A/N - While this story is mostly told from Hermione's POV, this chapter will not be following that format... enjoy!

Chapter 10: Turned Me to a Savage

24 December 1924

For all that Draco believed he was the brains of the Death Eaters – the one who thinks – he was beginning to realize he didn't have any brains at all. If he did have any, then he wouldn't feel utterly shocked and betrayed to discover who Penelope Clearwater is. She is nothing; not the love of his life, the voice of reason among a den of snakes, nor the one person he came to trust above all others.

Unquestionably, irrevocably, and foolishly.

There was a fire in his veins as the woman standing between him and several loaded guns answered to Miss Hermione Granger. It became clear that was her true identity and Penny was a facade. Penny was the woman on his arm and the light at the end of a dark and treacherous tunnel. Miss Hermione Granger was a lie and the burning star to which he, with blind adoration, flew too close to.

Miss Hermione Granger was, plainly put, a traitor.

Draco had just about convinced himself that if they made it out of here alive, then he would kill her himself. But then the tension in the room reached its peak and all hell broke loose. Through one black eye and one teary eye, he watched the violence unfold. It began, like most fallouts in his line of work, with the deafening boom of a gun being fired; a badass gun meant to blow Draco's head clean off.

Instead of ripping through Draco, however, it tore itself through Penny's – Hermione's – shoulder.

She fell in slow-motion; her small frame colliding with the cement floor and folding so unkindly it made Draco's heart stop. Her blood flooded from the massive wound, pooling around her body. It was in that moment he feared he would truly lose her, and every horrible fate he wished for her weighed heavily on his heart. Then, her breath hitched, her eyes met his, and hatred boiled in his blood once more.

Draco screamed for her to watch out; to get the bloody gun and shoot them. All that came out were strangled cries, scratching at his bruised throat. His gaze lifted from her small fists closing around the revolver to the dark abyss that was Commander Shacklebolt's eyes. The fucking scoundrel. A pathetic excuse of a man.

The end of his gun – with its enormous fucking bullet ready to go – was aimed at Draco's head again. Miraculously, when it went off, the bullet soared over his head and lodged itself in the wall, leaving a crater and simultaneously sparking a belief in God that Draco thought had been left in the trenches. Shacklebolt was on the floor; a gaping hole between his eyes.

Instinctively, Draco's widened gaze slid over to Penny – Hermione. She, however, looked just as shocked as he felt as they both stared at Shacklebolt's unmoving body. Her head whipped around at the same time that his lifted up.

Theo stood before them with a smug grin displayed across his face.

"Now, that's what I call good timing." He trilled, sending a wink their way before sobering up slightly and moving to free Draco from his binds. Over Theo's shoulder, Draco could make out Blaise unleashing the likes of a Tommy gun on the other men. His battle cry was shrill and definitely needed work. "He sounds like a fucking hawk. An injured, depressed, dying one." Theo mocked, making eye contact with Draco. Good to know that their bond was flourishing as ever. "Oi!" He yelled, finished with Draco and kneeling to survey Hermione. "Blaise, will you shut the fuck up! We have to get a move on before the whole fucking cavalry upstairs decides to come down here!"

"You never let me have any fun," grumbled Blaise as he slung the enormous submachine gun across his back. "Come on, Draco," he grunted. Draco leaned heavily on his friend, grateful for the support as they climbed the dark stairs. At the very top of the staircase stood Greg and Vince, each with their own Tommy gun glued to their hands. "Anything?" Blaise asked, pausing before rounding the corner.

"No," replied Greg. In the darkness, Draco could only barely make out him nodding further into the corridor behind them. "Not a single peep. Did you two even have to use that thing?"

Blaise scoffed, "Of course we fucking did. You didn't hear it?" The other two shook their heads, looking dubiously at each other. Blaise whistled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Fuck, they had you in a bloody soundproof room, Draco." His dark eyes flitted across Draco's face, and he fought the urge to scowl at the man's concern over his health. He wasn't one for a lot of fuss. "Right, well, let's get a bloody move on."

"Wait," Draco rasped. "We can't leave them."

"We're not," Blaise assured him. "Theo is right behind us, and he's got Penny, so - "

Penny.

Draco's fist shot out, clutching onto the collar of Blaise's shirt. He took a deep breath, settling his pulse. "No. Not them." He tapped the gun poking out behind his friend's ear. "We can't leave any witnesses here. We can't afford to have them poking around. Still in operation." Draco tightened his grip. "They're fucking coppers – No, they're worse than fucking coppers."

"You want us to level this place, then?"

Draco nodded.

"There's something else."

He explained his idea to Blaise and sent him off to go retrieve the stolen guns hidden beneath Theo's pub. "Pull as many lads from the streets as it takes. We need to do this quickly and quietly. Can't have the bloody IRA onto us." Blaise nodded and took off, leaving Draco to lean against the cold brick wall. He clapped a bloodied hand on first Greg, then Vince's, shoulder. "Alright lads," he smirked. "Light 'em up."

"You got it boss," replied Vince with a sly grin.

Back at the Manor, Draco nodded to Greg and Vince as he struggled to step out of the car and limp into the foyer. "Well done, boys," he said. "Let's see if we can dig you up some warmed whiskey and dark chocolate, eh?" Just as Draco saw he earned a genuine smile from both of them, he turned his attention toward the chaos behind the kitchen door.

"What the fuck?"

"It's about time you bloody arrived," his mother quipped, shooting daggers at him. "Where the hell have you been? You know what, never mind that right now, just come here and help hold her down." Mother's pale eyes returned to the task at hand, and she went on barking out orders at everyone else. Draco could only stare.

Miss Hermione Granger was bleeding all over the kitchen island.

"Draco," his mother hissed. She took his chin between her iron-clad grip and surveyed his face. Her own expression was stoic, but Draco recognized the twinkle in his mother's eyes. It spoke volumes when she didn't; she was toeing the line of murder. "Fuck them," she swore under her breath. She released him so forcefully his spine collided with the cabinets behind him. "Sit." He sat; Draco knew better than disobey her when her mood had gone this sideways.

Pansy's cool touch was on him in seconds; her manicured hands wetting a cloth and dabbing at the cuts across his face and hands. When prompted, he removed his shirt and let her pour alcohol across the gashes there. As her hands swept across healing bruises, Draco bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from showing just how sensitive the marks were.

"I'm going to go get some more ice," Pansy murmured to no one in particular.

Daphne's head immediately snapped up, the color completely drained from her face, to chime in with, "I'll help you, Pans,"

Narcissa, however, was quick to cut in. Her glare rested on Daphne with added vehemence, "No."

Her tone was far more dangerous than Draco could ever recall. He was injured, but the bruises, cuts, and probably cracked ribs – making each breath he took excruciating – were not worth stressing about; his body would heal itself. So, what was Mother –

"Penny is dying. I need all hands on deck."

Draco's blood boiled.

"Her name isn't Penny," he seethed, loud enough to ensure that everyone in the kitchen heard him. His eyes met Theo's across the room; the pale blue glinting with mischief. "I don't even know why you're bothering with all of this," he went on. "She's a liar and a traitor."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Mother snapped.

He nodded to Theo, "If you don't believe me, ask him. He probably heard every word out of her vile mouth, just as I did. Didn't you, Nott?" The other man looked unfazed, as if he had predicted this reaction and prepared for it mentally. Draco became increasingly more upset as Theo shrugged and nodded. "See, Mother? Your precious little princess doesn't exist."

"Draco, pull your head out of your ass and - "

"No, Mother!"

His bruised fist slammed into the counter. It ached, pulsing furiously as he rose and joined the others around the kitchen island, eying the half-dead woman splayed across it. The only sign that she was still alive was the faint wheezing of her lungs grasping for air; the faintest rise and fall of her chest, covered in dark, deoxygenated blood.

"Her name is Miss Hermione Granger, and she was working as an uncover agent for the London police for the past five years." Draco exhaled in a rush. "Five fucking years! Do you recall when the first came into the Manor looking for a job? That was five bloody years ago." His glare slid to Theo, standing next to his mother. "Do you remember when we first ran into her? What if that was her intention, hm?" He shook his head, grimacing at Hermione's pale face inches away from his hands; her blood now staining them.

"That doesn't matter," Narcissa replied nonchalantly.

"Doesn't matter?" He hissed. "Are you fucking kidding me? What's one of the most fundamental rules of the Death Eaters, Mother? We don't fucking lie to each other."

She rolled her eyes. "Draco, stop being so fucking dramatic. Protection of our family is the most fundamental rule."

"She's not fucking family!" He screamed, growing angrier every moment his mother continued to defy him – as the leader of the Death Eaters – and defend Hermione. The traitor. The love of his life. He shook his head, clearing the muddle of thoughts, and directed his attention to Theo. "Back me up here, Nott. She doesn't belong here; never did."

Theo sighed.

"Sorry, mate. I'm with Narcissa on this one." His pale eyes fell on Potter, standing eerily quiet on Draco's righthand side. Potter chose that moment of tense silence to mouth something to Theo. Draco saw his hand drop from around Hermione's wrist and grimace. "Narcissa," Theo said. "We have to do something. Her pulse is practically gone."

She stared at Draco.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you say right now. You're hurting because she lied, yes, but that does not mean you have the right to sign her death sentence, my son. You're outnumbered. She deserves to live and defend herself, if nothing else." Her words stung, and Draco knew there was nothing else to say.

Theo instantly shoved his long, deft fingers into the gaping hole in Hermione's shoulder. He was looking for the bullet, and Draco's stomach lurched. Against his better judgment, he could not sit back and do nothing. So, when Potter began handing him cloths, he sighed and applied pressure around Theo's hand in the wound.

They worked diligently, repairing the wound that tore Hermione's shoulder apart. The damage an unhelpful reminder that the bullet had been intended for Draco's skull. When Theo finally pulled the bastard out of her, he dropped it in an empty tin with a clang. There was a unanimous inhalation among everyone in the room before Daphne cleared her throat and said, "I'll sew her up."

"What?"

Her pretty eyes landed on Draco, offering him a sidelong grin. "I know you don't want to do it, and other than you, I have the nimblest hands. The steadiest, too, I reckon." She swallowed forcefully, wiped her hands on her silk skirt and crossed the room. Daphne sat, poised and proper, on a wooden stool as she pressed a needle and wire thread through Hermione.

"Theodore," murmured Narcissa with a hint of despair. "I think it should be you who does the next bit – when Daphne's finished." She nodded to the quick work the young woman was making of the others mangled skin.

Theo nodded, avoiding Draco's eye.

"What is it?" He pressed, eyes scanning the room for an answer. "What's the next part. Mother?" Draco glared, "Are you going to bloody tell me or am I going to have to - " His threat was halted by a sharp pain in his side; he clutched his ribs and braced himself against the counter.

"You must have fractured a rib – possibly even broken it – with all of this fuss." His mother replied with a sigh. "I told you to sit, did I not?" He met her arched brow with one of his own.

Pansy was at his side again, pulling him away from Hermione with a strength he hadn't known she possessed. He wasn't sure why he was fighting her. After all, he hadn't even wanted to be at Hermione's side earlier. Then, her eyelashes fluttered, and she began to murmur sweet sounds; his name coming from her blue lips like that of a prayer.

"Let go of me," he said, wrestling with Pansy and, now, Greg and Vince. "Let go! I said fucking let go." As he struggled against their grip, he watched as Narcissa took Daphne under her arm, Harry rested a hand on Theo's back, and Theo brace himself beside Hermione's head. "What are you doing?" He gasped. "Don't touch her. Don't touch her! Theo… Theo!"

There was a sickening crack.

Draco's entire world fell apart.

He shoved Greg and Vince away with no mercy. Pansy was easier to dispel, still. Then, he was at Hermione's side, angling to see what Theo had done. He would kill him. He would –

"You're so dramatic," muttered Theo with a shake of his head. Hermione wasn't conscious anymore, but she was very much still alive. Draco sighed a breath of relief and stared at the cloth wrapped around her arm and neck. "It's a sling." Theo supplied. "Her bones needed realigning after the fall she took. Broke a few by the looks of it. Quite nasty breaks, too." His blue eyes slid from his handiwork to Draco's stern expression. He elbowed him as a smirk stretched across his lips, "I thought you didn't care what happened to her."

"Shut the fuck up, Nott," he sighed, backing away.

She was out of the dark, it seemed, and so was he. A miracle, indeed. But then, as fate would have it, everything was about to change.

"Err, Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry Potter stammered.

"What is it, Potter?" Narcissa snapped.

Potter chewed on his bottom lip, eyes flickering nervously back and forth Hermione's head and legs. He swallowed and pointed in the graceless manner Draco had come to expect from him. "Is that… normal?"

"Potter," she quipped rudely, head snapping up to see what he was gesturing to, "is what norm…" Her words faded. The pale hand that had been absently stroking Hermione's unruly curls stopped, and Draco's attention immediately refocused on what was happening. His relief instantly shattered when he saw the pool of blood between her legs.

"What – But she wasn't – It was only her shoulder – How the bloody hell?" Draco blinked; unsure what Mother had gone a sickly shade for, he felt another wave of anger rise inside him. "What's going on?" He roared, spinning to confront his mother. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Get him out of the room."

"No," he bellowed, stepping away from the arms that dared to try and hold him. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not fucking leaving her!"

Mother pursed her lips. "It's about bloody time you came to your senses." She shook her head, muttering, "For fuck's sake. Her attention, however, was quickly diverted from her son to the woman continuing to bleed profusely onto the kitchen floor no matter how much amateur medical attention she received.

"Narcissa," wailed Pansy with bulging eyes. She stood at the door with Dobby poking his head in beside her. "The healer is here," she went on, her voice high-pitched and panicky. "Madam Pomfrey?"

"Fuck," swore Narcissa, surveying the scene before her.

Except, Draco recognized the name of the healer. "Madam Pomfrey isn't just a healer," he said in a low tone. His eyes, dark and full of storms, fell instantly on his mother's. She would be the only person in the room to know the truth of the woman at their door. "What the fuck is a midwife doing here?"

Her gaze faltered, and she looked past him to Pansy, giving her a firm nod of approval. The young woman dashed out with Dobby to retrieve the midwife.

Draco's head shot up. His mind swiftly connecting the dots and sending his heart rate through the roof. It thudded murderously in his chest, threatening to break his ribcage further from its repetitive pounding. "No," he gasped.

"Yes."

A million thoughts swarmed through Draco's head, rendering him mute and immobile. The midwife, Madam Pomfrey, came into the room and screeched bloody murder; her shrill tone ricocheted off the high ceilings. Narcissa was on top of her instantly, and Greg and Vince took the healer's arms to steady her.

"Madam Pomfrey," snapped Narcissa, bringing the woman's dilated eyes to focus on her face with a snap of her fingers. "This woman needs you or she is going to die. Do you hear me? You swore an oath, Madam, and I expect you to uphold it." There was a dangerous air of or else in his mother's wording that seemed to get through to the elder woman.

She nodded obediently, then brushed off the shock of Hermione and got right to work.

It was clear that Madam Pomfrey was immensely skilled. She worked diligently, commanding everyone in the room to assist her with various tasks. Pansy and Daphne were instructed to provide hot water and towels at timed intervals. Greg and Vince were responsible for imitating stirrups. Narcissa was to watch over Hermione's head and make sure she stayed unconscious through the worst of the procedure.

Which left Theo and Potter to hold Draco down and make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

Not that he planned to.

All he was capable of doing was hold back the flood threatening to flow from his eyes, bite down on his lip to prevent the cries from tearing them apart, and take quick, painful breaths from the sidelines. The longer Madam Pomfrey worked on Hermione, the more he was struggling to hold his tongue. "Please save her," he murmured. "I can't lose her. Save her – above all else. Please save her. I can't lose her…"

Over and over again, like a sick prayer.

"There," Madam Pomfrey announced, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. "She's stable," the midwife exhaled.

"And the baby?" Draco asked, eyes flickering between Hermione's pale complexion and the buckets of soiled towels on the floor.

"Fine," she ruled matter-of-factly. "For now. However, she and the fetus will need insurmountable attention over the next few days and weeks. Neither of them is out of the woods yet. If I can recommend a hospital by the - "

"No."

Draco shook his head. He shoved the agony of moving to the back of his mind and tried to focus only on the matter at hand. He channeled his inner mob boss mentality – the very one he learned from his father before they went off to war – and buttoned the oxford Pansy had brought for him. It stuck to his sweat- and salve-soaked torso, clinging to his aching muscles.

"No," he repeated. Draco stopped right in front of the midwife, towering over her and fixing her with his most menacing glare. "No hospitals. No doctors. It's bad enough my mother opted to employ you… again," he added glancing askance to where his mother stood with her arms crossed. "You will be the one to stay and monitor her and the child's wellbeing, Madam Pomfrey."

"Mr. Malfoy," the elder woman began, stammering, "I couldn't possibly. I have – I have other patients and - "

"Not anymore." He said, cutting her off with a single, silver arched eyebrow. "That woman and my child are your only concern now." He paused, surveying the hesitation in the wrinkles across her forehead. "You have two grandchildren don't you, Madam Pomfrey?"

"Y – Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she muttered.

He cleared his throat, beckoning Greg and Vince to stand behind him with a hidden gesture. "One boy and one girl, correct?" The elder woman nodded. "My good friend, Mr. Montague," – he wasn't there at the moment (away with his family) but she didn't need to know that – "has recently decided he is going to take over for our late friend Mr. Flint. Meaning that he will run the largest home for orphaned children in London."

Draco paused emphatically. "I would hate to see your grandchildren among his newest pupils, but I'm sure we would be able to find room for them should the situation arise. Don't worry, Madam Pomfrey," he said with a sickly-sweet smile. "We take good care of the children, and even hire most of the young boys in our various companies."

She gulped.

"That won't be the case, though, will it Madam Pomfrey?" He emphasized, gesturing to Narcissa and Hermione. "Shall I see if Mother can find a room for you in the Manor for the next few weeks?"

"I – I'm sure that's not necessary. I can come back every - "

"Nonsense," stated Draco. "You said so yourself, the woman and the child need constant supervision and care. I will see to it that she receives the former if you can guarantee me the latter." He arched a brow purposefully, rendering a meek nod from the midwife.

"She needs rest." Ruled Madam Pomfrey with one last glance over her shoulder as Narcissa lead her out of the kitchen. It resembled more of an emergency tent on the frontlines by now, to be honest. Draco sighed, sparing Hermione a glance himself before acquiescing to the healer.

"You need rest too, mate," whispered Theo, grabbing Draco by the elbow and holding him back momentarily as Potter beckoned the remaining others over to help move Hermione. Draco could not take his eyes off of her. He didn't respond to Theo, and simply shrugged out of his grasp to follow her out of the room.

It was near impossible to get her up the stairs safely so, they settled on putting her in a room on the main floor overlooking the back gardens. Draco pulled in an armchair from the sitting room opposite, grimacing at its black interior; he always hated that particular room. It had been his father's office.

He fought sleep as the sun rose over the gardenia bushes, sinking into the plush armchair he placed beside the low bed. Her hands were cold, wrapped between his own, but he held them anyway. Draco brushed his lips against her fingertips and murmured, "Merry Christmas," as he succumbed to subconsciousness.

The trenches, the mud slick between his fingers, flooded his veins with panic. He was alone. In the dark. Surrounded by Allied Powers. Draco took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, then crept higher up along the side of the mountainous terrain. The Italian base was at the top, and the only way his company was going to make it past them was to blow up the entire side of the mountain. For weeks, they tried to push past, but the mafia bastards were smarter than he predicted.

This was the only way Draco saw his men surviving this battle.

It was simple: he would take out as many men as he could with his rifle, then ignite a makeshift bomb to destroy the rest. In the dead of the night, a lone man was capable of pulling it off.

That was, until, Harry fucking Potter ruined everything.

Draco woke with a scream, bolting upright and surveying the room with calculated grey eyes. He sighed, falling back against the velvet cushions to pinch the bridge of his nose. The light streaming in the room informed Draco that he'd only been asleep for a few hours. Most likely, the rest of the house would still be fast asleep. Especially, after the night the all had. Christmas Day or not, no one dared to rouse Blaise from his beauty sleep; waking a slumbering bear would be less dangerous. Penny was the same way, he mused, then immediately corrected himself.

Miss Hermione Granger.

It was still a shock. His body gravitated toward her; almost as if it was subconscious. But his mind pulled away, struggling to reason with his emotions that this wasn't healthy for him. She wasn't healthy for him. The internal turmoil raging in Draco's mind was relentless. He was, in fact, so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed Theo appear in the room followed by Madam Pomfrey.

The latter assumed a position on the opposite side of Hermione to examine her wellbeing, while the former folded his arms over his chest in front of Draco. "Blaise only just stumbled upstairs," he noted, arching a dark brow. "Where has he been all night?"

"Tying some loose ends," replied Draco with a wave of his hand. "Nott," he added. "We need to discuss the retaliation."

"Which retaliation would that be exactly?"

He cleared his throat, reaching into Theo's pockets for the pack of cigarettes he knew to be there. They both lit one despite the disapproving glare Madam Pomfrey sent their way. After a moment of consideration, Draco motioned for Theo to follow him in standing by the window, cracking it open. He arched a pointed brow at the midwife before continuing to take a long drag.

"The one against fucking Finnigan and his smart mouth sidekick." Draco said, finally answering the question.

"Ah," mused Theo, nodding along. He inhaled a quick drag, then exhaled a haze of smoke. The two of them watched it disperse into the crisp winter air; the same, bloodcurdling memory haunting them. Theo waited until the healer left the room to speak up, "When will this retaliation be exactly?"

Draco balanced the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. "Today."

A cough erupted from Theo, and Draco absentmindedly whacked the back of his friend. "Are you bloody kidding me?" He challenged. His pale eyes narrowed at Draco. "We only just recovered, Draco!" He gestured wildly to Hermione to further his argument. Draco hated to admit it, but it was a valid point. "There's no way we'll stand a chance if we go tonight. You're not thinking clearly."

He shook his head, flicking the end of the cigarette into the bin.

"I am thinking clearly." Draco countered. "Finnigan is reckless. He showed up at your pub and opened fire. He didn't even blink – didn't stop for one bloody second to think about the repercussions. Do you seriously think he'll sit in the shadows much longer, Theo?" He ran his hand through his hair, fighting a grimace as his ribs expanded. "If we seek vengeance tonight, he won't expect it. I'm sure by now he's been well-informed that I'm missing – and I don't want the papers to know any different."

Theo opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off.

"It's better that way." He ruled, tapping his friend's shoulder. "You know I'm right. It's best that the public mourns my absence or whatever the fuck they're doing. I'm presume they're mourning, yes?" Draco pressed. Theo rolled his eyes but nodded. "Lovely."

"So, tonight?"

"Yes."

"Any particular tactic?" Theo groaned.

Draco thought about it. He knew little of the Irish men who invaded his city and killed his brethren, wounding two others in the process. Yet, he knew enough about them to come up with a plan he was certain would ensure they – and all of their fucking IRA men back home – never threatened the Death Eaters again.

Draco met Theo's pale blue eyes with a smirk, "Do you remember the Battle of Marseilles?"

"God, how could I forget?" Theo scoffed. Draco's raised eyebrows clued him in. "Oh, fuck no." He paced the room, muttering obscenities and half-formed sentences under his breath. Draco took the opportunity to return to his seat and close his eyes for several minutes. Eventually, as he predicted, Theo came around. "Fine. Fucking, fine!" Draco beamed.

"Wait until Sleeping Beauty is awake," he suggested; a smug expression creeping across his face. "You'll need his guns and all the able-bodied men we can spare."

Theo sighed, "I take it that means you won't be joining us, then?" Draco shook his head as way of reply. "I guess I can't blame you. I wouldn't leave this room either if that was fucking Potter sat there, barely breathing." He took a deep breath of his own, settling his icy gaze on Draco with a stern expression. "Care to talk about it?"

"No."

"Right, of course." Theo mocked, rolling his eyes again and folding his long limbs over one another as he perched at the end of the bed. "How unquestionably idiotic of me to presume you would want to open up to your lifelong best mate about a deeply disturbing and tormenting topic. My apologies,"

"Apology accepted," muttered Draco.

Theo stood, shaking his head. "You're a prat," he stated, moving toward the door. "I'll be back later with an update of how it all goes." He paused. "When you say Marseilles… I gather you want bloody Commander Shacklebolt to be the sheep?"

"Goat," he corrected. "Yes."

Theo's eyes shifted back and forth, considering the maneuver. Finally, he settled on a decision with a cocky grin and a low whistle. "That could work." Draco shrugged smugly as if to say, I know and That's why I'm bloody in charge. Then, Theo tossed a, "Sod off," over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.

Draco refused dinner. However, Mother refused to let Draco refuse dinner and so, Dobby stood patiently in the doorway, mumbling, "Master Malfoy, sir?" He was holding an elaborate tray stacked with a full Christmas feast complete with trifle and all. Draco sighed, and waved the feeble staff member inside.

"Cheers, Dobby," he said, pressing his bruised lips into a thin line vaguely resembling that of a smile.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, sir. It's Dobby's pleasure to serve you, sir!"

He tilted his head, watching the tray balance precariously on the side table. Draco was not hungry. Most likely, this magnificent feast would go as untouched as Hermione's broth and water would go. She had yet to wake up, though Draco's constant eye on her rising and falling chest informed she was still capable of doing so.

"Dobby," he called out, earning a polite – if insurmountably quick – response asking what services he required. "Run across the hall and fetch me some parchment, pen and ink from my father's study, will you?"

There was a loud commotion, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

Draco bolted to the black-furnished room and helped Dobby to his feet. His muscles were sore and strained, but he lifted the bookshelf and fallen books off of Dobby, then clapped him on his back. "You alright?"

"Y – Yes, sir. Dobby is so, so sorry, sir! Dobby never meant to ruin Master Malfoy's office – Oh! – Former Master Malfoy's office!" He wailed, eyes bulging with despair.

Afraid Dobby would begin whacking himself over the head with one of the fallen lamps, Draco immediately blocked it from his view and assured him that there was no need to fuss about the room. In truth, Draco hated it. He picked up some loose writing materials and escorted Dobby out of the room with him, offering the opportunity for the room to be demolished once and for all.

"Young Master Malfoy is so kind," Dobby mused with a weak smile. "So generous and forgiving and - "

"That's enough, Dobby." Draco said, cutting off his rambling. "Get Kreacher to help you with the room. If Mother already has him working on a task," he added as an afterthought, "then recruit Winky."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Draco shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he settled back into the familiar armchair and propped a spare book (he'd been reading them aloud to Hermione when no one was watching) on his lap. He used the hard cover as a makeshift desk as he drafted a letter to Chief Inspector Slughorn. He didn't trust Scabior any longer than he could throw the man. Slughorn, at the very least, was predictable, making him also a primary target for manipulation. The second later Draco wrote was addressed to Mr. Ludo Bagman.

Neither would, of course, be posted until the end of the week; when Draco planned on remerging in the public eye to implement his new plan of action to further accumulate power in London.

"Ah, perfect timing Dobby," he smiled faintly, tapping the finished script on the mantle of the fireplace he loomed over. "Don't send it until Friday, understood? That's three days time." With a flick of his wrist, Draco dismissed his closest member of staff. He returned to staring into the hearth for a full, uninterrupted minute before realizing that Dobby remained in the doorway. "What is it, Dobby?" He sighed.

"Master," he began meekly. "Dobby has found something peculiar. Dobby wasn't looking for it – honest! It sort of fell into Dobby's hands, sir."

"What did?" Draco pressed impatiently. "What is it? Hand it over." He took the crumpled parchment from Dobby's outstretched hand and eyed it. Skeptically, he unraveled the document. Draco wasn't entirely sure what he expected to find (half-mad writings left by his father, perhaps? Or, a hit-list his mother had uncharacteristically opted to leave on paper?). He blinked. Met Dobby's dilated eyes, then blinked again. "Where did you find this?"

"In the former Master's study, sir. Among the disheveled books and things, sir. Dobby didn't write, Dobby swears! Dobby doesn't even know how to write Mr. Malfoy, sir, and even if Dobby did know - "

"That's enough. I know you are not responsible for this." He caught a lump in the back of his throat, then crossed the room to drown it with whiskey. "Leave me, Dobby. I know who did this, and I will see to it accordingly."

There was a mumble of a "Yes, Master Malfoy, sir," or something like it before the heavy oak door slammed shut. Draco tossed back a second, then a third glass full of scorching whiskey before he finally let his eyes fall on Hermione.

"How did I not see it earlier, hm?"

"Because," a voice trilled from behind. "The only thing to blind a man as clever as you are, Draco, is love."

He turned to see none other than Astoria, a former love of his own, leaning against the open frame. She was quieter than a mouse; it was no wonder his mother preferred to recruit Astoria for her schemes and plots. She was petite, barely standing above five feet, but she commanded the space she took up with more confidence than one should reasonably have for her stature. Her ego was also enormous, though that was something they both had in common.

"Satan," he greeted with a stoic expression.

She rolled her eyes, then strutted across the dimly lit room to pat him on the cheek like a child. Draco immediately shrugged away from any further gesture meant to belittle him. Astoria, he knew, was not one to engage in endearing touches with purest intentions. It was something she and Hermione did not have in common.

Astoria's lips twisted into a crooked smile, "Draco,"

"What do you want?"

She sighed, shoving past him to take his usual place in the armchair beside the bed. "Why do you think I'm here?" Her jade green eyes bore into him with such vehemence he pondered for a moment if she blamed him for Hermione's current position. Then, unhelpfully, Draco couldn't help but question it himself. "So, it's true then?" She went on. "What Pans and Daph are saying?"

Draco pursed his lips, arching a tired brow.

"That she's a spy," clarified Astoria with as much impatience as he expected. It was another similarity between them, however detrimental it was to their relationship. Their temper. Draco nodded, and she shut her eyes, snapping them open with a swear. "Fuck. Penny doesn't exist then." He shook his head. "All this time…"

Draco nodded again. His eyes wandered from Hermione's chestnut curls to Astoria's jet-black hair, cascading down her back. Her head whipped around and he found himself pulled into the gravitation of her green eyes. They reflected the pain he knew all too well; the same pain that had plagued him for the past twenty-four hours.

"It was all a lie," she thought out loud. He shrugged, and she groaned. "I thought we were smarter than this, Draco." Astoria fumed, standing to pace the room. He watched, gaining a sense of déjà vu. "Was any of it real? Any of her? Five years… five fucking years."

There were tears welling behind her jade green eyes, and Draco couldn't look away. She understood; as much as he expected Theo to, but with an intensified reaction beginning to rival that of his own.

"Here," he said, digging out the crumpled paper from his trousers and tossing it to her. She caught it with one hand, scrunching her face momentarily before opening it.

"Snow White and the Seven Dwarves?" She read aloud. Her tone reflected the exact same one Draco had used the first time he read it. It took until he reached the part about – "'Doc is the leader of the Seven Dwarves and whatever tasks seen through by the other six are undoubtedly his creation.'" Astoria read aloud, frowning up at Draco. "What the fuck is this?"

He motioned for her to keep reading, and so, she did.

"'Snow White was first greeted by Grumpy and Doc. Their truer selves emerged in front of the Evil Queen, yet it wasn't until they introduced her to the Forest Witch in their cottage that Snow White understood the depths of their sins.'" Astoria blinked. "Wait – Is this - "

"Yes." Draco said, cutting her off. "It began the night she came to the Manor." He explained, recalling the notes. They weren't difficult to decipher, if you knew the mind of their creator well. "At first, I thought Mother was - "

"The Evil Queen," breathed Astoria, biting her lip to stifle a chuckled. "No, it would make much more sense for her to be portrayed by the Forest Witch based on later passages." She continued to skim through the entries.

Draco could not contain his epiphany. "It's the Order," he realized, snatching the parchment from her small grasp. He reread the first line and felt immensely certain of his discovery. "Yes, that has to be it. The Order is the Evil Queen. We ran into them on the drive back to the Manor and – I told her to stay in the car but - "

"But she didn't." Finished Astoria with a smirk. "Typical of her," she scoffed.

He agreed – fucking typical. Draco shifted to point to a line at the bottom of the page. "I guess that would make you the owl," he teased, taunting her with a smirk of his own. She scowled, taking the paper away from him to confirm it herself. While she did so, Draco recognized another important piece of information. "The last entry was from the night you came back. Three years ago, almost to the day."

Astoria bristled.

"I remember it. That was also the time when she - "

"Yes." He acknowledged. "I know." Draco sighed. "I'm not sure what to make of it, to be honest." He caught her astonished gaze in his peripheral vision and scoffed under his breath. It was unbelievable, he agreed, that of all circumstances to bring Draco to open admission of his thoughts and feelings to Astoria, it would be this one. "Did she stop adding entries because she found another, more efficient method of communicating with the coppers outside? Did she simply move on to another parchment that remains to be found among my father's broken things?"

He paused and met Astoria's eye, certain that they were both hoping rather stupidly that it was his last theory.

"Or," he added, glancing at the woman that had yet to wake. "Did she stop for another reason entirely…"

Astoria cleared her throat. "I believe," she began, "that Hermione Granger is someone we either know very little about… or very much about." To which Draco agreed wholeheartedly, praying, despite his lack of faith, that it was the latter of the two scenarios.

The next morning was more or less the same as the morning before. Madam Pomfrey arrived as soon as the sun came up to check Hermione's vitals. Then, Narcissa – and now Astoria – came in following their breakfast. Draco's mother handed him a piece of toast and an apple, waiting with a disapprovingly arched brow for him to finish them both off before diverting her attention to Hermione. Draco swiped a cup of tea from Astoria and poured some whiskey in both of their cups when his mother wasn't looking.

The three of them sat around for hours.

They mostly discussed Malfoy Company Limited affairs since Draco chose to formally step back for the week in true fashion of a missing person. His mother, with the help of Astoria, Pansy, and Daphne, now ran the business. It was a smooth transition, and one they were familiar with following the war. Draco informed his mother subtly that he may need her to take ownership of the business full-time in the next coming months.

She pressed him for details, whispering low enough that no one else would hear, but he refused to answer.

After the two women left, Greg and Vince poked their heads in to see if Draco or Hermione – who they couldn't take their eyes off of the entire time – needed anything. He shook his head and waved them off to help run Graham's business while he was still away with the wife and kids. Madam Pomfrey came again during afternoon tea, and Draco watched, holding his breath, as she performed yet another vitals check. The midwife pursed her lips.

Nothing new; no change nor any explanation as to why she hasn't woken up yet.

Draco struggled not to let the panic seep into his veins. He forced a stoic expression across his face and bit the inside of his cheek as the healer swept out of the room. After tea and before supper was the only quiet time Draco had with Hermione anymore. He carefully selected a book from the bedside table, Anna Karenina, and flipped to the page he left off on.

"Let's see what Vronsky has to say, shall we?"

It was unusual for Draco to read to Hermione. Usually, when they were sitting in bed reading their own novels, she would turn to him and force him to listen to a passage that she found intriguing. It would spark intellectual conversation about plenty of controversial topics. Draco loved it. He loved banter with her, and he wanted nothing more for her to wake up and rip the novel out of his hands, claiming that he was ruining it by reading it wrong.

"It's Anna Kare-NEE-nah, not Kareni-NAH," he imagined she would say to him.

Draco sighed.

It had been a long time, weeks, since the last time they read to each other. An ugly thought crept into his mind. What if Hermione wasn't a romantic novelist fanatic at all? What if her favorite author was not Emily Brontë? What if it was a fictitious fact made up to amplify her persona as Penny?

He folded the corner of the page, put the book down, and gripped her delicate fingers between his. They were cold but not unfamiliar. At night, he would wrap himself around her whenever she complained how cold she was despite the several luxurious duvets he adorned their bed with. But, again, what if none of it had been real? What if she had pretended to care for him simply to get close to him and unveil Death Eater plots and motives?

Draco felt sick.

Just as he splashed water on his face and gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror – sallow, pale, and with deep shadows forming under his eyes – the bedroom door burst open and Theo stormed in with Blaise on his heels.

He caught the end of their banter before emerging into the room to greet them.

"All I'm saying," exhaled Theo, "is that you need to be more careful."

"Careful?" Shrieked Blaise.

"Yes."

"That's fucking hilarious, Nott. You are the most reckless among all of us! I could say one word – one name – and prove my point for the rest of eternity, but I won't because I don't even need to say it for you to see I'm right." He scoffed.

"First of all, fuck you," whined Theo in response, bringing a chuckle out of Draco as he leaned against the bed post. "Second of all, that is completely irrelevant because it has nothing to do with my gambling skills."

He paused, crossing his arms over his chest, then let his icy blue eyes fall on Draco. "How is she?" Draco shrugged. Theo scowled, "How are you?" Draco shrugged again. "Right, good talk. Not like we're here for you to lean against or on or whatever the bloody phrase is," Theo quipped with a flick of his wrist.

"Shocker," muttered Blaise as he strode across the room to perch against the window.

Draco sat next to Theo on the one side of the bed facing the window and waited a full minute before pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Without being asked, Blaise reached behind him and propped to window open; the crisp winter air stung their cheeks instantly. Theo passed Draco a throw from the end of the bed, and he draped it over Hermione before lighting a cigarette.

"So," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. "It went well, then?"

"As well as it can go, I believe," Theo replied. He nodded to Blaise after passing along the pack and lighter to him. All three of them smoked in silence for another minute before Theo went on. "They're still fucking breathing," – "Which is a bloody shame," cut in Blaise – "but they won't be coming back to London any time soon."

"Good."

"And," continued Theo with a conspiratorial grin. "That fucking piece of shit copper will definitely be framed as soon as your little note gets out. Are you sure you don't want to send it, yet?" Draco nodded, giving no further explanation. Theo wouldn't need one, anyway, he was there for the original scheme this plan was based on. "Right," said Theo, "Well, Dobby will need to send it soon before the investigation into the explosion uncovers Shacklebolt and the RSAF weaponry."

"It'll get done." Draco assured him. He turned to Blaise, "Everything is accounted for?"

"Every last gun and bullet." Blaise confirmed. "The police will think the IRA fled with whatever they could get their hands on before the building collapsed once your note is sent to Slughorn. In the meantime, I put the two boxes of artillery downstairs in one of the blocks."

"Excellent." Draco stubbed the light out and gave his mates with a ghost of a smile. "They'll have to stay there until the soil lets up enough for us to bury them again. Theo?"

He shook his head. "Can't put them underneath the Cavalier's warehouse anymore, that would be far too predictable for anyone who knows us. The IRA, the Order…" His words drifted off as his eyes slid to the unconscious woman behind them. Her allegiance remained unknown, which was terrifying. "I was thinking of leaving them with Rosie," he added with a cough to clear his throat.

"Who?" Draco questioned the same time Blaise groaned, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Nott."

"Rosmerta. She runs the inn and bar I own with Nott Holdings." He paused, but both other men remained with confused expressions across their faces. Theo sighed. "The Three Broomsticks?"

"Oh," Blaise scoffed. "That bloody hole in the wall."

"It's not a bloody hole in the wall," snapped Theo. Draco bit the inside of his lips, preventing himself from chuckling at the offense Theo took. His properties were like his children, weirdly enough.

"It is a bloody hole in the wall because you own it," replied Blaise with a smirk and a wink.

Theo fumed, but Draco shook his head and ushered them both out of the room. Clearly, their conversation was over. "Oi," said Theo with a snap of his fingers as the three men stood in the doorway. "There's something else I have to tell you." Draco patiently waited, lips pursed, to see what this ought to be about. Theo went on, "Potter mentioned that Shacklebolt was one of the head honcho's of the Order of the Phoenix - "

"We know that now, Nott."

"Shut up Zabini," retorted Theo. He dragged his glare away from the ebony mana and focused his pale blue eyes on Draco. "Because he was a substantial figure, and quite literally having them exist for the purpose of doing his dirty work, the whole bloody Order has fallen apart."

"Good riddance," muttered Blaise.

Theo shot him another look, then sighed. "Look, what I'm hearing from Potter is that they're looking for a new leader. He says they're all running around like headless chickens now." Draco arched a brow, finally intrigued, and Theo took this as a signal to go on. "Now, I'm not saying you should step in and give them direction, but it would be worth thinking about throwing your support behind someone you trusted to be the leader of the New Order."

Draco smirked, "Let me guess, Nott, you have someone in mind?"

Theo beamed. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

After hearing Theo's argument, Draco agreed. He let him run off to arrange what needed to be done in order to secure the position and place a leader for the New Order that would be under their influence. No less than forty seconds later, after Draco collapsed into the plush armchair, did his mother stroll in to disturb his hope of peace and quiet.

"Mother," he greeted.

"Draco," she said, pursing her lips. He sighed, sensing bad news in the stale air between them. "This came for you. No name or return address," she handed him a firm note, then lit a cigarette and leaned against the window frame.

He peered at the stiff postcard in his hand. On one side was a scenic lake with a snow-capped mountain range in the background and the words Mount Cook scripted across the center. On the other side was one handwritten word, Obliviate. Draco frowned.

"Do you have any idea what it means?" Mother asked. He shook his head, placing the postcard on top of the pile of books on the nightstand. She narrowed her eyes at her son, "Do you know who the hell it's from?"

"Not in the slightest, Mother," he replied.

Draco woke with his back aching and Madam Pomfrey entering the room with a dry smile plastered on her wrinkled face. "Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," she said politely. Draco returned the greeting, then stood up and stretched his limbs. He called out for Dobby to bring in a cup of tea as he could not wait another hour for Astoria and his mother to arrive.

The scalding liquid soothed his throat, and he sat back in the armchair watching with desperate eyes as Madam Pomfrey performed her exam. Hermione's pinky twitched. Draco blinked. The movement was so miniscule that he paused with the teacup lifted halfway to his mouth.

There it was again –

"Holy fuck," he exhaled.

Draco nearly dropped the teacup as he hastily put it down. His eyes shifted from Hermione's finger to her lips when a soft groan emanated from them. Draco's head snapped up to meet Madam Pomfrey's eyes, and she confirmed, "She's waking up."

The familiar chocolate hue of her eyes warmed Draco's frigid exterior, melting him down to nothing. He hurried to her side, taking her dainty hands between his own, and didn't bother fighting the liquid welling behind his pale grey eyes; the salt of his tears stained his cheeks. The moment – the exact second – she blinked and focused her eyes on him, every ounce of hatred and betrayal he felt towards her washed away. She was awake, alive, and his. He knew it in his cold heart that the woman lying in bed – who calls herself Hermione – is the same woman he shared a bed with (a life with) the past few years.

Nothing else mattered.

Draco waited, remarkably patiently, as Madam Pomfrey performed a cognitive exam on Hermione. The healer asked her several inquiries, where she was expected to prove her mental health remained intact. Suffice to say, Miss Hermione Granger had never failed an exam and would not be ruining that streak today. She passed with flying colors, identifying all of Madam Pomfrey's memory cards with ease. She successfully followed the elder woman's instructions, until Draco grew too impatient to watch her eyes trail the wrinkled finger for another minute.

"Alright," Draco interrupted. "That's enough. She's clearly well. You can leave." He arched a silver brow, daring the midwife to challenge him. She didn't – but, then again, who would?

"Draco," Hermione murmured in a slightly disapproving tone as Madam Pomfrey closed the bedroom door behind her. The soft gaze he missed so dearly the past few days landed on him.

"Hermione," he responded. Instantly, the small smile that had been creeping across her lips vanished. Where she had begun to lean towards him – gravitate even – Hermione blanched and shrank back between the plentiful of pillows. Draco noticed her insecurity and sinfully reveled in it for a moment before caressing her cheek. "Yes, I know. You don't have to be afraid. I won't hold any of your past against you."

There was an unspoken if that hung in the space between them. He knew she was aware of what the silent threat entailed. If her past remained in the past and didn't interfere with their future; If she didn't give him a reason not to trust her going forward; If her self-sacrifice for them had not been another ploy meant to entrap him and destroy his empire.

She nodded weakly.

"That's it – just like that?"

Draco's lips twitched into a smirk. "That's it." He confirmed. Then, when the stale air evaporated, he took the opportunity to be a bit cheeky. "Hermione Granger," he chuckled, toying with a loose strand of her hair. "Penelope Clearwater never suited you, anyway."

"You did say that I didn't look like a Penelope when we first met," she replied in the same flirtatious tone he used. He outright beamed and swept his tear stains away with the back of his free hand. Draco shook his head, laughing, and Hermione quickly joined in. "I knew you would never believe that was my name," she told him between giggles. "It was lucky that you made that one comment, giving me a reasonably believable name. Though, I still thought you would have made me at some point."

Her shyness returned, and Draco found himself tipping her chin toward him so that she would look him in the eyes. Careful not to lose his temper given the happy moment, he kept his tone light and playful.

"What did I say again?"

Hermione rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, and Draco fought the urge to draw her lips to his and bite them himself. Unaware of Draco's struggle to restrain himself, Hermione explained. "When we first met, you said I looked like a shiny new penny. Bronze and - "

"Eager to please," Draco finished. "I remember." He dropped his hand and backed away from her as his ears pricked. Seconds later, Astoria bounded into the room and nearly threw herself on top of Hermione. Draco bit back a malicious reprimand for her aggressive behavior after catching the relief on Hermione's face.

"Thank fuck," Astoria gasped. She leaned back, cupping the other woman's cheeks between her petite hands. "I thought you would never wake up." There was a quiver in her voice, alerting them to how upset the possibility made her. In true form of Astoria, she swiftly swept the comment under the rug and swatted Hermione lightly across her non-bandaged arm. "How dare you! You absolute bitch!"

Astoria grimaced, then broke out into a laugh to hide the awkward silence that followed her outburst.

"Astoria," Hermione began, sharing a nervous glance with Draco.

"She knows." He supplied. "They all do."

As expected, the rest of the family filed in to greet Hermione. The topic of her true identity, and the role it played in her fate in the Manor, was thoroughly avoided – like the plague. There was mindless chatter, banter readily provided by Theo and Blaise, and the occasional twitch of a smile from his mother which surprised Draco most of all.

After a few hours, the others left Draco and Hermione alone again. He leaned against the open window, his golden hair tangling in the chilling breeze. He swept the long strands aside and lit a cigarette. Draco let the silence set the tone for the conversation they were about to have; he let her anxiously shift in the bed as he exhaled a few rings of smoke.

"Hermione," he began.

Her eyes dilated, revealing how uncomfortable she was with him using her real name. He imagined how guilty and afraid she must feel, knowing his fondness for vengeance. Not to mention, his usual method in seeking retribution for those who wronged him – lied to him, especially – involved violence more times than it didn't.

Her fingers toyed with the wrapped bandage holding her torn shoulder together. Draco swallowed the memory of how she acquired the injury and took another long drag.

"According to Rita Skeeter, and the rest of the city's vermin, I am officially a missing person." He stated, glancing from the new layer of snow outside to the recognition in Hermione's brown eyes.

"I know," she replied. "I read the article."

He pursed his lips. "Yes, Theo noticed the paper in the backseat of the car on the way back to the Manor after… everything." Draco let out an awkward laugh, nearly choking on it. "He found you, by the way, because of Dobby." He paused, inhaling another nicotine-filled breath. "I wished to remain missing until you woke up… or until tomorrow. Whichever came first," he added offhandedly.

Hermione blanched and Draco had to admit it was a fresh wound. Still, it needed to be said aloud.

"The reason I'm telling you this is because I have a reason for remaining a missing person." Draco returned his grey gaze to the frozen gardenias. "I presume you have a few theories as to why I would want that."

It was a question as much as it was a pointed accusation; they knew each other too well.

She regarded him cautiously before replying. "Yes," she confirmed. "I trust, beloved bachelor, that your absence has made the public's heart grow fonder. Whatever it is you're planning, exploiting their growing affection for you must be part of it. Though, I can't figure out why my being awake would have anything to do with your plan. I don't know what day it is, either, much less the importance of tomorrow."

Draco put out the remainder of the cigarette and took his usual place in the armchair beside her bed. Hermione waited a few seconds before tilting her head and going on.

"There must be something special, an event, that you intend to appear at. I suppose you would like me to be on your arm, now that I'm conscious, when you arrive at the event." She paused, leaving room for him to confirm her theory thus far. Feeling rather benevolent, Draco nodded. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You're just going to show up, aren't you? No word in advance – simply reveal yourself to be alive and well like a bloody magic trick."

He rolled his eyes.

"Do I look like a fucking wizard to you?" Draco countered. Though, she wasn't wrong. Instead of admitting to this, however, he moved on in the conversation. "Yes, I would like you to be on my arm, as I have an important announcement to make that involves both of us."

"Which is…?"

Draco disregarded her question.

"If I'm being honest, Hermione," he said, casually slipping a condescending inflection at the end of the comment. "I got the idea from the late Commander Shacklebolt."

"He's dead?" She asked. This time, Draco mutely answered her query. He nodded, and she exhaled a shaky breath. "Good." Then, Hermione pursed her lips, "Are you planning on joining the London metropolitan police – or organizing a foundation with them?"

"No," he scoffed. "I want nothing to do with those bloody coppers." At her open confusion, Draco smirked. "They play dirty, yourself included, of course," – Hermione blanched, grimacing at the snide remark, but Draco went on with a casual smile across his face – "I plan on playing dirtier, per usual."

Taking her hand in his, they both physically relaxed at the shared touch.

"Law enforcement is precisely the problem." He said. Though Draco employed many coppers to do his dirty work – or at the very least, look the other way while it went on – he never fully trusted them. He especially did not respect them, or the law. Clearly. "All coppers are fools. They believe they have all of the power, all of the control, over the city and its citizens, but they don't. They enforce the law. Nothing more."

Hermione's thick brows furrowed.

"They enforce the law," he repeated. "They are bound by it."

"Aren't we all?" Hermione interrupted, earning a smug look from Draco.

"Some more than others," he countered with a smirk. She gave him her best disapproving pout, and his smirk widened. "Death Eaters aside," he went on, receiving a playful eye roll from her, "There are others who can rise above the law."

She waited patiently during his theatrical pause.

"There are those who are strictly bound to uphold the law because it is their responsibility to enforce it," said Draco. "They are the pawns in life's game of chess. They are the first defense and the first sacrifice made when trouble comes knocking. I have no aspiration to be a pawn, nor do I wish to navigate the board protecting a spineless king," Draco added. "If I have to play as any other piece other than a king, then I wish to be the piece most trusted by them – the one with the most influence over the board."

"The queen," breathed Hermione.

"Yes," he grinned, unable to hide his pride in her intelligence. Twisting his lips into a more appropriate show of his devious intentions, Draco smirked. "The queen commands the board. Why?"

"She has the most freedom," she answered without hesitation. The spark behind her warm eyes sent chills up Draco's spine. "The queen has the capability to move all over the board. She is generally regarded as the most useful, influential, coveted piece on the board." Her eyes narrowed again, and she added, "What does this have to do with your master plan to reappear in public – with Shacklebolt?"

"The queen commands the board. She is in complete control and has the most freedom, as you mentioned. If the pawns are the coppers in our world, then what does that make the queen?" Draco paused, anxious to see if Hermione was piecing together his puzzle as quickly as he expected her to. "Who doesn't enforce the law, but controls it? Who writes the law?"

The question hung in the air between them for half a heartbeat until comprehension of what Draco meant clicked in Hermione's clever mind. "You must be joking," she murmured. He shook his head. "No, absolutely not." She said, sitting up straighter in the bed and wincing. "How exactly do you plan on - "

"The public loves me." He stated, cutting her off with a shrug. "It won't be an issue. Especially," Draco paused, glancing at Hermione's bandage first, then abdomen second, "if they have something more than just my looks and money to rally behind." He leaned in, placing a quick kiss to her lips, "Something real and pure," he shifted to pull the duvet back and brushed his knuckles across Hermione's abdomen. It was remarkably flat, though, he supposed, it was a new revelation for both of them.

Hermione's gaze dropped momentarily.

"You know about that, too?"

Draco nodded.

"Oh," she said. Then, her fingers covered his over her stomach, and a small smile stretched across her chapped lips. "You're not upset about it?"

His silver brows furrowed. Draco stood and joined her in the bed, pulling her close to him while being careful not to twist her injured arm. "Never," he admitted in a soft murmur. "I wish you would have told me, but - "

"I didn't know," she confessed, interrupting him. Her head lifted from its place in the crook of his neck, and when her brown eyes met his grey ones, he melted again. "I swear," Hermione said. "I had no idea. You mother figured it out, actually." She let out an awkward laugh. "I was so afraid I would lose it," Hermione whispered, and Draco suddenly went cold.

Images of her bleeding out on the kitchen island flashed behind his eyes, followed by Madam Pomfrey paying exceptionally close attention to her health the past few days (not to mention his mother having the midwife already tending to Hermione).

"I will never let anything happen to… it," he promised.

She sighed, falling back against him and placing a gentle kiss at the base of his neck.

"So," Hermione began, tracing circles in his palm. "Government, then? That's your master plan."

Draco rested his head against the headboard. "Not simply government," he said, "I am going to run for a seat in parliament." The admission alone, brought goosepimples to his pale skin. There was a murmur of a swear under Hermione's breath, and Draco chose to finally get to the point he'd been dying to make. "Members of parliament can take the law into their hands; they have the ability to write new laws, amend old ones, and debate the proposal of other laws they don't fancy."

Hermione inhaled sharply.

"There is, however, one crucial aspect to this new role I wish to take on that requires your valued input." Draco knew he was laying it on a bit thick, though he sincerely hoped Hermione wouldn't necessarily call him out on that just yet. After a beat of silence, he went on, "I wish to represent the people, and appeal to them in the most plausible way imaginable. So," he steeled himself for the next part, "I would like to portray the image of a loving family, complete with a doting wife on my arm."

She blinked.

Draco panicked in the absence of a response, "I know we haven't had a proper chance to discuss marriage or our future or anything of the sort, but," he sighed. "I want it. I want a life with you outside of the plan. Screw the entire plan, actually, I wanted to propose to you long ago. I apologize it took almost losing you to realize that appropriate timing is absolute fuckery." His fingers swept across her bare abdomen, "We are expecting a child, and I want to be married to his mother before I meet him. I do."

Hermione's warm chocolate eyes scanned his. "What makes you think it's a boy?"

Draco choked on a laugh, forcing it into a cough. "I just have a feeling," he smirked. He sobered his expression into one more suitable for his inner turmoil at her avoiding giving him an answer. "So," Draco swallowed. "What do you say, Hermione, do you fancy marrying me?"

"Hm," murmured Hermione against his lips. She gave him a sweet kiss, then backed away a few inches to meet his steady grey gaze. "Only if I'm asked properly."

Draco shook his head, murmuring, "Extraordinarily puzzling," under his breath. He slid off the mattress and dropped down on one knee.

"Miss Hermione Granger," said Draco with a smile on his face. "Will you marry me?"

THE END.

A/N - I cannot believe this story is complete. I cannot thank each and every one of you enough for following along and bringing me so much joy. I should have the first chapter of the sequel posted by tomorrow so, be on the look out for that! Until then... xx

The chapter title comes from Ariana Grande's song featuring 2 Chainz titled 7 Rings (Remix) from the lines been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch / who would've thought it turned me to a savage?