Archive of Our Own

A.N: More comprehensive author’s notes will be included at the end. I have a fair few people to thank for this one. The first two chapters are rather long and because of the allowed post length on LJ, I have to post them in two parts.
Not new, just uploading old stories from my livejournal.

Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly this all still belongs to J.K.Rowling. I still haven't got that castle in Scotland or that fabulous bank account which would allow me to go and raid Waterstones.

Draco curled himself around the neck of the bushy-haired witch, ignoring the angry hiss of the ageing, ginger flea-ball who was curled on her lap.

Hermione shivered and let out a giggle as his white tail brushed across the tops of her breasts while he settled himself around her shoulders.

Seven years ago, Draco had thought he would never have to take on such a ridiculous form again. But he was a fugitive now, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

The idea that he would one day be living as a ferret in two of his former classmates’ and rivals’ home, had once been as incomprehensible to Draco as the idea that he would never finish school. However, both of these had come to pass, and Draco had learnt to deal with his current situation to the best of his ability. Though he accepted his current situation that did not mean he liked it, but he was willing to admit that the experience had given him some time to think. He’d come to some rather important conclusions during his life as a ferret, a number of which concerned his feelings for the woman he was wrapped around.

After his and Severus’ flight at the end of his sixth year, Draco had been broken. He was all right to start with, running on the adrenalin that his fear had spurred in him, but that had quickly ebbed away.

His blood had been pumping hot and loud through his veins that whole evening, ever since he received word from Madam Rosmerta that Potter and Dumbledore had left the castle.

It had not taken Draco long to come to the conclusion that this was probably his final chance, and his best chance, to put his plan into action and save both his mother’s life and his own. But he had not wanted to do what that plan entailed.

To take another wizard’s life, for all his false bravado in front of his peers, the idea of casting Avada Kedavra was abhorrent to him. He was still just a child. Not even seventeen. And if he was honest, as much as Draco thought Dumbledore was a bit of a barm-pot, Draco had never been convinced that his feelings were strong enough for him to be able to provide the power that the curse needed to be effective.

The more Dumbledore talked that night in the tower, the more the small bit of resolve that Draco possessed weakened, until it had finally been completely drained and he started to lower his wand. He had really wanted to believe that Dumbledore could help, that he could protect his mother and him. But fate seemed to have decided that he should never know whether that was possible, nor if the Headmaster’s promises were genuine.

Afterwards, when Snape had finished Draco’s task and both fled the grounds of Hogwarts, Draco had not been able to stop thinking about the what ifs. They started to eat away at him as he waited in the shadows just outside the castle gates, his mentor duelling with Potter just metres away. He supposed, with the benefit of hindsight, that he should have been paying more attention to their conversation, as something of his vague memories of it had nagged at his consciousness later. But his memory of the duel was too clouded to be able to grasp at what it was. He was just far too preoccupied at the time with the knowledge that Dumbledore was dead, and that while he was not the one to cast the Killing Curse, it was still, at least in part, his fault.

When Snape finished duelling and hastily approached the gates, Draco stepped out from his hiding place. His former professor raised an eyebrow at him, before nodding in understanding that his young charge had not yet mastered the skills to Apparate alone, particularly whilst under such stressful situations.

Draco placed his hand on Snape’s arm and they began a series of complicated dual Apparations, designed to make them harder to trace. However, by the third Apparation, which Draco suspected from the terrain was to a moor in Yorkshire, he had built up sufficient courage, or perhaps it was more apt to call the emotion fear, to speak out.

“Do we have to go to... Him?” he asked quietly as Severus once more began the countdown to their departure.

Severus paused and looked down at Draco with a calculating frown.

“Why would you not want to, Mr. Malfoy? Though it is true that you did not cast the final curse, I am sure our Lord will overlook that slight, as you were so successful in allowing so many of our number to infiltrate the castle. You still, after all, played a rather significant role in bringing about Al… his death.”

“Please, just leave me here. I can’t… I don’t want to be…” Draco whimpered, hot tears building in his eyes. He was aware that he was probably signing his own death warrant by revealing these thoughts and doubts to Snape, who had just proven without a doubt where his loyalties lay, but he was beyond caring.

The adrenaline had begun to ebb away as he laid waiting in the bushes and all he was left with was the increasing weight of guilt. I’m dead anyway, he thought. Snape may have believed that the Dark Lord would overlook his failure, but Draco was not so sure. This past year had done a lot to drain his confidence that his heritage and name would always protect him. In fact, he had started to realize that it was at least partly because of those things that he even found himself in this position. Besides, there was always the chance that Snape was still bound by his vow to Narcissa, and that he would continue to protect him.

Snape sighed, and rolled his head back. “It is both rewarding and relieving to see that you have finally come to your senses, boy. It is only a shame that you were not capable of coming to this substantial conclusion earlier. Come.”

Snape took Draco’s hand and placed it back on his arm, apparating them away once more before Draco could even register his shock.

Draco suddenly felt panicked and confused. Snape seemed pleased that he did not wish to be a Death Eater, and yet he had just murdered Dumbledore. Had he been pleased, perhaps, at the brownie points that this might provide him with the Dark Lord? It was a reasonable assumption, Draco supposed. Snape had just gone against the Dark Lord’s orders in completing Draco’s task and whilst doing so, had sacrificed his position as a spy in the Order’s camp. Turning in Draco and revealing his confession could perhaps lesson the punishment that he would face.

The sickening sensation passed once more and they were spat out at the end of another apparation, Draco wrenching his arm free of Snape’s grasp and running. He perhaps would have gotten further had he been thinking more clearly and had stunned Snape first. However, his mind was buzzing with a thousand and one questions and he had only gone twenty feet when he felt his legs smack together as Snape hit him with a leg-locker curse.

“Draco, calm down,” the older man said softly, approaching him tentatively as one might a wild animal. “I have no intention of apparating to the Dark Lord. I am well aware how detrimental that would be to both our healths right now, given the state that you are in. But it is imperative that we hastily get to our new destination. Our absence will soon be noticed by the Dark Lord and then we will have both sides on our tails. Do you understand? I do not intend for you to get hurt. I promised both your mother and Al… Albus. But you must hold it together for a while longer.”

Draco scuttled away further, pulling himself along the ground by his arms in desperation and blind fear. Why is it so hot? he thought, pulling at the school tie that he still wore around his neck.

“Dammit, Draco, I need you to stay focussed.”

“But you’re a… You’ve always been…” Draco felt himself starting to hyperventilate, the stress and anxiety of the last few months starting to catch up with him, as did the realization that his life had just drastically and permanently changed. His vision began to blur and the pounding of blood, once again, rose in his ears.

“Not everything is always what it appears on the surface, Draco. Sometimes you have to look below, and sometimes the surface is denser than it may first seem and you have to do a considerable amount of manual labour to break through.” Snape placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder, his voice calm and mellifluous as he tried to reassure him, but it did nothing to dull the blind terror that the panic attack had induced in Draco.

“But you killed…” The headmaster’s face rose unbidden in front of his eyes, and Draco heard his voice ringing in his ears as the older wizard begged Severus to spare him, as he begged Draco to lower his wand.

“I am well aware of what I did and what I am, Draco, but as I sai…” Draco heard Snape begin to say stoically, before he passed out.

Draco was not sure what had happened after that. He remembered waking up two or three times as Snape had apparated them to around the British Isles. The last time, he’d been conscious enough to realize that he was cradled against his mentor’s chest and that he could feel something wet seeping into his clothing from the older wizard’s torso.

Snape was walking briskly across what felt like rather bumpy ground. The wind, wherever they were, whipped Snape’s hair around in a similarly dramatic fashion to the one that his cloak had presented on a daily basis back at Hogwarts.

“Professor?” he questioned weakly.

“Hush. Nearly there,” Severus replied quietly.

A few moments later, Draco felt himself being set down on the ground and leant against the wall of a cottage.

“Your chest?” Draco said numbly as he looked down and noticed the dark stain on the arm and side of his green jumper.

“I will be fine,” Severus replied as Draco watched him begin to take down a series of complicated wards anchored to the cottage’s door. “It is just a few scratches.”

Draco’s head was still swimming; he just managed to nod once before he slid down the wall to slump on the floor. He let his head fall into his hands, his fingers rubbing at his tired and puffy eyes as he tried to drown out the numerous thoughts that were fighting for attention within his brain.

He suddenly felt a searing pain race through his arm as the Dark Mark, which he had been branded with the previous summer, flashed red-hot. Draco screamed out in pain and rolled onto his side, clutching and clawing at his arm. His Mark had never burned quite as strong before as it had then. Draco was dimly aware of hands hooking themselves under his armpits and dragging him along the ground. His back bumped awkwardly against the sharp stone step as he was pulled inside the doorway, rather ineptly, but that pain was dull in comparison to the one that flared on his forearm.

Distantly, he heard a door slam shut, the hasty re-erection of wards going up, and the agony he had felt stopped; going just as quickly as it had come, as though someone had turned off a tap. Draco gasped for air, rolling onto his back as he did so. He heard a body slump to the floor and presumed, with some detachment, that it was Snape, but he was too exhausted to look up and check.

“We should be safe here,” the familiar voice of his professor said, but there was a strain to his voice that Draco had not heard before. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of popping buttons as Snape stripped off his doublet and began healing himself.

Draco was able to smell the sharp tang of blood from across the hallway and his vision started to cloud over once again.

He found himself confronting the uneasy memory of Fenrir Greyback in the Tower. Draco remembered how the werewolf had spoken to Dumbledore with a sickening lust for the throats that were waiting to be ripped out at the school, and that he had not been able to resist such an opportunity.

Oh, Merlin and the Saints, Draco thought suddenly, gulping in air as visions of his fellow classmates lying in the corridors of the castle with their throats torn open, flooded his brain. “What have I done?” he said aloud, before throwing up over the stark wooden floorboards and passing out once again.

It took his guardian almost two weeks to pull Draco out of the panicked depression he had sunk into after that night in the Astronomy Tower. Eventually, as the fear that had gripped and haunted him dispersed, and Draco found himself left numb from the shock, he began to ask Severus, for that was how he was to come to know him, questions about what had happened.

The first had been about his mother. He awoke one morning, sweating and tangled in the blankets of his cot after a horrific dream where Greyback and the Dark Lord had taken turns torturing Narcissa. The most startling moment of the dream had been the manic grin on his Aunt Bellatrix’s face, as she told his mother that this was what she deserved for raising such an inept coward as a son.

“Mum!” he screamed as he awoke with a start.

Severus had been sleeping in a cot in the same room. Perhaps in order to watch over his ward, Draco supposed later when he had considered the older man’s continuous presence in those early weeks. Perhaps because he too could not face being alone. Regardless of the reason for his presence, the surly wizard stirred instantly at Draco’s cry, rising from his bed with his wand drawn.

“Mum. We have to go get my mother. She’s not safe,” Draco pleaded.

“It’s too dangerous for us to leave here, Draco. The wards that surround this cottage were devised by Al…” Severus paused, clearing his throat. “Albus. They prevent the Dark Lord from activating our Marks and tracking our location. I am afraid we cannot leave here. It would be tantamount to suicide.”

“But he’ll kill her, please, you have to let me go and find her. I only did it to protect her. It was all for her. I can’t let it all be for nothing.”

“I know you did, Draco,” Severus said softly. “I understand that… and while your love for Narcissa is very admirable, I am afraid that her life is out of our hands.”

“But…”

”Please refrain from interrupting, Draco, unless you are attempting to do an impression of Miss Granger. Any rescue attempt for your mother would have needed to have been staged two weeks ago, when we first fled.”

“We’ve been here two weeks?”

“Yes, and I am afraid that neither of us were in the position that first night to attempt such a feat, and it is far too dangerous for us to do so now. We can only hope that the Order got to her first.”

He felt like he should cry. His mother was, in all likelihood, dead or in Azkaban, he thought. But he just felt deadened. So, he sat there, still tangled in the cotton sheets, and staring at the water stain on the opposite wall.

“I had a nightmare about her,” he said finally, after what felt like eternity, but must have only been ten minutes.

“Yes, I had presumed that to have been the case.”

“It was awful.”

“I know, Draco,” Severus replied quietly. “I know.”

Something in his reply stirred Draco and caused him to look up at Severus. For the first time, Draco noticed how drawn and haggard the other man’s face had become. Dark circles clung below his eyes, and if possible, his face looked even more sallow than it had before.

“You look like shit,” Draco said baldly.

“So do you,” came the ex Potion master’s stoic reply.

“Yes, I suppose I must.”

Draco took a deep breath. “Why did you, you know? That night?”

“I had no choice. You could not, for which I am thankful, but unfortunately that meant that I had to fulfil the promise I had made to your mother.”

“But when he said please, how could you… and you looked at him with such hatred and revulsion…”

“Thank you for the reminder,” Severus replied stiffly, standing and walking towards the door.

But Draco was not thinking straight and continued. “But why?”

“Merlin’s balls, boy, you really are trying to imitate Miss Granger, aren’t you? I had no choice; did you not hear me the first time? I had promised your mother that I would do it if you could not, and I had sworn to Albus that I would always follow his orders. I had no choice in the matter. Believe me; had I, it would not have been the path I would have taken.” Severus’ hand was on the door handle and his frame was visibly stiff with tension. “I’m going to prepare us breakfast. I suggest you wash, you smell worse than month-old Dugbog brains.”

They stayed secreted away at the cottage for almost six months. They had to ration their food, but the safe house had been stocked with enough supplies to cover them for that period and a good few months longer. Draco did not ask again about what happened that night in the Tower. As his common sense returned to him, he started to realize that he had received all the answers on that point that he was ever likely to receive from Severus. It was clear to Draco that guilt was eating away at the older man just as strongly as it was eating away at Draco. Two weeks later, however, he dared to ask about Severus’ allegiances, his curiosity getting the better of him even though he knew that approaching the subject was likely to anger the Dark wizard.

“Severus?”

“More questions, Draco?” the wizard replied, a quirk tugging at his lips, not once looking up from the journal he was reading. “Pray, what is it this time. More whinging about our circumstances, or perhaps the quality of linen of the bed clothes does not meet with your high standards?”

“Who do you think will win?”

“No one wins in war, Draco. Too much is always lost because of the desires of men.”

Draco nodded and dropped his head, his mind wandering to those that he knew had already lost their lives and those he feared had subsequent to his and Severus’ flight. “Who do you wish to be successful then?”

Severus sighed, closing the antique tome, a copy of Shakespeare’s play, Macbeth, and placing it on the table at his side. “Perhaps you should be asking yourself the same question.”

“My father always taught me to believe that the Dark Lord’s cause was a noble and just one.”

“And do you, Draco, still believe in your father’s teachings?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replied honestly. “There was a time when I would never have questioned it, but now I’m not so certain that the Dark Lord’s objectives are the same ones that he preaches to his followers.”

Severus smiled broadly, and that was slightly disconcerting to Draco, having never before seen such an open expression on the professor’s face.

“I think, Draco, that you are finally demonstrating some of the insight that your grandfather, Abraxas, was known for,” Severus said proudly, causing Draco to flush at the rare, unguarded compliment. “Men like the Dark Lord, Draco, are abundant in both the histories of the wizarding and the Muggle world alike. They prey on fear and utilize it to their own ends. In that regard, I do not believe that there is much difference between the Dark Lord and the Muggle leader, Hitler. Both men preyed on an established and common fear of the society that they wished to control. Both men utilised that fear to back their own policies, gain favour and increase their power. That’s what it all comes down to, the desire for power. These men are rarely as concerned with the people’s desires that they use, as they are with their eventual goal.”

“What did Hitler do?”

Severus rose and walked to a bookshelf, taking down a large leather-bound, green book and a smaller paperback with an illustration of a dark haired woman on the cover, he passed them both to Draco. “I believe that these books can explain better than I could ever hope to.”

Draco looked down at the both, reading with some curiosity the title of the smaller book; The Diary of Anne Frank. “Thanks, but I have another question. If similar men have risen throughout history, then how come people still fall to the trap? Surely we should become more aware of their true motives.”

“Were you? Unfortunately, people’s memories are short and, as Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel once said, ‘the only thing that we learn from history is that we never learn anything from history.’”

Though Severus did not once in the entire conversation declare openly where his loyalty actually lay, Draco believed that he had found his answer. He read both of the books that his mentor had given him, and his discoveries, as well as sickening him, provided him with a lot to consider. He wondered whether the fate of Muggle-borns would be the same, should the Death Eaters triumph, as those of Jews living under Hitler’s regime. He also marvelled at the courage and strength he found in the Muggle girl’s diary that Severus had given him to read. Draco had not been able to prevent himself from comparing her bravery, strength of character and determination to the girl he had tormented since his first train ride to Hogwarts.

Draco did not stop with the books Severus had given him; the cottage had a small, but well-stocked library and there had been plenty more for him to read. At first he read simply what interested him, but after Severus pointed out that his time might be better spent looking for more survival-based information due to their precarious situation, Draco began to refine his reading.

It was Divination, funnily enough, that first gave him the idea to look into Animagi. Severus had scoffed as Draco sat ensconced on the small sofa one day reading up on the theory of clairvoyance, but Draco hoped that the subject could perhaps offer them a way to see what was going on outside the cottage.

They had no idea, alienated as they were, if the war was still raging, if the Order had won, or indeed, if the Dark Lord had been successful. However, the sparse Divination journals that had been included in the cottage’s small library offered nothing at all that could help them pursue that avenue of enquiry any further. What they did offer, however, was a guide to tea-leaf reading, and it was from that section, the image of a large black dog, the Grim, and the memory of Sirius Black accompanying Potter onto platform nine and three-quarters, that Draco got the idea to become an Animagus.

Even if Potter is successful, Draco mused as he looked at the page of the book, and the Dark Lord does fall, we will still be hunted. He thought about how Pettigrew had hidden for all those years as a rat. Thought about how Sirius Black had been able to move around under the guise of a dog. Perhaps it could work for him too.

Severus sniffed, stating that he had no intention of living a half life as an animal, and Draco had to admit that the idea did not sound all that appealing to him either. But he saw it as a tool, a useful one at that, and had no intention of remaining in the form for years. Maybe, he thought, I could be able to use it to gather information; something that would guarantee mine and Severus’ pardon.

No, he had not had any intention when he had first set out to become an Animagus of ending up in the position that he found himself now. Draco had not thought that he would end up skulking around in that form for six years, especially after his discovery and Severus’ amused snorts upon his first transformation. But ideas, as Draco should have known all too well at that point, very rarely went as planned.

At the beginning of the December that followed Albus Dumbledore’s demise, both Draco and Severus awoke one morning to an agonizing pain in their arms, where the Dark Mark stained their skin.

The Mark seared and writhed under their skin as though a real snake was imbedded under the flesh. Draco clawed at it feverishly, trying to tear the creature out. It felt as though acid was scorching and eating its way through his arm. Draco thrashed about so wildly that he fell from his bed and onto the wooden floor. As a final scream of agony tore from both Draco and Snape’s throat, the pain ceased and both men fell unconscious.

It was not until nearly forty-eight hours later that Draco awoke. Severus must have recovered before him and have placed him back into his bed, for that is where he awoke.

“There is a cup of tea for you,” Severus said as Draco had begun to stir.

Nodding once, Draco opened his eyes and peered blearily at the bedside table and the cooling mug of tea.

“Thanks,” Draco croaked while pushing himself up to lean his back against the wall. A twinge in his arm made him look down and notice that it had been freshly bandaged. “What happened?” he said, running his hand over the cotton of the binding.

“You were scratching too hard; you tore into your own flesh.”

“Will it scar?”

Severus shook his head and snorted. “Worried about your appearance? I am certain women will overlook a few scratches on your arm, Draco, and reserve their horror for the burnt out Dark Mark that caused them.”

“It’s gone?”

“Well, if you can call the black burn that it has left in its stead gone, then, yes.”

“But I thought that this cottage protected us from the Mark and its enchantment?”

“It protects us from the location part of the spell and prevents us from feeling the Dark Lord’s calls, but it seems that it does not protect us from the backlash of its creator’s death.”

“Is he…? Do you really think that it’s all over, then?” Draco asked, his eye’s wide with hope.

“It is the only conclusion that I have been able to draw at this point, yes.”

“What are we going to do now? Now that we can leave?”

“We still have the Order, and in all likelihood the Ministry too, out looking for us no doubt. So, Mr. Malfoy, I would restrain myself from becoming too thrilled by our newly acquired freedom from the Dark Lord so soon.”

“Yes, but, still, we could go out now, have a look around.”

“Not yet, security will be too tight, and too many people will be watching. We will wait until things have died down.”

“But I could go out in my Animagus form and…”

“We wait. Your arm needs to heal. Do you not think that a white ferret with a burn on one of his front legs would raise the eyes of a wizard or witch at this time? You need time to heal and we both need to wait for a more opportune moment.”

Draco saw the sense in that argument, but it did not help with the fact that he had been cooped up in a house with only Severus for company for six months and that he was feeling slightly stir crazy as a result. But he agreed with the older man’s words and leant forward, and, with his good arm, retrieved his tea, preparing himself to wait just a little longer.

Just over two months later, supplies began to seriously run low, and Severus made the decision to venture out and look for more. He did not return. Draco waited two weeks before admitting to himself that something must have happened. The despair he felt with that realization was akin to when the realisation had sunken in that his mother was either dead or in Azkaban.

The development and sudden realization of the affection and revere Draco felt for the surly wizard, who had in all likelihood saved both Draco’s life and his soul, came as something of a shock. Up until that point, Draco had not really admitted how much he had come to care about his guardian. He mused about the fact that one often did not realize what one had until they lost it. Certainly, this had proven to be the case for Draco more than once in the past year. It was a trend that would continue.

His arm was almost fully healed by that point; well, as healed as it ever would be. There was still a mark there, a darker patch of skin, and white lines criss-crossed it like the claw marks of an animal, but Draco was unable to wait any longer; he needed to know what had happened to Severus. He needed to know if there was anything he could do to help him.

When he left the safety of the cottage that Severus had brought him to on that first night, it was nearly nine months to the day since his first and only crossing of its doorway. He slipped outside and, after re-warding the door behind him, left.

To cross the country as a ferret would take too much time and would be far too dangerous, Draco decided. What he determined that he needed to do was to first apparate somewhere that he could be assured of access to wizarding news, and then he could decide on a more long-term course of action. A number of spots leapt into Draco’s head, but he settled on the one that he believed was most likely to prove lucrative even though he admitted that this was also the most dangerous.

As he closed his eyes and focused on a quiet spot of Muggle London, not far from the entrance to Diagon Alley, Draco mentally thanked his mentor for his help during the past few months with practicing and honing his ability to apparate. Once in London, Draco shifted into his ferret form and made his way, albeit slowly and stealthily, to the Leaky Cauldron.

It took him less than half a day of skulking around the wizarding establishment that guarded the entrance to Diagon Alley before he acquired an answer to his question regarding Severus’ absence.

Draco was huddled and ensconced under a table in one of the corners of the wizarding pub, listening out for any word regarding his missing friend, when he heard the familiar tone of a bossy voice enter the pub.

“But Ron, I still say that there’s more going on here than you and Harry think, and I don’t think he’s been entirely honest with us either.”

“I ruddy well know he’s not being honest, Hermione. But that doesn’t matter now. He’s admitted it, Harry saw him do it and it’s out of the Order’s hands now and into the Ministry’s.”

”But there are so many gaps!” the voice exclaimed as its owner slipped into a chair at the table Draco was hiding under. Creamy, pale legs crossing themselves at the ankle in front of Draco. “And Professor Dumbledore wasn’t stupid; why would he have trusted him all that time?”

The two had Draco’s full attention at this point. This is it! He was certain whom they were discussing; he knew he was minutes away from discovering what had become of Severus.

“I don’t know, love. No one’s infallible, even Dumbledore.”

“All right you two? What will you be having?” the voice of Tom the barkeeper interrupted the two former Gryffindor’s conversation, causing Draco to curse at the intrusion.

“Just two Butterbeers, please, Tom. How are you?”

“Good, thank you. Business is finally picking up again I think. What with Snape’s arrest, the public seems to finally be gaining some trust back in the Ministry as well as their claim that You-Know-Who’s gone for good.”

“I can’t believe that they’ve taken full credit for everything. It’s ridiculous when you think that they spent so long denying his return.” Granger huffed in frustration.

“Yeah, well, what do you expect from them? I mean, look at Snape, even though it was me an’ Harry that brought him in, do you think that we even got a mention in the announcement?”

Potter and Weasley brought Severus in, Draco thought in shock. Something about that did not sound right to him.

“Yes, well, I still say he came too easily,” Granger replied, kicking her feet out and almost catching Draco in the ribs. He scampered out of the way, behind her feet in case she should do it again.

“Nice to know you have so much faith in my ability,” Ron groused.

“It’s not that I don’t have faith in you or Harry, Ron. I saw how well you backed him up in the final battle, and I saw Harry duelling with Voldemort-”

The name fell easily from her mouth, Draco noted, but it still drew a sharp hiss from Tom.

“- It’s the fact that he was so easy to find. It was almost as though he had wanted us to find him. I just don’t see Professor Snape…“

“Hermione, he’s not a professor anymore, you don’t have to call him that,” Weasley interrupted.

“What I do or don’t call him, Ron, is irrelevant. I was trying to say that the Snape I knew would not have let himself be spotted so easily and by someone like Mundungus Fletcher of all people. Additionally, I would have expected you and Harry to have come off with a few more cuts at least.”

“Maybe he’s just getting lax. He could be out of practice; I mean he’d been in hiding for what? Over eight months?” the redhead replied, but even he sounded doubtful to Draco’s ears.

After hearing Granger’s thoughts, Draco was practically ready to squeal his agreement with the Muggle-born witch. Something definitely sounded off.

“You don’t believe that any more than I do, Ron.”

“I have to admit myself,” Tom piped up, “it’s not like Snape to not watch his back, he was always such a canny one. And why would he be hanging around Mundungus’ place?”

“Precisely,” Hermione replied earnestly, stamping her foot under the table and catching Draco’s paw with her heal.

Draco squealed out in pain and quickly limped off into some deeper shadows to nurse his paw, hoping that his squeal had been overlooked by the group at the table. His hopes were dashed though, when Granger next spoke.

“What was that?” the girl said quietly.

Draco’s heart sped up and he began to look for a quick escape route, but her foot had come down so hard on his paw that it hurt to walk. He thought absently that maybe the clumsy girl had broken one or two of his toes.

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear that noise just now? And I’m sure I felt… Hang on.”

“Hermione?”

Draco flattened himself even further against the wall, and hoped that his white fur would not stand out to brightly in the dim shadows as the form of his old classmate slipped from her seat, and under the table.

She peered around for a few minutes, and Draco watched with apprehension as her eyes adjusted to the light. Suddenly, she frowned, focusing in on Draco’s position.

“Hello you. What are you doing down here, eh?” she crooned.

This is it! Draco thought. Months training to be an Animagus and I go and blow my cover on the first day out. Well, Severus, I guess that wherever you are, I’ll be joining you soon.

“What is it?” Weasley asked, leaning over and ducking his head under the table to see.

“I think it’s a ferret,” Granger replied, smiling in fascination at him. “Pass me my cardigan, Ron, I think I hurt it.”

“A ferret?” Tom said surprised. “What’s a ferret doing in my pub?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it got out from the Magical Menagerie, Tom. But regardless, it’s pretty scared.”

“You’re not planning on bringing another stray back to your parents’ are you, Hermione? I think they’ve had quite enough with Crookshanks.”

“Mum loves Crooks! My cardigan, Ron.”

“Hmm, well, I’ll leave you two to get on with catching it, then, and go get your drinks. Do you want something to put it in?”

“No, I think it’ll be fine with just my cardigan for now, but thanks anyway, Tom. Ron, hurry up!”

“Okay, here you go, but I really think you should be a bit more wary about picking up a stray animal that you’ve just stepped on. Ferrets bite, you know.”

“That’s what the cardigan is for. Thanks,” Granger replied with some slight agitation, before shuffling forward, towards Draco.

She held the cardigan stretched out before her. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you, just…” She deftly threw the cardigan over Draco, wrapping it around his small, transfigured form, before drawing him into her arms and wiggling back up into her seat.

Draco squeaked in earnest and wriggled desperately in her arms as he tried to get free, not wanting to give in too easily to capture while there was still a chance he could escape and find someway to help Severus and pay him back.

“Shh, shh, calm down. You’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you,” She soothed, tightening her hold on him by securely gripping the scruff of his neck.

Draco silently berated himself again, and, realizing the futility of his struggles against her surprisingly strong grip, fell still. Maybe if I change back, I could overpower them both and make a dash for it, he thought. Damn my luck!

“There now, that’s better. Will you let me have a look at you now? Hmm? I just want to help, little one.”

Her hand gently stroked down his back, through the cardigan, and much to Draco’s displeasure he found the gesture unnervingly soothing. It was this gesture and the fact that the Weasel was still sitting moderately calmly in his chair that had caused Draco to realise, with some shock, that neither Granger nor the Weasel had any idea either whom or what he really was. Maybe the fates like me after all.

“That’s it, I’m just going to check you over, see if I hurt you.” She ran her hands over Draco’s back and sides, before moving to his paws.

Draco yelped and tried to pull away when her fingers squeezed and ran over the injured foot and he once again tried to claw his way from her arms.

“Oh dear! I think I broke it. I’m sorry.”

So you bloody should be, Draco thought angrily. That hurt!

“Ron, I think we need to take him to see a vet.”

A what? thought Draco, suddenly panicked by the strange word. What if they do know? What if they are trying to lure me into a false sense of security? What if a vet is something that could force me to change back?

“What’s a vet?”

Ah, apparently the Weasley is as in the same boat as me, he thought, slightly relieved.

“It’s like a Muggle doctor, but for animals.”

“Ah, an animal Healer. There’s one in Diagon Alley. I suppose you could take him there. I don’t like ruddy ferrets, they remind me of Malfoy.”

The feeling’s mutual. Draco scowled.

“Don’t be silly, Ron, he’s just a scared little animal, he seems quite sweet really.”

I am not sweet, Granger, Draco thought huffily, considering the prudence of biting her.

“Nothing that looks like a Malfoy can be sweet,” Ron grumbled. “I still don’t understand why Snape wouldn’t give up his whereabouts. I know the git knows where he is, but he just wouldn’t tell us.”

Cheeky git! Granger thinks I can be sweet!

“Maybe because he cares about him,” Hermione offered, petting Draco once more.

Ron just hmmed in response, and muttered something about the fact he could not see how anyone could care for such an obnoxious little git.

“His mother obviously did, or she wouldn’t have asked Professor Snape to make that vow. Clearly he did too, or why would he have agreed?”

Draco felt his heart constrict at the mention of his mother, and he buried himself further into Granger’s arms. The Weasel’s next comment, however, was to pull him out of that brief period of mourning and cause anger to bubble to the surface.

“Maybe because he wanted Dumbledore dead as much as Voldemort, so he didn’t see an issue with it.”

“No, I don’t think that was the case. I still think that there was more going on. And I don’t think Draco was that bad, he’d just been a bit misguided by his father.”

“A bit?” Weasley exclaimed. “Do you actually remember all those taunts he used to throw at us? What he used to call you?”

Draco winced.

“Of course I do, Ron. I just think that you shouldn’t judge someone by the deeds they did as a child.”

Draco marvelled at Granger’s ability for compassion, even as he disparaged her all too trusting nature. It’s a miracle she’s survived the war, he thought, going around, thinking like that.

She stood then, leaning down and into the red head, Draco still cradled in her arms as she brushed her lips against the Weasel’s. Draco squeezed his eyes tight shut.

So, he finally got the courage to go after her, Draco thought, bile rising in his stomach at the soft sound of their kiss above him.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Ron. I’m just going to go and get this little guy fixed up and then we can head over to meet Harry.”

“All right, love. See you soon.”

She leaned in, sandwiching Draco between her and Weasley’s chest and making him long for a bath and a Memory Charm.

Hermione’s hand, which had been absently stroking the ginger cat, strayed from its task for a moment in order to smooth across her belly.

Draco watched the action from his post on her shoulder with fascination, wishing that it could be his hand, his fingertips that were brushing over the gentle swell.

During the years that Draco had spent watching her, waiting for that rare tidbit he would occasionally receive about Severus, Draco had formed an odd fascination with Hermione, her belly in particular. At first, he supposed that it was only natural, living as he was without any other real female company, but more recently he had started to wonder if his reactions would be the same were he to be placed in the same situation with someone other than Hermione.

The first time that he had noticed her stomach had been during his first week living with her, well before her marriage to the ginger prat, and while she had still been living with her parents.

Draco had been curled up contentedly on her bed, snuggled down into a fleece blanket, which Hermione had made into a little nest for him and on top of some Muggle device that she called a hot water bottle.

He was nursing the bandaged paw which she had trodden on in the pub and wondering if being healed while in his Animagus form would cause any problems for him when he decided to change back.

His thoughts progressed from his paw to contemplating his best course of action and where he should proceed to next. Draco saw two main avenues that he could take. He could move on, find someone well placed within the Ministry, watch them long enough to find a suitable skeleton, and then bribe them into supporting his and Severus’ exoneration and get them both out of this mess. He owed Severus that much. Or he could stay with Hermione, and remain close to her group of influential friends and, no doubt, war heroes. They were undoubtedly well-placed and seemed to be able to gather a considerable amount of knowledge as to what was going on behind the scenes. Their network of contacts was strong and reliable and they had already been a lucrative source, Draco was certain that that would continue to prove true. Both plans had their strengths and weaknesses.

Hermione walked into the room at that point fresh from the shower, humming a tune off key and her skin glistening slightly, the noise disturbing Draco from his pondering. She was wrapped in only a white towel and Draco found his thoughts grinding to a halt as he looked up to see what was making the abysmal noise.

She dropped a bag onto the top of the dresser and meandered absently across the room, her fingers grazing the skin on Draco’s back when she had passed him.

Draco’s throat went dry as she dropped the towel to the floor and begun to rummage through the top drawer of her chest of drawers.

She’s just a Mudblood, Draco told himself, trying to build up the will to look away from the rounded form of her arse as she bent over to sort through the drawer. She’s disgusting, beneath you, and dirty. What would father think? The same voice whispered to him, and Draco almost believed it, but then she turned and he saw the rounded curve of her stomach silhouetted against the glow from the lamp and the voice had been silenced rather abruptly. Sod my father, Draco thought, marvelling at the way the skin dipped in a neat little dimple at her belly-button. Ten months spent locked alone in a cottage with only Severus for company meant that the part of Draco that would have never once considered lusting over a Muggle-born witch, particularly this one, had been relegated to box labelled, I don’t give a damn right now. Besides, those books that Severus gave him had altered his opinions on the purity of blood slightly.

Draco greedily drank in the sight of her body, commenting to himself that her soft fleshy curves were feminine in a way that most girls seemed to be scared of. As she turned fully around, slipping a long t-shirt down over her head, he noticed a faint whitish scar bisecting her torso; he wondered how she’d received it before dismissing it as an injury from the war.

At the same point that he realized that, he also realized how glad and relieved he had been to hear her voice as she had entered the pub, knowing that her fate had not been the same as the girl in the diary.

He had to restrain himself from transforming; pushing her up against the chest and running his hand over her swells and bumps. It was not that she was perfect, because she was not. It was not that Draco had suddenly realized that she was everything he had ever wanted and never knew. No, that came later, and even now he still admitted that it would be nice to silence her or prove her wrong once or twice. It was the fact that she seemed to not care, that she seemed so at ease and self-confident within her skin and Draco envied that and admired it, because he did not have that pleasure, hidden as he was.

It had been this moment that had decided two things for himself. The first had been that he would be forever doomed to fantasize about that damn belly. The second had been that despite her annoying habits, irritating friends and heritage, she was going to be undoubtedly a hell of a lot more visually pleasing to be around than some middle-aged Ministry official. And so it was that Draco’s decision and plans were made, and so far, it had paid off in more than one way.

Staying with Hermione, Draco thought, watching her hand roll over the curve once more and causing him to wonder if maybe she was ill and needed a potion, had definitely been the right choice even if it did mean living as a blasted ferret.

During the first year that he had spent with her, Draco discovered that Severus had been taken into custody by the Order only three day’s after he had left the cottage. Draco heard the full story of his arrest as the petite witch mulled over her concerns and theories with her father one night.

It seemed that Mundungus Fletcher had spotted Severus lurking around the bins outside his house one night. He had immediately informed the Order who had then pulled together a team, which included Harry, Ron, Draco’s cousin Nymphadora, Lupin and some Auror, who had promptly set out to try to find and catch him. They had been successful and as a result Severus had spent nearly six years languishing in Azkaban, while a decision about his future was argued out.

It was the fact that Severus seemed to have given in without much of a fight, that he had seemed to allow the five Order members to take him in, that bothered not only Draco, but Hermione too as it turned out. It seemed that even the team members themselves had been shocked by his behaviour; at the time they had suspected that it was some sort of trap.

Three days after his arrest, Severus Snape had pleaded guilty to Dumbledore’s murder and the use of an Unforgivable. Hermione once or twice said something about a condition that Severus had asked the Ministry to meet in exchange for his guilty plea and had gone on to state that she believed that it explained their earlier confusion. Unfortunately, it had not been until a few months ago that Draco had discovered the significance of the request Severus had made, and its reveal had caused the blonde wizard to find yet another reason to be grateful to the man. Up until then, though, all that Draco had been able to tell was that whatever the request had been, and though it had been met with some bemusement, they had met him halfway. Hermione had said that the Ministry were willing to give into the demand fully, should Severus provide them with Draco’s location. It appeared, from Draco’s careful spying and digging over the years, that his friend had remained tight lipped on the subject of Draco for the entirety of the time he had resided within Azkaban’s walls, regardless of the offers that the Ministry had made him.

Severus’ dedication to protecting his one-time charge was more than Draco would have even dared to hope for from either his father or his old friends at Hogwarts. Subsequently, Draco felt very grateful and touched by the loyalty that Severus had demonstrated to him. He had found himself wishing a number of times during his years as Hermione’s rescued ferret, that he had trusted the ex-professor enough to ask for his help during that one desperate year. These thoughts always led to the what-ifs that Dumbledore’s words had presented to him in the Tower that night. But sadly, that was all they were and ever would be; what-ifs.

Draco nuzzled into Hermione’s neck in an attempt to get a look at the book she was so absorbed in.

“Malfoy, don’t!” she exclaimed, swatting him gently with her hand.

Every time that she used the nickname it shocked Draco. The first time had been just as Draco had been recovering from the belly incident. He had thought, without a shadow of a doubt in his mind, that the game had been up, and that she knew who he was.

“Hello Malfoy! How’s your paw? All better now, hmm?” Hermione said, dropping down onto her bed next to where he was still bundled in his nest and befuddled by the sight of her naked.

Fear gripped Draco and he froze, his pink nose twitching as panic flared through him.

But his shock and sudden fear was unwarranted and Hermione was none the wiser.

“You know, we really need to think up a name for you. I can’t keep calling you Malfoy, much as you remind me of him,” she said, softly nuzzling his head with her nose, “I don’t think Ron would take kindly to the constant reminder of who you resemble. Nor Harry, for that matter.”

Hermione had chosen to bestow the name Itza on him a few day’s later. Apparently the name meant shadow in Basque. Hermione joked that it suited Draco rather well as he was constantly following her around like a shadow. Malfoy, though, remained a rather tongue in cheek nickname that she used for him. Hermione only used it when the Weasel was not around and only then if he had done something that she perceived as naughty. He was not sure whether to be affronted or endeared by her use of it.

“Hmm,” Hermione mumbled, looking up from her book at the clock on the wall. “Ron’s rather late tonight. I wonder where he’s got to. Crooks, Itza?”

Draco grimaced at the mention of Hermione’s husband and the unwelcome reminder that the belly, which he had only moments earlier been fantasying over, was not, in fact, his to touch. She had married the prat a few years earlier, and while living around the Weasel had provided Draco with more information, he was not sure it was worth the price.

Draco could admit now that Weasley was not quite the incompetent fool Draco had once thought him to be at school. Six years around Hermione and much listening and watching had taught him that much, but it did not make him like the git any more, particularly as Weasley seemed to have so much that Draco wanted. Not just freedom and acceptance by the wizarding world at large, but Weasley had the girl; he had Hermione. Sometime over his years of living around the bushy-haired witch and after the incident with her belly, Draco had come to realize that she was what he wanted most, perhaps even more than absolution, because he was not certain that he deserved that. But then he was not certain that he deserved Hermione either, though he did want her fiercely.

Even that first day in the Leaky Cauldron, when Draco had seen, or, rather, heard Hermione lean in to kiss the ginger twit goodbye, Draco had found himself forced into admitting that the bile that had risen in his throat had not been purely in disgust at the gesture and its participants. It had only been later that he had identified it as jealousy.

The problem was that not many people had shown Draco much kindness. Severus and his mother had, of course. Blaise Zabini had taken pity on him during their second year, coaching Draco in Transfiguration in order to bring his grade up and please his father, but he had only done so for a price, an exchange of information. Moaning Myrtle had listened to him cry during sixth year, but she had also had her own agenda. Dumbledore had tried to offer him kindness, but it had been too late and Draco bitterly thought that in the end, that offer of help had provided far too much anguish for him over the subsequent years for him to be able to call the old man’s words an act of kindness.

But Hermione had. She had taken him in, healed him, cared for him, unwittingly provided him with information, and even loved him. However, she had no idea who she was helping and Draco did not harbour any misguided belief that she would have done the same had she known who he was. But still, it was something Draco was unaccustomed to and it was the catalyst that had set him off down this path to unrequited adoration.

Things had gotten worse after spending time living in close quarters with the woman. Draco had watched her bathe, seen her laugh, seen her cry, seen her in the throes of orgasm (something he was slightly ashamed of, but would definitely not take back), and had read her innermost thoughts and desires in her journal. He had seen her completely unguarded and that couldn’t help but change the way one saw a person. Draco had found as he spent more time watching her, more time in her presence, that he could no longer simply dismiss her as a know-it-all Mudblood, because she wasn’t one to him anymore. She was more than that. There was so much more to Hermione than what he had thought at school. After years of observing her, almost obsessively, Draco fancied that he knew her rather well.

His infatuation with her and penchant for watching her so closely had started purely innocently, if you can ever call spying on a person without their knowledge innocent. He had needed to watch her, listen to her, read her diary. He’d needed to do anything that could possibly provide the key that he needed to repay Severus, and he’d done that, much good that it had done him in that regard. Severus’ absolution was, in the end, taken out of Draco’s hands and he had instead found himself left still searching for his own along with the added discovery of the fact that somewhere along the line he had managed to fall in love with a girl who hated him and who was married to someone who hated him with even more passion.

This unexpected discovery, Draco had begun to muse recently, probably said more about himself and his own personality than it did the subject of his study. He found his mind wondering, on more than one occasion, back to his conversations with Severus and the times that the older man had said that he was proud of him. Draco wondered what his mentor would say should he ever discover his infatuation with the Muggle-born and his ability to move past the prejudices of his youth and his father’s preaching. He hoped that he would be able to see that proud look on Severus’ face once more.

Though, looking back, Draco believed that the belly incident and related revelation may have initiated and provided some of the foundations for his altered opinion of Hermione, he was not so superficial as to cite his lust for the witch as his only reason for his feelings towards her, much as his old professor might contest that fact. His years with her had provided numerous eye-openers for Draco about her personality and worth as the object of his affection.

Hermione was strong, and he found that admirable in a woman or a man. It was, after all, one of the reasons that Draco had found sparring with her at school so enjoyable. It was not that she was strong physically, but she had a great strength of character and will. It was a quality that Draco believed she had in spades and he envied her and wished that he had even a fraction of that which she possessed.

Hermione had taken years of teasing about both her heritage and her appearance from Draco and his classmates; he even remembered a comment from Severus at one point that had been rather cutting, but she had always bounced back. Always kept her chin held high and continued to raise her hand in their classes, despite the sniggers and comments that had been whispered behind her back. She had never bowed and become anything other than who she was. Draco envied her for that self-assurance. Hermione stuck to her guns and held her beliefs and opinions close to her heart. It was an admirable quality Draco saw now, maybe not one an ex-Slytherin should admire, and maybe not one that was always sensible, but Draco admired her for it none the less.

Perhaps, he had thought on more than one occasion, if I had been more like her; if I had been stronger, then I would have stood up to my father and his deriding comments. Perhaps I would have formed my own beliefs, made my own decisions. Perhaps mother and I would have not found ourselves in that position. Perhaps… They were all just many of a-hundred-and-one what-ifs that Draco frequently considered. What if he had been strong like Hermione, what if it had been him that had placed the band on her finger?

But wondering about what-ifs never did anyone any good, Draco thought sadly, his gaze resting on her ring finger. If only one day, I could make myself believe that, he thought, his mind wondering over the many things he admired about the witch he was wrapped around.

Her strength was not the only thing that Draco had noticed about her; only months earlier he had discovered another quality that she possessed; forgiveness.

He had known that she was determined, that she was kind and her silly little campaign over House Elf rights had proven her compassion, but Draco had clearly underestimated her capacity to forgive and were it not for the Weasel, it might have provided him with some hope.

After the war, Hermione had returned to Hogwarts, graduating from her delayed seventh year in the summer of 1999 with the youngest Weasley. The other two-thirds of the Golden Trio had not returned. Both Potter and the ginger prat had taken up two of the three places for Auror training that had been offered them. They hoped, somewhat foolishly Draco had mused, that they would be able to make a difference in the way that the Ministry conducted its affairs. So far, and as far as Draco could see, neither had been particularly successful and both seemed disheartened. Draco did not believe that it would be long before they left and looked towards other career avenues where they could both be happier and do more good.

Hermione on the other hand, had made a difference. She had turned down her offer of Auror training with her two friends and had instead completed her education and taken up an apprenticeship at a prestigious wizarding law firm in Diagon Alley. From there, she had worked to help those that she believed needed and deserved her help, even defending one or two disenchanted House Elves and supporting their bid for freedom. She had done well too. That much was clear to Draco from the papers he read at night. He had found himself smirking on more than one occasion at the fact that though more subtle and less grand, Hermione’s attempt to change the world had been more successful than the more ambitious attempts made by her two friends. It was almost Slytherin. He was proud of her, he realised one day. He was not sure that he had the right to be, but he was nonetheless.

It was through her work as a lawyer that Draco realised how forgiving she was, and it was through this that Draco found that his plan to free Severus had become redundant. In the end, he had not needed bribery. He had not need years of espionage. All he had needed was to rely on Hermione’s intelligence and compassion.

He knew she had been working on something for months. There were hints of it in her diary.

We hit a dead end. He’s refusing to co-operate unless I help her too. Honestly, as if Malfoy isn’t enough.

I talked to him again today. I think we’ve worked out a plan of action.

The case is going well; we have a new hearing and appeal set for the 6th. I just hope we can get somewhere this time.

The entries were numerous and each one as ambiguous as the one preceding it, but then she came home one night, glowing and ecstatic about something.

“I did it, Ron. I got the Ministry to grant Professor Snape’s release. They believed him. I just can’t believe we finally did it. I can’t believe that he finally agreed to stop hindering me and let me help him.”

Draco’s little ferret jaw dropped and he stared rather openly in awe at Hermione and her news.

“Yeah, well just because you convinced them…”

“But you said you believed me. You were so support…”

“I do, love, I’m just saying that he’s going to face a lot of public criticism now. You can’t present your case to the whole of Britain. He’s not the most likable of people you know? I mean, I believe you, but I don’t ruddy like him any more than I did back at school. Imagine how everybody else will react.”

The Weasel stepped up to Hermione and slipped his hands around her waist, tugging her to him.

The action made Draco frown briefly in spite of his elation at the good and unexpected news. Draco could not believe that Hermione had freely taken it upon herself to help someone who had never once demonstrated anything but contempt for her. She is wonderful, he thought.

But her next words brought his thoughts to a sudden standstill.

“I think I’ve convinced them to release Narcissa into his care too. It was the only way he would consent to allow the hearing to go ahead.”

Mum! Draco thought, desperately wanting to question Hermione. My mum’s alive?

“Do you think she will ever get better?”

“The healers don’t hold out much hope. I think that the Ministry’s consent to Snape’s request to his subsequent weekly visits have helped, but she’s still in a bad way. Maybe now, though, away from that place she’ll improve; who knows? Maybe if I can be successful in regards to the other part of the deal I made with Snape, she’ll pick up even more.”

“Ruddy awful what they did to her. I may not have ever liked her, but still.”

“I know, Ron. I know.”

Draco tried to forget this part of the conversation in the months that followed. He did not want to have to think what had happened to his mother. He picked up bits in the following months, slithers of information that had filled in some of the many gaps that Hermione and Ron’s conversation from the night of his mentors’ release had left him with. He now knew the reason, for example, why Severus had allowed himself to be caught.

Severus had discovered that shortly after their entombment within their cottage, Narcissa had been found by some Aurors beaten and half dead in an alley near the Ministry. The Ministry had not been sympathetic to someone who bore the Dark Mark, even though it was her own kind who had beaten her. The Ministry had thrown her into Azkaban, with limited access to mental and physical healing. Draco’s mother had gone mad.

Severus had, subsequent to his arrest, offered to make a full statement and to admit to the murder of Albus Dumbledore and his role as a Death Eater, in return for twice-weekly visits with Narcissa and proper medical treatment for her. The Ministry had allowed him one visit per week unless he gave up Draco. Draco could only presume that Severus had remembered their conversation that one morning in the cottage about his mum, and that his friend was trying to look after her as Draco would wish. Perhaps he had felt guilty that they had not been able to prevent it from happening; that they had not been able to take her to the cottage with them.

Regardless of the reasons for Severus’ actions, Draco had found yet another thing to be grateful to his mentor for. Perhaps one day he would be free too and able to thank him in person, but for now he was still a fugitive and so, here he was, wrapped around the neck of the girl he had once called Mudblood and longing to be human once more so he could…

But he couldn’t. In his current position and with that ring on her finger, it was not an option. So, instead, Draco watched as she read her book and waited for the annoying redhead to come home, all the while still wondering what if. But even if the Weasel was not around, what chance did he really stand with the girl he had ridiculed for years? She would never accept him; not as anything other than a ferret.

Draco sighed, feeling rather despondent, and slipped from her shoulder to the floor, not quite able to bare such close contact with someone that he so desired, but could not have. He loped across the room to the bowl of water in the corner.

The fire flared green next to him, causing Draco to start and duck under a nearby chair. He grimaced. It was probably the bloody redhead, he scoffed, slipping off to find his basket in an effort to avoid having to watch the two Gryffindor’s cosy up together.

It came as quite a shock, therefore, when moments later instead of Weasley’s voice, Draco heard the serious tones of Potter from the flames. Draco paused and turned around, scuttling back beneath the armchair to see what Scar-head wanted.

“Hermione?”

“Oh, hi, Harry. How are you? You don’t know where Ron is, do you? He’s usually back by now.”

Potter paused, before answering. It was just slightly too long, but just long enough to put Draco on alert that something was wrong. Draco studied the face of the man who had once been his nemesis; it was creased in worry and pale. Draco even thought that he detected a slight redness around his eyes. All in all, Draco surmised, things were not looking good.

“Can I come through, Hermione, I… I need to tell you something?”

No, not good at all. Draco glanced over at Hermione, she had stood and was cradling Crookshanks in her arms, her own brow creased and her lip was being nibbled between her teeth. Draco took a deep breath and prayed. He was not sure what he was praying for exactly, he had an awful suspicion and while half of him wanted to rejoice the other half was dreading the impact that his suspicion would, undoubtedly, have on Hermione.

“Is it Ginny? Have you two had an argument?”

“It’s not Ginny,” Potter said solemnly. “Please, can I come through?”

Hermione gave a little nod, and stepped back, a moment later Potter stepping into the small sitting room and embracing Hermione in a tight hug.

“Harry, what’s wrong? Where’s Ron?” Hermione said quietly, her voice breaking over her husbands name and causing Draco to swallow sharply.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Hermione. I… he…”

“Harry?” Hermione said in a chocked sob, her eyes searching Potter’s face.

”We were tracking down a lead we had in concerning Dolohov. I… I’m not sure what happened. We had checked the house twice; we’d used that life-sign locator charm you developed during the war, before we even entered the damned house. There was no one there. We were certain. The curse came out of nowhere; he… he didn’t stand a chance. I… I couldn’t stop it. I’m so sorry, ‘Mione. So sorry I couldn’t save him.”

“No!” Hermione’s voice was quiet; Draco could see her visibly shaking as she stared into Potter’s eyes and begged him for it not to be true. “No, he… he can’t. He… we survived Voldemort, he… not now. Not Ron. Please, Harry. Not Ron.”

“'Hermione I…”

“No. No. No,” Hermione half screamed at Potter, tears streaming openly down her face.

Draco moved forward, halfway into the incantation to transfigure out of his Animagus form so that he could comfort her, before he realised that he could not reveal himself. He watched as she crumpled in Potter’s arms, both of them falling to their knees and clutching each other for comfort. Draco felt helpless. He may have wished on a number of occasions that she was not with the Weasel, but he had not wanted to see her this hurt, and now, in this form, still wanted by the Ministry, he could not do anything to help her.

“Not now,” she squeaked out. “Not when we were going to be so happy. I was going to tel… not now. Why now?”

After she finished crying and fell quiet in Potter’s arms, the dark-haired wizard took her to the Burrow, Flooing back through to collect Draco and Crookshanks and a few of Hermione’s belongings.

A red-eyed Molly Weasley ushered Hermione upstairs to one of the unused bedrooms, and Draco followed, unwilling to leave her alone. The older witch tried to talk to her, tried to comfort her, tried to cry with her, but Hermione just lay catatonic on the small, single bed, her eyes fixed on the wall, barely remembering to blink.

Draco felt lost. He watched her all that night, unwilling to sleep in case she should she need something. She had reminded him eerily of his mother when Lucius had been arrested and the Dark Lord had first called and given Draco his task.

Draco wanted to stroke her hair, wipe her tear streaked cheeks, pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would one day be okay again, but like so many things he wanted to do these were not a possibility. So, instead he climbed upon the bed, licked the hand she had pressed against her belly and curled into the curve of her body, prepared to stand vigil over her.

It was three days before she moved from the bed. Various family members and friends came and went from the room. The Weasley matriarch one of the most frequent visitors, as she tried to persuade Hermione to just eat a little bit, just to try and keep up her strength. Hermione’s eyes had not even flickered towards the small plate of crackers bread, fruit and cake that the older witch had brought.

On the second day, Hermione’s parents had arrived, her mother joining Draco in his vigil, her father bringing supplies up regularly.

“Hermione, dear, I know that this is an awful thing to have happened, but please just eat a little bit. Molly and Arthur are… is there anyone you think Ron would have wanted to be at the funeral, dear?”

Draco winced at the mention of the inevitable funeral and Hermione closed her eyes. Draco felt his chest constrict and he nuzzled her stomach.

It was like that for the next two days, Hermione’s mother taking over Molly’s role and trying to break through the shell that her daughter had built up.

“Hermione, please, come down just for a bit, everyone would be so relieved. They are all so worried about you.”

“Hermione, you’re making yourself ill, please eat something, a bit of scrambled egg, perhaps? You look so frail, darling.”

“Let me get you some clean clothes, those can’t be comfortable.”

“Just have a sip of this, you must be dehydrated.”

“Hermione? Hermione? Please. We don’t want to end up losing you, too.”

Draco felt Hermione’s breath hitch and had looked up to see that her eyes had shifted to her mother’s face. Tears were brimming in them for the first time since Harry had broken the news.

“I’m sorry, mum. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just…”

Hermione’s mother chocked out a relieved sob and had gathered her daughter up into her arms, forcing a relieved Draco to scamper to the side, away from the two women.

Two days, some hen-pecking by Rachel Granger and Molly, a few light meals and Hermione had slowly starting to join in with the funeral arrangements. She was quiet, often retreating back to her room when the house got too busy, but she was eating and she was visibly grieving and so Draco had felt relieved. She was at least now trying to live.

However, the news that she broke after the Weasley’s funeral and upon the families return to the Burrow was to make Draco’s chest clench once more for the bushy-haired witch. He was certain that he was not alone in that sentiment.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, quietly holding a mug of tea between the palms of her hands and absently watching as her friends and family talked; wasn’t the service beautiful, wouldn’t Ron have been pleased with the turn-out, wasn’t the poem touching, weren’t the flowers beautiful?

Draco climbed up onto Hermione’s lap, wanting to be close to her in case she needed someone.

It was one of the older Weasley children that prompted it all. Bill was sitting next to his wife, Fleur, chatting about the mischief his youngest brother had gotten up to as a child. He summoned a book from the sitting room, a photo album, and was flicking through it, looking at the pictures of them as children.

“There’s Ron on the back of Charlie’s first broom. Little Ron was only about three at the time.”

“He was such a sweet little boy,” Molly mused from beside Hermione. “Popped out with a full head of hair and an empty stomach. He always did have a good appetite Ron.”

“Eugh, Mum! Bit too much information there,” one of the twins said from the corner.

Molly smiled fondly. “His was such an easy birth too, not like you two. I had to lie up in bed for the last two months when I was pregnant with you.”

“And he was such an alert child, always interested in what I was doing. Do you remember when I first taught him how to play chess, love?” Arthur Weasley said, moving up behind his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder. “First two games I beat him, but never once after that.”

Molly nodded and looked over to check Hermione, still sitting quietly. “Are you okay, dear?”

“What, Molly?” Oh, right, yes, I’m fine,” she replied distractedly, her hand moving from Draco’s fur to stroke across her abdomen. “I was just wondering if Ron’s child would look much like him.”

Everyone went quiet.

Half of the room’s occupants looked uncomfortably at the floor, or wall, or vase in the corner, thinking the comment to be just a slip on Hermione’s part. The other half, of which Molly and Hermione’s own parents were included, were watching Hermione with their mouth’s slightly ajar. Draco was too and he had to remind himself to look away, that he was supposed to be a ferret and not able to understand what the witch had just inferred. He rested his gaze instead on the hand on her stomach, and remembered the other times in the past week he had watched her repeat the action.

“Hermione, love?”

Draco turned at the noise of Rachel Granger’s voice, watching the older woman who looked so like the witch he knew, carefully.

Hermione looked up, startled. “Huh? What mum?”

Her mother looked down at Hermione’s hand and then back at her face, coming to the same conclusion as Draco.

“Are you?”

It seemed to take a moment for Hermione to process what her mother was asking. She nodded, her face sinking down so that her hair curtained her face slightly.

Draco need not have had to be looking to see the shock her admission caused for the reaction was audible in the collective intake of breath by the kitchen’s occupants.

“Oh, you poor child,” Molly had let out in a sob, throwing her arms around Hermione and causing Draco to be knocked to the floor.

Hermione had allowed her mother-in-law to draw her in and had wrapped her arms around Molly in return, breaking out in small sobs of her own. Draco had lay stunned on the floor wishing he could take back every moment he had wished the Weasel dead.

“When Hermione?” Potter’s voice said quietly.

“When did I find out, Harry, or when was it conceived? I feel obligated to tell you that, though we are sharing our memories of… of Ron, I really don’t plan on being as open with my own experiences as the second would require,” Hermione replied, drawing back from Molly and wiping at her eyes.

Draco would have smiled, if he could have, at her brave attempt at humour, he felt proud of how strong she was being. He was not sure that he would have reacted the same had he been in her place.

“I had found out the morning that he… that he, well, you know. But I’ve suspected for a few weeks. I was… well, I had planned on telling Ron that night.”

Molly dissolved into another bout of tears, wrapping Hermione in an embrace again.

“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I should have…”

“It’s no one’s fault but Dolohov’s, Harry,” Hermione said, extracting herself from Molly and walking across to her friend, placing her hand on his arm. “Certainly not yours. I don’t blame you, and I don’t want you to blame yourself. Neither would Ron,” she said quietly.

Draco had watched, slightly jealously, as Potter covered Hermione’s hand with his own and gave it a squeeze, mouthing another ‘sorry’ and a ‘thank you’ before pulling her into a hug.

“You can’t stay in that cottage alone,” Molly said suddenly. “There’s room for you here, we can look after you both.”

“Or with us, love. You know your mother and I would love to have you back at ours,” Hermione’s father added.

“Thanks, both of you, but I have to learn to do this alone. I’m a big girl,” she said in reply to the two offers, “I can’t keep relying on everyone else.”

“Hermione,” Arthur said, stepping forward, “the one thing you will never have to worry about, is doing this on your own. We are all here for you.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “Thanks, that means a lot.”

A.N. More comprehensive author’s notes will be included at the end. I have a fair few people to thank for this one. In the meantime I shall just thank my betas, Rhiannon and Freetheelves2 for all their help.

Reviews are received with enormous gratitude, much smiling and wriggling in chairs. Brownies are also given out in thanks. That said, I would like to hand around a plate of goodies and thank everyone who took the time to leave a review for the first chapter.

It had been four months since Weasley had died. She had coped well, Draco thought as he watched her scribbling away at her desk. There had been regular breakdowns into tears, but that was natural. It was part of the process. She worked too hard, but that would end soon; she was due to start her maternity leave the following week.

She was really quite large now. Draco fancied that she looked even more beautiful like this, the picture of femininity and motherhood. He liked sitting on her lap and feeling the baby kick. She would be a good mother, he thought as he watched her, one hand holding her quill, the other cupping the swell of her stomach. His fascination with that part of her anatomy had not waned any with the growth of the child inside it; if anything, it had grown with it. Draco was sure that the baby would be adorable, even if it did have the Weasel’s hair.

Draco had grown rather fond of the idea of the baby. In fact, he had grown rather too fond, he thought. He had become increasingly attached to the small life growing inside Hermione. And there was his problem. Draco had found himself wanting to step in, wanting to help raise the child that Hermione was carrying. Draco wanted to be its father. But as a ferret and a criminal, he knew he wasn’t much of a role model.

“There. I think that’s it,” Hermione had announced proudly, dropping her quill to the table and leaning back in her chair so that it rocked on two legs.

Draco looked up and wandered over to her, climbing his way up her leg and nuzzling her bump.

“After this my promise to Severus, hopefully, should be complete, Itza. All I have to do is take this folder before the Ministry next week; my final case before I leave. There’s no way that they can refuse him his freedom based on this.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, turning to clamber atop her desk to see what she was working on. Like most of her cases, this one had been kept top secret. Even Draco had not been able to get a look at her files; she usually kept them locked away at her office. It was rare indeed for her to bring them home.

He looked down at the paper, nuzzling his way along the desk and surreptitiously reading bits of what was wrote. Suddenly, he felt his heart jump into his throat and he let out an undignified squeak.

“Now what’s up with you, eh? Careful, you’re messing up Malfoy’s file; I don’t want to have to hand this in to the Wizengamot with ferret footprints all over. Though I dare say it might be apt, but if Malfoy ever found out I’m sure he would believe that I was taking the mickey out of him.”

Hermione lifted Draco up and curled him into her arms, resting his hind legs against her stomach. Draco was still too elated to register the joke she had just made at his expense. She was trying to exonerate him. Just like she had Severus. And she was brilliant; Draco had no doubt that she would succeed.

He would be able to return to the Manor. See his mum. Thank Severus, tell Hermione that…

Oh, Merlin!

Suddenly, and sharply all the excitement, relief and anticipation dropped away, leaving Draco feeling hollow. He would have to leave the cottage. He would not be able to watch her. He would not see the child in her womb born into the world and grow up.

Draco felt confused, torn. He wanted to leave, but he wanted to stay. He looked up into the smiling face of the witch holding him lovingly in her arms, and realized that he was stuck, because regardless of his impending freedom, his years with Hermione had ensured that he would never be free again.

Draco couldn’t leave her. Not after all she’d been through. Not yet at least.

Draco was watching her again. Waiting, in what had become one of his many daily rituals, until she fell asleep, marvelling at how peaceful she looked lying there.

When Weasley had been alive, he had still watched her, but with a jealous flare in his chest at the way the redhead’s arm would be draped possessively around her. Now the flare that sparked in his chest was a dull longing. He was free now, and so was Hermione. He could go whenever he wanted, return to his human form permanently, claim his estate and take care of his mother, but something had prevented him.

He was well aware what that something was, and was fighting desperately not to admit it. Regardless of her newfound widowhood, regardless of her forgiveness, regardless of her strength, what chance would he ever really stand with her? Draco had not left because he was too scared that as himself he would never be welcomed back.

Slipping from the bed, Draco shifted out of his Animagus form. He looked down at her sadly, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from her face.

“I…” the words died on his lips. What‘s the point in saying it?

A cry sounded from outside the bedroom, Mari was stirring. Draco slipped onto the landing, quietly closing and placing a silencing charm around Hermione’s room so she would not be disturbed.

Hermione always boasted what a good baby Mari was, saying that she rarely ever woke her during the night, almost always sleeping straight through. She was completely unaware that the reason her daughter was so good was that her little ferret, Itza, made sure that Mari did not disturb her mother.

Draco walked quietly up to Mari’s cot.

“Shh, little one. We don’t want to disturb your mummy now, do we?” He lifted the child out of her crib and settled her carefully in his arms, wrapping the blanket securely around her to keep her warm from the chilled night air.

She was lovely really, Draco thought. She had inherited her father’s hair, but it was a darker red, more auburn than carrot top, he mused, and curled like her mother’s. No doubt she would one day break hearts, just like Hermione had eventually wormed her way in and bro...

Freckles already littered her small face, and Draco counted them one by one, marking each change that may have occurred in the twenty or so hours since he had last held her. It was a nightly ritual and one that he had engaged in since her birth. It would have to stop soon. Mari would eventually get too old and it would become too dangerous for Draco to indulge in his fantasy of playing daddy to her. Once she started talking the risk that she would say something about him to Hermione was too high.

Mari blinked sleepily up at him, a small hand reaching out and a tiny finger curling around one of Draco’s.

This is some kind of torture, Draco thought. I’m willingly torturing myself.,/i>

He moved from the nursery, back into Hermione’s bedroom, cancelling the charm. He looked down at the witch that he had found himself so attached to over the past seven years. He watched as her eyelids flickered lightly as she dreamed, absently hoping that they were pleasant and chastising himself for being so sentimental.

Mari gurgled and at the same time Hermione rolled over, her eyes falling half-open.

Draco watched alarmed as she dazedly fixed her gaze on him. He had half opened his mouth to force out some hashed together explanation for his presence, when Hermione negated any possibility of one forming.

Her hand had reached out and wrapped itself in his shirttails, a lazy smile on her face.

“I missed you,” she purred as she pulled him down towards her.

“You did?” Draco asked, rather confused as to why she was not hexing him shocked at feeling the full force of a smile he had only previously seen directed at Weasley, Potter, her parents and Mari.

“Umm, come here.” She pulled him the final few inches towards her, and with Mari still clasped in Draco’s arms between them, brushed her lips against his.

Draco was hesitant for a moment, too busy wondering at Hermione’s strange reaction to respond, but at the lick of her tongue against his lower lip, that hesitancy rapidly disappeared and he gave in to her kiss. Draco felt himself melt into her, all his pent up desire and longing bubbling to the service. The fact that she was accepting him, without question, was something that he could not fathom, but he was not about to spoil this moment, this one chance, because he had questions. He was not about to remind her how insane her behaviour was for fear she would come to her senses.

He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue inside her mouth to tangle and stroke against hers. She tasted of her Mint toothpaste and smelled of baby products and Mari. Her hand rose and tangled in his hair, massaging his scalp while Draco continued to drown in the sensation of kissing her.

Hermione pulled back. Her lips placing a final chaste kiss on his, before she lay back down in the bed and closed her eyes, another of those lazy, captivating smiles on her face.

“Don’t leave me again, Ron.”

Five words.

That was all it had taken.

Just five words and Draco had been forced to come crashing back down to reality.

She had thought that he was the Weasel, obviously still dreaming. That was the reason she had kissed him. The reason she had accepted his presence without question. And the pathetic thing, the thing that had Draco feeling wretched and feeble, was that he did not begrudge her for the mistaken identity; in fact, he rather cherished it, because for a few moments she had been his.

The problem was that now it was not enough. He looked down at Mari, fast asleep in his arms.

It was not enough anymore sneaking in and playing father for a night. It was not enough to just lie in his basket and watch Hermione while she petted him like the good little pet she believed him to be.

Thanks to her, this masquerade was no longer needed. Severus was free, absolved by the Ministry and living secluded from the populace, caring for his mother. Draco himself was free. It may not have taken what he had expected to achieve this end, but achieve it he had, even if it was only thanks to the courage and forgiveness of the woman asleep before him.

Draco was finally tired of hiding. He had said it earlier, this was torture and he could not live like it anymore. It was time for him to slip back into the wizarding world, claim his inheritance, visit his mentor and mother and work on his future; one that he hoped would involve the mother of the child in his arms, because he was not prepared to give her up. Give up the disguise, yes. Give up the pretence and the deception, yes. Give up bowls of water on the floor and fleas, but not her and not Mari.

It was going to take time. He would have to befriend her. Convince her of his worthiness. Wait until she was ready to move on. Watch for the opportune moment when she was ready to move on with her life. Then he would need to woo her, seduce her. But he had the upper hand, did he not? Maybe he did stand a chance. He had seven years of studying her. Seven years of reading her inner thoughts, of watching her when she was at her most unguarded, seven years worth of intelligence and knowledge on Hermione Granger. Once he had thought to use it to free himself and Severus; now he would use it to secure her love.

Draco tucked her in, pulling the duvet up around her shoulders and placing a light kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered before slipping from the room to place Mari back inside her cot. He brushed the back of his fingers across the child’s head. “You too, little one. Be good to your mummy.”

Draco slowly descended the stairs, taking a last look around at the cottage that had become his home. He trailed his fingers through Crookshank’s fur and filled a dish of milk for him from the larder.

“Look after them both for me, old friend.”

With a last look around, Draco opened the front door and stepped outside, apparating away with a crack and a promise to return.

A.N. Right, firstly I need to thank my betas, Rhiannon and Freetheelves2for going through this for me. Both have been wonderful even though this isn’t really their ship.

Second, I want to thank elektrik_storm, whose drabble prompt inspired this story and celticsass, who begged and convinced me to expand the original drabble, Desperate Measures. This would never have been written without either of you and I hope you enjoyed it.
Next, I need to thank everyone who offered names for Draco in his ferret form, particularly argosy and Ramjtoutoune. Argosy convinced me that Hermione using Malfoy would be believable, which I kept as his nickname, while Ramjtoutoune,/i> offered up the name Itza which apparently mean shadow in Basque. It’s also thanks to her suggestion of Itza that I ended up with Mari as the baby’s name. Mari is apparently a Basque goddess; she is the goddess of thunder and wind, the personification of the Earth.

The title, chapter headings and the quote at the end obviously is a reference to The Wizard of Oz. This story has gone through three titles, with argosy, once again, prompting me to settle happily with this one.

I need to say thank you to uniquelyobscure and my friend Kaci for continuously telling me to plod on and for not letting my nerves get the better of me and delete this whole story, it nearly happened more than once.

Also, everyone who has taken the time to review, deserves a great big hug. I never truly took the time to appreciate how much reviewing meant until I started to write myself. Sometimes, it's just that one review which keeps you going.

Finally, this is the end. Beg all you wish, but I always intended to leave it open-ended and I already know that’s controversial, but I like the fact that the ending is not set in stone. I hope though, that you’ve enjoyed it, I’m somewhat nervous of the reaction I may receive for this, I don’t think it’s everyone’s cup of tea.