Chapter 25
A month with Malfoy felt like a dream. Hermione caught herself sometimes in the middle of the night reaching out to touch his arm—to make sure he was really there, that it all wasn't merely a creation of her desperate imagination.
She returned to work at the Ministry, but everything was different now. As if along with the fragment of soul she had given to Draco, she had also freed herself from the burden she had carried since Ron's death. She smiled more often—at colleagues, at house-elves cleaning the corridors, even at the gloomy portraits of former ministers she had previously ignored.
"Good morning, Miss Granger," greeted the secretary of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the same one who just a month ago had paled at the sight of her and hidden behind parchments.
"Good morning, Percival," she replied with a smile, stopping at his desk. "How is your daughter? Is she better now?"
The man blinked in surprise, and then his face brightened.
"Yes! Thank you for asking. The Fever-Reducing Potion you recommended worked wonders."
People who had previously whispered behind her back now greeted her in the corridors. Those who usually avoided her now stopped to exchange a few words. As if the Ministry staff sensed the change in her—as if losing a fragment of her soul hadn't made her smaller, but on the contrary—larger, fuller, more human.
Evenings in her small apartment took on a completely new dimension. Draco had practically moved in—his elegant robes hung in her closet next to carefully ironed blouses, his hair care products (of which he had decidedly more than she did) occupied a shelf in the bathroom, and books about potions filled the empty spaces on her shelves.
At first, it was cramped for them. Her tiny apartment wasn't designed for two, especially when one of them was accustomed to the space of Malfoy Manor. But with each day they found a new rhythm, a new way to share this space. Draco occupied the kitchen—to her surprise, he turned out to be a surprisingly competent cook. Hermione set up a home office for them in the bedroom—two desks, arranged so they could work across from each other, seeing each other's faces above folders of documents and books.
They spent evenings on the couch, often working, sometimes just reading. Hermione discovered she loved falling asleep with her head on his lap, while he stroked her hair with one hand and held a book with the other. She didn't know if anyone would believe her if she described such a scene—Draco Malfoy, the same arrogant boy who had tormented her at school for years, now running his fingers through her unruly curls with such tenderness.
The divorce from Celestine was a mere formality. When she ended up in Azkaban for attempting mass murder using Claritas, even wizarding marriage law, usually quite conservative, raised no obstacles. Draco handled everything quickly and discreetly, without unnecessary publicity. News of the divorce appeared on the last page of the "Prophet," somewhere between a cauldron advertisement and the weather forecast.
Their relationship wasn't perfect—they were still learning about each other, still making mistakes. Sometimes Draco fell into melancholy, remembering the emptiness that for a time had been his only companion. Sometimes Hermione woke up screaming, haunted by nightmares about Ron and Draco's death. But now, instead of running from these difficult emotions, they went through them together. Draco held her in his arms when she cried after waking, and she allowed him to talk about the fear that still sometimes visited him—the fear that the fragment of soul she had given him would someday disappear, leaving him empty again.
It wasn't a dream, although sometimes Hermione still couldn't believe it. This was her life—a life she had never expected, but which now seemed the only possible one.
That evening they were returning from dinner in Hogsmeade. The walk from the Three Broomsticks to the apparition point took place in pouring rain that surprised them as they were leaving the pub. Despite a hastily cast water-repelling charm, their coats got soaked, and Hermione's hair turned into even more unruly curls than usual.
As soon as they crossed the threshold of her apartment, she began unbuttoning her soaked coat.
"Merlin, I'm completely soaked. This rain—"
She didn't finish because Draco pulled her to him, closing her mouth with a kiss. His hands confidently embraced her waist, pressing the wet material closer to her body. He smelled of rain, wind, and that specific note she always associated only with him.
"Draco," she murmured into his mouth, when he finally allowed her to catch her breath. "I'm all wet. I need to change."
She moved away, reaching for her coat buttons again, but Draco pulled her back, cupping her face with one hand.
"Come back here," he said with that half-smile that always made her knees weak. "Rain suits you. You should get wet more often."
He kissed her again, one hand sliding into her wet hair, and the other... disappeared somewhere between them. Hermione felt his fingers moving at her coat, but she was too busy responding to the kiss to pay much attention to it.
When they finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, she looked down and noticed his hand still hidden among the folds of the soaked material.
"What are you up to, Malfoy?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Looking for something I lost long ago, Malfoy," he answered with that characteristic half-smile that always made her heart race.
Only after a second did it hit her what he had called her. Before she could react, she felt cool metal sliding onto her finger. She lowered her gaze and saw a ring—platinum, with a dark blue sapphire in the center, surrounded by small diamonds, perfectly fitting her hand.
"Draco..." she whispered, feeling breathless.
"You can answer whenever you wish," he said calmly, but in his eyes she caught a shadow of uncertainty. "But know that if you agree, this ring is just the beginning. I intend to spend the rest of my life giving you everything you deserve."
Hermione looked at the ring, then at the man before her—the same one who had been her nightmare at school, her secret in cheap motels, her salvation in the darkest hour.
"Yes," she answered simply, knowing that no elaborate words could express what she felt.
And then, not caring about wet clothes, wet hair, and tears flowing down her face, she pulled him to her and kissed him as if the whole world would end if she didn't.
A week after their engagement, as she stood in the kitchen preparing tea, she heard a sudden, unexpected shout coming from the other room. The cup slipped from her hands, shattering on the floor, as she was already running down the hallway, her wand extended before her.
"Draco?" she called out, bursting into the room they had adapted as a shared office.
She found him standing at the desk, with a strange expression on his face—something between disbelief and euphoria. In one hand he held a vial filled with a clear liquid with a pearly sheen, in the other—an official-looking parchment with the seal of the Ministry of Magic.
On the windowsill, which he must have just opened, sat an elegant Ministry owl with a small tube attached to its leg, in which it had presumably delivered the letter.
"What happened?" asked Hermione, lowering her wand but still concerned.
Draco turned to her, and his face suddenly brightened in a smile broader than she had ever seen on him.
"It worked," he said, his voice trembling slightly. He raised the vial he was holding. "The antidote for Claritas. The Ministry just sent the results of the final tests."
Hermione moved closer, instinctively reaching out for the letter.
"Read it," he encouraged her, handing over the parchment. "Read it aloud."
She took the document and began to read:
"Dear Mr. Malfoy,
It is with great pleasure that we inform you that the final version of the antidote for the Claritas potion, submitted by you for evaluation to the Department of Medicinal Potions Control, has passed all clinical tests with a perfect score (100/100 points).
Studies have shown complete effectiveness in neutralizing all harmful effects of the potion, including neurological damage in patients exposed to its action for extended periods. Moreover, the antidote demonstrates exceptional gentleness to the patient's organism, causing no side effects even with repeated use.
The Ministry of Magic hereby issues official approval and recommendation for the immediate introduction of the antidote for use at St. Mungo's Hospital and for distribution to other medical facilities in Great Britain and beyond its borders.
I would also like to convey personal recognition from Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, who..."
Hermione stopped, looking up from the parchment.
"Draco!" she squealed suddenly, her eyes widening in disbelief. "You brilliant, amazing wizard!"
She threw herself at him with such force that the parchment fell from her hands, twirling in the air before settling on the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing him with all her strength.
"You are absolutely the best potion brewer in all of Great Britain! I knew you could do it! Your mind is incredible!"
Draco laughed, embracing her waist and lifting her slightly off the ground. He pulled her so close that she could feel the warmth of his body even through layers of clothing.
"Do you really think I'm that talented?" he asked, his lips right by her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
"I know it," she answered, wrapping her legs around his waist.
"Hmm," he murmured, moving his lips to her neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses. "If you keep praising me like this, Granger, I might think you've fallen in love with me."
Hermione sank her fingers into his hair, tilting her head to give him better access.
"You're not as clever as I thought," she sighed, as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot behind her ear. "I fell in love with you long ago."
Draco carried them toward the desk, with one sweeping gesture knocking off books, documents, and vials, which rolled across the floor. He sat her on the surface, positioning himself between her legs, his hands already working on the buttons of her blouse.
"If I had known that my achievements in potions excited you so much," he said, exposing her breasts and leaning down to place a kiss in the hollow between them, "I would have finished this antidote much earlier."
She moaned softly, her hands impatiently tugging at his shirt.
"Less talking, more action, Malfoy," she demanded, pulling him into a passionate kiss.
He needed no further encouragement. His hands confidently and skillfully removed her garments one by one, and she returned the favor. Within a few feverish minutes, they were already naked from the waist up, their skin burning at every touch, their breaths becoming increasingly ragged.
"Here?" he asked, sliding his hand under her skirt, finding the warmth between her thighs. "On Ministry documents?"
"Right here," she confirmed, unbuttoning his pants. "Now."
Draco didn't keep her waiting. When he finally found himself inside her, they both paused for a moment, looking deeply into each other's eyes. And then he began to move, initially slowly, and with each moment faster, deeper, more intensely.
She pulled him closer, her nails digging into his back, leaving marks that would be visible for many days. But none of that mattered—all that counted was that they were together, that they shared this triumph, this happiness, this intimacy that was so far removed from their first, chaotic meetings in cheap motels.
They lay intertwined on the carpet afterward—the desk had proven too small for comfortable rest—naked, sweaty, and absolutely happy. Draco played with a strand of her hair, wrapping it around his finger and watching how it sprang back when he released it.
"You know," he finally said, his voice calm and thoughtful, "if someone had told me at Hogwarts that I would end up this way—naked, on the floor, with you in my arms, and after creating a breakthrough potion—I would have thought they'd had too much Firewhiskey."
"Yet here we are," she said softly.
"Yes," she answered, feeling warmth filling her heart. "We are."
* * *
In the weeks that followed, the antidote for Claritas began to be administered to all victims across Great Britain. The effects were spectacular—patients who had been lying in comas all this time began showing signs of consciousness. The Ministry of Magic issued a special statement praising Draco Malfoy's breakthrough discovery, which would go down in the history of magical medicine.
One morning, an owl arrived from St. Mungo's. Blaise Zabini had awakened from his coma. Draco disappeared for the entire day, leaving Hermione alone in the apartment. She didn't insist on going with him—the truth was that despite all her progress, she still had days when confronting strangers seemed like a task beyond her strength.
There were still nights when she woke up screaming, terrified by nightmares about Ron's death or—increasingly often—visions of Draco dying in the observatory. She still sometimes felt that unpleasant tension in her body, that longing for the potion that would take away her ability to feel.
She didn't even try to convince him that she should stay home. Blaise was his best friend, someone who had known him even before Hogwarts. Draco needed this meeting, needed to tell him everything that had happened. And she... she simply wasn't ready.
How would Blaise react to the news that Draco was involved with Hermione Granger? The same girl whose blood was once "impure" to them? A woman who for the past year had hidden behind a bottle of potions as effectively as Draco had hidden behind his mask of cold indifference?
No, it was better to stay home. To allow them an honest meeting without her presence, which could complicate everything. Draco needed this normalcy, this fragment of his former life.
She knew her fear was irrational. Draco wasn't hiding their relationship—quite the opposite. Hermione already had an engagement ring, and wedding plans were taking concrete shape. Nevertheless, the thought of meeting his friends, confronting that part of his life that she hadn't been part of... it still evoked an anxiety that was difficult for her to describe.
Draco returned only in the evening. Hermione immediately noticed the change in his face, in the way he moved. Some weight had fallen from his shoulders, as if he had finally closed a chapter of the past that had remained open for a long time.
He told her everything—how Blaise had reacted to the news about Claritas, about Celestine, about the observatory. How their meeting had been after months when one of them lay unconscious, and the other fought for every fragment of his soul. He also mentioned that he had told Blaise about her, about their relationship, about the engagement.
To her surprise, Blaise wasn't shocked or negatively disposed. On the contrary—according to Draco's account, his friend had taken the news calmly, even with a certain approval. He also conveyed that Blaise would like to meet her, that he had insisted Draco bring her with him someday after he left the hospital.
Part of her wanted to refuse, to hide in the safe haven of their apartment. But another part—the stronger one, the one that had survived the war, torture, and the loss of her best friend—knew she had to take this step.
Draco brushed the hair from her face and added casually:
"I was also at my mother's. I stopped by briefly after visiting Blaise. She's sent me so many letters since she found out about the engagement that I couldn't ignore them any longer."
"And what did she say?" Hermione asked quietly, trying to hide the tension in her voice.
"That she very much wants to meet with us," replied Draco, carefully observing her reaction. "I know this might be difficult for you, but..."
"It's all right," she interrupted him calmly. "I'll meet with her. But... that will have to wait. First I need to take care of two important matters."
Draco furrowed his brow but didn't press for details. Instead, he only asked:
"Do you want me to accompany you? Whatever it is, you don't have to do it alone."
Hermione shook her head, and something in her eyes hardened—that determination he so admired in her.
"No, Draco. This is something I have to do alone," she said decisively. "I appreciate your offer, really. But... this is my path to walk."
He nodded, accepting her decision without further questions. This was one of the things he had learned about her over these months—when Hermione Granger made a decision, trying to dissuade her was like fighting a hurricane. Futile and potentially dangerous.
The next day, Hermione apparated to a familiar, quiet street. Three months had passed since she had last crossed the threshold of her family home. It wasn't that she hadn't tried to visit her parents regularly—she always had such intentions. But deep down she knew that her visits had been forced, tense, full of things unsaid and lies. She would come with prepared stories about work at the Ministry, about friends, about a life that was actually falling to pieces.
How could she tell her parents that she woke up screaming every night? That the only way to survive the day was a potion that was gradually killing her? That she was meeting with a man she once hated, in seedy hotels, to forget the pain of existence for a few moments?
So she came rarely, and each visit was a torment—for her and, she suspected, for them as well. She saw the concern in her mother's eyes, her father's unspoken questions. And she would return to her apartment with an even greater sense of guilt, which only increased the need for numbness.
But today was different.
Her mother opened the door and for a moment looked at her as if seeing a ghost. Then she hugged her tightly, for a long time, differently than usual. This was the first sign that her parents had noticed the change. This embrace was full of relief, as if they were welcoming a daughter who had returned from a long journey.
In the living room, her father looked at her with the same surprise in his eyes. They knew, of course they knew. Maybe they didn't understand the magical world, addiction to potions, or trauma after war, but they were her parents. They had seen her slowly fading away. And now they saw that something had changed.
The conversation over tea flowed freely, without forced topics or awkward pauses. Hermione talked about work, about friends, about Harry and Ginny's children. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she showed them her left hand, on which gleamed an elegant sapphire ring.
The reaction was immediate. Her mother began crying and laughing simultaneously. Her father for a moment looked stunned, and then his face brightened in a smile that Hermione remembered from childhood—a smile that always appeared when she did something that filled him with pride.
They asked about Draco, of course. And she told them about him, omitting the darkest details of their history. She said they had known each other from school, that he worked with potions, that he had recently discovered a cure for a dangerous disease. That he was different than she had once thought. That with him she felt safe.
This last statement caused particular stirring in her mother, who for years had observed how her daughter closed herself off, how she became a shadow of the person she once was. Through all those years, through the war, through the loss of Ron, through addiction—Hermione had never felt safe. And now that word flowed from her lips so naturally, as if it had always been there.
Three hours passed like the blink of an eye. Her parents couldn't stop asking about the wedding date, about whether it would be in magical or Muggle style. Hermione answered with a genuine smile, with a lightness she hadn't expected from herself. And when she stood to leave, her father hugged her and whispered in her ear how much they had missed her, how glad they were that she had finally returned.
Leaving her parents' house, Hermione felt lighter. As if a weight she hadn't realized she was carrying had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. But this was only the first, easier part of what she had planned for today. Now something much more difficult awaited her.
Standing on an empty street, she took a deep breath and apparated again. She knew she couldn't put this off any longer. It was time to face the past, to truly move into the future.
The Burrow from a distance looked exactly as she remembered it. The same tilted silhouette, as if kept upright only by magic, the same crooked chimneys and additions, the same garden of gnomes and henhouse at the back. Time, which had so brutally changed so many aspects of her life, seemed to have no power over the Weasley home.
Each step toward the building brought with it an avalanche of memories. Painful ones—like those first days after Ron's funeral, when she sat in that chair at the kitchen table, numbed by grief, unable to cry. Nostalgic ones—like summer evenings spent on Quidditch matches in the orchard behind the house, where Ron was always the keeper and Harry the seeker. And happy ones—like shared Christmas dinners, laughter at the table filled to the brim with Molly's dishes, handmade presents from Mrs. Weasley, family warmth that Hermione so desperately needed away from her own parents.
The path leading to the door was so familiar she could have walked it with her eyes closed. How many times had she run along it with Harry and Ron? How many times had she returned to the Burrow as to her second home, a place where she was always welcome?
She remembered every stone, every irregularity in the road. Here, under this bush, Ron had once kissed her for the first time, his face as red as his hair. There, by that apple tree, they had once spent an entire afternoon, talking about the future, about what they would do after the war ended.
The future had arrived, but it looked different than any of them had imagined. Ron was dead. Harry had his own family. And she... she was engaged to Draco Malfoy, a former enemy who had become her salvation.
Life had taken a different course, but the Burrow stood as always, unchanged, as if it had been waiting for her all these years when she hadn't had the courage to return.
Hermione paused for a moment before the door, gathering strength within herself. The last time she was here, she had entered five years ago with her head down, pretending everything was all right, hiding her despair beneath a mask of professionalism and politeness. Molly had tried to talk to her. Arthur had looked at her with those wise, gentle eyes of his. George, who himself knew the pain of losing a twin, had tried to joke to ease the atmosphere.
But she hadn't been ready. She hadn't been able to confront their concern, their love, their memories of Ron.
Now, however, she stood here with a different purpose. She came as Hermione Granger, who had survived the war, the death of her beloved, addiction, and who now planned a new life. She didn't come to forget about Ron—quite the opposite. She came to honor his memory and to tell the family that had once almost become her own that she intended to move forward.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
From inside came the familiar hubbub that made Hermione's heart clench with sudden longing. Through the wooden door, she could hear Molly shouting over George, telling him to open the door. In the background, little James was crying, probably tired of all the commotion. George was evidently trying to pass the task of opening the door to Ginny, because after a moment her indignant voice could be heard along with a series of sharp remarks in his direction.
Hermione couldn't suppress a smile. This domestic chaos, this shouting over each other, these minor disputes and sudden outbursts—so characteristic of the Burrow and so different from the silence of her own apartment. Even now, with Draco by her side, they still lived in peace and order that in no way resembled this merry disorder.
After a moment, the door opened violently, revealing Molly Weasley with a reddened face, wiping her hands on an apron stained with flour. For a few seconds she looked at Hermione as if she couldn't believe her own eyes. Time seemed to stop—Molly stood in the doorway, hands still in her apron, lips slightly parted in silent surprise.
And then, in an instant, she lunged forward and embraced Hermione so tightly that she almost lost her breath.
"Oh, my dear," Molly whispered in a trembling voice. "You've finally come home."
Hermione felt her own eyes filling with tears as she returned the embrace, burying her face in the shoulder of the woman who for so many years had been her second mother.
"Yes," she answered quietly. "I've come home."