
Within a couple of weeks, he had found employment in a Muggle-owned restaurant that catered to the tourists who flooded Salem, all believing that the lore of wizardry was from a long-dead time in history. He’d picked that as a possibility because it was the one area of the Muggle world to which he’d had even the tiniest exposure, thanks to Granger’s cooking lessons. He hadn’t hated that – had actually found it a bit relaxing and interesting, so he’d decided that the restaurant business would be his refuge. He started as a kitchen helper, clearing tables and washing pots. He earned the rough equivalent of sixty Galleons a week, plus any tips that the more generous wait staff might share. The work was backbreaking and dirty, but Draco dove in with enthusiasm, hoping to gain something akin to satisfaction from his tiny and incremental accomplishments.
Having been blessed with both a sharp intellect and quick wit, the young man quickly made an impression on his supervisors and gained more responsibility. Within three months, he’d been promoted to a waiter’s job and earned an additional forty dollars each week, about eight more Galleons in Wizard money. Tips brought in another fifty dollars, and he was now able to afford to take the bus to work when the weather was bad, as it often was on Massachusetts’ north shore.
He’d found, however, that while he’d had some minor success at work, his personal situation was less stable. He’d been plagued with horrible nightmares since he had arrived in Salem, and he had no idea what to do about it. It had gone on for weeks, and he was beginning to feel the effects of interrupted and reduced sleep. Worse, he didn’t have any idea whether the dreams were simply his imagination or memories that were beginning to resurface after having been repressed for so many years. He finally confided in his father during one late night conversation through the Floo. The following week, Lucius had secured – with Barrister Phillips’ help - permission from the Ministry to pay for Mind Healer visits for Draco. They had approved visits to a Muggle Psychologist if Draco was unable to find a Wizarding equivalent in Salem. Just days later, Draco was fortunate to find a Mind Healer who had also had earned a PhD as a Muggle Psychologist at the renowned and prestigious Boston University. He had been visiting Dr. David Roy for an hour each week for the last two and a half years; he would miss the man’s insights and empathetic ear.
Dr. Roy had helped Draco to rebuild his sense of self and repair his battered self-esteem. He’d given Draco tools to cope with his disappointments and manage his anger. He’d helped the young man to recognize where blame should rest and when to shoulder his share of responsibility. Draco’s nightmares did not disappear completely, but they did trouble him less frequently, and he was finally coming to accept himself as a man who was not flawless, but who had something to offer to the world.
Along his journey of self-discovery, Draco progressed further still in his career at the Grapevine Restaurant. He watched and learned, and soon he was working as a prep chef, spending the day chopping, filleting, stirring, and sautéing. It wasn’t glamorous, and he still only earned less than the equivalent of one hundred Galleons a week, but he felt that he was doing an honest day’s work, and that was the greatest sense of accomplishment he’d ever had. It was enough.
Draco had had another startling surprise in his personal journey. After the first year, he’d petitioned per the terms of his sentence to have his wand and magic privileges reinstated. Since he had met all of the requirements they had placed upon him, the Wizengamot had kept their end of the bargain and returned his thin hawthorn wand along with his right to cast magic. What had been startling was that he’d tucked the wand away in a drawer and used it only rarely. Working and achieving with his hands had become an elemental part of his recovery and healing; he would not take the easy way when he had lessons still to learn.
Now that the time had come to leave Salem, Draco’s joy mingled with the likelihood that he’d miss his adopted home in the historic town of Salem had Hippogriffs dancing in his stomach. His Portkey would be leaving in two minutes, and he’d checked three times to ensure that he’d not forgotten anything. Those Hippogriffs had become prancing Thestrels.
When the Portkey activated, he was deposited at the debarkation spot at the edge of Hogsmeade. It was a lovely day, and he thought he’d stroll through the town center for a few moments to get reacquainted with the shops and purveyors. He wasn’t expected anywhere, so a little walk wouldn’t create any issues.
He walked along the center street, peering in windows and stopping now and again to take a closer look at something that caught his eye. He was nearing the Apothecary when his eye was most definitely caught by a woman standing outside the shop. He wasn’t close enough to be absolutely certain, but from the rear, the woman looked like his mother. But, he reasoned, it just couldn’t be her. She was holding the hand of a small child, no more than two or three years old. He was drawn subconsciously to the woman who so resembled the mother who’d risked everything for him, and he found that he had taken several steps in her direction without even realizing that he’d moved. His eyes widened as the woman turned to profile, and her resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy became more than coincidence.
His other senses began to function and he heard the child speak. “Mémère, where is Mummy? Why is she taking so long?”
The Narcissa Malfoy look-alike smiled at the child, obviously a girl, he noted as the whipping wind sent her little hat flying and her long, blonde curls tumbling to her shoulders. “Look, Louisa, she’s coming now.”
Draco tried not to look. Something told him it would be a very bad idea. But his eyes refused to listen to reason and he followed the direction of the woman’s gaze. The door of the Apothecary swung open and another woman stepped into the sunlight. The little girl shouted an enthusiastic greeting - “Mummy!” – and vaulted into her mother’s arms. This woman was a Hermione Granger look-alike.
Oh, Merlin. No. How can this be? Draco Malfoy felt the blood leave his face and the ability to remain upright desert him in an instant. His knees buckled beneath him and struck the ground with a thud. In that moment, Narcissa Malfoy gasped in shock. In that moment, Hermione Granger met his eyes. In that next breath, the tiny, bright eyes he met were an exact copy of his own.
Finis
AN: “Mémère” and “Pépère” are French colloquialisms for Grandma and Grandpa, and they are the names I called my (very, totally, 100% French-speaking) grandparents, all four of them!
Nominated as "Best Multi-Chapter Story" in the Deathly Hallows Awards, December 2010. Voting at deathlyhallowsawards dot blogspot dot com through December 30, 2010. I would appreciate your support if you liked my work!
A sequel to this work is in progress. Consequences and Complexities will be posted on this site starting in January. I invite you to come back and read it!