Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful universe of Harry Potter.

Author's Note: This chapter is much later than I'd said, but I needed to take some time away to process what is happening around the world. Also, the pressure of weekly update schedule is somewhat overwhelming, so I will be switching to a schedule of every third week (at least for the time being). Thanks for your patience!

As a small bonus, I've added more to earlier chapters—nothing plot-significant, but a few new paragraphs here and there, (especially more from Draco's perspective in chapter four).

Anyway, I hope chapter six is worth the wait, and you enjoy the absolute behemoth of a chapter that it has become.

Thank you for all your lovely reviews! And thanks to FloraMacDonald for her support!

I hope you are healthy, safe, and well.

Now, please enjoy!

-AFOR (July 15, 2020)

Chapter Six: Over the Threshold

Tuesday, 11 January 2005

Potter!" Draco bellowed. "POTTER!"

Through the floo he could only see the table legs and flagstones of an old kitchen. But no sign of Potter.

"POTTER!"

With a pop! Potter's feet appeared in his line of vision.

"What—"

"Finally," Draco said. "Potter, you've got to come. I don't know what happened. As soon as we got here, she just – and she won't snap out of it."

Draco didn't know how to describe it. Granger had flooed ahead of him, and when he'd arrived at the Manor, she'd already been like that: curled in on herself, eyes unfocused as tears ran down her cheeks. When he'd said her name, she had not responded—had not even reacted. It was as though she hadn't heard him. He'd cast every diagnostic spell he could think of in case she'd brushed against some cursed heirloom but, no. Nothing. He could find nothing wrong with her, yet she was catatonic.

"Alright," Potter said. "I'll come through."

The feet shuffled closer, and Draco scrambled out of the way, managing to withdraw his head from the flames and push up into a half crouch before the fire roared green.

Then, Potter was in his drawing room. Almost instantly he'd spotted Granger and was lunging forward to kneel beside her.

"It's not real," murmured Potter. "It's not real, okay? Hermione, you're here with me. It's not real. Take a deep breath and just focus on – on …." Potter trailed off as he looked about and seemed to realise which room they were in. "Oh."

Potter's eyes completed several circuits of the room and Draco followed with him. Nearly untouched since the end of the war, the drawing room was almost the same as when Potter and Granger had last been here. The crystal chandelier Dobby had destroyed had been mended and now hung glowing with candles, virtually indistinguishable from its twin. Malfoy family portraits lined the room and only if Draco looked closely could he see where stray curses had scattered singe marks across the walls. The drawing room furniture was arranged as it had been since he was a child: gathered around a tea table handsome French armchairs faced the fire, and above the carved marble mantlepiece the gold-trimmed mirror reflected the authentic Renaissance pipe organ against the opposite wall. But even if furniture was no longer haphazardly shoved against the walls, nicks and scuffs in the arms and legs remained. The long table that had overtaken the room during the Dark Lord's stay was long gone—Mother hadn't hesitated to command the elves to burn it, along with half of the Manor's centuries-old Turkish carpets. Draco knew that beneath the new ones the stone still bore rusty stains.

Usually, Draco flooed directly to and from the north wing; and his few visitors knew to arrive at his rooms directly. Though he avoided the drawing room meticulously, it'd been so long since he'd stepped foot in here that he hadn't thought twice when Granger called out "Malfoy Manor!" He'd followed her lead, almost assuming he would wind up in the front hall or kitchens.

Potter had drawn his eyes away from the room and was again wholly focused on Granger. "Hermione, remember it's not real—you're okay. Deep breaths, right?"

Slowly, Draco stood and stepped closer.

Granger had her knees hugged tightly to her chest. Potter's hands reached out as through he wanted to hug her, but he held back. His hands went to her coat lying next to her and drew a beaded, purple bag from its pocket.

Fumbling with the clasp, Potter said, "It's not really happening, remember? It's not real. Focus on – oh, fuck it." Having little success with the bag, Potter turned to him and said, "Malfoy, open the door. I need to get her out of here."

Draco hurried across the room, keeping an eye on Potter and Granger as he went.

Potter gently explained to Granger, "Hermione keep taking deep breaths, I'm just moving you into a different room, alright?"

Granger's empty, teary gaze was impassive.

"Wingardium leviosa."

Carefully, Potter levitated Granger towards the door. Draco stepped back as they neared, and Potter and a floating Granger passed. He followed them, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

As though she were glass, Potter lowered Granger onto the carpet and dropped to his knees next to her, resuming his reassurances the moment she was safely down.

"It's just a memory. You're here with me now, Hermione." As Potter spoke, his hands went to her bag. "Can you just focus on … er – the carpet, alright?" Undoing the clasp, he jabbed his wand inside. "Accio calming draught."

The little vial flew into Potter's hand.

Unstoppering the potion, Potter held it out to Granger. "Hermione, drink this, okay?"

When she made no motion to take it, he slowly brought it to her slightly parted lips, tilting it to dribble a little into her mouth. Not immediately but eventually Granger did swallow, after Potter had re-stoppered the vial, returned it to her bag, and gone back to offering reassurances.

"Is that—"

"Wasn't she the one who—"

Draco only caught whispered phrases.

"—yes, yes, she's the mudblood one—

"—think that's Potter—"

The painted Malfoys from the drawing room had flocked into the portraits in the hall, and now all the ancestors along the walls were crowding into the nearest frames, jostling for the best vantage, whispering among themselves.

"—when I was Lord Malfoy no mudblood ever dared—"

"Yes, yes, Septimus. You've said."

"Well, they didn't, Mathilda. The mudbloods knew better than to—"

Checking Potter was still concentrated upon Granger, Draco crossed to Septimus Malfoy's monstrous gilded frame, inside of which the imperious wizard was arguing with some great aunt twice removed as he elbowed back another.

"Septimus," Draco said lowly. "Thought I'd let you know first. Any portrait I can see that isn't empty in the next minute will be burnt."

Septimus scoffed, "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?"

Septimus looked at him. Septimus wavered.

Then, cousins and uncles and aunts began to scatter. Septimus threw a nasty glance at Draco and hurried after the others, pushing relatives out of his way.

Like the snap of a whip the threat rippled through the frames, and quiet returned to the hall as Malfoy ancestors fled for the distant walls of the Manor. Only Potter's murmur sounded now.

Potter was still being careful not to touch Granger, although he clearly itched to hug her. Draco had always dismissed the tabloid rubbish about Potter and Granger. Despite Skeeter's obsession, Potter seemed very much in love with his wife. Nevertheless, the way Potter naturally angled, leaning towards her was an unusually close gesture for mere friendship. In all his years at Hogwarts, jealously observing Potter at a distance, he'd never seen them display the utter devotion he saw between them now. And yet, if asked, he'd have bet it was platonic.

"Remember just deep breaths and focus on the carpet, alright? It's not real."

"Harry, you can stop now."

It was the first thing Granger had said in half an hour—since the Atrium.

"Hermione!" Relief poured into Potter's voice. "Mione, how are you feeling?"

"Awful," she said shakily.

"Right, sorry." Potter went sheepish. "Of course – of course you are."

Granger adjusted herself, sitting up taller, as Potter fretted. She had the restless, searching stare of someone whose mind was wholly overwhelmed. Scanning the hall, her eyes caught on the drawing room door and she seemed to tense, then quickly swivelled back to Potter.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.

"Are you sure you're not thirsty?" repeated Potter.

"Yeah."

"'Yeah' you're sure or 'yeah' you're thirsty?"

"Harry." Her voice was firmer.

"Sorry. Sorry, er, is there – er," with an audible breath, Potter forced calm into his voice. "How are you feeling?"

Appreciation flickered across Granger's face as she looked at Potter. "Just really, really tired."

"Do you want me to take you home?"

The look she levelled at Potter and slight twinge of her brow made words unnecessary.

"Hermione," Potter groaned, "you're not actually thinking of – you've got to go back to your flat."

She blinked. "I've got to stay at – ah, at the – er, you know."

"Hermione—"

"Harry, I can't."

Catching Draco's eye meaningfully, Potter said, "Hermione, I – I really think you should go back to your flat tonight."

"I'm not allowed."

"Just tonight," Potter reassured her. "They won't check on you tonight."

"They might."

"They're probably celebrating right now," argued Potter with another quick, intense glance to Draco.

Draco chimed in, "Potter's right."

"See?" Potter said. "You and Malfoy can go to your flat tonight and can figure things out tomorrow."

"But—"

"If anyone shows up you can explain what happened, and it's not like you and Malfoy would be trying to get out of living together—you'd just be at your flat instead of here."

Potter's glances hadn't done anything to warn Draco that he'd be going with Granger, but he couldn't very well argue now. There was no question that Potter was right—Granger couldn't spend the night here. If he had to go so that she would, then so be it.

Granger dragged her eyes from Potter to him and then back.

"How – how sure are you they won't come tonight?"

A pleased smile pushed onto Potter's face. "I'd bet you anything they're already getting absolutely pissed."

She knew as well as Potter did that she'd as good as agreed.

"Alright."

Potter helped her up and into her coat and held her bag as she did up her buttons. Draco adjusted his cloak to guard more securely against the cold. Potter stood barefoot wearing only a white t-shirt and thin flannel pyjama bottoms, but neither Granger, concentrating on her buttons, nor Potter, concentrating on Granger, seemed to have noticed any issue. They didn't need to brave the cold—Draco would only have to call, and the elves could apparate them directly to Granger's flat without them needing to cross the Manor's ward line. But there was no telling how Granger would react. Probably easiest not to. So, cold it would be.

"Er, Potter?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh!" Granger, who'd looked up too, seemed to finally actually look at Potter. "Harry, you're barefoot. You can't go like this. I – I'm so sorry, Ginny must be—"

"Ginny's fine—she knows. We'll get you back to your flat and then I'll go home, and Ginny will understand. Relax, okay?"

Granger twitched in what might have been a nod as she unclasped her bag. "Well – I know I've got it somewhere here."

Her arm vanished into the bag and twisted about as she rummaged inside. After half a minute she withdrew, pulling out a jumper and a pair of trainers that she handed to Potter, who quickly pulled them on. Obviously an extension charm, and—knowing Granger—it was probably flawlessly cast. Draco had a moleskin pouch, which was particularly high quality, that could hold tenfold its size, but not to the point that there was excess space to waste on someone else's spare trainers. Of course the charm was flawless—it was Hermione Granger.

Laces knotted, Potter straightened.

"Ready, then?" he asked Granger, despite the fact that she'd been waiting for him.

Taking her arm in his, Potter gently guided Granger forward. The Manor's front doors swung open as the mismatched pair approached, and Draco followed them down the stairs and onto the long drive. Gravel crunched underfoot and Byrdie's precisely-clipped, prized yew hedges climbed on either side, though none of Father's peacocks could be spotted strutting overhead—all likely asleep in some olive tree in the heated garden. The night was peaceful: the Manor the way Draco had grown up with it. Despite the inconvenience, Draco had always like the long drive. It insulated the Manor from the surrounding countryside, already isolated as it was. Guarded behind the gates and hedges, he was protected from the pitchforks and torches of Mother's folktales.

Ahead, Potter and Granger had stopped before the gates. Confused, Potter turned to Draco.

"Erm," Potter said. "Have we got do to something—"

"Blood wards," Draco interrupted. "Malfoy heir and all."

"Right."

Draco stepped around Potter and touched his hand to the wrought iron. Instantly, the metal curled away, leaving open an eight-foot arch trimmed in wrought vines. He let Potter and Granger pass first, then followed them out onto the quiet, Wiltshire country lane.

Potter quietly said something into Granger's ear. After a beat she shook her head.

Potter turned to him. "I'll take Hermione by side-along first then come back for you."

Had Granger not looked so pale, he'd have argued. Like she'd done earlier—was it only that morning?—Granger seemed to be retreating into herself. When she had recovered from her catatonia, she had seemed cognizant. Now, she looked fragile, distracted.

Draco nodded.

Potter, grasping Granger by the arm, turned on the spot. Crack!

And Draco was alone. Beside the Manor's tall gates and manicured hedges, the dimpled packed earth and surrounding short winter-worn, half-wild hedgerows looked out of place. Like this, the Manor loomed, a disproportionate fortress amidst gentle countryside.

A minute later with another crack! Potter materialized.

"You set?"

"Yes."

Potter offered his arm and Draco took it.

It was incredibly strange to grab hold of the Boy Who Lived's arm and let Potter drag him through the squeeze and press of apparition.

Emerging into a London fog that was half rain, Potter and he landed on slick pavement beside Granger. They were in a dark, deserted alley behind a skip that conveniently shielded them from the view of any passing muggles, although being January there were fewer about. Over the several blocks to Granger's flat Draco must have seen hardly five people before Potter nodded to a black door at the top of three stairs.

Despite it being Granger's building, Potter led with Granger a step behind and Draco following her. They climbed the stairs and waited on the stoop as Potter unlocked the door. It seemed a rather quiet neighbourhood—old terraced houses converted into more economical flats. Granger's was among the less well-kept of them with cracked steps, chipping paint on both the rail and the door, and a brass number twenty-eight that hung slightly askew.

Potter held the door to let Granger and Draco in. Inside they stood into a cramped landing at the base of a narrow stairwell, dripping on the old, scuffed black tile. Potter closed the door and, surreptitiously checking no muggles were around, spelled Granger and himself dry.

"Can I?"

Draco nodded.

With a wave of Potter's wand, the damp vanished.

Granger's flat was on the second storey, on the left. Again, Potter unlocked her door. He held it open for Granger but extended it to Draco so he could slip in after Granger and guide her—Draco assumed—to bed. They disappeared into the dark flat.

Draco closed the door and waited awkwardly in the entryway. He'd never liked being in other people's homes. Compared to the Manor, everywhere else felt cramped and obscenely intimate. Only a foot inside of her flat and he was feet from her room, not storeys. If he went further in, he was as near to her bedroom as his private rooms were to his bedroom at the Manor, and only his parents and closest friends ever stepped foot inside of those. Despite being wed to her, entering her living room felt invasive.

Standing there in the darkness felt odder still. From down the hall Draco could hear the murmur of them speaking. He edged forward into her living room. The darkness was now decidedly odd, so he turned on a single lamp and settled on standing, not sitting, while he waited for Potter.

Potter returned five minutes later.

"I guess," he looked about and shrugged, "just, er – take the couch?"

Draco nodded.

If he leaned against one of the armrests the sofa should be long enough for him, and the blanket draped over its back wouldn't need more than a simple heating charm to keep him warm.

"Alright, then. That's sorted. I think there's firewhisky somewhere," Potter said.

Draco followed to where he assumed Granger's kitchen was. Streetlights through the window illuminated the outlines of the fridge and oven well enough that Potter didn't bother with the switch. Bright light briefly lit Potter's face. Then, the fridge door shut, and Potter handed him a cold bottle.

"Sorry, it's only butterbeer."

They drank in silence.

When he'd downed half of his, Draco asked the question that had been bothering him since the Ministry.

"So, when you said she's got difficulties?"

"Yeah," Potter sighed heavily.

"This is what you meant, then?" asked Draco.

Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, he thought Potter nodded. Yet, Potter chose his words carefully, "In part."

What was he not saying? Granger had always appeared so put together that Draco had not thought that something might be deeply the matter with the witch.

"Does this happen often?"

"No, thank God. It's worse when she's stressed – easier for something to set her off. Otherwise, she's alright for the most part."

"But she's got other, er, difficulties?"

Draco got his answer from the way Potter held his gaze intently, even before Potter responded. "Look, I don't really feel comfortable telling you about Hermione's business."

Wednesday, 12 January 2005

Screaming woke him. Draco stumbled up from the sofa, groping in the darkness for his wand somewhere nearby. On the table, wasn't it? His fingers found the familiar wood and he whispered lumos, heading for Granger's room. The wandlight helped with the unfamiliar shapes lying in wait, but he still stubbed a toe and knocked his knee. Grogginess melted off him with each step. By the time he reached Granger's door he was wide awake.

It was unlocked and he pushed it open.

Only barely visible in the darkness, Granger writhed under her sheets.

"Granger?" he whispered.

She screamed at something that wasn't in the room.

"Granger?"

Draco took another step inside. She continued to scream. Step by step, he reached her bed. She tossed and turned, pleading and howling. He hated how familiar her screams were.

"Granger?" Tentatively, he touched one hand to her shoulder. "Granger? Hermione?"

At his touch, she jolted. He recoiled.

Granger stilled as she woke, screams stuttering to gasps. Her wide, teary eyes seized on the ceiling and she seemed to use the cracked plaster to focus, taking several deep breaths. Draco stood frozen, not daring to move and startle her, listening only to her concentrated sighs.

After half a minute, when she made to sit up, he shifted. Turning towards the noise, she stiffened. Her eyes went wide again, frightened, and it took her several swallows before she could release the breath she was holding. Even then, she was clearly working hard to keep her breathing measured.

Horror began to crawl up Draco's spine. No, it wasn't the time.

He cleared his throat. "I didn't, ah, mean to intrude. I just thought – I was worried something had happened."

Granger's gaze sank away from him, down towards her hands. She nodded.

As he stood there, unsure if he should leave, stay, or do something else entirely more comforting, she sniffled. Her breath shuddered, snagged, and went ragged with fighting back tears.

Gingerly Draco sat beside her because it seemed the only thing to do. So as to not risk upsetting her any further, he kept his hands at his side and simply stayed. Even if Granger didn't want him there, she hadn't said so, and he couldn't very well leave her without trying to help, to – well, he didn't know what.

He'd never been particularly skilled with reassuring words. Not like Blaise, who could talk his way into or out of anything and, at that, could talk anyone into or out of anything. Less than a day after Theo's father had been arrested, Blaise had managed to charm laughter out of Theo. The apple never fell far from the tree, after all. But neither kind words nor sympathy came easily to Draco. Although they loved him dearly, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were not gifted caregivers: they translated affection into restrained embraces and bridled words.

Granger struggled for several minutes before she gave herself over to the tears but, once she had, she only cried in earnest for a minute or two.

Draco did not know what to say. Dozens of questions raced through his mind. Was she okay? What had happened? Was it because of the Manor, or did she have nightmares often? Exactly how messed up was she? The war had ravaged all of them, but Granger seemed affected, as if it had ended only months before. And horror was now perched on his shoulder, steadily digging its talons in deeper and deeper. What should he do?

It was half past three in the morning but sod it.

"Would you like some tea?" asked Draco.

Granger looked up. "Er, yes, please."

Her hands went to rub at her eyes, then to her hair, smoothing the mane back away from her face, and that was what seemed to finally bring her back.

"Oh, I'm not thinking straight," she said. "You don't know where anything is."

That was what she was concerned about?

Granger untangled herself from her sheets and led the way down the dark hall to her modest kitchen. She flipped the switch, bathing the kitchen in soft light and hard shadows. Draco stood beside the small table, uncertain if he should sit, as she put the kettle on and retrieved cups from the cupboard. There was Earl Grey or camomile as well as sugar, milk, and cream, and what would he like? When she pulled the cream from her fridge, it was hard not to notice how bare the shelves were. Watching her flit about, he became keenly aware of how thin the camisole she wore with her pyjamas was.

She fixed them two cups, set them on the table, and finally sat. He took the other chair. Her mind was elsewhere, and Draco's thoughts drifted as well. He turned over everything, over and over again, that had happened since they'd left the Ministry. Potter had thought something might happen or else he wouldn't have given him the address. Potter known immediately what to do. It wasn't uncommon, then.

Granger cradled her tea in both hands with white knuckles—desperately drawing warmth from the ceramic cup.

Four o'clock had come and gone, dawn still several hours off. They'd been sitting in silence long enough now for Draco to be fully aware of the weight of horror as it rested on his shoulders. He couldn't keep his curiosity quiet any longer.

"How often?"

"What?" Granger pulled her eyes away from her tea.

"How often am I in them?" he asked.

She blinked, and her face folded in on itself. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

But he'd seen it. He'd seen how she had looked at him, afraid that he was some new twist to the nightmare. And now, even as she avoided his eyes, he again saw the fear in hers. Not fear of him, but fear of the dreams.

"Like hell you don't," he insisted. "Granger, when you saw me you thought you were still in the nightmare. So, how often am I in them?"

She dropped her gaze to her churning fingers.

He waited. Her thumbs rubbed across her palms and over her knuckles.

"Often enough," she said.

"Every night?"

When he'd been having panic attacks anywhere close to as bad as the episode she'd had last night, nightmares were still a near-nightly visitor. He needed to know whether it was the same for her. And, more urgently, whether he was part of that torment most nights.

Wordlessly she shook her head, still not lifting her eyes from her hands.

"Every week?"

A pause. Then, she nodded. "At least once. Sometimes more. But that's only sometimes."

Draco reeled. He couldn't be married to a woman for whom his very being called back sadistic torture. It was beyond cruel. Draco felt sick. After everything he'd done since the war to distance himself from his past, here he was again. A Death Eater in his wife's eyes. A wife he didn't even want. A wife who most vehemently didn't want him. He'd never be able to escape. Forever he'd be hurting people he didn't mean to. It wasn't fair to her. It wasn't fair to him. He'd given up on being a good person years ago, but now the Ministry had stolen his chance at decency too.

He'd come to terms with the fact that it was her. The fact that he had to marry a witch who knew exactly how terrible he had been. He'd come to terms with the fact that who he'd been had hurt her more times than he could remember.

He had not come to terms with the fact that who he was now would still hurt her.

"Shit. Shit. Granger, if I'd known – if you'd told me I could've—"

"What? You could've what?" she snapped. "I did everything, it wouldn't have made a difference."

"If they knew what happened, they wouldn't have made you – you could've at least gotten someone else."

Granger only shook her head. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

"You don't know tha—"

"Actually, I do," she interrupted. "You know, I am somewhat familiar with how the Ministry handles these things."

Was she so willing to accept this? There had to be something they could do. He couldn't live like this—live with her. Didn't she want to have someone else? To not go through the unhappiness he was sure to cause her? Did she not care enough to spare him that guilt? It had become so heavy now, compacting his lungs.

"So, that's it?" he managed.

"What do you want me to do?" she demanded, setting down her cup with a clatter. "Unlike you, I didn't even know it was you until yesterday. It's not like I had time to put together an appeal, or that they even would've listened to me."

So, she knew that he'd known for years and was angry that he hadn't told her. It hurt. It hurt. He needed it off him. It had taken him until nearly eighteen to understand how heavy guilt could be, but the years had taught him well. This was different: it was everything on the head of a pin. There had to be a way she could get away from him.

"Does it not matter to you?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You have nightmares, what, every night? You were in the Manor for a – minute, maybe? And you literally started to relive the – er, what happened. And what? You've given up now? You're not even going to try do something about it?"

Granger frowned at him, then shook her head. "You know what, I'm actually rather knackered."

She stood up.

He opened his mouth to argue but had the good sense to shut it again.

"Good night," he said instead.

Granger turned into the hall without saying it back.

She'd left her cup, teabag and puddle at the bottom. Draco finished his own tea, tossed their dregs down the drain and the bags into the bin, and spelled both cups clean before replacing them in the cupboard. There were sparse few dishes inside. A few glass bowls and plates sat on the lower shelf, on the next on up sat glasses, teacups, and two souvenir coffee mugs—one that said World's Best Dad and the other from somewhere in France.

He filled a glass from the tap, swallowed down half, and returned to his makeshift bed on her sofa to do his best to find sleep again. The soft melancholy that always came with being in a stranger's home had settled into his skin again. The tap water didn't taste quite right. The air smelled strangely spicy—cinnamon, maybe—and too dusty, like the Hogwarts library.

Sleep evaded him. Thoughts raced without real words to the sentences or questions. Just the insistent awareness that he didn't know, that there was nothing to be done—nothing he could do—about it. Granger was right: the Wizengamot would not change its mind. There was no getting around it.

It'd been a struggle for years since the war—since sixth year, really—with insomnia. The nightmares had started fifth, but not until Father's imprisonment had Draco begun to go without sleep to avoid them. Taking the Mark had only made things worse. He'd gone so far as to nick dreamless sleep from Severus's stores, which had only made his godfather angrier with him. For the rest of the year, though, as well as the next, a fresh bottle would appear somewhere, in his schoolbag or trunk or beneath his pillow, each time the previous one ran out. It was among the many things he regretted not thanking Severus for.

Sixteen through nineteen, Draco had survived on dreamless sleep and occlumency. Without the potion, he'd have fallen seriously ill sixth year—the scant few hours of sleep he was managing further broken apart by anxious dreams. He had already been using rudimentary occlumency to cope with stress, but Severus's lessons the summer before seventh year had turned him into a skilled occlumens. Compartmentalisation, like neat rows of post office boxes, had kept him sane under the Carrows' Hogwarts.

But memories and fear had stayed with Draco following the war. The last of Severus's dreamless sleep had been gone in a week, and then the nightmares had reared up: undiminished and more vicious than before. He'd learned to brew dreamless sleep himself during his return eighth year. It hadn't been Severus's flawless formula, though—it had taken another five years to even approximate that—and the nightmares had run him ragged. Now, Draco had almost replicated Severus's formula, but he still hadn't managed to eliminate its addictiveness. So, he could only use it sparingly. Truth be told, he didn't know if Severus's formula had even eliminated the addictiveness—at the time, he hadn't cared nor noticed.

When Granger's screams startled Draco three hours later, he shook her awake and did not comment at her whimper when she caught sight of him. He simply sat beside her. Was this what it would be? Him reduced to the terror incarnate of her nightmares?

He had not been able to sleep, and all his thinking had done was leave him frustrated and lonely, with a building headache.

"I haven't been shopping lately," Granger said, "but there's a nice café just a few blocks over – I mean, if – if you're hungry."

Lately? Draco doubted she'd been shopping properly—for anything more than a carton of milk here, a loaf of bread there—in at least a month.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm – I am."

"Alright, then." She glanced about. "Er, I'll just get dressed first and then …."

"Yes. Right."

Draco stepped out and used the loo first so he wouldn't disrupt her routine. When he finished, the cold water and several freshening charms had done nothing to make him forget that he was still in his clothes from yesterday. It'd do until he could return to the Manor, though.

As Draco waited on Granger, he peered around her flat. In the daylight, he could see how small the apartment was. The flat's front door opened into her living room, which was only half-shielded from view by the wall of the hallway extending to the right, down which was her cramped bedroom and the loo. Left of the front door was the kitchen, with two doorless openings carved out, leaving a middle section of wall separating it from the living room.

Draco removed the heating charm, refolded the blanket, and draped in over the sofa. The living room was very muggle: cushy sofa, television, electric lamps. She hadn't made it terribly personalised, but the wall facing the door to the kitchen had a built-in bookcase that was almost entirely filled.

Moving closer to look, it became clear Granger had divided her collection between muggle literature on the left and wizarding on the right. Within each, the books were ordered alphabetically. She had a number of unusual titles, notably several on the Dark Arts that Draco wouldn't have expected of her. Between the books she had dedicated an entire shelf, running the length of the wall, to an assortment of framed muggle and magical photographs.

In one of the unmoving pictures a teenaged Granger smiled out from between two people who could only be her parents. Apparently, Granger had inherited her hair and her smile from her father but looked otherwise very like her mother. And the resemblance between mother and daughter was even more striking in the picture that showed her parents on their wedding day. The most recent picture of the Grangers was of Granger and her mother stringing tinsel onto a Christmas tree. Granger in the picture did not have a scar on her arm, which meant the photograph had been taken sixth year or earlier.

Only a few of the more than twenty pictures were of the Grangers, though. The rest by and large showed Granger, Potter, and Weasley together, although Ginny Potter, Loony Lovegood, Longbottom, and the other Weasleys were frequent additions. In a very strange photograph, Granger sat between Potter, Professor Lupin, and Sirius Black in, what Draco thought was, the same kitchen he'd spotted through Potter's floo last night. Just next to that, another frame had Granger and Ginny Potter crying with laughter in the same kitchen while a pink-haired witch, who Draco didn't recognise, sprouted a duck bill.

"Colin – Dennis's brother, you know, took a few of those, actually."

Draco spun around. Granger had emerged and was watching him examine her collection of photographs.

"This one?" He gestured to the one with the pink-haired witch.

"No, next to it," she said.

The picture she indicated was much like many of the others—she, Potter, and Weasley sat outside on the Hogwarts grounds. As Granger read, Weasley practiced casting a colour change charm, accidentally turning Potter's hair polka-dotted green instead of his scarf.

"It's a good picture of you three," Draco said, turning away from Granger in the picture, who was laughing too hard to perform the countercharm.

Granger standing in front of him now looked less tired than before, but still worn.

"Yeah." She smiled. "I know Colin was trying to take longer exposure photos and I think that was one of the best ones he got. He wanted help with some of the theory on magical portraits, but was having trouble capturing a moment, rather than just animating it …"

Granger didn't stop talking as she gathered her wallet, a ring of keys, and her wand into her the deep pocket of her coat—the same atrocious rainslicker from the night before. Retrieving his cloak from the coffee table, Draco transfigured it into a muggle peacoat of the same fine wool, slipped his wand into the band of his sock, and followed her out the door.

She continued her summary of magical photography, down the stairwell and outside onto the pavement.

"I know Colin had been working on a film – kind of patching together photos and binding them together. Then, trying to reverse-engineer the process, but I—"

Halfway through her sentence she paused abruptly, suddenly tentative. "I'm being stupid, aren't I? You must have work."

What? It took Draco a second to wrap his mind around her sudden change in tone, never mind her question.

"Oh. No, I – ah, I took the week off."

How could he not have? It had been such a startling owl to receive on Sunday: married by Tuesday. He'd written his clients within the hour postponing all meetings. Thank Merlin, he didn't have a case due in court until the end of February.

"Oh."

Awkward quiet, which neither Granger nor he seemed inclined to break, squeezed its way between them.

They continued walking. On the opposite side of the road, a man in a white turban quickened from a brisk walk to a run and only just caught his bus. A couple passed by arguing rapidly in a language that sounded rather like Chinese or Japanese. A broad, ruddy man shouldered roughly past Draco, without a word of apology. London was so very different from Wiltshire or Diagon or anywhere Draco knew in the wizarding world. It had a bruising, blissful anonymity.

Eventually Granger asked, "So, do you work at the Ministry, then?"

"Er, no. I'm a solicitor.

"I didn't know there were wizarding solicitors."

"Well, there aren't many, but solicitors have worked for old wizarding families, really as long as the Wizengamot's existed."

"Defending the landed gentry, I see."

"Jumping to conclusions, I see."

Rather than repentant, her eyebrows lifted in challenge.

He went on, "No, actually. Almost all my clients are ordinary witches and wizards. My fees are reasonable enough that most can afford them without needing a loan from Gringotts."

"Most?"

"I take on clients pro bono if they can't afford the fee."

She nodded and not quite reluctantly said, "Well, that's good of you."

They fell into silence again. Half a block farther, Draco spotted a promising black awning reading Millstone.

"Is that it, then?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Though the café was bustling with office-goers darting in for a pastry on their commutes the tables were only half-filled, and they were quickly ushered to a window table in the corner. Their pasty, spotty-faced waiter, whose scarf obscured his nametag and who did not otherwise introduce himself, took Draco's coffee order—café au lait—and lacklustrely pointed them towards the menus already in the stand holder, before being off.

Millstone had the right variety of selection—enough to have options and not so many that it was hard to decide. An omelette was Draco's typical breakfast, so it took just a minute to select the add-ins. He set his menu down and waited.

Granger frowned as she inspected her menu, deliberating for several minutes before shutting it and replacing it in its metal wire armature.

"Do you know what you're having, then?" she asked with a glance to his menu lying flat on the table.

"The spinach and goat cheese omelette, I think. And you?"

"Yoghurt and granola."

He'd have thought she'd get something more filling.

"Have you gotten it before?" he asked.

"Yeah, erm, a few times." A moment later, she added, "It – it's good."

The spotty, teenaged waiter returned with Draco's coffee and took their orders. Draco wasn't quite sure if the boy had understood that he wanted the croissant and the toast, rather than instead of. However, he restrained himself from checking a third time.

"Did your mother make it back to France safely?" Granger asked politely, when they were alone again.

"Everything went smoothly with the Portkey, so I assume so. She usually likes to write, though – I expect her letter's waiting at the Manor."

Granger nodded, going quiet again. The mention of the Manor seemed to have upset her.

It was too early and it had been too long of a night to ask about what had happened yesterday or discuss the inevitability that they would have to return to the Manor at some point. Instead, he steered the conversation to a different question that had been bothering him.

"Your parents weren't at the wedding."

Startled, she looked at him, taking an intentionally bland expression. "No."

"Do they live far?"

"Er, yeah. They're abroad right now and a bit hard to reach. It was so short notice."

"Oh. Where about are they travelling?"

"It was a bit of a spontaneous trip, so they don't really have an itinerary. Last I heard, they're in Australia."

"Well, I'm sorry they couldn't be there." He hoped it sounded as sincere as he meant.

"Yeah, I suppose." She tilted her head slightly side to side. "I don't know what difference it really makes, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Just, I don't know if they would've been able to anyway. Since the Ministry doesn't allow muggles inside."

"I imagine they'll be upset they missed it," he offered, wondering why she seemed so offhand about it. Mother had insisted quite firmly on attending.

"No, I don't think so," she said in the same nondescript tone.

For no reason that he could tell, her tone forbade further questions. With most—if all—other conversations, he would have left it at that and politely respected her obvious preference to not talk about her family. But she was his wife and that tended to entail at least some knowledge of her life.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah, she said stiffly, clearly annoyed he wasn't taking the hint. "They're both very bohemian, you know."

Now he had the sense that she was outright lying to him. What sort of bohemians raised a daughter like Granger, a witch who was the antithesis of bohemian?

He didn't care to pretend she'd fooled him. "If you say so."

Once their food arrived, Draco became suddenly aware of how ravenous he was. When their waiter had gone, Granger rubbed her hands on the tabletop, before letting them come to rest at either side of her bowl. She inhaled concentratedly.

"Thank you," she said, "for yesterday." Reading his expression, she continued, "With Neilson, I mean. You could've been an arse and weren't and – and I appreciate that."

"You don't have to thank me, I—"

"I know I don't have to," she said more harshly, he thought, than she'd meant. After a breath she said, "Sorry, I know. Er, I – I want to."

"Well, you're welcome."

She seemed slightly less on edge after that, though still wound tighter than a clock spring.

The omelette was fair, though pale in comparison to Puck's culinary genius. He finished it quickly, then more leisurely buttered his toast and applied a healthy layer of jam to both croissant and toast. Across the table Granger scraped clean her bowl.

"You said you work as a solicitor?"

He swallowed his bite. "Yes."

"Are there wizarding firms?"

"A handful, but I work independently."

None of the firms would have hired him, had Draco applied. In those circles the Malfoys were despised. He had thought more than once of the precarious position his family had managed to land themselves in. Hated almost unanimously throughout wizarding Britain, both factions considered them cowards and traitors, still they remained—somehow—opulently endowed.

"What sorts of case do you most enjoy?"

"I like the variety more than any one type, but I suppose it'd have to be property disputes."

"Why property law?"

"Well, they're always fascinating. Because it's land you have to deal with wizarding law as well as muggle – always an interesting challenge. And then, since its England, there are Merlin knows how many absurd, archaic local statues you have to figure in. But if you go about it the right way, sometimes they're the most helpful bit."

"What do you mean?"

And then he was off on a lively rendition of Margery Witting's suit to claim the surplus figs from her neighbour's fig tree since she'd been the one to enchant it to do so well in the wet British climate, which Granger seemed genuinely interested in, when the waiter came back with their receipt. Granger took it and started to go for her bag.

As the waiter walked off, Draco said, "Granger, I'm paying."

She looked up, stilling. "Don't be ridiculous, I invited you to breakfast, of course I'll pay."

"Granger," he said simply.

"What?" she snapped.

"I can afford it. You—"

"Oh my god!" Her mouth widened into an 'o' as the rest of her face pinched. "You did not just – you did not – you prick. Well, now I definitely am paying."

"Come off it. Just let me—"

"I can afford a seven-pound meal," she insisted.

"Why can't you just let me – wait, seven pounds?"

He snatched the receipt from her hand.

"Hey!"

Turning his shoulder towards her as a barrier against her grabs, he held the receipt beside his menu, skimming over the words. There! Yoghurt and granola was at the top of the list of side dishes, only two pounds.

He looked back up at her. She'd given up and settled back into her seat.

"Seriously? You ordered the least expensive thing they serve?"

Her eyes flashed furtively. "So?"

"Did you not think I would pay?"

"Believe it or not, I hadn't considered it. I've got the decency that when I invite someone to breakfast, I pay." She held his gaze. "And it's not really your concern anyway what I order."

"I wasn't raised to make a witch pay or go hungry, let alonemy wife, Granger," he growled and was gratified to see how the word 'wife' affected her—that automatic wince was so satisfying. "Can you look me in the eye and tell me you've eaten enough?"

"I've eaten enough," she said blandly.

"You're lying."

Why must she be so stubborn? Clearly, she was hungry—anyone would be after that—but she just wouldn't admit it.

"Malfoy, I'm fine. Now give me the receipt so I can pay."

"Are you honestly full?"

"Yes." Granger glowered at him. "Happy now?"

"Not particularly. I still—"

"Excuse me!" Granger called to their waiter, passing by towards a different table.

"D'you need anything?"

"No, just – here," Granger pushed a few notes into the boy's hand, "you can keep the change."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Have a nice day," she snapped.

He shrugged, nonplussed, and continued towards the next table.

Turning back to Draco, she asked acidly, "Can we leave, now?"

"Clever. But I'm not leaving until you've actually eaten something."

"What?" Granger huffed. "That's ridiculous. I ate."

He glanced over the brunch section: French toast, pancakes, waffles, crêpes, and scones. Though, the full English also sounded enticing.

"Do you fancy the waffles?" he asked.

"No, I don't fancy the waffles, Malfoy. And I'm not indulging – whatever it is you're playing at."

"I'm simply enjoying breakfast with my wife."

"No, you're not!"

"I hardly think you get to decide what I am or am not enjoying, Granger."

"Well, you're not simply doing anything. You're attempting to undermine my autonomy."

It was ridiculously easy to fall into the rhythm—the fun—of riling her up.

"How do you expect to be able to exercise your autonomy, Granger, if you faint of hunger first?" he teased.

"Really, Malfoy. You are clearly trying to assert your authority over me. As though a woman can't make her own choices about what to eat."

"You don't even believe yourself, Granger. It's got nothing to do with your being a witch. You just won't say you're hungry because you can't admit someone else is right."

"Please!" she said, splitting the word into two dismissive syllables. "This is first. Next you'll be telling me who I'm not allowed to see."

"You complement me, but I'm afraid I'm not that clever, Granger. Sorry to disappoint."

He caught the bored but curiously sceptical eye of their waiter, watching from a nearby table. He waved the boy over.

"What are you doing?" she hissed waspishly.

The waiter reached their table. "Yeah?"

Sliding into the pathetic amorous first-person plural of a dutiful husband, Draco said, "We're actually rather hungrier than we thought. We'll have the crêpes, the full English, two croissants, and another café au lait, please."

"Cool. I'll—"

"No! No, we won't need any of that. I—"

"Don't worry, dear," Draco interrupted her smoothly. "I'll help you finish it."

"No," Granger said to the waiter, "you don't need to—"

"She always worries about wasting food, you know," Draco said conspiratorially to the waiter.

The boy looked between Granger, glaring, and Draco, smiling, and said indifferently. "We've got, like, you know, takeaway containers?"

"Ah, excellent," Draco said. "And I'll pay the bill in advance." He pulled several notes from his wallet.

"Cool."

When the waiter had gone, Draco finally looked at Granger more than peripherally. As he'd suspected, she looked spitting mad.

"What the fuck!"

"It's ridiculous that you weren't going to—"

"It's not your decision to make."

"You're hungry."

"It's not your goddamn decision!"

"You were being stubborn."

"It's my decision!"

"It's stupid."

"I can't believe you have the gall to order for me!"

"And you're lying to yourself. I have more galleons than I know what to do with. Can't you just let me buy you breakfast?"

He was almost surprised that she didn't leave. But she didn't. She stayed, sitting stonily as she waited for the food to come.

A few minutes in, he couldn't resist.

"So, what happened anyway?"

"What?"

"To your award money?"

"That's not a conversation for today."

"And why not?"

"Because honestly, Malfoy, I'm surprised I care enough about the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy that I haven't already cursed you."

"Fair enough."

A few more minutes lapsed as he tried not to, really tried not to – but he couldn't stop himself.

"About the fines, though," he said. "I can pay them. They wouldn't even dent my accounts, I—"

"No," Granger snapped. "And for the record, I don't care how fabulously rich you are."

"So noted."

Draco found Nym in the kitchen with Alfie and Puck—undoubtedly, Byrdie was off in her beloved gardens somewhere—and enlisted her to help with the wards. The eldest of the elves, Nym had lived at the Manor longer than anyone: she'd cared for Draco all his life and had raised Father and Grandfather before him. Nym had an elegance to her, evocative of the sort of prideful, self-effacing honour code that could only come from commitment to an age-old legacy.

House elves and their range of rarer cousins—brownies in Britain and farfadets in parts of the Continent—treasured their earthen dedication. Playful, but deeply industrious, they'd tended to forests and wilds before they served wizards and witches. Originally, elves and wizards had pledged themselves, together, to the land and to the old natural magic. But gradually, as land had succumbed to cities under the press of Christianity and modernity, wizarding life shifted from the simpler agricultural ways to commercial economy. So deep-rooted was elves' allegiance to wizards by then, that they'd followed wizards, pledging themselves to the service of households and families. As wizards turned away from old customs and magic and forgot the origins of the elves' fealty, the elves did not forget. They remembered. Even when wizards named themselves masters, elves clung to the dignity of their service.

Nym's mother, Hesper, who had died before Draco was born, had passed onto Nym the lore and secrets of the Manor that the elves of their family had kept and upheld going back to Armand Malfoy and Nyx the Elf, Nym's however many greats grandmother. For over a century and a half Nym's magic had intertwined with the magic of the current Lord Malfoy and ancestral blood wards, guarding over Malfoy Manor and its inhabitants.

Every fibre of that heritage of dignity polished Nym shiny. Her greyish bald head always tilted up proudly. She wore her rags like an ethereal toga, twisting and braiding in new scraps—sometimes daisies, like a brooch.

It took the afternoon with Nym to close off the floo for the drawing room fireplace and revise all the wards to accept Granger. Exhausted, Draco would have been more than happy to collapse in his own bed straightaway. But nothing had been decided with Granger. Despite her worries last night, now that they'd temporarily settled at Granger's flat, she seemed content to stay. She hadn't mentioned returning to the Manor, and he couldn't figure out how to raise the matter. At some point they would need to go back. Her lease ended at the end of the month and the Manor was their only residence registered with the Ministry. The question of the loomed.

Yet, it didn't need an answer tonight.

Draco packed himself a small holdall, making sure to include a bottle of dreamless sleep, and left the Manor just as the day was fading. It was a sight, watching the setting sun cast the Manor in silhouette from behind.

Draco arrived back at Granger's flat and opened the door with the spare key she'd lent him, to be met by a swell of orchestral music and sounds of clashing metal in the dark flat. Softly, he shut the door and peered into Granger's living room.

Ginny We – Potter and another witch who looked vaguely familiar from Hogwarts and—possibly—from something in the Prophet, sprawled across Granger's sofa while Granger herself nestled in a neighbouring armchair. The television illuminated their faces.

"Merlin," Ginny Potter was saying. "I still haven't the faintest how the muggles make this work, but I'll snog the pants off whoever invented telly."

"It's a film, actually—" Granger began.

"Shhh!" Potter interrupted, without pulling her eyes from the television.

The other unknown witch turned, smiling, to Granger. "Hermione, Ginny doesn't honestly want to know."

Granger's brow crinkled. "It's not that complicated. They just—"

"Oh, go find Dad," interrupted Potter. "He'd love it. I just want to see what happens to this mask guy."

The unknown witch rolled her eyes. "Ice cream anyone? Ginny? Hermione?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Granger answered.

"There's no more cookie dough," said Potter.

"I guess that's a no, then." Rising, the unknown witch turned towards the kitchen and caught sight of Draco. "Oh! Hermione, Malfoy's back."

"What?" Potter's gaze snapped to him.

Granger merely sat up straighter in her chair, shifting her cocoon of blankets, and looked up.

The other witch was halfway across the room to him, extending her hand. "Hi, I'm Audrey."

"Draco," he said, shaking her hand.

Audrey had a light but enthusiastic grip and an intelligent smile.

"Nice to meet you, Draco." She flashed him another knowing smile as she stepped into the kitchen.

"Granger. Potter. How's the—"

Potter snorted. "No. Yeah, that's too weird. Just call me Ginny."

"You did say it was Potter yesterday," he pointed out.

"Well, it is, and you'd called me Weasley." She shook her head. "It was weird then too – I mean, who still uses fucking surnames? But I couldn't tell you to call me Ginny—I was threatening you."

"Ginny!" exclaimed Granger.

"What?" Potter – Ginny asked, unfazed. "It wouldn't have been intimidating."

From the kitchen Audrey chimed in, "Hermione, she's right—it wouldn't have been intimidating."

"That wasn't what – oh, never mind."

The clanging of metal from the telly had died down and a gentle swell of music rose up.

"Incontheivable!" came a lisping voice from the telly.

"Oh my god! Ginny, you have to watch! The next scene's so good," Audrey said, re-emerging and settling back onto the sofa.

Should he join them? The question seemed to hang in the air between Granger and him. Her doe eyes were on him, and peripherally, he thought, both Audrey and Pott – Ginny's eyes were on them. Feeling foolish, like a trailing puppy, if he asked aloud, he arched an eyebrow in question. Granger gave the faintest of nods.

"Oi, budge over." Pot – Ginny immediately drove an elbow into Audrey's side, which confirmed that they'd been watching them.

He settled beside Audrey and attempted to concentrate on the film.

If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!

A note about the elves' names: In the canon, Dobby's name is drawn from an English word for a mischievous household ghost or fairy. I kept this tradition in naming the other Malfoy elves: Alfie's name is a modification of the Old English word ælf, which is where we get the word 'elf' from; Puck's name comes from the word 'puck', meaning a mischievous spirit, and—of course—also refences the trickster fairy called Puck in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Nym's name is a shortening of 'nymph'; her mother's name, Hesper, name is taken from the Hesperides of Greek mythology, who were the nymphs of the evening; and Nyx (Nym's many-greats grandmother) shares her name with the Greek goddess of night, who by certain accounts is the mother of the Hesperides. Byrdie is the outlier—her name comes from the Old English word inbyrdling, meaning a slave born in a master's house, which seemed fitting for a house elf.

P.S. Chapter Seven: The Surviving Brother will from Dennis's perspective and should be up August 2!

P.P.S. As I said at the top, I've added more to earlier chapters—nothing plot-significant, but new paragraphs here and there (especially in chapter four).