Opening the small onyx jewelry box was a ritualistic habit that was imperative to start Draco’s day.
It was a small task that had been faithfully completed for at least the past decade. No matter what unknowns lay waiting for Draco that day, even during the now distant times of the war, he never failed to wear his rings.
Today was no exception.
The routine was mindless yet exact.
Wake up. Shower. Dress.
He would find the prized jewelry box sitting atop his dresser, which was easily identified by the elaborate swooping silver “M” embellished on the lid.
Lifting the lid, three rings were nestled comfortably next to each other in immaculate condition against the pitch black velvet. A standard protection charm kept their metallic luster eternally brilliant. They remained polished and gleaming, having not a single smudge or fingerprint ever to tarnish their surface since the moment they came into his possession.
Draco picked up the middle ring first, as always.
He slid his family’s signet ring on his right middle finger. This was the first item of his small collection that he had been given. The expertly carved snake was proud, its winding body intricately detailed with scales. It sat in the broad body of the ring’s band, drawing any attention to itself and itself alone. Its mouth hung agape in mid-strike with two elongated fangs that were pronounced and sharp; a warning to any onlooker that the ancient family was quick to attack at any moment.
The family ring had been gifted to Draco by his father when he was seventeen. Strategically, Lucius had passed it down to his son the night before the Dark Lord had branded Draco with his mark.
Initially, he had been shown the ring when he was but a boy, a tantalizing emblem that represented his coming of age as a Malfoy when the time was right. He had anticipated the day he would earn the dignity and respect to wear the heirloom, hoping to honor his family with all of the qualities his father had instilled in him. What was supposed to be a symbol of family pride, of heritage and of “purity”, quickly deteriorated into a bitter reminder of relentless shame, resentment and guilt.
Stubbornly, Draco still chose to wear it.
He wore it the day after he had been given his mark.
He had worn it during the Battle of Hogwarts.
He had worn it the night his father was sentenced to Azkaban.
He had worn it every day since he was forced to fumble around in the shattered pieces of his life.
He did not miss the flinching glances, the leers and the knowing looks when people noticed it on his hand. He also did not choose to hide his hand in his pocket, nor did he awkwardly place it behind his back.
Some may suppose it was a meager attempt to sustain any semblance of quality regarding his family name. Others may believe it a distasteful gesture to maintain support for the Dark Lord in quiet resilience. You could even say it was simply a piece of jewelry that the sole Malfoy heir fancied.
But no.
Draco did not wear his family’s ring out of pride. He wore it as a form of atonement.
He refused to look away from the horrible deeds his family and himself had committed, nor would he dilute the terror they helped inflict upon the nation. Every day, Draco would place the cold metal on his finger to remind himself of the burden of sin, that they shall not be forgotten. Draco wore the Malfoy signet ring to repent.
We have done unforgivable things, and there is nothing I can do to amend them.
However, with time came change.
As Draco reintegrated into Wizarding British society, building a respectful career in the DMLE, and distancing himself from his troubled and misguided youth, it began to symbolize something different for the reformed man. With his own work, dedication and willpower, Draco rebuilt a new life for himself one piece at a time. Even though the cracks still remained, and always would, he did his best to fill them in with new friendships, new opportunities and new fulfillments.
No longer was it a scar showcasing the tarnished Malfoy name, but a hope of what he could make his family name become. Now, with humbled confidence, Draco wore his heirloom with an air of redemption.
The second ring was far less gaudy than the signet, finding its proper place on his right pinky. It was blatantly simple with a thin silver band, its flat round head was dark as midnight and smooth as the sky itself. Decorating the center was an eight pointed star with a tiny little diamond nestled in the center.
It was after a particularly anxious announcement to his mother that she had bestowed him with the thing.
Draco remembered avoiding the topic for weeks, pushing down the lump in his throat with apprehension as the words struggled to burst from his lips.
He wanted to tell her.
He wanted to spell out his confession with every fiber of his being.
Every time Draco attempted to break his silence, the fear of crushing damnation and ridicule rushed like a tidal wave through his body, drowning the words and sinking them back into the pit of his stomach. Every failed attempt was followed by the aftertaste of disappointment.
He had actively worked on standing up for himself since the war, but some things are always easier suggested than practiced. When he finally mustered up the courage to face his truth, to face his mother, his knee had been bouncing wildly, and his fingers tapped nervously against the dinner table. His jaw had been set tightly while his tongue ran against his teeth. His food had been left untouched, his portion of roast lamb now cold on his plate.
It was only the third glass of wine that he lifted to his lips that allowed him any real relief on his nerves.
To her credit, however, Narcissa had been graciously patient with him. Whatever was on her son’s mind tended to hang in the air, heavy and tight. She would attempt to gently nudge towards the mystery topic, over tea or as they read in the parlor, but any hint of resistance from her son was met with courteous retreat.
The relationship between mother and son had grown stiff since Lucius’s imprisonment. Draco had discovered that navigating it without the suffocating presence of his father was actually rather difficult. His mother had never shared her husband’s insistent demand for control, and Draco had never truly been left to his own devices. It was a balance they were still working on finding the equilibrium to. Though their interactions remained civil, comfortable even, Draco found he kept pushing the boundaries of his personal life further and further away from her.
Narcissa knew little outside of his professional achievements, much to Draco’s design. She knew he still played some Quidditch, but only because she had spotted him coming home sporting the gear, his favorite broom slung over his shoulder. Surely she realized he kept in touch with Nott and Zabini after watching him receive their owls every so often. He wondered if she also noticed the few other owls delivering correspondence, though he doubted she recognized to whom the birds belonged.
When they would cross paths in the manor, Draco could feel her meticulous gaze observe the style of his robes. Most days they were his everyday work attire, and it was not uncommon to see him in more casual robes. Every now and again, he would be dressed formally and neat. In a few instances, he allowed her to catch him in Muggle clothes. Her face had been suspiciously unreadable during those moments.
Inevitable questions of “Where are you going?” and “Who are you going with?” silently lingered on the tip of her tongue, yet she never spoke them. Draco never offered to enlighten her.
Draco understood that, as his mother, Narcissa yearned to be more familiar with him. Her reserved stare did not shield him from the longing that swam underneath the cool and collected surface. It was apparent she wished she could play a bigger part in the new life he had made for himself.
It was apparent that she missed him.
It was also apparent that she did not blame him for his reclusive tendencies.
Lucius had dictated every part of Draco’s life since his birth. Every single aspect of it had been scrutinized, decided upon and controlled by his father’s hands. Draco had been responsive, obedient and loyal in every attempt to meet these high expectations, no matter how demanding they were. For the first half of his life, her son had been offered zero autonomy over anything that mattered. His mother had faithfully stood by her husband’s side, thinking all of it had been in Draco’s best interests at the time.
Now that Lucius was imprisoned, his influence over Draco but a whisper in the passing breeze, Narcissa had watched her son evolve and grow into the space left behind.
Draco was thriving .
He was intrigued and a bit surprised by his mother’s passive demeanor in regards to his lifestyle after the war, any interference by her was scarce. It seemed as though Narcissa would not deny her son his newfound freedom. If he had concluded she would play no part in this freedom, then she had solemnly agreed to honor and respect his decision.
She had listened when Draco eventually confessed. Once his words started, he felt no compulsion to stop.
Draco proudly revealed he had been involved in an intimate relationship with Muggleborn Hermione Granger. They had been seeing each other for some time, he informed, and he explained it was becoming serious.
Gone were the days of malicious rivalry and resentful distrust. Gone were the manipulative claws of prejudice and ignorance. The two had weeded away the toxic overgrowth of their past, finally finding each other amongst the clearing.
They had experienced their explorative flirtations and worked through their phase of uncertainty months ago by this time. They have laughed and have cried, have fought and forgiven, have protected and defended. They have grown and have loved.
And as Draco went on, his icy anxiety quickly morphed into searing passion. His body became animated the more he continued, talking with his hands and waving his arms. He had started off defensive, making it quite clear he would shut down even the slightest hint of opposition or disapproval. But when his mother made no moves to object, his defense for the witch in question diverted into an onslaught of admiration.
Draco could not stop himself from listing off all the things he adored about Hermione. He could not find an end to the qualities that he cherished so much about her. In his eyes, every single thing about her was perfect, and Draco could not emphasize it enough.
He loved her. He loved her with every single magical, pureblooded cell in his body.
When he was finished, he felt as though he were heaving. Maybe it was the thirty-six minute long monologue, or maybe it was his nerves finally exhausted enough to rest. He had avoided too much eye-contact with his mother, fearful to meet the right type of gaze that could halt his momentum in an instant. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, suddenly needing something to quench his parched throat.
Narcissa had tears in her eyes, glistening like crystals as one rolled down her fair cheek. She sniffled, wiping it politely with her napkin, then promptly requested Draco follow her.
The ring had been stored deep in her closet, protected within a warded box.
As a Black family heirloom, the ring had belonged to Andromeda. It was the last remaining piece of her sister Narcissa had been able to keep. She had never even told Lucius about it.
With a shaky grasp, Narcissa dropped the ring into his open palm, clasping her hands tightly around his own. Through her strained tears, she admitted her festering regret and conflict with the blood purity ideology she had been bred with. As her grasp on Draco’s hands held strong, she looked him in the eyes, pleading for forgiveness for everything the belief had put them through.
In the past, Narcissa could not find the power to accept her sister’s choices or the consequences of those choices, yet here, in the present, she refused to make the same mistake again.
She was insistent that no matter what internal battles may still rage within her, despite whatever demons still lingered in the deepest shadows of her heart, she would never allow them to get in the way of her son’s happiness ever again.
With a final squeeze of her hands, Narcissa told Draco to keep adoring her, to keep cherishing her, and to keep loving Hermione with everything he had to offer. She had not a single thought to tell him not to.
He had surged forward and wrapped his mother in a strong embrace, the first one in Merlin knows how long, his own tears pooling in his eyes.
It was not too long after Hermione joined them at their dinner table, and what started off as a tense and awkward (re)introduction, intriguingly snowballed into a casual albeit cordial conversation between the two women. The overlap of their interests were sparse, but the women made do.
Of course it took far more than one single dinner for a chunk of the ice to thaw between the two most important women in Draco’s life, but it would seem they could get along quite better than he had ever hoped to dream of.
He had begun to ask his mother for tea on Sundays. She began to extend an invitation to Hermione. He offered her a ticket to accompany them to the Quidditch match between the Falcons and Herriers. She offered to host Christmas dinner.
Little by little, the heavy vaulted door that barricaded Draco’s life began to pry open. With each passing gesture of effort came another retreating bar of the lock, until he allowed a gap wide enough to allow his mother to openly pass through the entrance.
Since then, everytime he eyed his aunt Andromeda’s ring, like a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, he was reassured by his mother’s unconditional love and acceptance.
The third ring made its home on his left ring finger just over three years ago.
It truly was a breath-taking piece.
A sturdy black band made up the ring. Enchanted on its surface was a cosmic swirl of silver that gently drifted across the metal like an eternal lazy river. Hidden on the inside was a small hand-written engraving, an invaluable gift for only Draco to enjoy– HJM.
Every morning, his heart would flutter as his finger slid through the ring’s center. He’d smile to himself as a warm pulse surged through his chest.
The image of Hermione’s tiny hand holding up his own larger one as she fixed the band onto his finger would forever be burned into his brain. Not even the most powerful Obliviate could erase the acute memory of her standing with him at the altar. Hermione’s enchanting hazel eyes had been focussed solely on him, dazzling with elation from the most lovely smile Draco had ever seen. She had looked so excited to make sure he belonged to her for the rest of their lives. Her glee was bubbling out of her like sparkling champagne.
The way her veil practically glowed around her head created a fitting halo effect, cementing her as the fierce angel she was and would forever be.
She was radiant.
She was brilliant.
She was exquisite.
She was his everything.
Draco thought he had never looked as dashing in his confidence than when he recited the vows he had every intention to keep.
Oh how he planned to devote himself to her. How he would devote every waking minute to ensure her guaranteed happiness. He was determined to make her laugh until she cried for years on end. He would jump at every opportunity to protect her, a lifelong debt for the one time he did not. He was elated to stand by her side through every loss and triumph they would experience together.
He had vowed to live his life to the fullest–with her .
He had traced her knuckles with his thumbs as he absorbed her vows, as well. Hearing her ardor match his own caused a riptide of emotions to crash violently through him. He remembered how frustrating it was when his vision became blurry behind a splash of tears, muddling up his view of his perfect witch. He had to blink rapidly to remedy it.
It was then Draco learned there were two other words that could cast a spell and stop his heart on the spot: Hermione’s voice speaking the most sincere and loving, “I do.”
But unlike the notorious Unforgivable, his heart had instantly restarted and like a piston at maximum power, pounded in his chest tenfold, vibrating his sternum with force.
When their lips eagerly met, their binding magic weaving around their bodies and penetrating deep into their souls, the happiness to conjure one thousand Patronuses electrified Draco to his very core.
That euphoric feeling, that all consuming feeling of sheer bliss that had completely drowned him in every sense of the word had been nothing but a fantasy until that exact moment. He would have previously thought such exuberant happiness to be an illusion of grandeur, a far fetched fairy tale that could never be real.
He could have lived his entire life completely unaware of this eureka. He could have been content living day to day without knowing about the fireworks that lay dormant inside of him.
But the second Hermione Granger discovered them and lit their fuse, a life changing display of fireworks danced and exploded from within, and Draco wasn’t sure how he could have ever lived a good life at all.
He had not a clue as to how it had come to this, wedded to the most Brilliant Witch of Their Age, but Draco refused to linger on the why. He was still a selfish prick, you know, and once he got his hands on something he wanted, and in this case needed, he would rather die than let her go.
As Draco admired his wedding band, something snapped him out of his thoughts.
With a bit of confusion, Draco surveyed their bedroom, pivoting to search the area.
Where was his wife anyways?
He snapped the jewelry box shut.
Draco didn’t even need to think about where his footsteps decided to take him. Rounding a few corners, and at the end of the hall with the bay window, he veered left into her study.
Sure enough, Hermione sat hunched over a collection of parchments on her desk (she was going to become hunchbacked in her old age). Thick books were towered high around her, encasing her like a tomb. Her wand was impaled deeply in the nest of her braided bun that sat on the crown of her head. Her forehead rested against the spread of her fingers while she tapped her quill thoughtfully against her chin.
Her own wedding ring glinted against the early morning light that began seeping through the drapes. They lazily danced as the morning breeze pushed through the cracked windows.
Draco couldn’t see her face, but he was certain her bottom lip was caught between nibbling upper teeth as she dissected through whatever labyrinth of a problem she faced now. He observed her for a moment as he leaned against the doorframe, watching as her quill scratched against the paper every few seconds.
She’d let out a small puff of air in frustration, or would do a little hum of understanding. She would nod her head as if answering a question, or bow it lower to probably re-read something.
He wished he could see her brows furrow in that certain way he liked because she was so adorable when she was stumped.
“Good morning, darling,” he greeted.
Hermione jumped, her quill clattering against the paper and eyes shooting upwards. An expression of relief flashed across her features.
“Draco!”
He made his way around her desk, resting his hips against its edge and leaned down. His wife smiled sweetly, reaching up to hold the base of his neck to meet his kiss. The kiss lingered, giving a chance for Draco to rest his thumb against her chin.
He pulled away, but not too far.
“So, how long have you been awake?” he asked with a mild accusation.
His sharp slate eyes searched her face before Hermione averted her gaze with an eye roll.
“What’s it to you?”
“Because I woke up cold and alone in our bed,” he complained, his expression heavily painted with mock hurt.
Hermione dramatically clutched her chest and gasped.
“Oh dear! How horrible it must have been for my husband to be so cruelly abandoned!”
Draco nodded, “Absolutely awful. Truly, I don’t know if my heart will ever recover.”
She bit her lip, fighting a down smile.
“How can I ever make it up to you?”
“Having breakfast and tea with me may be a start to make up for what you’ve done,” he stood straight, taking her hand to pull her up from her chair. He was pleased to see her research or report or whatever was haphazardly covering her desk now appeared completely forgotten.
He raked his eyes up and down her form that was hidden by one of his button up shirts and a pair of tiny sleeping shorts, calculating there could potentially be a different way for Hermione to reconcile her transgression. However, he thought better of it when her stomach growled in avid protest. Hermione’s cheeks reddened with a hint of embarrassment.
“That sounds delightful,” she sheepishly smiled, squeezing his hand.
As they made their way from the study down to the dining room, hand in hand, Draco shot her a suspicious glance.
“Really though, how long have you been awake? How long have you been working? ”
“Well if you must know, I haven’t been working that long,” she insisted.
“ That long could mean three to five hours for you,” he countered.
Hermione did not reply, and he sensed she was attempting to dodge the redundant “please take care of yourself” lecture she so often found herself the victim of. She inhaled, biting the inside of her cheek, strategically mulling over her choice of words.
“You know what,” Draco cut in, “If it’s taking you this long to answer, you must have been up at a ghastly hour. This is a firm reminder to please adhere to the household rules of how much work you are allotted to bring home. Perhaps I shall make a plaque to keep on your wall so you won’t forget.”
His wife huffed indignantly, but her slight grin betrayed her.
At the first opportunity to steer the conversation away from her distractingly strong work ethic, Hermione began to prattle mindlessly about a never ending stream of thoughts. She started out by reiterating their plans to visit the Potters at the pub that night because Ginny was back from her games in Germany. Ron–“Weasel,” Draco had corrected–may or may not be coming since he was getting over a case of Black Cat Flu.
“Is Theo still planning to come over this weekend after we have tea with your mother? I wanted to give him back that book on transfiguration anomalies, I can’t believe he found it boring! Did you want to read it before I give it back?”
“Ugh! I just think it’s ludicrous that they only have three auditors to review this term’s reports and proposals! It’s the busy season! Whatever happened to McEvoy, anyways? He just dropped off the face of the earth!”
“Sometime today, do you think we could stop by the apothecary? I know you have an entire store’s worth in the basement but there’s a specific type of Lion’s Mane Mushroom that is sourced only out of China that popped up on shelves recently and I wanted to test a few things with it.”
Within minutes her rambling touched on about seven different topics, each of which was paid acute attention to. Draco may have slowed their pace down to allow her more time to divulge in her urgent thought-of-the-second.
However, he stopped her at the entrance of their kitchen, turning to face her.
“And I think if I ground it down to almost a paste it could…” her words died on her tongue when she stared up at her husband.
He lifted her left hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss on each of her knuckles, then one that lingered on the top of her diamond ring. There was a beat of silence.
“I love you,” he spoke just above a whisper.
A small noise of acknowledgement escaped her.
“I love you, too, Draco.”
The surprising level of earnestness that adorned his features caused Hermione to cock her head. He kept his lips against her fingers as she regarded him curiously. She studied him quietly for a fleeting second.
“Is everything alright?”
“Everything is quite perfect, actually.”
He allowed his trademark smirk to stretch at his lips, shifting his demeanor back into its casually cocky state. Lowering their hands again, he pushed open the kitchen doors, offering his witch entrance first.
As they began preparing tea and breakfast, Draco noted the three rings on his fingers as he reached for cups and plates and pans. It would feel impossible to be at this stage in his life, cracking eggs into a skillet while his wife poured the kettle, to be without those three little bands.
Three gigantic milestones that he wore like a brand every single day.
One for overcoming his past.
One for the hope of his future.
One for the love of his life.
It was his own personal trifecta.
And as he shared his morning meal with Hermione in their shared home, engrossed in the talk of friends and family, his hand resting within hers, Draco had never felt more complete.