Chapter Text
Three years later
More often than not, her nighttime hours are restless. A mixture of old memories and new fabrications—and though the night terrors are predictable and frustrating, even now, it's the strange dreams that often linger in the back of her mind.
Hermione blinks into groggy wakefulness, eyes bleary, soul weary. Her heart hammers as wisps of the dream float away, as unlikely as they were bizarre, and she doesn't try to recapture them. She's better off relieving her mind of any recollection in exchange for an early morning sun peeking through the curtains.
By the knit furrowing Draco's brow at her side, she knows he's reliving one of his personal demons, too.
A part of her longs to sag back into her pillows, searching for another shred of rest. To cling to the final moments of the early morning.
Moments later, her wand's alarm buzzes on the nightstand; her heart stutters one beat before continuing its steady thrum.
Draco's eyes snap open wide.
"Good morning," she says, a smile spreading across her face.
It takes only a moment for the haze in his eyes to clear, the remnants of whatever haunted his sleeping hours scattering like dust. A hint of warmth crosses his face. "Morning."
He always catches her off guard in the mornings. The way he's a little less guarded, a little softer. His eyelids flutter for a moment, face halfway buried in the pillow, and a quiet breath slides from his lips.
Sometimes she catches herself wondering about who he might be—who she might be. Who they might be together.
If they would be together.
She never finds answers when she indulges such thoughts, and more often than not she quells them before her brain can wander in that direction.
Because everything they are, together and individually, is borne of the strife they faced in their youth. The horrors they survived during the years of their early adulthood. The life they lead now. The dreams they chased and those they let slide in favour of peace.
Draco stifles a yawn behind his palm, and she observes the shadows beneath his eyes.
They've both learned well enough not to linger on the memories that keep them from sleep. And little by little, it improves. It will continue to improve—it has to.
"Get some more sleep," she breathes. "I'll see you in a while."
Draco rolls his eyes and his mouth twitches. She's never known him to sleep in, but it doesn't keep her from offering.
"I'm up," he says, dragging himself from bed. For only a moment, Hermione allows herself to observe his strong frame, filled out since the long days when anxiety and stress and fear drove them.
Hermione rises, stretching out her languid muscles, reaching her arms up high.
Catching by surprise, he snags her in his arms and brings her body flush against his. A burst of laughter falls from her lips as he plants a chaste kiss to her lips.
Resting her hands on his arms, she smiles up at him, catching the brightness in his eye despite the darkness she knows still lingers.
"It'll be a good day," he says. A promise; a manifestation.
Simple knowledge. Every day is good when she thinks of the days past.
"It will," Hermione says. She thinks of the day ahead, of everything she's planned. She presses up on her toes, planting another kiss to his lips. "Happy birthday, Draco."
The Brighton sun sparkles in a blue, cloudless sky, a late spring breeze skittering past. Their southern England abode hangs on the coast just outside the heart of town, birds crying out overhead as they circle in search of a meal.
Inside the town, the early morning bustle of the incoming tourist season fills the streets as Hermione unlocks the shop, breathing in the scent of which she'll never tire.
Books.
Books upon shelves of books, a labyrinth of twisting aisles connecting cosy seating areas. A table piled high with new releases greets her at the entrance as always—but it's deeper into the shop that Hermione favours.
The old books, the rare editions, the original signed copies. The ones she often needs to hunt down, to barter for, to win. The ones that, when an eager buyer brings them to the register, she often releases with a bittersweet pang.
She keeps those rooms carefully controlled for temperature and humidity with a vast array of spells otherwise undetectable.
She could lose herself among the stacks—and has more than a few times.
A rich aroma wafts towards her on the air, and she finds a few patrons already seated at the small array of tables in the adjoining cafe.
"Good morning, Petra," Hermione says, offering a warm smile to the girl who looks after the café and keeps the visitors well looked after. "It smells excellent in here."
Petra flashes an easy grin, collecting a pot of coffee for some of the regulars' refills. "He's outdone himself with today's selection."
"I'm sure he has," Hermione returns, slipping behind the counter.
She finds Draco in the kitchen, gaze intent as he dices a pile of carrots, two large pots already simmering on the stove. Hermione peers at the contents of the first, breathing in the complex array of ingredients.
He watches her, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Yes?"
"Yes," she agrees. "It smells amazing."
Draco waves an idle hand, as though it were nothing. She knows better—knows it's never nothing. That he infuses as much care into this as he does any other aspect of his life.
She knows he wouldn't trade this early morning routine for anything. The quiet peace in creation, the meticulous work that allows him time to think and to dwell, to release the memories that still haunt him. To set his mind for the day ahead.
And the patrons love it, too. They line up at the café every day at lunch for a chance to taste that day's offerings, though no two soups are ever the same. They carry a circulating range of sandwiches, salads, and pastries, too, prepared by the café's other chef Bernard—but Hermione's never known Draco to miss this portion of the day's prep.
"Potatoes," he says absently, reaching for a leek. "I felt like potatoes."
Hermione peers into the next pot, bright and vibrant with an earthy aroma of tomatoes and herbs. "I'm sure it will be delicious."
If someone had told her, when Draco Malfoy spent his days attempting to track her down and wipe her from the earth, that he might one day find solace in cooking, she would have laughed in their face.
But something awoke within him after the war—within them both—and she knows neither of them would trade the quiet life they now live.
"I'm meeting with Theo at—" He glances at his watch— "two o'clock. To go over some details for the apothecary."
Hermione nods, watching his careful work. She might have known this would take given his propensity for potions back at Hogwarts—but it's the fact that he chooses to do all of this by Muggle means that sometimes still catches her off guard.
"Send my hellos," she says quietly.
The apothecary is Theo's newest business endeavour—a prime location in a carefully rebuilt Diagon Alley—in symbiotic coordination with Neville's greenhouse enterprise on the large expanse of land they purchased outside of London.
Neville's finally been able to indulge his love of plants in abundance, and Theo's apothecary will be an extension of the same.
Draco's involvement is, at its foundation, financial investment—but Hermione knows he and Theo have been working on a certain amount of potions development and brewing as well.
Neville and Theo have just adopted their second—a baby girl named Lydia—and she knows they could both use the extra help. Especially with their first, Frankie, freshly three years old.
"You’ll be back this evening?" she asks, keeping her tone casual.
Although they still own the London house they painstakingly pieced together as a haven of sorts during the war, they haven't been back to stay there overnight in more than a year. Still, neither of them have brought up the idea of ever selling it. Some part of her still wonders if they'll one day move back to London. If enough of their demons will ever rest behind them.
Hermione suspects too much still lives in that house, even without them. So many old memories of those late days at the end of the war.
As a general rule, they rarely mention Malfoy Manor. Narcissa hasn't touched the manor since the war ended—since Lucius died—and Hermione doesn't know if Draco ever intends to live there again.
One of the strangest things about living with a lifetime in mind is that they can take their time with these sorts of decisions. They aren't living day to day, wondering if they'll be alive in a week, in a month. When the time is right, they'll know.
"Late afternoon at the most," he says with a nod, eyes snagging on hers. "We can do dinner or something?"
"Dinner or something," Hermione muses. "Sounds perfect."
"Okay." Draco's mouth curves with a secretive smile—the one she likes best. "Now begone with you. I'll save you a bowl."
A smile lingers on her face as she ducks from the kitchen and returns to the shop.
Each day towards summer is a little busier, the days growing warmer as tourists come to Brighton in droves. Although she loves the summer months for the vibrancy they bring to the town, a part of her enjoys the slower pace of winter, too.
At first they hadn't been certain whether they even wanted to stay in England after everything that happened.
But this has always been home, and with the war over, it's been an effort to rebuild. Many of their friends are still in England. Hermione's parents, after the spell was finally reversed, decided to move back—and although Hermione suspects they may never have a relationship like they did when she was a child, they're all willing to try.
Narcissa moved closer to home, too, taking up residence in one of the Malfoy properties in Wales.
Long years have passed, but with Kingsley leading the Ministry, British wizarding society has fallen into a semblance of order.
And maybe, after everything they fought for in order to end the war and bring about peace, neither of them truly wanted to leave.
The last message she received from Harry on her old coin, he was in Belgium with Luna—but she knows at some point they plan to settle down. To return home.
Although this life may not be what Hermione might have once dreamed for herself, she's content. For so many years, she didn't even allow herself to think of a future because she didn't imagine she would have one.
For too long, she lived by the wand and the blade, driven by fear and doubt and desperation.
She's felt the shift between her and Draco, especially in recent months. Every so often one of them makes a comment about a family—about the idea of children. It's something they both want, in time, and Hermione can sense that they might be moving towards that next stage of life. Her heart has begun to long for a family of her own, although some days she still basks in the calm and insular life she leads with Draco.
For now, she's content to play at auntie with Frankie and Lydia.
Every step they've taken since the war ended has been about creating the life that suits them, that carries both of them forward individually and together.
When Hermione returns home that afternoon, Narcissa has already let herself in, sipping tea by the large bay window in the sitting room. Hermione can hear Patroclus already working in the kitchen, and she smiles as she greets the elf before preparing herself a cup.
"Is Draco still away in London?" Narcissa asks by way of greeting, a small smile pulling at her mouth.
"Yes." Hermione settles in the armchair by the window, taking a sip of tea. "I heard from Theo a while ago that they're thoroughly distracted with potions. Neville will be by soon."
"And your parents, dear? Will they be joining us?"
Hermione hesitates for a moment as the thought washes over her. Every so often, it still catches her off guard to have her parents in her life again. All things considered, they took the full story of it remarkably well—or at least, better than she always feared they might. "They are," she says softly. A wash of emotion strikes her hard and she blinks a few times. "They should be here in an hour or so; they've decided to get a hotel and spend a few days in Brighton."
Another indulgent smile crosses Narcissa's lips. "I am happy to hear it." She sips her tea. "I must tell you, Patroclus has been beside himself with excitement to cook for Draco's birthday."
Hermione catches the gentle ribbing behind the words, when she had initially tried to insist she should prepare something for the small surprise gathering they've prepared. Narcissa insisted she be able to enjoy the party.
A knock lands on the door, and Hermione's eyes snap towards it. She tamps down the old instinct that has her reaching towards her wand and rises to answer it.
When she sees Harry and Luna on the threshold, her eyes instantly begin to sting.
"Harry, Luna," she says, a breath hitching in her throat when Harry draws her into a forceful embrace. "I wasn't sure whether you would make it."
"We wouldn't miss it," Harry scolds, drawing back to hold her by her arms. A wide grin brightens his green eyes.
He's scruffier than she remembers, his hair a bit longer and a thick layer of stubble on his face. They both look tan and a little worn out, as though they've spent too many months living without a defined location.
Which, Hermione knows, they have.
Luna pulls her into a tight hug next, her eyes bright with happiness. "It's been too long since we've seen everyone," she says quietly when they separate, "so this was the perfect excuse to bring us back home for a while."
Harry and Luna follow her into the house, and only minutes later Neville Apparates into the sitting room—setting off another warm round of greetings.
The banality of it strikes Hermione hard, and she clenches her cup of tea between shaky hands as she watches her friends regale each other of recent adventures. Her eyes burn, brows knitting together. Her heart clamours somewhere between her chest and her throat.
Narcissa walks up alongside her. "It will get easier," she says softly. "Carrying on with life. Letting go of the fear."
"Has it for you?" The words fall from her lips as a whisper. She catches her mother-in-law's gaze briefly. "After everything? After losing Lucius?"
It's a tough topic, but she's come to know the woman well enough to realise that Narcissa doesn't shy away from tough.
"Some days." Narcissa lets out a breath. "And sometimes all I want to do is to dwell on all the things that went wrong. How things might have been—but that doesn't help anything. I have to remind myself that I still have Draco and you. That there are more days to come, and we're still here to experience them."
"Yeah," Hermione whispers, allowing the words to settle her nerves. "I suppose sometimes I wonder whether we're deserving of all we have. Or if something is going to happen to pull the rug out from beneath us."
A sad smile crosses Narcissa's face. "I felt that way when peace came about after the first war. We had many comfortable years together before the second one began." She hesitates for a moment, sipping her tea. "And all we can do when life turns on us is to face it head on."
Despite the sombre turn, Hermione feels oddly reassured all the same.
"Of course," she allows. "And today we're having a party."
They share a grin before Narcissa says, "Draco is going to be so annoyed."
She walks towards Neville, and Hermione suspects she's interrogating him about the new baby. Sometimes Hermione thinks Theo and Neville's children are the reason Narcissa hasn't bothered her and Draco about having children, and she's relieved of it.
Hermione watches as Luna hangs an odd-looking streamer along the sitting room wall, and a smile tugs at her lips when she finds Harry observing her as well. She nudges him in the shoulder with her own.
"I've missed seeing you," she says softly, taking him in. His eyes gleam with a sparkle she doesn't recognise—or simply hasn't seen in years.
"You too," he says, wrapping an arm around her. "We'll be making more of an effort to stick around home for a while—but if I'm honest, it's been nice. Getting out there—seeing some of the world."
"It's done you well," she observes. "Draco and I will join you two on a trip somewhere."
Harry grins with a wry, "Deal."
They both look up at another knock on the door, and Neville swings it open to allow Pansy and George access, the former's belly swollen with their first child. Hermione waves as the pair slip into the house.
"So," she says quietly to Harry, "tell me about your trip."
The afternoon drags on towards night by the time Draco tears himself away from his work. He glances at his watch, a bitter unease pooling in his stomach when he realises he's returning later than he intended. It's been a busy day but an exhilarating one.
For as much as he thrives in the slow pace of their life in Brighton, a part of him has enjoyed spending more time in London again, joining Theo in his new apothecary endeavour. Keeping his body busy keeps his mind distracted—prevents him from thinking too hard.
Holds the memories at bay.
Each fills a side of Draco that he never would have thought to indulge before. These are the sorts of dreams he wouldn't have even known what to do with. Sometimes, he thinks it's the sort of life he never deserved.
His life with Hermione is everything he could have ever hoped for with another person at his side—and to have friends and family who care for him sometimes still catches him by surprise.
As does the thought of having anything at all beyond the dregs of a prolonged war.
Exhausted, Draco says goodbye to Frankie and Lydia—having spent the day with Neville's gran while he and Theo finalised some details—and Apparates back to Brighton.
He thinks only for a moment of the London house, and despite all the terrible memories he has of the war, there were a few good ones made in that house too. Some with friends Draco wouldn't trade for the world.
Something feels strange the instant he crosses the wards, and old instincts flare within him before he can suppress them. He can detect more magical signatures than Hermione's—but he relaxes when he detects his mother's as well.
He lands in the sitting room, caught momentarily off guard by the sheer amount of people in the house. Draco frowns, eyes tightening for several moments until they all exclaim at his presence.
"What," Draco drawls, "is going on here?"
Theo claps him on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, mate."
Draco blinks at him. "I was with you two minutes ago." He catches Hermione and his mother beaming at him together, their faces warm with delight, and he shakes his head in incredulity as he takes in the sparse decorations. "This is a surprise party."
"You could be a little more enthusiastic," Neville clips with an easy grin.
As he looks around the room, he sees them all. Neville and Theo—Potter and Luna. Pansy and George in the corner. His gaze lingers on Hermione's parents standing near his own mother and he manages a tight nod. Hermione steps closer, flinging her arms around his neck as she plants a kiss to his cheek.
"Happy birthday!" Her eyes are bright as she beams up at him.
His throat tightens, heart stuttering, skin hot. He takes in the people surrounding him—all of the people who matter to him packed into his house—and he clenches his jaw hard.
"This is..." he trails off, lost for words. Not quite trusting himself to speak.
Sometimes he doesn't know what to make of his life. Of the way everything changed. Of the future ahead.
This is one of those moments, and it strikes him hard.
"Thank you," he says, forcing back a thick swallow. Emotion grips his chest and doesn't let go. "All of you for coming. This means a lot." He's never known very well how to express himself in the face of the unexpected, and even less so since all the important aspects of his life have been in his own hands.
So he's all the more relieved when Patroclus emerges from the kitchen and announces dinner is to be served.
The evening slides past in a blur of activity, and Draco can't remember the last time he so thoroughly enjoyed a birthday. Growing up, he had been spoiled and conceited, but even amidst the gifts the day was always cold and contentious.
During the war, he sometimes forgot his birthday altogether.
And all of the ones since the war came to an end, he spent quietly with his wife.
This—being surrounded by family and friends—is a balm to his soul he didn't know he needed. The days are smoother now, quieter, encompassed with enjoyment and contentment, but despite it all he can't quite chase away the ghosts that haunt his steps.
The memories that sneak up on him when he's awake and asleep.
All of the things he's done, the lives he's taken, the heinous tasks he's performed. All in the service of someone who, in the end, stole his own father before they were ever able to come to terms with each other. For a man who would have killed him without a second thought—and nearly did.
The party is a stark juxtaposition—a reminder that those things don't have to dominate his life anymore.
After indulging in Patroclus' delicious cooking, Draco settled in for the evening, catching up with Pansy and George, hearing about Potter and Luna's expeditions through unnoticed and obscure corners of the world.
Visiting with his mother and Hermione's. Trading recipes with Hermione's father.
Sipping whisky with Theo and Neville while they share tales of Frankie and Lydia.
All the while, a smile curls at his lips, an easy enjoyment borne of the simple pleasure of wonderful company. He spends the evening simultaneously alight and overwhelmed, and by the time the last of their friends trickle away, he's exhausted from a long day.
It's the best day he can remember in all of his years.
Left alone with Hermione at last, he stares at her, a gentle smile tugging unbidden at the corners of his mouth.
"You," he drawls, "threw me a party."
Her eyes crinkle at the corners with warmth. "You needed a party."
It's a strange thing to consider, given the context. He needs food and shelter and life's small comforts. He needs her. "I appreciate it," he says all the same. "It was nice to see everyone."
Especially the friends they practically lived with towards the end of the war. Neville and Theo and Potter. After the fighting came to a close and they all drifted their separate ways, months passed before he didn't feel alone all the time.
Hermione reaches for his hand, tugging him close. "Let's go for a walk?"
Although he's tired, his mind still races. He entwines their fingers with a nod, leading her from the house.
A network of walking paths leads from their property towards the coast, the air salty with just enough of a late night chill to invigorate his waning energy. His mind reels after the day behind them, busy with a hectic churning of thoughts.
"Thank you," he says as they drift along the path, neither of them in a rush. "For today."
He catches her smile in the moon's glow. "It was your birthday. And Theo and Neville did a lot of the planning. Keeping you away from the house."
Draco chuckles, shaking his head. "I should have known when Theo wanted to go over formulas six times." He thinks of the day, a smile lingering on his face. "Lydia is really growing fast. You'll need to go for a visit soon."
"I will," she muses.
The air between them falls tense, a little stifled as it sometimes does. The longer they're together, the more settled they feel. They've danced around the topic for months, as though both of them are a little afraid to be the one to bring it up. He can sense it more and more.
Draco releases a sharp breath. "What do you think?"
Her eyes slide towards his. "About children."
"Yeah."
"I think..." she pauses, eyes skimming the starlit sky above them. "It might be something to consider. If you think we're there."
Clenching her hand a little tighter, he fights to quell the stuttering cadence of his heart. "I think maybe we're getting there."
Hermione turns towards him, a tentative smile tugging at her mouth. When he looks close, he can see her eyes are a little wet. "Okay," she breathes.
After everything they've been through, this feels like one more step away from the past that chases them. Another decision of their own making.
Their lives are flexible, their parents nearby.
Growing up, Draco never knew if he wanted to be a father. If he would be a good father, or if he would simply take on the negative characteristics of his own.
Now, he feels it in his soul.
"When we're ready," he says, bringing her knuckles to his lips. "I can't wait to share this next adventure with you."
No longer is life a chain of horrors strung together, but one crafted of their own making with gentle care. His eyes sting, and he doesn't think it's the night air.
"I love you," Hermione says, turning to face him. A tear slides down her cheek, though a beaming smile spreads across her face. "And I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else."
His heart stumbles over its next beat.
He presses a kiss to her mouth. "I love you." He meets her gaze, his heart beating like it may burst out of his chest. His words feel heavy. "I can't regret the path that brought us here, because otherwise I may never have known the value in this. In the life we've built together."
"This life," she echoes, her face a mixture of warmth and incredulity and the love of which he'll never tire. "And everything that comes next."
He gazes at her. Takes her in, allows his magic to graze hers, feels the gentle coil of hers in return. He wants never to take a single second of their time together for granted.
Everything that comes next.
Draco finds he likes the sound of that.
fin