Out of the Silent Planet

Title: Out of the Silent Planet (33/39)
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Plot driven smut, Darkfic, Romance, Drama, Angst...
Warnings: M/F, Bondage, slight non-con, voyeurism, oral, anal, Dom/sub issues, Dark!Draco, and HBP spoilers.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts - Hermione Granger fulfills Severus Snape's final wish, to journey to Japan to ‘retrieve' something of importance. Set eleven years after HBP.
Author's Notes: This is my first DM/HG ficlet, so please be kind to the newbie! The title of this fic is taken from C.S. Lewis' book, first in the Perelandra Chronicles.

All hail kazfeist! Uber thanks goes to her for beta-ing this chapter, and for her help in the future!



Out of the Silent Planet
Chapter Thirty-Three – Of departures and keys to kingdoms




The figure that stood in the foyer of Malfoy Manor turned slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps, yet it was too dark in the hall for Draco to discern a face beneath the cowl of the cloak. However, as he came within a few feet of the figure, Draco knew that the person under the cloak was too tall to be Hermione Granger, and the scent was wrong. The person who stood in the darkness was male, and familiar.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Matsumoto?” Draco drawled, flicking a finger to light the sconces upon the walls.

Yuki Matsumoto pushed back the cowl of his traveling cloak and greeted Draco with a wry smile.

“A courtesy call, brother, to inform you that you will finally have your wish.”

The tone of Yuki’s voice was icy, sarcastic and intrinsically a Snape tone of voice. It caused Draco to pause, but quickly he steeled his resolve.

“Oh? And which wish is that?” Draco returned just as coolly.

“My resignation from Hogwarts, effective at the end of term. Are you pleased with yourself?”

Yuki’s eyes were like two chasms of eternal darkness, and Draco paused again. The man exuded danger, but it was nothing that could not be contained. Draco knew he was protected by the Manor, the elves listening from the walls, and by his own ability. It would be foolhardy for Severus’ son to do anything rash within the walls of Malfoy Manor.

“Quite. Is this a goodbye, then?” Draco drawled again, knowing all too well that his drawl irritated the man standing before him.

“In a manner. I suppose I have come to tell you that you have won,” Yuki said softly with a smirk.

Draco, again, took pause, and blinked. “What do you mean?”

Yuki shifted on his feet, raising a pale hand to swipe at a strand of familiar ebony hair.

“I suppose I mean that I have always been jealous of you, ever since knowing of you. My father…my father cherished you like a son and erased my existence from his mind. He sheltered and protected you, and not me. He was more your family than mine. But it is not only that. It was Hermione, too. Beautiful, bright, loving, and wonderful…you should have treated her better. But I suppose for someone as spoiled as you were, you wouldn’t have the first inkling that you were taking such wonderful things for granted.”

The longer Draco stared at the man, the more he could see Severus. It was nothing short of unsettling, the same eyes, the same voice…

“I know that she is haunted by you and whatever you may have done to her. And as much as I would take her for myself, she will not have me.”

Draco swallowed thickly; even pained, Yuki was almost the embodiment of Severus.

“So, I have sworn that if Hermione Granger should ever need my help, I would give it to her. Whether it is to save her from her troubles, or from you, I would give it. If you should hurt, mistreat, or humiliate her, I swear by the gods I will risk everything to destroy you, Malfoy.”

At this statement, Draco felt a surge of magic emanating from the dark man. It was a threat, one that even he, with his own power, would be forced to recognize. Yuki Matsumoto was no weakling, and Draco knew that Yuki would be true to his oath.

“You are no longer my brother, nor my concern, Ryu. Therefore I bid you a farewell; I will not darken your door any longer.”

And with that, Draco watched as Yuki Matsumoto’s cloak billowed as he moved to the Floo and disappeared in a swirl of green fire. The air changed with Yuki gone from the foyer, and the ghost of Severus Snape seemed to slowly retreat to the back of Draco’s mind. The power and brevity of Yuki’s words had struck an uncomfortable chord in Draco’s soul.

Akin to walking with balls and chains about his ankles, Draco made his way back into the comfortable confines of his home, hoping to find some solace.

* * *

It had been some time since Toku Matsumoto had come to see Hermione in her office, therefore, when Melinda informed Hermione that she had another visitor waiting, Hermione could not help but feel uneasy.

She had resolved, finally, to face her feelings for Draco Malfoy, but as if fate were playing a cruel trick, the gifts and letters stopped completely. Hermione was berating herself for being so cowardly as to not write a letter or Floo the Manor. As if excusing herself from her feelings, Hermione kept telling herself that time was not right and that she should let Draco Malfoy stew until it was time. It was the lamest of excuses, but her resolve had not lessened. Therefore when Hermione met Cormac McClaggan in her office, a black parcel bearing the Malfoy crest having been forcefully shoved into her hands , Hermione wondered if she had made the right choice in allowing herself to feel anything for Draco.

“I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that you are to open this parcel in my presence, and if it takes hours or days, I am to be with you to witness this event,” Cormac McClaggan growled, obviously none too pleased with his current assignment.

Hermione could only gape at the man, ex-Gryffindor and senior to her, it was not only the fact that she was to open the parcel in his presence, but also the fact that Cormac McClaggan seemed to think of Hermione as something a little better than trash. Had he not been the one who had tried to seduce her in sixth year? Hermione closed her mouth and set her teeth. She was richer and far more successful than McClaggan, the Slug Club be damned. Perhaps it was the unpleasantness of his task, she thought, but at the very least the man could greet her with a simple ‘hello, how have you been all these years, Miss Granger?’

“Very well, Mr. McClaggan, I will not prolong your suffering,” Hermione muttered, moving around her desk to sit and consider the parcel on the desktop.

McClaggan sat in the adjacent chair across the desk, eyeing the parcel impatiently, glancing to Hermione sharply as a sign for her to make haste.

Hermione frowned as she broke the pale green wax seal and opened the lid. There were two items in the box, the first she touched being a scroll of parchment, scented lightly with a musk that screamed the identity of the writer. Hermione took the scroll first, more concerned with the contents written upon the heavy parchment than the other item. Breaking another seal, Hermione unwound the scroll and set back in her chair. Her eyes focused upon her name at the top, executed in a familiar copperplate.

‘Hermione, I first must apologize for the many gifts I sent. I have apparently offended your nature by sending gifts at all. I suppose I should elaborate by saying that you were probably never the sort to expect gifts from a man trying to make penance for his misbehavior. It is a shallow brand of apology to send expensive gifts, I suppose, and it is only now that I realize you are not the sort to be placated so easily. Of course, this fact pleases me, but also makes it more difficult as well.

And for what am I apologizing? Everything, in a manner of speaking. Starting with my latest transgression and my mistreatment of you at the New Year’s party... I also apologize for being a complete and utter git, generally. Of course, this does not mean that I will ever be free of making myself into a total and unforgivable arse; it seems to be part of my nature, unfortunately. I promise to try to be reasonable, to the best of my ability.

I suppose, I am trying to convey that I am willing and wishing that we could talk. There are so many things that I would like to tell you, and so many things I wish I could take back. There are also so many things I would like to thank you for, simply because I know I have not.

I would like for you to meet me, if possible, at a location and time my solicitor will provide. I only ask for you to meet me, talk with me, and nothing more. I am not expecting you to extend your hand in friendship after all the horrid things I have said and done to you through the years, and more recently. But I would hope that we could come to an understanding and at least part on better terms.

Enclosed is a token of my true intention to make amends, please keep it safe, and promise to use it whenever you should need or desire it.’

Hermione paused to look inside the parcel to the second object. It was, to her surprise, a large bronze key, ornately carved and ages old by the looks of it. Reaching for the key, Hermione’s hand paused, her innate magic sensing a different type of magic emanating from the bronze. However, Hermione could feel no malignant magic from the item and took it into her hands. In the back of her brain she registered that the key had been warded and that by her touch the key began a recognition pattern, imprinting her unique aura of magical power into the very metal and accepting it. Hermione almost wanted to test the key’s power by having McClaggan try to touch the key, but she knew that at the worst the grumpy ex-Gryffindor would suffer a nasty brand of hex, possibly permanent.

Moving her eyes to the remainder of the scroll, it seemed, by his next few words, Draco had expected her to take the key.

‘This key is given to the spouses of the Malfoy heirs, since I have no spouse, or betrothed, I give this to you as a sign of trust. The fact that it is a key should not go unnoticed. You are bright, Hermione, you can rationalize what a key means. In this sense, I give you the right to enter my home, just as you allowed me into yours.

Now, I will conclude this missive by asking that you make your reply to my request to meet through McClaggan. And do tell him that this task is completed, his fee already in his accounts, and to go home and get some rest.

Sincerely, D.’

Hermione smirked at the flourish below the ‘D’ on the parchment and raised her eyes to consider the fidgety McClaggan.

“I will meet with him, Mr. McClaggan, send me the details. Oh, and Mr. Malfoy releases you from the obligation of this task…you have been paid, and now go home, your services to me are no longer required,” Hermione tried to say firmly, but could not help but let a chuckle pass her lips.

Clutching the key tight in her hand, Hermione watched McClaggan leave, apparently offended by her words and nature. But Hermione could not think of Cormac McClaggan when she felt as if she were flying through a strangely wonderful dream.

* * *


It was during a visit to Rowena’s Respite that Hermione received an owl from Cormac McClaggan, conveying that she meet with Draco at the Leaky Cauldron three days hence. A suspicious Millicent Longbottom kept pacing the parlor, a crawling child traversing the Persian rug while Augusta Longbottom muttered that the child was getting too close to the fender and his mother should pick him up. Hermione could only beam at the crawling babe as he gurgled and tugged at the hem of her robes as she sat next to the fire.

“Do sit down, Millie, you are worrying me and little Frank!” Hermione chuckled, finally lifting the babe in her arms and nuzzling the child’s pudgy cheek, taking in the babe’s natural sweet scent.

“Pardon me for being concerned, Hermione,” Millie huffed, falling into the adjacent chair.

Millie was still on maternity leave, and by Hermione’s point of view, the leave had done Millie well. The lack of stress from the office seemed to bring back even more of Millie’s spitfire attitude, lending to new color and beauty to her square face and long ebony hair. Of course, Hermione also knew that Millie still held that glow of a woman who was madly in love with being a mother. Frank adored his mother, and his father for that matter. Even at four and half months, closer to five in all, Frank was quite agile and bright for a baby. He was already crawling, but not quite at the point to stand on his own. Frank was also beginning to speak something more than babble and his magical ability was slowly beginning to manifest, mostly in small objects flying through the air to him if he desired them…usually empty tea cups and Neville’s tiny pots of Mimbulus mimbletonia sitting on various windowsills of the house. Frank’s ability distressed Millie at times, but delighted Hermione every time she witnessed it.

“It is only a meeting, Millie, and nothing more,” Hermione said absently, trying to disengage Frank’s little fist from her hair.

“It is not only a meeting, Hermione, it is also this key!” Millie breathed angrily, pointing to the bulge in Hermione’s robes where she had kept the key close to her at all times since receiving it.

“It is not something to worry about, Millie, I assure you,” Hermione pleaded, shifting Frank in her arms to rock the babe.

“It is the heirloom given to Malfoy brides, Hermione, it is not some trifle. Do you not realize how important that key is? It is a sign of something more than trust. It is a sign, an intention of marriage, Hermione.”

Hermione blinked. Surely not, she thought. Not Draco Malfoy…

“The key is also a sign of protection, a talisman of a sort. My mother told me long ago that the woman who possessed the key to the Malfoy Manor had unlimited access to the house, as well as its protection. And perhaps you did not know, but Narcissa Malfoy was stripped of that key not long before she died…that was supposedly she was able to be murdered in her own home. It was my understanding that Lucius had taken the key away from her somehow, and had the key with him when he fled. It must have taken Draco a very long time to procure it from the Ministry.”

Hermione said nothing, still rocking a drowsy Frank in her arms. Millie stared at Hermione, her dark eyes widening as the seconds ticked by on the clock over the mantle.

“Send it back, Hermione, and do yourself a favor.”

Hermione sighed. “Not yet, Millie. Not until I know what he wants to talk about.”

Millie threw up her hands in defeat, rolling her eyes and falling back into her chair. “Still this, then? Still this hope that Draco will be the ‘one?’ Hermione, please…please stop doing this to yourself!”

Hermione cringed at Millie’s tone and glanced down at Frank, fast asleep and none the wiser of his mother’s distress. Hermione slowly arranged her face into the softest of smiles.

“I cannot, Millie, not until I know for certain.”

“Know what?” Millie asked, dejectedly.

“Know that I can make my own happiness with or without him.”

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was as dark and fragrant as ever, and Hermione could not remember the last time she had been inside the establishment. The scent of butter beer, stew, warm bread and pipe smoke brought back fond memories as she made her way to the bar to speak with Tom, the publican. With a few loud words over the din of the evening regulars, Hermione was shown to a private parlor in the back of the pub and shown the tea service sitting upon a central table near a cheery fire. Hermione knew she was early, as it had been her habit for years, and helped herself to some tea.

Minutes passed on the enchanted cuckoo clock by the door and when the little bird popped out of the clock, flew from its perch, and twittered about the clock and back inside to signify nine o’clock, Hermione sat on the edge of her seat, waiting for a fair haired gentleman to enter the parlor at any moment.

The cuckoo peeped out of the clock at the half hour and creaked at Hermione sadly as she sat, shaking her leg impatiently and staring at the fire.

At the top of the hour, the cuckoo flew out again only to streak back inside at the dark expression on Hermione’s face. The ever-filling teapot was slowly refilling and Hermione wanted a chance to head for a lavatory. She had waited little over an hour, and she had consulted her note over twenty times. Yes, she was in the right place, yes, she had arrived at the appropriate time, but still she waited.

At a quarter past, Tom poked his head in and sighed at the sight of a very angry and very red Hermione Granger. Hermione rose, and asked to use the Floo, her voice tight and restrained. Throwing the powder into the fireplace, Hermione knelt down and thrust her head in. What seemed like ages, a familiar elf answered the call and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“What’s the Granger want?” Hobbin wheezed in what Hermione could only translate into a form of elfish surprise.

“Your Master, is he at home?”

“No Master is not, he is gone for the ‘down under’ for over a week now. What’s the Granger want?”

Hermione sighed. Hobbin’s dislike for her had not waned in the few years since she had last met with him, but she supposed it was only natural, Hobbin was a Malfoy elf after all.

“I was to meet with your Master, and he has decided not to come. I had hoped for an explanation?”

Hobbin seemed to scoff, but it seemed more like a retch. “I knows of no meeting, Granger. Good night to you!”

The Floo call was terminated so quickly that Hermione had to fall away from the fire lest she be burnt. However, the angry fire that was raging inside her belly and chest was hotter. Rearranging her cloak about her shoulders, Hermione glanced at the clock once again and growled. Inside the clock, the tiny cuckoo shuddered.



* * *

Seven times clockwise, seven times widdershins, repeat three times, let simmer for twelve minutes, Hermione thought in a line of a mantra in her mind. She kept repeating this formula for Blood Replenishing Draught over and over, a technique not only for Potions making, but to keep her focused on her task. Focus was an aspect she knew she was lacking.

Seven times clockwise, seven times widdershins, repeat three…

It was at this point, after waiting the twelve minutes that Hermione swayed on her feet. Catching herself on the edge of the worktable, Hermione tried to remember if she had eaten breakfast. The days had begun to run together and she wondered exactly when the last time was that she had eaten.

Seven times clockwise… A wave of nausea swept over her and Hermione dropped her stirring rod into the potion and backed away from the cauldron.

Maybe she was ill, even in the Wizarding world, it was not uncommon for a witch or wizard to get the flu. However, somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione knew that she did not have a virus and the nausea swept over her again. Doubling over, Hermione hugged her middle, her eyes catching sight of what she thought was a splatter of potion on the hem of her long lab coat…red, dark red blood?

Seven times…

Hermione swooned, the momentarily lapse in her consciousness lasting longer than she had expected, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap of limbs and blood-stained lab coat.

When she woke, it was to find one of the nurses in the Apothecary’s infirmary looking over her, running a wand tip along her forehead to take her temperature. The nurse smiled down at Hermione and spoke to a Dicta-Quill that was taking down Hermione vital signs on a floating clipboard.

“Relax now, Miss Granger, you are fine. We were afraid you possibly hit your head when you fainted, but everything seems to be fine. I have called in Mrs. Longbottom to examine you, she is arriving now…”

Hermione blinked, the nurse’s words barely making any sense. She remembered not feeling well, she remembered the blackness of a faint, but the causes as to why eluded her. And why was Millie coming? Millie was on maternity leave…

Slowly, Hermione let her eyes move about her bed, there were screens around her, and a bedside table littered with empty potion phials…and blood tinged swabs. It was not until Hermione tried to sit up that she felt the pain. The only similar pain she could remember was that of being kicked in the middle once during an intense training session with Remus, Tonks, Kingsley, and Moody just before the War. The pain was a dull and constant throb, which did not ebb unless she lay perfectly still. So, that she did, and waited and listened.

When she heard the ward door open in the distance and the muted and unintelligible words of two women speaking in hushed tones, Hermione knew that Millie had arrived. Hermione tried not to let the expression on Millie’s face unsettle her. Having pushed through the screens, Millicent Longbottom looked stricken, pale, and grave. Hermione lay very still as Millie looked over the clipboard in her hand and then down at Hermione’s face. Then, sitting gently on the side of the cot, Millie wiped at Hermione’s brow as a mother would to sooth an ailing child.

“What is it, Millie?” was all that Hermione could manage. Her mouth was terribly dry, and her words sounded weak and airy, like the voice of one just on the edge of a dream.

“The staff have stabilized you, darling, and the child in your womb is out of danger. However, you are to stay in bed for a while. When you regain your strength you are not to work, you are not to become stressed, do you understand?” Millie intoned softly, her voice hinting at a strain.

Hermione blinked rapidly. No, she did not understand, Millie’s words were akin to nonsense. And when it was clear to Millie that her words were not sinking farther than Hermione’s skull, she grasped Hermione’s hands, her lips trembling.

“You did not know you were pregnant?”

Hermione’s lips worked, but no words came.

“If you had known you would not have been so daft as to be in the laboratories working around potions and ingredients that would cause miscarriage, would you?”

Millie’s tone was harsh, and Hermione felt her breathing constrict. Her body seized suddenly and Millie called out for the nurse. She was panicking, she knew, but it was so rare for her to panic so violently, her body refusing to obey her thoughts to breathe. It was not until a wand tip pressed her arm and magic began suffuse through her blood that Hermione began to realize her current situation.

Pregnant! She was pregnant. It almost seemed impossible, but as Hermione lay prone on the cot while Millie and the nurse began fussing over Hermione again, wands taking down vital signs, scanning her belly to monitor a life she had not realized was there, she knew that it was indeed possible. She had not taken her monthly potion in January…and she could not remember taking it in February. It was now March…

“The child is well, despite the adverse reaction to fumes, potions and ingredients. If it had not been for the child’s innate magic, your body would have rejected it totally. But darling, how could you not know?”

It was Millie’s voice, pained and concerned.

Hermione worked her lips again to speak, but again, nothing came.

It had been at New Years. How stupid could she have been? A simple spell could have eliminated the possibility of a child…a child fathered by Draco Malfoy.

“She must be sedated Mrs. Longbottom, her blood pressure is far too high. The shock will cause another attack,” the nurse whispered urgently, to which Millie agreed.

Malfoy’s child… Merlin, how could she have been so stupid?

* * *

For so many years of having had to deal with a crippling handicap, Hermione could never get used to the times she would have to lay in bed. Even after her procedure, she had vowed to never let her body keep her from moving. Therefore, the two weeks of bed rest at home proved maddening. What made it all the worse was Millie’s constant fussing and Minerva’s outbursts of happiness and reproach. Only Millie and Minerva came to stay with Hermione during those two weeks. And as far was Millie knew, the nurses in the Apothecary Ward had kept their mouths shut concerning their employer’s condition.

Hermione answered Millie and Minerva’s question about the father, to which both women were silently shocked. It was Minerva, however, who was more accepting of the fact that Hermione was now carrying a Malfoy heir. Millie’s disposition, Hermione thought, could only be described as sullen. Hermione could not blame her friend; she herself could not feel very much joy in the fact that she was pregnant.

Hermione was single and the father of her child had abandoned her once again to a fate unknown to even the man’s solicitor. Hermione had sent owls, only to have them returned with news that Draco Malfoy was not at home, or Draco Malfoy was inaccessible, or Draco Malfoy was not to be found…

The anger of being left at the Leaky Cauldron had not lessened. The letter, the key, and the promises of a type of reconciliation with a childhood bully, adult responsibility due to a Wizarding oath, and later subject of great mental pains, left Hermione feeling as if she had some how been hoodwinked into believing that her life would some how achieve a sense of normalcy. And now…she was carrying a child. There was no debate on what Hermione would do with the child. She would not purposely destroy a life, she would not shirk the responsibility of her mistake, and she would not resent the life growing inside her womb. In fact, as she lay in her large bed in her quiet cottage, she knew she loved the child. It was part of her, inexorably, and she would not experience anything less than love and devotion to a child from her flesh.

After two weeks, even Millie was beginning to warm to the thought of Hermione’s child. But ever the realist, Millie asked what Hermione planned to do if and when Draco Malfoy was to learn of the child. Hermione did not know what to do. It would be unfair to keep the child secret. Once it was born, it would be obvious who the parents were…the child’s birth would be recorded in the Ministry’s annals of magical children born in Britain and eligible for admission of Hogwarts. Hermione knew she could leave Britain if she wished, but the secret of her child would eventually be revealed, no matter whether it was born in Britain or any other country. A record would exist somewhere.

In mid-April, an owl arrived late in the evening as Hermione sat alone, reading before the fire of her cottage. Minerva and Millie had finally managed to convince themselves Hermione was well enough to be alone, and resumed their own duties and lives, Minerva at Hogwarts, and Millie at home with Frank. The arrival of the owl startled Hermione to move to the window. Extracting a small scroll of parchment from the bird’s leg, Hermione moved to the fire and read.

The handwriting was of that of Cormac McClaggan, expressing that his client wished for her to come to Malfoy Manor that evening. Draco Malfoy had finally, after nearly two months, returned to his ancestral home.

Hermione sat silently for a long moment, staring at the low fire in the grate. The time had come, finally. All the feelings she had had the night she was to meet Draco Malfoy at the Leaky Cauldron returned, but there was something additional…now. Running a hand across the slight protuberance of her belly, Hermione summoned her cloak and the key she had kept on her bedside table for two months. Donning her cloak and clutching the brass key in her hand, Hermione moved to the door of the cottage and out into the small garden. With a quick breath and the squashing of reconsideration, Hermione willed the key to Malfoy Manor to take her there.