GracefulLioness and MsMerlin are the Alphas and friends that made this fic into what it is.

Many of you asked for a happy ending.

We'll see.

Based on a dark interpretation of Samson and Delilah. Grateful to TheMourning Madam for running this fest!

Hermione tiptoed down the carpeted hallways of the cottage toward Micah and Matthew's shared bedroom. Pushing the door open, she peeked inside to glimpse her sons. They had outgrown their cots quite a while ago and now slept in a sturdy set of bunk beds. The goal had been to get them used to sleeping apart, even if just by a few feet. They had always been completely joined at the hip, climbing into each other's cots in the middle of the night. She and Draco hoped to foster a greater sense of independence with this purchase.

But as Hermione watched her sons sleep, she couldn't help the slight upturn of her lips as she noticed that, once again, they were cuddled together on the bottom bunk.

Those two were inseparable.

It had taken Hermione a while longer than expected to tell the two apart after her nearly four catatonic months following their birth. She did her best to pull her weight as a new parent, changing nappies, midnight feedings, rocking them when they screamed… she stepped into her role with gusto. Draco was there to guide her through it all, showing her the ropes of parenthood with patience and understanding.

And it all started with telling them apart.

"Matthew's got that birthmark on his wrist," Draco had explained to her one day as they kneeled in front of the infants, lying on a blanket in their nappies. "And Micah has one just behind his ear." Hermione had examined their sons to confirm his descriptions, manipulating their tiny bodies in her careful hands. "And just in case," added Draco, lifting one leg on each boy, "I charmed their names to appear on the bottom of their foot when I tap it with my wand."

Four years later, she now liked to think she could tell her boys apart easily. Though they looked nearly identical with their matching blond curls and cheeky grins, Hermione trusted herself to know who was who. Micah was the louder twin, and was constantly bouncing about. He had a love of music, and loved to annoy his father by singing incessantly. Matthew, on the other hand, was clearly introverted. He much preferred to sit with a book splayed in his lap.

She and Draco doted on both boys, but Draco especially was far more likely to give into their whims and demands. And Micah and Matthew loved him dearly. She saw it on their little faces every time he arrived home from his meetings. They always rushed at him with cries of, "Daddy!" and he scooped them both into his arms, planting kisses on their cheeks.

They'd often ask questions about where he'd been and what he'd done that kept him away for so long. Their inquisitive little minds swirling with ideas of what kept their beloved dad away.

"Is Daddy a dragon trainer?" Micah pressed once as they ate ham sandwiches for lunch.

"Of course not," Hermione tutted. "Now eat your sandwich."

Draco, still cautious about disclosing too much—especially to their sons, always avoided answering. "Oh, I've just been at work. Doing a bit of this and that."

Micah didn't accept this answer, and was still quite convinced that his dad was a dragon trainer.

Neither parent spent too much time discouraging the notion, because that would only lead to more questions, which would undoubtedly get harder and harder to answer.

But Hermione knew the truth—even after all these years, she always knew.

In the sweetness of her newfound motherhood, Hermione found that the mission gradually faded from her mind. Life with Micah and Matthew was all-consuming, and she busied herself with being the best mummy to them that she could be.

By all accounts, the two boys were very happy. They loved to play outside in the garden and loved to cuddle with their parents even more. On the rare occasion that Hermione stopped to consider how they were brought into the world, her only thought now was that she wished they had been conceived under genuine circumstances.

Whether it was some sort of charm, she didn't know, but life as Hermione Granger-Malfoy was somehow turning out to be more fulfilling than any mission had ever made her feel. In this charming cottage life, there was no war. There were no deaths.

Here, there was only life, simple and undeniably beautiful.

There was something to be said about those sorts of certainties. In this life she had crafted with Draco, she knew that each morning she would be woken shortly after sunrise to the feeling of two tiny bodies crawling beside her in bed.

She knew that Draco always took porridge with nuts and berries in the morning before busying himself in the garden or reading by the fire.

She knew that her boys were safe when they played in the park near the cottage, or when they took a family stroll to the village to go to the market.

She knew that after they had scrubbed and tubbed their sons and tucked them into bed, she and Draco enjoyed many evenings to themselves. They never seemed to tire of each other's bodies. Certainly, Hermione never tired of Draco's.

Lying beside him at night, nestled into his side, she listened to his breathing even out. The rhythm of his breath was like the rhythm of their life: deep, sweet, and blessedly predictable.

Hermione, long having let go of her self-loathing, had grown to take comfort in the domesticity of her new life. Draco was an incredible father and her infinite love for her sons grew more and more with each passing day.

It was a near-perfect existence. The war never came up. Hermione didn't dwell on it any longer. The objective of her mission lay dormant in the back of her mind and her contact with Kingsley or any of her old friends was so scarce that sometimes, she wondered if they even knew if she was still alive or if they even cared.

She was content with her little life here.

Until.

It was a pleasant midsummer night—the kind when the sky seems to fade to black so very slowly. Crickets chirped from beyond the garden, and from her vantage point at the kitchen sink, she could listen to them clearly, like a simple lullaby to end her day.

Hermione had managed to put Micah and Matthew to bed a short time ago, much to their protestations. When she was certain they were out for the night, she got to work on the dinner dishes while she waited for Draco to arrive home. He had been due over two hours ago and had yet to return.

He likely had been at a meeting. The very thought of her husband standing amongst Death Eaters used to send chills down her spine. Now, it merely made her sigh and look at her watch.

She'd have to keep his dinner under a stasis charm.

The time ticked by, and Hermione began to count the chimes on the wall clock in the kitchen.

Ten o'clock.

Eleven o'clock.

At quarter-til midnight, she heard the distinct 'pop' of Apparation just outside their front door that marked her husband's arrival. Usually, he came in and hung up his traveling cloak before trekking to the kitchen and kissing her soundly on the mouth.

Even though Hermione heard the front door open and close, she never got to hear the rustling sound of heavy cloth or the tap of Draco's feet on the wooden floor.

Instead, she heard a thunk and a muffled cry.

Abandoning the soapy pan she was currently scrubbing, Hermione raced through the house haphazardly, wand gripped in her hand. She may have been removed from the war, but the war had never truly been removed from her—those instincts remained intact. As she tore past the sitting room toward the front door, all sorts of horrible possibilities flashed in her mind. Was Draco injured? Was that even Draco by the door? Or had their Fidelius charm somehow failed them?

Hermione skidded to a halt ten feet in front of the door, casting "Lumos," as quickly as she could.

There, lying on his side, was Draco. He was clutching his torso, and Hermione could tell that he was in a bad way. Bruises covered the side of his face she could see, and she didn't recognize the rhythm of his breathing. It was no longer steady, but ragged instead.

Sinking to her knees, Hermione did her best to steady her pounding heart. She lowered her face to his temple and pressed a kiss there.

"You're going to be alright, sweetheart. Just hang on."

Summoning her healing kit, she got to work from the second the ingredients flew into her hands. She uncorked vials and poured their contents down his throat; after vanishing his outer layer of clothing, she rubbed salves and pastes into his battered skin. Thankfully, one of the potions she had given him was a sedative, and he passed out before he could react to the more painful healing processes. Hermione worked meticulously. Not once did her hands shake or her confidence waver. Those same instincts she had developed fighting in a war for seven years hadn't faded.

They had only laid dormant.

After a few minutes of fussing, Hermione managed to levitate her unconscious husband up to their bedroom and into bed. She changed him into pyjamas and sat at his side, gently brushing stray strands of hair away from his forehead. Sleep, which usually eluded her anyway, stayed far away from her tonight as she kept watch over his sleeping form.

By the time he came to, it was nearly two in the morning. He twitched a few times before inhaling deeply and mumbling, "Hermione? Where—am I home?"

"Yes, Draco. You're home. You're all right. I've healed you."

Draco sighed and leaned back into his pillows. "Thank Merlin."

Reaching out to grasp his hand in her own, Hermione stroked his knuckles with her thumb. "What happened?" She asked the question without really thinking. Those were the sorts of questions he never answered—the sort she never asked.

"I upset him," Draco croaked, breathing through his mouth. "I botched—I was seen."

From somewhere in the recesses of her mind a spark ignited.

"Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him if you must."

Hermione swallowed. It wouldn't hurt to keep him talking, would it?

"What did you botch up? What were you seen doing?"

Draco winced and answered vaguely. "My job."

"Yes, but what is your job? What on earth were you supposed to do that warranted this reaction?" She gestured to his injuries.

Never before had she been so direct. It had always been a sort of unspoken agreement, ever since their first encounter in the pub almost six years ago: don't ask about each other's role in the war. But now, Hermione felt the sudden urge to throw that agreement out the window.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his limp hair. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Yes, but you know I haven't… I haven't been doing my work for years."

"Still…"

"Still what?" Hermione bit. "I'm your wife. Who else can you trust more than me?"

"I do trust you," blurted Draco. "But if he found out that I told someone, let alone you, we'd all be in danger."

"Then leave," she begged. "We already live in the middle of the countryside. What would be so different about this countryside and the countryside in France or Germany or any other place?"

Draco slammed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's not that simple, Hermione. I can't just up and leave"

"Why not?"

"Because he'll find us. He'll know."

"But we can run. We can take the boys and start a new life."

Draco sat up, his back hunched over as his elbows rested on his knees. He scrubbed both hands over his face. Hermione could tell that he was trying to remain calm—trying to keep it together, but the way his breath shuddered as he frowned told her one thing: he was not even going to consider her idea.

"Hermione—"

"Don't Hermione me. Enough is enough. Either you're going to put your family first or you're not."

"But I am putting you first."

Hermione jumped to her feet beside the bed, anger coursing through her body.

"As long as you work for him, doing his bidding, harming others, that can't be true. What are Matthew and Micah going to think as they get older and figure out what their daddy does? Because they will figure it out."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure where all these accusations were stemming from. She hadn't said things like this—thought things like this about Draco in years. His Dark Mark had simply become a part of his skin, almost like a birthmark; their quiet life was simply a choice they had made.

But it wasn't. Those were all lies she had been telling herself.

She stared at Draco, her eyes boring into his. In their grey depths she could see anger bubbling, but fear as well—terror even..

"Why, Draco?" Hermione pressed, kneeling beside the bed. "Why can't you leave? And give me a real answer this time."

A rush of air left Draco's lungs as he hung his head. From her kneeling position, Hermione could see him screw up his face. When he spoke, the words came out in a strained whisper. "I can't leave because I'm in his debt."

"In his debt?" Hermione questioned. "How?"

Draco seemed to be at war with himself with each word that tumbled from his lips. He kept his eyes down while his hands fidgeted.

"Years ago, I… I wasn't powerful like I am now. I was weak and a coward. The Dark Lord saw this and kept me in the background. But a couple years before we… reconnected… I managed to impress him, and he started entrusting me with more and more responsibilities. When my old hawthorn wand snapped, I was a valuable enough asset that he provided me with a new one."

From his bedside table, he picked up the wand. It was an innocent enough looking wand, slightly shorter and thicker than hers, with runes carved up the sides. She had seen it countless times throughout their nearly seven years together and had never once stopped to consider that it wasn't the same old hawthorn wand he had once used back in school.

"It was designed specifically for me," Draco explained, rolling it between his fingers. "It was designed to harness my natural magical abilities and amplify them. Any spell I cast with this is three or four times more powerful than it would be if I cast it with anyone else's wand—even my old one. And was designed specifically with—with dark magic in mind."

It was like a dam within Draco had burst forth, and all the things he had kept from her for years came spilling out. He seemed like a shell of himself—brittle and broken in both body and spirit. "When I first received the wand, I was grateful. Suddenly I had become more powerful—more deadly—more destructive than I had ever conceived of myself before. I wielded that wand with my ego rather than my good judgement, and it earned me a reputation—a reputation I still rely on today."

Draco no longer stared down at the wand, but up at the wall opposite their bed. Though really, he seemed quite far away, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"I've done horrible things with this wand, Hermione. Unspeakable things. But I can't give it up. I can't. If I do, he'll know. He'll find me—find us—and make me pay for my betrayal. So you see, I have to carry on. It's the only way."

As Hermione looked at her husband, she expected to see the man whom she had grown to believe was good and kind. She expected to see the man who had been at her side through a difficult pregnancy and a hellish postpartum—the man who had been the sweetest father to their sons and who could still make her swoon with a single lift of his eyebrow.

But all she saw now was a man too cowardly to give up murder for the sake of his family.

Hermione watched him continue to twist his wand between his fingers.

He had used that wand to do terrible things. Hurt innocent people—killed them. But knowing that he had cast the enchantments that protected their home with that same wand was too much. He'd used that wand to create memories for their children, build snowmen on cold winter days, and worse, on their children, repairing skinned knees and mending clothing. And it was that thought that sent a wave of horror swelling within her.

She was married to a murderer. She had conceived children with a murderer.

As this sunk in—the realisation that this man she thought she knew was not the same as her mind perceived, she couldn't help but wonder if he had he ever killed mothers? Fathers? Children?

Ice flooded Hermione's veins as she watched her husband continue to stare off into nothingness. Where there had once been the warmth of love, a barren landscape had suddenly swept through, stripping her heart bare.

How had she been so foolish? How had she allowed herself to believe that he was a good man? That he had changed?

No, Draco Malfoy hadn't changed at all. He was just the same, cowardly boy he had always been.

All at once, clarity flooded the parts of her brain that had been muddled by affection for so long.

Kingsley had told her that Draco had an unknown source of power that made him unbeatable.

This was it.

She had the information she needed.

She had done it.

She had made Draco vulnerable enough to confess.

Now came the crossroads.

Hermione could have easily sent an encrypted owl to Kingsley and kept up what now felt like a sham of a marriage. That would have been the path of least resistance. But looking at Draco now, she didn't know if she could even bear to sleep by his side. Even looking at him now caused a horrible pit to grow in her stomach.

Before she could determine her path forward, Draco turned back to face her.

His eyes looked far more haunted than she had ever seen them before. He reached out for a moment, as though he wanted to caress her cheek, but pulled back at the last moment, as though reconsidering. When he spoke, his voice shook.

"Gods, Hermione. I'm so sorry I ever dragged you into this." His eyes began to fill with tears, but he fought through them. "You and the boys—you're my whole world. I don't give a damn about power or the war or even the bloody Dark Lord. It's ripping me in two, the things I've done. I can't even speak about it. Not to anyone. But I can't stop. He'll never stop looking for me if I walk away now. I'm indebted to him for my wand. I took a wizard's vow to serve him for all my days."

She should have been moved. Her heart should have thumped back to life in her chest at his vulnerability. She should have felt love coursing through her veins as he looked at her with a sadness so tangible she could feel it caress the tendrils of her heart.

Hermione wasn't sure what she felt. She needed time—space to mull things over. Steeling her stomach and schooling her expression, she took extra care to ensure that Draco didn't feel her hatred or worse, her hesitation.

"Oh, Draco," she simpered after a moment, reaching forward and smoothing the locks of hair that had fallen into his face. "You've given so much of your heart to me. We've all made mistakes—all done things we regret in this war. What matters is that you're safe—that we're all safe together." Hermione forced the last words from her lips. "And I-I trust you. With me. With Micah and Matthew. With our lives. If you say this is the path forward, then my path is clear as well."

The corners of Draco's mouth twitched, and Hermione suddenly noticed that he seemed quite small in his exhaustion.

"You should get some rest, darling," she said softly. "You'll feel better in the morning. We can figure this out then."

Draco nodded absently, fatigue clearly claiming him rapidly. Hermione took hold of his wand between her thumb and forefinger, placing it gingerly on the bedside table. She then guided him gently toward the mattress and pulled their blankets up to his chin.

"Hermione?" he yawned as she waved her wand to turn out the light.

"Yes?"

"Love you."

Hermione paused, opening her mouth. But before she could respond, all the worry lines on his face faded as he drifted into slumber. For a moment, he looked like the sweet husband she had grown to love, and her heart stuttered with the painful reminder that that man did not exist at all, but rather, was a figment of her imagination.

And then her eyes found his wand.

Her choice was clear.

Hermione sat on a precipice, teetering on the verge of inevitability.

In the past, knowledge had always been a blessing. It was the thing upon which she most relied—steadfast, ever-expanding, and true. Knowledge had always guided all her decision making: the more well-informed she was, the better prepared she felt to make choices about her life and about the war.

But for the first time in her life, knowledge felt like a curse.

She had always been inching toward this moment, even during the long stretches when she forgot that this decision was destined to happen. Hermione stared at her husband as he breathed gently through his nose, sleep having captured him not long ago. This was the man she had grown close to for all these years.

She'd loved him—hadn't she?

It all felt so murky now.

Had what she felt for him ever truly been love? Her mind flicked back to so many moments they had shared. There had been moments filled with passion, with sorrow, and with strong affection for the children they had created.

Each moment had felt real at the time, but looking back through the cracked lens of this new knowledge, it all felt tainted or fraudulent, as though the life they had built together was making a mockery of a real life she could have lived with someone better. Someone who wasn't a murderer.

The longer she stared at Draco, the more she felt vitriol bubble in her stomach and spread across every inch of her skin until the very hairs on her head seemed to stand on end.

Swiping his wand off the nightstand, she eyed it with disdain, holding it in her open palm. This wand that had done so much wrong in the world sat heavy in her grasp like the whispering evil of the horcruxes she had helped destroy so many years ago. It was the object that poisoned everything.

"Muffliato," she whispered, ensuring Draco wouldn't wake up.

Hermione's grip on her own wand tightened as she levitated the destructive wand—the source of Draco's mysterious surge in power—before her eyes. It hung menacingly in her line of sight, and she knew instantly what she had to do.

Years ago, Kingsley had instructed her to destroy the source of Draco Malfoy's power, and that was exactly what she was going to do. Pointing her wand at the object, she whispered the spell fiercely.

"Confringo."

The wand splintered into a thousand little pieces, scattering across the bedroom in brief, brilliant flames that were snuffed out by the time the remnants of the wand floated to the ground. All that remained was the lingering smell of smoke, traveling through the air with a sinister curl.

Draco continued to breathe steadily, completely unaware of Hermione's actions mere feet away.

The night air seemed lighter now, somehow. Clearer. Hermione could hear crickets chirping out in the garden through the darkness.

The overwhelming tide of 'what now?' crashed in her as she stood in the dark, teetering on the edge of many possibilities. But as she looked down at Draco's sleeping form, she could no longer ignore the twist of disgust spreading through her gut at the thought of all the unspeakable things he had done. And the fact that he had no intentions of stopping made it even worse.

But still, even as the flicker of abhorrence grew inside of her, it couldn't completely douse the years they spent together…. The care he had shown for their sons when she, herself, could not. He wasn't an evil person. She learned that long ago. But his actions… she couldn't just leave him to go crawling back to Voldemort without that wand.

He'd likely be killed right on the spot, and the thought filled her with such dread that her visibly body shook.

No, there had to be a better way.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to stay with Draco, but she couldn't just leave him either.

And then it struck her. Such a simple solution.

One she had used before.

She looked down at the man who had been her husband for the last time. He slept on, his forehead unmarred by wrinkles or lines. These would be his last moments as Draco Malfoy, and he didn't even realize it.

Hermione pointed her wand directly at him, focusing on exactly what she needed him to forget.

She needed him to forget that he served Voldemort.

She needed him to forget that he was married.

But more, he would forget his children.

He would forget magic.

Hermione kept her breathing steady. She'd done this before, to the two people she cared for most—more than she ever cared for him, anyway. Yes, this was for the best.

"Obliviate."

Draco turned in his sleep, smacking his lips. When he woke, he would no longer be Draco Malfoy. He'd be David Malley. A Muggle.

A Muggle who had the sudden desire to move far, far away.

Where he would go or what he would do was no longer her concern.

He was, after all, only the asset.

She didn't love him. She hadn't ever truly loved him. Hermione could see that now. Maybe, just maybe, she had simply loved the idea of loving someone.

Hermione slipped from their bedroom one last time, taking care to close the door as silently as she could manage on her way. Tiptoeing through the house, she erased all evidence that David Malley ever had a family. Everything either vanished or tucked into her beaded back, Hermione down the upstairs hallway. She entered the twins' room to find them still curled up together on the bottom bunk of their bed.

Hermione opened her beaded bag and walked to their closet, where she began to pull clothing from hangers and drawers. She stashed few favourite toys and books as well for good measure. Satisfied, Hermione crossed the room and knelt at their bedside and set the bag down on the carpet.

She had to have courage.

"Darlings," she whispered, stretching her arms out to brush their curls from their eyes. "Darlings, I need you to wake up."

The boys scrunched their eyes, stretching their little torsos and arms as they rose from slumber. Their sweet, drowsy, eyes blinked, revealing chocolate irises dulled by sleep and confusion.

"Mummy?" groaned Matthew. "Is it morning?"

"No, darlings. It's not yet."

"Why are we awake, Mummy?" Micah asked, rubbing his eyes with his little fists.

Hermione cleared her throat, biting back tears that appeared from nowhere, threatening to fall. But she couldn't betray the true situation to the boys. They were too little to understand...

"We're going on a trip." She forced a smile on her face as she stood. "Isn't that exciting?"

"Where are we going, Mummy?" Micah asked, his eyes much brighter.

"It's a surprise." Hermione said with the best grin she could muster. "So let's get dressed quickly so we can leave."

"Is Daddy coming?" piped up Matthew.

Hermione grimaced. "He'll be along a little later."

Both boys seemed to accept this answer and scrambled off the bottom bunk, pulling on the clothing Hermione offered them. They had been working on dressing themselves, and Hermione stood back as they yanked shirts over their heads.

She wanted to do it while their backs were turned. It would be more seamless. Pulling her wand out, she pointed it at her sons, who were busy figuring out how to push their arms through their sleeves.

"Obliviate."

Hermione didn't erase most of their memories. Just Draco. Just their father. From now on, they simply wouldn't have one.

They would be hers. Just hers. Micah and Matthew Granger.

The boys finished pulling their trousers up and turned to face her. Their little faces held no trace of confusion. Instead, they looked up eagerly.

"Mummy, we're ready."

"Holiday!"

Hermione held out her hands to her sons, and they each grabbed one, their tiny hands gripped entirely in her palms.

"Where are we going, Mummy?" asked Matthew as Hermione began to focus on their destination.

"We're going to meet some people who are very special to Mummy. People Mummy hasn't seen in a long, long time."

Matthew nodded, seeming to accept the answer, but Micah looked up at her, concern filling the piercing grey eyes he inherited from the man who was once his father. "Mummy, is everything okay?"

She looked down at him, forcing a smile on her face. "Of course, my darling. After all, we're about to go on an adventure."

With a wave of her wand, she and the boys disappeared into the night, leaving only the spectre of their old life floating in the moonlight.

...well, I hope you weren't expecting a happy ending.

(don't kill me)

Please let me know your thoughts in a review.