Ginny stepped further into the penthouse, her gaze sweeping over the ostentatious display of wealth with thinly veiled disdain. Everything about the space screamed Malfoy—marble floors polished to an almost blinding shine, towering bookshelves filled with first-edition tomes that probably hadn't been touched in years, and an air of meticulously curated opulence that somehow still felt cold. It was elegant, breathtaking even, but utterly devoid of warmth. Just like the man who owned it.
She wrinkled her nose, barely suppressing the urge to scoff. "Still overcompensating, I see."
Draco, lounging lazily in a sleek leather chair, barely spared her a glance before exhaling a slow, amused sigh. His smirk was faint but unmistakable, the ever-present arrogance dancing in his silver eyes. He crossed one leg over the other, exuding the kind of effortless superiority that had always made her want to hex him on sight.
"It's called luxury, Weasley," he drawled, his voice smooth as silk. "Though I suppose I can understand why someone who spent their childhood surrounded by threadbare jumpers and hand-me-down furniture might confuse it for excess."
Her spine stiffened. There it was. The ever-so-predictable jab at her upbringing, because Merlin forbid a conversation with Draco Malfoy pass without a reminder of the Weasley family's less-than-affluent status.
She lifted her chin, feigning boredom, though her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to throw something sharp at his stupid, aristocratic face. "Funny. I didn't realize 'luxury' was synonymous with 'decorating like a mausoleum.'"
His chuckle was low, infuriatingly calm, like she had just mildly entertained him rather than landed an actual insult. "And yet, here you are, willingly stepping into my mausoleum." He leaned forward, elbows resting lazily on his knees, his smirk widening. "Careful, Ginevra. You might find yourself impressed, and I wouldn't want to send you into an identity crisis."
Her glare could have melted through steel. "I'm here for Hermione, not to endure your smug face."
At the mention of his wife, something in his expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. The amusement dulled at the edges, though his voice retained its edge. "She's not home yet, but she will be soon. Feel free to sit down and wait—though I can't guarantee the furniture will appreciate your presence."
She ignored the jab, crossing her arms over her chest, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "I don't need your permission to wait for my best friend."
Draco's smirk thinned, his posture straightening ever so slightly. "Best friend, is it?" he mused, his tone deceptively casual. "Interesting choice of words, considering how quick you were to turn your back on her when she needed you most."
Her breath hitched, but she recovered quickly, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "Don't you dare lecture me about loyalty, Malfoy. Not after everything you've done."
He exhaled slowly, a measured breath, before meeting her gaze with something eerily steady. "I've made my mistakes," he admitted, voice void of denial. "More than I can count. But everything I do now is for her. She's my entire world, and if you think for even a second that I'd let anyone—anyone—hurt her again, you're more delusional than I gave you credit for."
Ginny scoffed, shaking her head. "Spare me the noble act. You're still the same selfish, manipulative prat you've always been."
Draco moved then, standing in a slow, deliberate motion, towering over her with all the poise of a predator sizing up its prey. "I may be many things, Weasley," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "But when it comes to her, I am nothing but devoted. She is the best part of me, and I will never apologize for protecting her—especially not to you."
She clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth might crack. Because she saw it. The truth in his words. The sheer, undeniable reverence he carried for Hermione, the way her name alone altered the very air around him. It infuriated her, because for all his many, many sins, Ginny couldn't deny that Draco Malfoy loved Hermione Granger with a depth that made even the darkest parts of his soul bend for her.
And that complicated things.
Her hand hovered near the edge of the pristine sofa as if debating whether to commit to the space, whether staying was worth enduring another moment of this tension, this raw, unrelenting mess between them. Finally, with great reluctance, she perched on the very edge of the seat, spine ramrod straight, arms still crossed like a shield.
The silence that followed was oppressive, thick like smoke clinging to every inch of the grand room. The grandiose decor did nothing to ease the discomfort. If anything, its cold elegance only magnified the emotional void that had grown between them over the years.
Draco remained standing, his gaze sharp, watchful, calculating, as if waiting for her to strike first. Ginny, however, simply stared at the door, willing Hermione to appear and spare them both from this unbearable tension.
She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold her tongue.
Draco Malfoy rarely did what anyone expected.
" I feel bad about what happened ," he said suddenly, his voice measured but carrying an unmistakable weight.
Ginny's head snapped toward him so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "What?" Her tone was sharp, disbelieving, as if the very idea was too absurd to entertain. She stared at him like he'd just declared his undying love for Muggle fashion or announced he was running for Minister of Magic.
He leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed by her reaction, his expression betraying nothing. His hands steepled in front of him, fingertips tapping against each other as if calculating his next move. "I said, I feel bad about what happened. About… everything."
Her laugh was sharp and humorless, cutting through the tension like a well-aimed curse. "You? You feel bad?" Her brow arched, lips twisting into a cruel smirk. "So, what ? You're apologizing now? Trying to make yourself feel better?"
He inclined his head, the movement controlled, deliberate. " Yes ," he said simply. "I'm sorry ."
She let out another laugh, this one even colder than the last. " Well, I don't forgive you ."
His jaw tensed, just for a fraction of a second, but his expression didn't waver. " Ginny, I said I'm sorry ."
" And I said I don't forgive you ," she snapped, the words slicing through the air. Her nails dug into the upholstery of the sofa, the only outward sign of how tightly she was holding onto her fury. " You don't get to walk away from this clean, Malfoy. You don't get absolution just because you suddenly grew a conscience ."
His eyes flickered—frustration, maybe, or guilt. Maybe something else. "I'm genuinely sorry," he repeated, and this time, his voice had softened, almost hesitant. It was a rare thing, hearing vulnerability from Draco Malfoy.
But Ginny wasn't interested in vulnerability.
She leaned forward, her gaze burning, her voice a lethal whisper. "No. I'm not giving you closure," she hissed, every syllable laced with venom. " You don't get that. You have to live with the horrible thing you did for the rest of your life. You have to know that's never, ever going to be forgiven ."
And for the first time, his composure cracked.
His fingers curled into fists against his thighs, his stormy eyes darkening as her words landed with precision. There was something almost haunted in the way he looked at her, something raw and exposed, but he refused to let her see the full weight of it. Instead, he exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly before delivering his next blow with surgical precision.
"I hope you said the same thing to your husband."
The room froze.
Ginny's breath caught, her entire body locking up as though he had physically struck her. Bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly where to drive the knife, and he had done so without hesitation.
Her lips parted, a retort balanced on the tip of her tongue, but no sound came out. She had been prepared for this fight, ready for his usual arrogance, his thinly veiled insults, but she hadn't expected that.
He watched her carefully, his expression eerily calm. "Don't you dare," she finally breathed, her voice shaking with a mix of rage and something else—something more fragile, something closer to shame. "Don't you dare bring Blaise into this."
His eyes were steady, unwavering. "Why not?" he asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "It's all connected, isn't it? The choices we made. The things we did. The people we hurt." He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "You think I don't know what I've done? You think I don't live with it every single day?" He let out a short, mirthless laugh. "But don't stand there and act like your husband's hands are clean."
Her pulse roared in her ears, white-hot anger surging through her veins. She shot up from her seat so suddenly that the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "You have no right to judge him," she spat, her finger jabbing toward him, trembling from the sheer force of emotion coiling inside her. "You don't get to sit there in your fucking palace and pretend you're better than the rest of us."
Draco stood, too, towering over her, his broad frame casting a long shadow. "I'm not pretending to be better." His voice was quiet, lethal. "I'm worse. So much worse. But at least I'm not lying to myself about it. Can you say the same?"
Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, her hands curling into fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms. "You're insufferable," she muttered through gritted teeth, turning on her heel and stalking toward the door.
But his voice stopped her cold.
"You came here for Hermione," he said, his tone softer now, but no less firm. "So don't let your hatred for me get in the way of that. She misses you. You miss her. Fix it—for her, if not for yourself."
Her hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers tightening around the cool metal. She didn't turn around, didn't look at him. The air between them was still thick with tension, with everything they had said and everything they hadn't.
Finally, after a long, heavy pause, she exhaled sharply, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't deserve her."
She didn't wait for his response.
The door clicked shut behind her, the finality of it ringing through the room like a judge's gavel. Draco remained motionless, staring at the empty space where she had stood, his entire body rigid with something he couldn't quite define.
His hands tightened into fists at his sides, his breath uneven, his mind a hurricane of thoughts he couldn't silence.
And then, almost too softly to hear, he murmured to no one but himself—
"She's worth all of it."
~~~~~~
Hermione returned just minutes later, the sound of her measured footsteps slicing through the tension that still lingered in the air like a storm refusing to break. The moment she stepped into the penthouse, arms full of groceries, her bemused expression shifted almost instantly into irritation as she took in the sight before her. The rigid way Ginny sat on the sofa, arms crossed tightly over her chest, and the way Draco remained standing, his entire posture wound tight like a coil ready to snap, told her everything she needed to know before a single word was spoken.
She exhaled slowly, as if already bracing herself. "Mon cœur," she said, her tone dangerously even as she set the bags down on the counter. "Did you apologize?"
The sharp edge in her voice suggested she already knew the answer.
Draco hesitated just a fraction too long before finally nodding. "I did…" he began, but the pause was damning. His gaze flickered toward Ginny, who was still glaring daggers at him from across the room, her scowl etched into her features like a permanent fixture.
Ginny scoffed, shaking her head. "You should train your psychopath better," she muttered under her breath, voice dripping in venom.
The smirk that had been ghosting across Draco's face disappeared instantly. His entire demeanor shifted, his spine straightening, his gray eyes darkening with something dangerous. "Watch your mouth, Weaslette," he warned, his voice lowering to something that sent chills down spines.
Ginny barely blinked. "Fuck you," she spat, her words sharp enough to draw blood.
The tension in the room became unbearable, thick and suffocating like the build-up before a thunderclap. Hermione had had enough. She slammed the last grocery bag onto the counter with an unnecessary amount of force, the sound startling them both into silence.
"Enough," she snapped, her voice slicing through the room like a blade. Her eyes burned with frustration as she glared at them both like a mother scolding two misbehaving children. "Both of you. Sit down. Now."
Draco opened his mouth, clearly about to argue, but one look at his wife's expression had him swallowing his words. With an indignant huff, he dropped back into his chair, his jaw clenching as he muttered something about being bossed around in his own home.
Ginny hesitated, defiance written all over her face, but even she knew better than to go toe-to-toe with this version of Hermione. Rolling her eyes, she begrudgingly slumped back against the sofa, her lips pressing into a tight line.
Hermione exhaled through her nose, rubbing at her temples as though physically warding off an impending migraine. "That is quite enough for now," she declared, her voice firm, final. "Exposure therapy is over. Darling, you are dismissed."
Draco arched a brow, amusement flickering through his otherwise irritated expression. "Dismissed?" he repeated, unable to resist pushing.
"Dismissed," she said again, this time with enough authority to make even him rethink his next move.
A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, but he pushed himself up from his chair, brushing nonexistent dust from his trousers as though regaining his dignity. "Yes, ma'am," he said smoothly, offering an exaggerated bow.
But because Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy, he couldn't resist getting the last word. As he turned toward the doorway, he threw a glance over his shoulder at Ginny, his expression one of pure, insufferable mischief.
"Good chat, ginger cunt. Let's do this never."
Ginny didn't even blink before flipping him off, her smirk razor-sharp, her energy practically daring him to say something else.
Draco looked like he might, but then Hermione cleared her throat—pointedly. He shot her a look, but, wisely, chose life.
With one last glare at Ginny, he turned on his heel and strode toward his study, his footsteps echoing through the hall. A moment later, the door clicked shut behind him, sealing him away.
Hermione sighed, long and slow, as if draining the patience left in her soul. She pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she finally muttered, turning to face Ginny. "I thought he'd be with Blaise or Theo. I didn't expect him to still be here."
Ginny waved a hand dismissively, her shoulders loosening slightly now that the blond menace was gone. "It's fine," she muttered, though her tone still carried a bite. "He did apologize."
Hermione's brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "He did?"
Ginny shrugged, suddenly very interested in a stray thread on her sleeve. "Sort of," she admitted begrudgingly. "As much as a self-absorbed Malfoy can apologize."
Hermione pursed her lips, clearly debating whether she wanted to poke the bear further. After a pause, she sighed. "I won't ask how it went."
Ginny exhaled sharply, sinking further into the plush cushions as her gaze flicked toward the abandoned teacup on the table. Her nose wrinkled in distaste, as if even the sight of something so innocuous offended her on a fundamental level. She let out a short, humorless laugh. "You've got your work cut out for you, though," she muttered, shaking her head. "Living with that man must be… exhausting."
Hermione tilted her head slightly, a soft, knowing smile creeping onto her lips. But it wasn't mocking or smug—it was something else entirely. Something warm. Something steady. "Actually," she murmured, voice gentle but firm, "it's the opposite."
Ginny blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the tenderness in her tone. "The opposite?" she echoed, arching an incredulous brow. "Draco Malfoy—the arrogant, self-absorbed, insufferable Ferret—is everything you've ever wanted?" She let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "Please. Don't romanticize him."
Hermione didn't flinch at the jab. Instead, she simply sat back, folding her hands neatly in her lap as if she had all the time in the world. "I'm not romanticizing him, Ginny," she said, her voice even. "I know exactly who he is. The good, the bad, and every terrible thing in between." Then, before Ginny could interrupt, she held up a hand, her expression firm. "And before you start, let's not pretend that either of us has had the luxury of a fairytale."
Ginny's expression darkened, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. "Meaning?"
Hermione sighed, leaning forward slightly, her fingers threading together in her lap. "Meaning," she said carefully, "both of our husbands have done unspeakable things. They've killed. They've lied. They've made choices that would horrify anyone who doesn't live in this world we've been dragged into." She met Ginny's stare without flinching. "They're part of the mafia, Gin. Neither of them is a saint."
Ginny's jaw clenched, her fingernails digging into her arms where they were crossed. "You think I don't know that?" she shot back, her voice tight with something dangerously close to anger. "I'm reminded every damn day."
"I know you know," Hermione said softly. "But the truth is, we both stayed. And it wasn't just because of survival, or loyalty, or because we were afraid of what would happen if we left. We had our reasons—real reasons—ones that went beyond the violence and the chaos."
Ginny's fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. "And what was yours?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
Hermione didn't hesitate. She held Ginny's gaze, unwavering, unafraid. "Love."
The single word hit the air like a spell, charged and heavy, final and undeniable.
Ginny's breath hitched. Her throat tightened, her body stiffening as if her very bones rejected the weight of the truth pressing down on her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her gaze darting toward the window, as if she could find the answer in the night sky, in the city beyond, in something outside herself.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she whispered, "Love."
The admission seemed to drain some of the tension from her body, but it left behind something else—something hollow and aching and fragile.
Hermione studied her carefully, her chest tightening. She understood that weight, that turmoil, the way love could be both a sanctuary and a prison. She had seen it in the mirror. Had lived it. Had fought it. And, ultimately, had chosen to surrender to it.
The silence between them stretched, thick with things neither of them were quite ready to say. Then, finally, Ginny let out a slow, uneven breath. "You know what pisses me off the most?" she muttered, voice quieter now, less venomous. "That you understand me better than anyone, even when I don't want you to."
Hermione's lips twitched. "That's what best friends are for."
Ginny exhaled again, rubbing her temples. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just don't expect me to start liking your husband."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Ginny side-eyed her. "Liar."
Hermione smirked, but she didn't deny it.
The silence between them stretched long and heavy, filled with the weight of too many truths left unsaid. It was Hermione who finally broke it, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's not easy, is it?" she murmured, her gaze distant, as if she were speaking more to herself than to Ginny. "Loving someone who's done so much wrong."
Ginny let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "No. It's not," she admitted, exhaling slowly, like the confession itself was something she had been holding in for too long. "Some days, I wonder if it's worth it. If I'm strong enough to keep loving him, knowing everything he's done. Everything he's capable of."
Her fingers curled into fists against her lap, frustration and exhaustion threading through every word. "And the worst part? I know I am strong enough. But is that really something to be proud of? Loving a man like Blaise, knowing exactly what he is, what he's done?" She scoffed, her lips twisting into something bitter. "I think about it every fucking day."
Hermione swallowed, understanding curling around her ribs like a vice. "I think about that too," she admitted, her own voice barely above a whisper. "But then I look at Draco, and I see the man he's trying to be. The man he's become—for me, for our family. And I realize that love isn't about ignoring the bad. It's about choosing to see the good, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
Ginny's head tilted slightly, her eyes flicking toward Hermione with something raw and unguarded. "You really believe that?" she asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way she said it, like she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear the answer.
Hermione nodded, no hesitation in her response. "I do. And I think you believe it too," she said simply. "Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here. You wouldn't still be fighting for Blaise and Valerius."
Ginny's defenses faltered, a crack forming in the carefully constructed walls she had built around herself. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she let out a slow, uneven breath. "It's just…" She hesitated, her fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve, as if trying to anchor herself. "Sometimes I feel like I'm losing myself in all of this. Like I don't recognize the person I've become. I used to be… me. Now, I'm someone's wife. Someone's mother. And don't get me wrong—I love them. More than anything. But… I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I've disappeared."
Hermione reached out without thinking, her fingers closing over Ginny's in a reassuring grip. "You haven't disappeared," she said softly. "You've changed. You've grown. That's not the same as losing yourself. We don't stay the same people forever. We can't. Not with everything we've been through." Her thumb brushed gently against the back of Ginny's hand, grounding. "But that doesn't mean you've lost who you were. It just means you've adapted. And you're still you, Gin. Fiery, stubborn, completely impossible—but you."
Ginny let out a breathy, reluctant chuckle, shaking her head. "You always know what to say, don't you?"
Hermione smiled, her grip on Ginny's hand tightening just slightly. "Not always. But I know what it's like to feel lost. And I know what it's like to find your way back."
The tension between them softened, the sharp edges of the conversation smoothing into something warmer, something lighter. A quiet understanding settled between them, fragile but real. They weren't the same girls they had been years ago, but maybe—just maybe—that wasn't a bad thing.
Ginny sighed, glancing down at the teacup Draco had left behind, and for the first time that evening, she looked at it without the same simmering disdain. She toyed with the rim of it absentmindedly before glancing back up at Hermione, her expression shifting into something teasing. "So Malfoy really is everything you've ever wanted?" she asked, her voice lighter now, laced with a familiar mischief.
Hermione's smile widened, her brown eyes glittering with something unmistakably fond. "He is," she admitted without hesitation. "As impossible as that sounds, he is." She paused, studying Ginny for a moment before adding, "And you know what? I think Blaise is the same for you. You wouldn't have fought so hard for him otherwise."
Ginny didn't answer immediately. She simply sat there, turning Hermione's words over in her head, letting them settle into all the cracks she hadn't even realized were there. And then, after a long, thoughtful pause, she gave a small nod, the flicker of warmth in her gaze betraying what she wasn't ready to say out loud just yet.
"Maybe you're right," she murmured.
~~~~~~
In the evening, they sat on the couch, wrapped in the soft glow of the fireplace, the crackling flames casting flickering shadows on the walls. She leaned into his chest, their bodies fitting together in a way that spoke of time and trust. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was the kind of silence that felt earned, the kind that came after countless late-night talks and shared moments of vulnerability.
For a long while, neither of them spoke, simply savoring the warmth of the fire and each other's presence. But her mind wasn't at ease. Her thoughts churned restlessly, the weight of an unspoken question pressing heavily on her chest.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice hesitant but determined.
"Draco…"
Immediately, he stiffened beneath her, his muscles tensing as if bracing for a blow. He pulled back slightly, his grey eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Oh gods," he muttered, sitting up so abruptly that she almost fell forward. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, pacing the room with a frantic energy that made her blink in confusion. "I'm in trouble, aren't I? Oh gods, what did I do? You want to leave me. Please don't leave me. Wait—are you pregnant? WE'RE PREGNANT?"
SHe gaped at him, utterly bewildered by the rapid spiral of his thoughts.
"STOP IT!" she exclaimed, standing up and grabbing his arm to stop his pacing. "Sit down! Look at me. I'm not leaving you, and I am definitely not pregnant!"
He hesitated, still jittery, but slowly lowered himself back onto the couch, though his eyes remained wary. "Yet," he muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her own racing heart. Grabbing his hands, she forced him to focus on her. "Listen. I didn't wake you up to freak you out. I just… I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest with me."
His expression softened, and though he still looked slightly on edge, he gave her a small nod.
"Alright, love. Ask away."
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then spoke quietly, her voice laced with vulnerability. "Why did you stay with me after I got attacked? Why are we still together?"
His eyes widened in disbelief, and his face paled slightly.
"Oh my god," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You hate me. You fucking hate me."
"DRACO!" her frustration bubbled over, and she squeezed his hands harder, forcing him to stay present. "Enough with the dramatics! I don't hate you. I just want to know—why are you with me?"
For a long moment, he stared at her, his mind clearly racing. Then he sighed heavily, leaning back against the couch and rubbing a hand over his face. "Because it's a forced marriage," he said flatly.
Her jaw dropped, and she smacked his arm in disbelief, but before she could yell at him, he held up a hand.
"And," he added quickly, his lips quirking into a wry smirk, "I was planning to bribe the Ministry into making you my wife anyway. The decree just saved me a lot of Galleons."
She gawked at him, utterly speechless, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process his words.
"You are sick in the head," she said finally, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Jesus Christ."
He chuckled softly, the familiar smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, but there was no malice in it—only a strange kind of tenderness. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling as though relieved to have finally said what had been weighing on his heart for so long.
"I know," he said quietly, the teasing tone replaced by something rawer. "But it's true. I loved you for a long time before any of this happened. And I still love you. I'll always love you." His voice softened further, dropping to a near whisper as though he feared the intensity of his own confession. "I'd love you until the last star burns into oblivion . It doesn't matter what happens. I will always be by your side."
She stared at him, her heart pounding painfully in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. There was something about the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—that left her breathless.
Finally, she managed to find her voice, though it trembled slightly despite her best efforts to stay composed.
"Very well," she said softly, barely more than a whisper.
He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers, his grey eyes searching her face for something—reassurance, perhaps, or understanding.
"The important question is…" he began slowly, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity, "why did you stay?"
Her breath hitched in her throat at his words. For a moment, she couldn't bring herself to answer. She looked away, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of her sweater as a whirlwind of emotions churned within her. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she turned back to him, meeting his gaze head-on.
"Because I love you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "And something is definitely wrong with me."
His brow furrowed in concern, but he didn't interrupt her. He waited, giving her the space to say what she needed to say.
"I truly don't care that you kill people," she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I absolutely don't care what you do at your work. And that terrifies me. I'm scared, love. I'm scared that I'm losing my mind. That I've crossed some invisible line, and I can't go back."
For a moment, there was only silence between them, the weight of her confession hanging heavily in the air. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hands gently cupping her face, his touch warm and steady.
"You're not losing your mind, love," he said firmly, his voice laced with conviction. "You're finding your strength. You've seen the darkness, and instead of running from it, you've made peace with it. That's not madness—that's courage. You're the strongest person I know."
Her eyes filled with tears at his words, but she forced out a shaky laugh, trying to mask the vulnerability that threatened to overwhelm her.
"You make it sound noble," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "It's not. It's selfish. I just… I don't want to live without you. Even if that means living with the darkness."
His heart clenched at her words. Without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as though afraid she might slip away if he let go. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, the simple gesture filled with more love and reassurance than words could ever convey.
"You'll never have to live without me," he whispered against her hair. "I promise you, darling. No matter what comes, no matter how dark things get, I'll always be here. With you. For you."
She closed her eyes, sinking into his embrace, allowing herself to feel the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt truly safe—not because the world outside had changed, but because she had found someone willing to stand beside her in the chaos.
"I'm scared," she admitted again, her voice muffled against his chest. "But maybe… maybe it's okay to be scared. Maybe that's part of what makes this real."
"It is," he agreed softly, his hand stroking her hair in a soothing rhythm. "But you're not alone, love. You never have to face any of it alone."
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms, the firelight casting warm, golden hues across their entwined forms. Outside, the world continued as it always did, indifferent to the quiet moment unfolding within the walls of their home. But for them, that moment was everything—a fragile yet unbreakable bond forged in darkness, strengthened by love.
Eventually, she pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were still glistening with unshed tears, but there was a new kind of determination in her gaze—a spark of hope that hadn't been there before. She wiped at her cheeks quickly, as though embarrassed by her show of emotion, and then took a deep breath.
"Do you think our friends have a good marriage?" she asked, her tone thoughtful rather than accusatory.
Draco leaned back slightly, propping himself against the arm of the couch as he studied her. His brow furrowed at the sudden shift in topic, but he knew better than to dismiss her questions. She never asked something unless she genuinely wanted to know.
"Pansy and Neville? Definitely." He smirked slightly, thinking of his old friend and her unlikely husband. "She's thriving. Never thought I'd see the day Pansy traded in her stilettos for gardening gloves, but somehow it works. And Lovegood and Theodore? They're in their perfect little magical bubble, floating somewhere above the rest of us mere mortals. So, yes, some of them are doing just fine."
She bit her lip, her fingers twisting together in her lap as she hesitated before continuing. "What about Blaise and Ginny?"
He exhaled sharply, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of their fiery friends. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly debating how much to say.
"That's... a different question," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Blaise loves her, no doubt about it, but their relationship is like a game of Wizard's Chess. Every move calculated, every piece on the board ready to attack. They thrive on the chaos. But just because it works for them doesn't mean it's healthy."
Her brow furrowed, and she looked down at her hands. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, almost wistful. "We're supposed to be like them."
His jaw tightened at her words. He pulled away slightly, just enough to properly face her, his grey eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
"Who said that?" he asked, his voice low but steady. "We're supposed to be us. Don't compare us to a marriage that's dancing on thin ice, waiting for it to crack."
"But it's... passionate," she argued, though even she didn't sound entirely convinced. "The fiery arguments, the intense reconciliations. Isn't that what love is supposed to look like?"
He shook his head, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he reached for her hand. He entwined their fingers, his grip firm but gentle.
"Love isn't about burning down the house just to rebuild it again. It's about building something strong enough to withstand the storms. Passion doesn't have to come from chaos—it can come from quiet moments, from trust, from knowing that no matter what happens, we're in this together."
Her eyes shimmered with emotion. "But we've had our own storms. My attack, your attack, the forced marriage, everything we've been through..." Her voice faltered, the weight of their shared past pressing down on her.
"And we weathered them," he interrupted gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. "Because we chose to. Every single time. Not because we had to, but because we wanted to. Because I can't imagine a life without you, and I refuse to let anything—anyone—tear us apart."
She blinked, overwhelmed by the depth of his words. She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued before she could.
"Blaise and Ginny? They burn bright, sure, but they burn out just as quickly. Their love is a constant battle, a tug-of-war to see who yields first. That's not us, love. That's never been us. We don't need to tear each other down to feel alive."
She let out a soft, shaky breath. "So what are we, then?"
He smiled, a real, genuine smile that made something inside her chest ache. "We're the kind of people who fight the world together, not each other. We're the ones who build something lasting. Something worth protecting."
The fire crackled softly in the background, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. She felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.
"I don't need fiery arguments or dramatic reconciliations," she murmured after a moment. "I just need you."
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "And you have me. Always."
For a while, they simply sat there, wrapped in each other's warmth. The room was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the steady beat of their hearts. It was a moment of peace, of understanding, of quiet love that didn't need grand gestures or fiery declarations to prove its worth.
Eventually, she lifted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "You know, for someone who used to be a right prat, you've turned into quite the romantic."
Draco chuckled, the sound low and comforting. "Don't let that get out. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Oh, don't worry. Your secret's safe with me." her smile widened as she leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips, a kiss that spoke of promises made and a future yet to be written.
When they pulled apart, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her skin. "Whatever comes next, we'll face it together. Deal?"
She nodded, her heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. "Deal." But even as the word escaped her lips, a flicker of uncertainty shadowed her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, resting her cheek against his chest as if she could somehow draw courage from the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Her lips trembled as she absorbed his words, words she had longed to hear yet somehow feared.
"Do you ever wonder if we're… too different?" Her voice was soft, hesitant, as though she was unsure she wanted to hear his answer.
He smirked, that familiar blend of mischief and affection lighting his features. He didn't miss a beat.
"Of course we're different. You're a walking encyclopedia who's constantly saving the world, and I'm a sarcastic arsehole with a morally questionable job." He paused, his eyes gleaming with a warmth that belied the self-deprecation in his tone. "But that's what makes us work. You keep me grounded, and I keep you… entertained."
She laughed despite herself, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight piercing through heavy clouds. She leaned further into him, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his arm. "Entertained isn't the word I'd use."
"Admit it, you love me for it." His voice was teasing, but there was something vulnerable in the way he watched her, as if her answer carried the weight of his entire world.
She lifted her head, her brown eyes locking onto his grey ones. For a moment, the world outside their little bubble ceased to exist.
"I do," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the sincerity in her words was unmistakable.
His smirk softened into a tender smile. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary, as if silently conveying everything words could not. His arms tightened around her, as though he feared she might slip away if he didn't hold on tightly enough.
"Good. Because no matter what Ginevra and Blaise or anyone else does, we're not them. We don't need to be. We just need to be us."
"Us," she repeated, the word tasting like hope and something fragile, yet undeniably precious.
For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire filling the room. The golden light danced across their faces, highlighting the quiet contentment that had settled over them. It wasn't perfect—it never had been—but it was theirs. And for them, that was enough.
"You know, I never imagined this," she murmured after a while, her voice thoughtful. "You and me, like this. Together. If someone had told me years ago…" She trailed off, a wistful smile playing on her lips.
"I'd have kill them," he said with a wry grin. "Back then, the idea of us would have seemed absurd. But now?" He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "Now, I can't imagine life any other way."
She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment as she let his words sink in. It was strange how life had brought them here, through chaos and pain, through storms that had threatened to tear them apart. And yet, here they were, building something neither of them had ever expected.
"Do you think we'll always be like this?" she asked quietly, almost as if she were afraid of jinxing it.
"Like this?" he raised an eyebrow. "You mean ridiculously in love despite being ridiculously flawed? Absolutely. But if you mean sitting by the fire in silence, then probably not. I'm sure we'll have plenty of arguments, especially since you're always right, and I'm too stubborn to admit it."
She laughed again, the sound lighter this time. "You make it sound like chaos is inevitable."
"It is. But it's our chaos." He pulled her closer, their foreheads touching. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other's warmth and the glow of the fire. It was in that quiet moment that Hermione realized something profound: they had faced the worst life could throw at them, and they had survived. More than that, they had found something beautiful amid the wreckage. "Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
"For staying. For fighting for us. For loving me when I wasn't sure I deserved it." Her voice trembled slightly, but she pressed on. "I don't say it enough, but you mean everything to me, mon cœur."
His eyes softened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a tenderness that made her heart ache, he cupped her face in his hands.
"You never have to thank me for loving you,. It's the easiest thing I've ever done. And I promise you, no matter what comes next, I'll always be here. With you. I would burn the world to bring some heat to you You are the reason I went through it, oh. The only meaning as I knew it. And I could only do my best, I do not do this for myself. I'd walk trough hell on living feet for you
A single tear slipped down her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb, his touch gentle and reverent. They kissed then, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke of promises made and futures yet to come.
As the fire continued to burn steadily beside them, casting its warm light over their entwined forms, it felt as though the storms they had weathered were finally giving way to something brighter—something stronger. Together, they had built something unbreakable. And together, they would face whatever came next.
~~~~~~
Harry and Cho arrived at the house with James in tow. The toddler clung to Harry's leg, peeking out shyly from behind him with wide, curious eyes. His soft black curls framed a chubby face that looked like a perfect blend of both his parents—Cho's delicate features and Harry's piercing green eyes, magnified by his tiny round glasses that matched his father's.
"Hey," Harry greeted with a grin that was equal parts tired and proud. He bent down to scoop up Jameson, who giggled and buried his face in his dad's shoulder. "Sorry we're late. Somebody decided that shoes were optional today." He shot a pointed look at the giggling toddler.
"Shoes!" Jamie repeated happily, waving one sock-clad foot in the air as if to prove his point.
Cho rolled her eyes fondly as she shrugged off her coat. "He thinks shoes are for special occasions only. Honestly, it's a battle every morning."
Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, and she hurried over. "Oh, look at you! You've gotten so big since I last saw you." She reached out, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Jamie stretched his tiny arms toward her, allowing her to take him into a warm hug.
"He's adorable," she gushed, tickling his sides and eliciting a peal of delighted laughter. "And look at those little glasses! He looks like a miniature Harry."
"I hear that at least five times a day," Harry said with a mock sigh, though it was clear he didn't mind. "He's basically my clone, just with Cho's better looks."
Draco, who had been standing by the fireplace, arms crossed as he observed the scene, raised an eyebrow. "Great. Another Potter running around. Just what the world needs."
"Draco!" she scolded, though she couldn't hide her amusement.
Jameson, unfazed by his dry remark, stared at him with wide eyes before whispering loudly to Hermione, "Who dat?"
"That's Draco, my husband," she whispered back, as though sharing a great secret. "He pretends to be grumpy, but he's actually nice."
He rolled his eyes. "Don't spread lies about me, darling."
He giggled, clearly amused by his tone, and pointed a tiny finger at him. "Grumpy!"
Cho laughed softly as she joined Hermione on the couch, watching as her son warmed up to the room. "He's been talking more lately. Picks up words from everywhere."
"Clearly," he muttered, earning another giggle from Jamie.
She sat down beside Cho, balancing Jamie on her lap. "He's so smart. And those curls—oh, he's going to break hearts one day."
Harry plopped down into an armchair, looking more relaxed than he had in days. "He already has. Every time we take him to Diagon Alley, he charms half the street into giving him free sweets."
"Harry encourages it," Cho added, smirking. "He pretends to be all exasperated, but he's secretly proud."
"I am not," Harry protested, but the pink tinge to his ears gave him away.
As she continued to entertain Jamie by showing him a few harmless charms with her wand, he settled beside her, watching the scene with a kind of reluctant fondness.
"You two look good," shesaid after a while, glancing at Harry and Cho. "Really good."
Harry leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Thanks. It's... chaotic, but we're figuring it out. Two-year-olds are wild, in case you didn't know."
"Oh, I've heard," she said, giving him a pointed look. "We might have to borrow Jameson one day, just for practice."
He nearly choked on his drink. "Practice?"
"For when we have one," she said casually, though there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. He stared at her, clearly caught off guard.
Cho, sensing the shift in tone, decided to rescue him. "Don't worry, Draco. It's an adventure, but it's worth every sleepless night and every tantrum."
James, now fully at ease, tugged on his sleeve. "Play?" he asked, holding out a small enchanted toy dragon.
He stared at the toy, then at the hopeful little face in front of him. He sighed dramatically, earning a laugh from everyone. "Fine, but if you bite, we're done."
Jamie grinned widely and plopped the dragon into his hand, clearly delighted to have a new playmate. As he awkwardly entertained the toddler, she leaned over to Harry and whispered, "He's a natural."
Harry grinned, watching the scene unfold. "You know, if you ever need a babysitter…"
"We'll keep that in mind," she said, laughing softly.
As the evening wore on, laughter and warmth wrapped around the house like an old, familiar blanket. The crackle of the fire mixed with his giggles, Cho's melodic voice, and Harry's easy banter, filling the room with a joy that felt almost tangible. It wasn't just a gathering of old friends—it was a moment suspended in time, a glimpse into a future where love, family, and new memories were constantly being made.
But not everyone in the house shared in the blissful mood. Crooks was decidedly over it. Between the boys grabby little fingers, Harry's loud laughter, and his half-hearted attempts to keep him from bolting, the poor feline had had enough. With an indignant yowl and a swift, fluid motion, Crookshanks escaped his grip and darted toward the hallway.
He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Beast! Honestly, you can't escape your mom's nagging, but the kid's fingers and my charming company are where you draw the line?"
She gave him a withering look. "Darling, he's ancient. He probably just wants a bit of peace."
He grumbled something unintelligible under his breath but got to his feet. "Fine. Come on, you old menace. Let's get you somewhere less chaotic."
He followed the cat down the hall and into his office, where Crookshanks had already claimed the plush chair behind his desk. He sighed as he conjured a small dish of food and water. The cat stared at him with the regal disdain of someone who had long ago accepted that humans were just glorified servants.
"You know, if you were anyone else, I'd have evicted you ages ago," he muttered, placing the dishes on the floor. "My love, I hate that cat," he called out to her from the office.
"You do not," came her amused voice from the living room. "You cuddle him more than you cuddle me."
He returned to the living room, looking entirely scandalized. "Please, Granger, don't put me in an uncomfortable situation in front of your friends."
Harry, barely able to contain his laughter, raised an eyebrow. "Wait, wait—are you telling me that the fearsome Draco Malfoy, former all-around brooding bad boy, sneaks midnight cuddles with a cat?"
"Cuddles, Harry," Cho echoed with a grin. "That's adorable."
He crossed his arms, his expression one of pure indignation. "I do not cuddle the cat. He merely... forces his presence upon me when I'm reading. There's a difference."
Jameson toddled over, holding out a stuffed dragon toy toward Draco. "Cuddle!" he demanded gleefully.
"See? Even James knows what's up," Harry said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair.
She tried to stifle a laugh. "Face it, love. You're Crookshanks' favorite human."
He opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it when Jamie started climbing onto his lap. The toddler shoved the toy into his arms with a determined look. "Cuddle," he repeated.
He sighed dramatically, holding the toy dragon as though it were a ticking time bomb. "Fine. But if anyone breathes a word of this outside this room, I'll deny it."
She leaned into Cho with a grin. "It's already too late. I'm documenting this moment forever in my mind."
Harry wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Who knew we'd live to see the day when Draco Malfoy would be bossed around by a two-year-old and a grumpy old cat?"
He narrowed his eyes at Harry but said nothing, instead turning his attention to him, who had now settled comfortably in his lap. The toddler beamed up at him, clearly proud of his handiwork.
"Cuddle complete," he muttered, ruffling Jameson's hair. "Now, Potter, if you're done laughing at my expense, how about a drink?"
"Only if you promise to tell us more about your secret midnight cuddling sessions," Harry shot back, earning himself a glare.
As the teasing continued, Cho leaned over to Hermione, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You really lucked out with that one."
She smiled, watching him interact with Jamie, his usual sarcasm softened by something unmistakably tender. "Yeah," she said softly. "I really did."
And as the fire crackled on, the cat snoozed in his office, and Jameson continued to boss around everyone in the room, it became clear that these moments—the teasing, the laughter, the quiet, unspoken love—were what truly made them a family. It was messy, it was chaotic, and it was absolutely perfect in its own imperfect way.
~~~~~~
Hermione sat at her desk, the golden glow of the afternoon sun spilling through the tall windows of her study, casting warm, shifting patterns along the mahogany wood. Dust motes danced in the light, swirling lazily as if even time itself had slowed for this moment. A steaming cup of tea sat beside her, untouched, its floral aroma curling into the air—a habit, a comfort, but forgotten in the face of the decision she was about to make.
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself as she reached for her leather-bound journal, its pages worn from years of careful notes, whispered thoughts, and confessions only ink had ever been privy to. Next to it, her meticulously organized calendar lay open, detailing the responsibilities of her days with the kind of precision only she could maintain. Meetings, case deadlines, research milestones—all laid out in neat script. It had become second nature, this endless planning, mapping her life down to the very hour, as if structure could contain the unpredictable.
But today, for the first time in years, she wasn't planning for work, or obligations, or the careful balancing act of her life as both a Malfoy by law and Hermione Granger by identity.
Today, she was planning for something far greater.
Her fingers hovered over the blank space in her journal, that sacred place where her deepest thoughts had always found refuge, and then, with a soft breath, she let the truth spill from her mind to the page.
I think I'm ready.
The words felt heavier than she had expected, as if they held the weight of years—the weight of uncertainty, of fear, of love. She let the ink settle before she continued, her strokes slow, deliberate.
The Forced Marriage Act never dictated that we had to have children. There was no clause binding us to this part of the contract, no stipulation that we must create a legacy in blood. But now, after four years, I realize that the law never mattered in this. It was never about duty or politics. Not really. Not for me.
She swallowed hard, pressing her lips together. Her free hand moved instinctively to her abdomen, pressing lightly against the silk of her blouse as though she could already feel the life she had yet to create. The thought alone made her breath hitch, a quiet, startled kind of awe settling in her chest.
It's a choice. A conscious, deliberate choice.
Her mind drifted to Draco—her Draco.
The man who had once been her enemy, then her reluctant partner, then something infinitely more complicated. And now? He was her everything.
The journey hadn't been easy. Their love story was not written in fairy tales or in neat, happily-ever-afters. It had been raw, messy, forged in fire and trials, in arguments that stripped them bare and confessions that healed them in turn. She had spent years waiting—waiting for the certainty, waiting for the moment when she would look at him and know, with every fiber of her being, that he was the man she wanted to build a family with.
And now, sitting here, her fingers trembling slightly over the parchment, she knew.
It wasn't just the way he touched her—the way his hands, once so hesitant, now traced the curve of her back with reverence in the quiet moments before sleep claimed them. It wasn't just the way he looked at her—the way his stormy grey eyes softened when he thought she wasn't paying attention, as if he could hardly believe she had stayed.
It was the little things.
The way he brewed her tea exactly how she liked it, without her having to ask. The way he always walked on the side of the pavement closest to the road, shielding her instinctively. The way he argued with her, passionately, fiercely, never diminishing her, always challenging her, pushing her to be the force of nature she was meant to be. The way he had learned how to love, not because it had been easy for him, but because he had wanted to. Because he had chosen to.
She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head at herself.
Of course it's him.
There had never been a doubt, not really. Only fear—fear that loving Draco Malfoy so completely, so irreversibly, would leave her exposed in ways she had never allowed before.
But wasn't that what love was supposed to do?
Hermione closed her journal, pressing her hand over the cover as if sealing the truth within its pages. She turned back to her calendar, flipping through the weeks, her pulse quickening with every page turned. The rigid structure of her meticulously planned future blurred at the edges, shifting, expanding, making room for something unknown, something uncertain—something beautiful.
Her stomach tightened with nervous anticipation.
She had to tell him.
Would he be ready? Would he look at her with that guarded expression he still sometimes wore, the one that made her want to reach for him, to remind him that she wasn't leaving? Or would he smile—that rare, breathtaking smile that she had learned to treasure, the one that made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world?
She glanced at the clock, noting the time. He would be home soon.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached for a fresh piece of parchment.
Draco, my love, she began, the words coming more easily now, spilling forth like a secret too powerful to be contained any longer.
I've been thinking a lot lately—about us, about the life we've built, about the future that feels more like a promise than a possibility. And I want you to know something. I'm ready. Ready to take the next step, ready to build something even greater with you. Not because of expectation. Not because of obligation. But because I choose you, every day, in every way. And I want to create something beautiful with you—a family. Our family.
She hesitated for only a second before dipping her quill again.
Come home soon. There's something I want to talk to you about.
She folded the note carefully, setting it aside, her heart pounding as she ran her fingers over the delicate parchment. The weight of her decision settled deep within her bones, but for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid.
She was ready.
For him. For them.
For everything that came next.
Come home soon?
Draco was through the fireplace before the ink on her note had even dried.
One second, he was in Theo's office, mindlessly shuffling through paperwork, thinking about how much he hated the sound of quills scratching against parchment. The next, his heart stopped as he read those three words.
And then he was gone.
There was no careful preparation, no calculated thought—just pure, unfiltered urgency. His hands trembled as he tossed his paperwork aside, ignoring the confused look his assistant shot him as he practically leapt towards the Floo. His heart was a hammer against his ribs, his breath uneven as he barked out, "Penthouse!" and stepped into the green flames.
He barely landed before he was moving, stumbling out of the fireplace in the grand sitting room, soot scattering over the pristine carpet as he braced himself on the mantel.
"Darling!" His voice rang through the halls, raw and desperate.
There was a pause, just long enough for him to doubt—had he misread? Had she meant something else? Was this just another conversation and not what he had hoped—what he had ached for?
And then, finally, her voice, soft but certain.
"In the study."
Draco didn't walk. He ran.
He tore through the halls, taking the stairs two—no, three—at a time, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. His pulse roared in his ears, his palms damp as he reached the heavy oak door. He hesitated for only half a second, just long enough to remind himself to breathe, before pushing it open with trembling hands.
And there she was.
Sitting at her desk, the journal he knew she guarded like a secret weapon resting at her fingertips, parchment and ink neatly arranged in front of her. The golden glow of the lamps bathed her in warm light, catching the soft curls that framed her face, highlighting the gentleness in her eyes. She was waiting for him.
He swallowed thickly, closing the door behind him as if sealing this moment away from the rest of the world. Slowly—so slowly—he moved forward, as though afraid she would vanish if he blinked.
And then, without thought, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before her, pressing his hands into hers, holding them tight like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
His head bowed, his breath shaky as he pressed fervent kisses to her fingertips, her knuckles, the soft skin of her wrists. His lips trembled against her, his grip firm but reverent, as though she were something sacred.
"Is it true?" His voice cracked, thick with emotion. His grey eyes, stormy and wide, searched hers as though looking for confirmation he had only ever dreamed of receiving. "You want this? You want this with me?"
There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just a quiet, resolute nod.
"Very much," she whispered.
And just like that, something inside him broke.
A single sob clawed its way from his throat, raw and unguarded. His grip on her hands tightened as though he could anchor himself to the moment, to her. He sucked in a shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling under the sheer weight of everything he had carried—fear, doubt, longing—and suddenly, it all poured out of him, slipping through the cracks of the walls he had spent a lifetime fortifying.
His head dropped to her lap, his forehead pressing against the soft fabric of her dress as his body shook with quiet, uncontrollable emotion.
"Draco," she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, stroking gently. "My love."
It was too much.
For years, he had convinced himself that this—this—was something he could never have. Not with his past, not with his sins staining his hands, not after everything he had done and everything he had failed to do.
But she wanted him.
She wanted this with him.
His Hermione. His wife. The only woman who had ever seen him—truly seen him—and stayed.
And now, she was giving him the most precious gift of all: a future. A family. A forever he had never dared to believe in.
"Thank you," he whispered against her lap, his voice breaking as he clung to her.
She laughed softly, watery and warm, her fingers tightening in his hair as she kissed the top of his head. "You don't have to thank me, love. I choose you. I always choose you."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands sliding up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over the dampness on her cheeks. She was crying now too. And gods, she had never looked more beautiful.
"You are my greatest love," he breathed, his voice reverent, his gaze holding hers like a vow. "And I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life making you happy. Making us happy. Our family."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, their noses brushing, their breath mingling.
"Then let's begin," she whispered.
And when he kissed her, it was not with desperation, nor with hunger—it was with certainty. With devotion. With the quiet, earth-shaking understanding that from this moment forward, their lives would never be the same.
The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the walls of their dimly lit study. Rain pattered against the tall windows, a slow and steady rhythm that mirrored the tension humming in the air between them. Hermione sat at her desk, her fingers gripping the arms of her chair as if bracing herself for a battle she already knew the outcome of.
Across from her, Draco leaned against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But she knew him. Knew the storm behind those grey eyes, knew the battle he waged between his love for her and the life he had built before her.
She inhaled sharply, steadying herself.
"We need a plan."
Draco's brow furrowed, but he remained silent as she continued.
"We've talked about this before, but I need to say it again, and I need you to listen. I want you to stay in the shadows. No more in-person killing, no more taking risks that could cost you your life. No more—"
"Darling—"
"Draco."
His name was a warning, a blade sharp enough to cut through whatever excuse he was about to offer.
His jaw clenched.
She had heard it all before—it has to be done, it's just one more job, it's necessary, it's important—but she didn't care anymore. Not when they were standing on the precipice of something greater, something far more terrifying than any deal, any hit, any blood-soaked bargain he had ever made.
They were about to become parents.
"I still have to take care of some things," he murmured, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "It's important to me."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"I know," she admitted, "and I look past it. Over and over again. Because… I don't know. Maybe I enable you. Maybe I should've killed you a long time ago, saved myself the heartache. But something is clearly wrong with me."
She let the words hang between them, knowing the weight they carried.
And for once, he didn't argue.
Because she was right.
A sane person would have already left him. A rational person wouldn't have spent years untangling herself from the web of his sins, from the darkness he carried in his wake. A woman with a shred of self-preservation would have driven a knife into his heart the moment she learned the depth of his crimes.
But not Hermione.
Never Hermione.
She had loved him in spite of it all.
And that was his curse.
He swallowed hard, lowering his head. His fingers flexed at his sides, his whole body wound tight with the war raging inside him.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain outside. "Just give me time. Before the baby. Let me finish what I need to finish."
Her stomach twisted, her fingers tightening around the arms of her chair until her knuckles ached.
"Draco."
"I need this, Hermione. I need it." His voice was rough now, desperate, pleading. He reached for her, brushing his hands over hers, but she didn't yield. "I swear to you, once the baby is here, I'll stop. I'll walk away from it all. But I need time first."
She exhaled sharply, looking up at him through tired, weary eyes.
"I know you'd do it anyway," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You'd go behind my back if I told you no. So I'll give you time. But only until the baby is born."
His lips parted slightly, as if relief were on the tip of his tongue, but she wasn't finished.
"After that, Draco, I will not allow my child to grow up in a world where their father is a killer. I won't let them see what you do. I won't let them be a part of that life."
She leaned forward, meeting his gaze, her brown eyes burning with an unrelenting fire.
"And if you do," she said, each word slow, deliberate, "I'd rather be a widow by choice than let my child live in the shadow of your sins."
Silence.
The fire crackled. The rain fell.
And Draco Malfoy had never been so afraid in his entire life.
Because this wasn't an argument. It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
And he had never once doubted Hermione Granger's ability to keep one.