Work Text:
The moment the Manor doors had closed behind the last guest dressed in black, she had sequestered herself in his study. As the sole Malfoy, by blood or by bond, she reset every ward he had once set, demanding her seclusion.
When she found his favoured Ogden’s, Hermione barely hesitated before forcing the fiery liquid to replace her heart's pain. A laugh bubbled up her throat at how very inexperienced she was then. The liquid hardly tickled now and had it not been for the warmth that still thrummed through her with each sip; she would have switched to something more lethal.
'Let me in.
- H'
She had been staring at this missive and package, a book both as weathered as it was inconsequential, until their house-elf popped in.
"Mistress," Binky’s voice came from beside her, "You must let Mr Potty in! Malfoy’s needs you!"
Hermione furrowed her brow, “I know. I’m the sole Malfoy. I just - Is he here? Harry?” her voice was thick with disuse, her breath putrid with days old alcohol, potions, and loss.
Binky’s eyes widened before she nodded, her enthusiasm bringing the first small upwards tick of Hermione’s lips in weeks. “Okay-” she whispered, “Let him in.”
Her hand blindly reached for her last sober up, sickly sweet liquid slipping down her throat, before she finally stood up from his chair to meet him.
Hermione knew bathing would be ideal. Knew that showing up in Draco’s unwashed deep silver button-up, his socks, and his favourite coat would probably not help calm whatever worries he had for her. But if Hermione had cared about Harry’s comfort, she would have never closed the doors behind him six weeks ago.
She stopped, rooted in place before the doors to Narcissa’s beloved sitting room, feeling the sharp reminder of the other family member she had lost that day. Had Binky not gently taken her hand and guided her in, she would have turned back to the safety of his office, the whiskey, and his scent.
“Hermione,” Harry breathed out, his stupid concern and insufferable desire to take care of everyone around him attempting to seep into her pores, the way Draco’s love layered over her heart.
She sat in front of his favourite chair, unwilling to soil the centuries-old upholstery even if these were a fresh pair of joggers, his joggers. “Hermione,” Harry said softer, this time with more understanding and her eyes finally snapped up to his. She didn’t pretend with Harry, she never had.
“Hey,” she muttered. And perhaps something of Draco’s had stuck, or maybe Harry simply knew her far more than she gave him credit for, but he jumped right into his letter. “Did you bring the book?” As the text thumped before them, rattling the china set, he continued. “Necromancy is illegal.” At her perplexed expression, he cursed, “Bloody, Mi, what I mean to say is that on Samhain, the separation between our physical world and the beyond is at it’s thinnest. With James’ birth and then little Al, I haven’t had time to try, but maybe now is the time and well I thought we could do it together.”
“What-” Hermione shakily grasped the perfectly prepared cup of Camomile Tea before her, sipping generously before trying again, “What do we need to do?” She would not do Harry the discourtesy of acting as if she was unaware of what he had brought into her home. She had not thought of this book in many years, had not needed it for many more, but she would do anything to see him one last time.
“His blood, preferably land old enough to retain their family magic, offerings, and your magic,” Harry’s brows furrowed. Hermione had already started flipping through the pages until she landed on the ritual they would perform in a week's time. “My blood might be enough,” she whispered as her eyes darted over the ancient runes both Gaelic and Latin in nature.
Her eyes were buried in the tome, another comfort she had forgotten, as she mumbled, “Here or Godric’s Hollow?”
“Here. Draco once mentioned we shared some ancestors - should be enough.”
She heard the soft leather of his shoes as he took two hesitant steps towards her before slowly walking away. “Harry,” she whispered cautiously, finding his blank gaze on hers, “Thank you.” His grin was maddening in its brilliance, and she wanted to throw her teacup at him even as her lips fought to match his.
“I’ll see you in a week,” she muttered.
“Shower will ya?” he laughed, and she did toss a teacup at him, pouting as it blinked out of existence the moment it would have made a glorious decoration of porcelain and scalding liquid all over his dishevelled hair.
She watched on in mild amusement as the food was piled, shifted, and assorted just so within each pentagon. Three days in she realised very suddenly that this ritual might not work for her. However, Harry deserved this chance, even if she was concerned this failure would ruin her further.
The night before Hermione had collapsed on their bed - exhausted, sober, and incredibly bone-weary. She had been unsure how broken she would be after tonight failed. However, she was there now, wrapped up in Draco’s Slytherin throw, in layers of their clothes, and his blue socks with snitches flitting about - his lucky socks.
“These are my lucky socks, Granger.” “But they are filthy, Malfoy just let me wash them once, no magic!”
“I’m wearing my socks,” “On our wedding day! Draco so help me-”
“They never lost their luck - they brought me to you.”
She stared at them now, something so simple, such an innocuous article of clothing, but he hadn’t been wearing them that day - she had. And no matter how much she wanted to throw them into the bonfire, she was unwilling to part with one more piece of him. Not when the Universe had already taken so much.
Harry arrived with moments to spare, gasping when his arms wrapped around her, the first since the funeral. Her walls containing her grief quaked, but this was not the time. So she held him tight, welcoming human touch, but would not break down, not yet.
Shifting him and palms touching, she breathed, “We centre ourselves. So breathe and focus on what our goal is tonight. Clear yourself of anything you brought here from outside this ritual space.” She guided them both through the breathing that she had scoffed at for the past six weeks; the breathing that had saved her after the war. She pushed that aside; now was not the time.
“Okay,” she said shakily as the last of the goods, herbs, gifts, and candles were placed, and they were alone in the clearing. Her skin tingled with the magic already surrounding her, and her chest ached knowing this once, she had been wrong - her blood was not enough.
They went through the ritual, lighting each candle, murmuring their thanks and welcoming any blood-related souls that wished no ill will towards them; encouraging them to feast, to enjoy. Together they sliced their palms open over their bowls, Hermione using a Malfoy family ritual bowl, Harry’s one of the House of Black, the same family this ritual had come from.
Turning they slowly dropped the pooled blood on each corner of their ritual star, murmuring their desires to bring forth specific loved ones.
Harry glanced up at her, and the deep sorrow reflected there brought hers to the fore, and before she knew it, heavy, warm tears were streaming down her face. Frantically she finished the ritual, collapsing into herself in the centre.
She held her knees up to her chest, fingers toying with the seam of his socks, and she felt elated devastation course through her soul when Harry shouted excitedly. His parents had materialised before him. If she had any conceivable hope about her success, it died when she saw Sirius join them as well.
It wasn’t the time. She would let Harry have this; he deserved it so much more than she did. And she attempted to believe her logical thoughts, but the tears didn’t stop, and her silent sobs didn’t lessen any, and as the chill of the last October night danced over her arms, she admitted defeat. But the chill was stagnant, blazing through her arm and when she glanced up her sob tore through her as she saw her husband crouched before her, paler than ever but there. He had come.
As tears streamed down her face, she touched the space around him, “Please!” she screamed, “Let me touch him!” And when his visage shifted into a more tangible form, she threw herself into his arms uncaring that he lacked his scent of cedar and pine, unconcerned that he was colder than she was used to, because he was there.
“I’m so sorry, Draco, I’m so sorry,” his hands ran down her freshly washed curls, his cool lips ghosting against her neck as he rocked her to and fro. “Why, why didn’t you wear your socks?” She sobbed harder as he laughed.
“I used up that luck with you, treasure,” he murmured. “There was nothing that I would have changed from that day. Taking your place in that raid so you could go to the healer was the best decision I ever made.”
She shook her head against the crook of his neck until she finally pulled back. He had tears running down his face, grey eyes swimming as brightly as the New Moon high above them, and she pressed her warm lips to his chilled ones. “I didn’t see the bloody healer, when I got the patronus- How am I supposed to live another minute, another hour, without you?”
“Oh my sweet love, you were always the strongest of the two of us. You need to allow yourself to feel this, live through this.” Her lips quivered as she kissed him over and over and had she not been holding on so tight, had she not been pressing her face so closely to his own, relying on the weight of his arms around hers to ground her, she wouldn’t have realised he was fading out of his solid form.
“No, please it was too fast, it’s not time,” she gripped his neck as tightly as she could, coiled up his lap as she was, praying to whoever could give her just a moment more. “Hermione,”
“Not ready, please, please,” she whispered through her choked breath. “Hermione, listen now kitten,” her head snapped back to his, her bloodshot gaze, bruised bags, sallow hair, all reflected the depth of her sorrow as she pressed her forehead to his. “I need you to listen to me, baby. You need to stop hurting yourself. You are never alone, do you hear me?”
“How can you say that!” she wailed pitifully when one of his arms shifted from her back to land on her convulsing middle. “You were able to bring me back tonight because our child is in here, waiting for you to grieve so you can turn that brilliant Hermione love onto them, onto the both of you.”
“Child?” her lips trembled as she attempted to smile, attempted to feel as elated as he looked. “Our son,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers until he was nothing but cool air against her chilled skin. Nonetheless, she soaked up the night with him, welcoming Narcissa and her advice when she made herself known.
And when the hills around them almost swallowed the moon, she promised Draco she would see him every year, that their son, his son would know him. But most of all, she promised that she would live, for them, for their plans, for their son, for herself. Because Draco’s lucky socks saved her from death that day and she couldn’t willingly waste that gift now could she? Not when she had an heir to raise and a world to rule.