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