Chapter Text
Draco places a tender kiss on the top of my head and orders, "Time for bed, love."
His hands are heavy on my shoulders. He's leaning over me from behind as I sit, curled up on an overstuffed armchair by the hearth in our library. I close my eyes and savor the smells of crisp air and his signature cologne — subtle but delicious.
I don't want to go upstairs yet. I'm engrossed in the chapter I'm reading in Creative Uses for Commonplace Spells by Ziggy Wattleburn.
I tilt my head back to take in his appearance and notice a hair that fell to his forehead. He always looks so put together, even when casual.
"Who was at the gate? You were outside a while," I say to change the subject.
Draco stands and tucks his hands in his pockets, studying me. His muscular frame sends shivers across my lower abdomen, and I watch as he raises a knowing eyebrow — the arrogant bastard. I love it.
"No one of importance," he says with a shrug as the fire crackles next to us.
He holds his hand out for my book in a silent directive, but I place a finger in the crease of the parchment then pull away.
"You go," I try. "I want to read a bit longer."
"Hermione —"
It's a warning.
He's naturally protective, but the past year put him further on edge — or so he tells me.
Taking a deep breath and tightening his lips in a scowl, he offers with a pointed glare, "You know the Mind Healer doesn't want you to push yourself. I'd prefer if you let an elf read to you." He's told me this several times before. "You're still recovering from the accident."
I watch as his brows furrow and his eyes tighten. His face may as well be carved from stone. He's Posiden — gorgeous but powerful. I find myself praying for safe travels across this treacherous debate.
The accident
I don't know what the batty-old Healer is on about. Reading barely causes headaches. However, trying to force myself to remember the before-times feels like my mind is stretching to its breaking point. It's as if I'm a dried-out rubber band, and I'm always fearful of stretching myself too far. I don't want to break.
All I know is that there was a war, I'm married and soul-bound to a man that I cherish, and that I used to be a warrior. From what Draco tells me, I was a fierce General and instrumental in ending the fight.
Draco and I love each other. My name is Hermione Malfoy. I'm 25 years old. There was a war, but it's over. I'm safe in our Manor.
I repeat to myself for comfort. I don't remember the accident.
I do, however, remember waking up in our bed a year ago, feeling scared and confused.
That day, Draco moved quickly from his chair in the corner of the room and wrapped me in his arms. "You're okay," he told me as tears stung my eyes. His large hands cupped my cheeks and wiped the salty drops away as he repeated, "Shh, you're okay. I'm here."
"W-where am I?" I asked, my voice shaking as I pulled my legs to my chest.
"This is our home," he offered in a low, soothing tone. "You were hit by a strong memory spell at the final battle of a terrible war." His hands moved to my arms and ran across my skin, causing me to melt into his comfort.
I remember feeling the roiling emotions in my head. I was confused and disoriented, but even back then, I knew, without a doubt, that Draco represented safety.
I dried my eyes on the back of my hand and steeled myself to ask, "Who are you?"
Draco's expression is still etched into my memory. I'll never forget the resolute devastation that he tried to hide behind his silver eyes.
Clearing his throat, he said, "My name is Draco." His voice was kind despite his obvious heartache.
Then I felt a lump in my throat as I stared at the sheets and whispered, "— and, who — am I?"
"Your name is Hermione, " he said, brushing off his sadness and shifting back into protector mode. "You're a warrior — a genius. The most brilliant witch I know and I'm so glad you're awake because —" he wrapped his strong fingers around my shaking hands and rubbed his thumb back and forth over my knuckles. "— you're also the love of my life."
Shaken from my memories of that first day, I look back up into Draco's eyes as he towers above me.
"I'll call for Millie," I offer as a compromise. "I don't like to burden the elves, but she might like a break from her other tasks."
Draco shifts his weight and runs his hand through his hair, looking relieved. "Alright," he sighs. "I've got a few more items I can look over." He bends to kiss me again. "Take your time."
As he walks to the library door, Draco calls for Millie and directs her to read to me. He doesn't wait for me to do that myself.
I roll my eyes and chuckle as the friendly elf bobs over to where I sit.
"What is you wanting to read, my lady?" she asks.
I smile, taking in her small appearance. She's wearing a simple green smock and a gray cardigan.
When I first woke up here, the elves bothered me. It wasn't anything about their demeanor — they're all lovely. Instead, it was this feeling deep in my stomach that it wasn't right to have them about, doing our cooking and cleaning.
Draco assured me, though, that they're happy to work here and that he pays them well. He said I taught him the importance of paying elves for their work — more information about my mysterious former self.
I pull back my feet and transfigure my chair into a loveseat, indicating that Millie can sit with me. Though, she drops her ears and shakes her head. So, I summon a short stool with an embroidery cushioned top instead, which makes her smile.
Once she's perched on the stool with her little legs hanging over the edge, I say, "Here." I hand her the book, and she beams while flipping to my earmarked page and starting to read.
It's surprising to me that some things take no effort whatsoever to remember from before — like magic, and other parts of my abilities are so intricately locked in my mind.
After a year, I'm coming to terms with who I am instead of who I used to be, but it was a different story when I first woke up.
Draco brought a massive stack of books to the bedroom the first week. He knew I'd want to research my symptoms and said he got everything he could find in the library regarding the topic. He insisted, though, that he read to me.
That's how we spent the first few months getting to know one another again.
I'd pick a book from the stack that I wanted to research, and he'd lean against the headboard as I recovered. At first, I left lots of space between us in the bed. There were several days where I laid on my side and listened while staring at the man who was supposed to be my husband and grieving the fact that, in many ways, he was a stranger to me.
Eventually, though, I found myself longing for his calm strength and reassuring touch. I spent days as a ball of anxiety, wanting to know what it felt like to be touched by him. I was embarrassed that he certainly held intimate memories of me and my body.
Draco always took my lead. He never initiated anything after the first day I woke up and instead waited for me to decide I was comfortable.
After about a month, I reached out to him on the bed, no longer able to hold myself back. I needed to feel him again to ground myself in reality. So, I brushed my fingers along his forearm as he read.
His eyes widened, and his steady reading stopped.
Then a penetrating sigh of relief shifted his shoulders. After that, he'd pull me into his arms each day, and it always felt right with my core.
I don't know how to describe it other than being with Draco has been the one solid foundation on my road to recovery.
We ran out of books after two months and accepted that all we could do was wait and hope for my memories to return as the Healer suggested.
As each day passed, I started to feel stronger. Then one night, as I sat by Draco's side in the library, he held my hand and said, "It's been lovely spending so much time together."
He ran his hand up my arm then tucked my hair behind my ear, causing me to warm to his touch. "Your strength is back and you're comfortable here —," he tilted my chin up to meet his eyes. "Right?" He spoke with complete confidence.
I placed my own hand at the base of his strong neck, then nodded.
"I need to go back to work tomorrow," he finished.
That's when our days curled up together came to an end. I still think back to those first weeks with a mixture of grief and nostalgia. It was a confusing time — a sad time, but reconnecting with Draco felt like finding my true north.
After he went back to work, I'd spend my days walking through the Manor, cataloging its many rooms or popping in on the elves to see if they'd let me help cook.
At first, they flat out refused me, but I insisted that keeping myself busy was easier on my recovery. Millie was the first one to agree. She asked me to help place the dinner rolls in a basket which I scuffed at because it clearly took no cooking skill at all.
Millie, the sweetheart that she is, placed her wrinkled hand on my arm and told me that I had no cooking skill with all the compassion that she could muster. I balked and tried my hand the next day at helping to bake the bread but found out quickly that she was right. I was awful.
That's when I asked her to teach me to cook instead, and now I can proudly admit that I am getting the hang of it.
A couple of months ago, I even decided to make an entire dinner of bangers and mash by myself. Draco ate it and told me it was wonderful. Unfortunately, though, I have to admit it wasn't that great.
When I'm not learning to cook or walking the halls of the Manor, I sneak away to read. It's my favorite way to spend an afternoon. I can simply get lost in a book.
I haven't been outside the Manor walls yet.
Draco encourages me to walk the gardens, but he tells me that I shouldn't worry if I can't handle the outside world yet. The war left many things in shambles, and he understands if the idea scares me. The truth is, I'm deadly curious, but he seems confident it would set my recovery back, so I've stayed in our home for a year.
Millie yawns, and I know she must be tired. She's worked hard all day.
"Millie," I whisper. "Go to bed. It's late. I'll be fine without you."
She glances at the door, clutching the book to her chest and rubbing her hands back and forth over her arms. Her ears droop again.
"Master wishes me read to you," she says.
I stand to stretch and pretend to yawn. "Master wants many things," I counter. I don't need her to stay with me. "I think I'm done reading anyway."
"Are yous sure?" She asks, looking relieved that I don't plan to pick the book back up myself.
"Of course! I'll just doze by the fire until Draco comes back. It's cozy here."
Millie stares at me for longer than necessary and then finally nods. "Okay," she says and hops off the stool. Though, before she goes, she stops herself and walks back to tuck the book under her arm.
It's cute how she thinks I'm only interested in that book.
I summon a blanket to pull over my legs as she walks away, and once she's passed the door, I chuckle to myself at the extent Draco and Millie go to in the name of my recovery.
While I wait a moment to make sure the coast is clear, I close my eyes and enjoy the comfort of our home. The fire is warm, the windows are open, letting in the cool spring air, and when I breathe deeply, I catch a whiff of the approaching thunderstorm.
After a minute, I stand up to peruse the texts in our massive library, running my fingers over their dusty spines. There are so many here I could entertain myself for years and never run out. In fact, there's an entire section on wizarding professions alone that I find fascinating.
Draco works for the Ministry in war recovery. I'm not exactly sure what he does except follow the directions of the new Minister for Magic. I asked him about it once after he started going back to the office.
I remember leaning against the doorframe one afternoon admiring his form. I missed him during the day. The Manor is always colder when he's away.
"What is it you do all day?" I asked as I watched him take off his robe.
The question caused him to pause, and I thought for a moment that I saw his jaw tighten. I must have imagined it, though, because a moment later, he was scouring my expression for something, causing me to blush. He'd stopped in the middle of rolling up his sleeves, and I could see the muscles flexing over his shoulders and forearms.
I shook my head, realizing the scrutiny went both ways. I was having a hard time controlling my attraction to him.
"Community revitalization and infrastructure design," he said with precision. I felt his eyes on me and knew he could sense my discomfort.
I shifted my weight, feeling a tingling in my stomach, and walked towards him.
"Is that how you made all your money?" I asked to continue building up my nerves. I just needed to keep talking to drum up my courage.
"No," he stated but didn't elaborate. I could sense the tension coiling between us.
I placed my hand on his arm over his strange tattoo when I reached him. His gaze broke from my eyes as he stared at my touch. Then, after a beat, he lifted my hand from his arm and placed it on his chest. Our fingers entwined over his hard torso as I lifted to place a tentative kiss on his lips.
"Fuuuck," he growled, and the sound shot right to my toes.
Testing the water, Draco placed his hand at the back of my neck. He watched my expression closely, and I nodded my consent as he put his lips to mine again, this time with a fire I hadn't seen in him to date.
I make my way through the tall shelves looking for another book that might sate my curiosity because I'm trying to solve a riddle. Last night I woke up around three in the morning to use the loo, and while I was in the fuzzy middle ground between sleep and awake, I heard a phrase.
It's LeviOsa, not LevioSA.
Draco was sound asleep next to me, lying on his stomach with his arms under the pillow. His bare back gleamed in the moonlight streaming in from the tall windows. He scrunched his eyes every now and then, causing the tiny scar over his brow to crease. I think that the phrase that slipped into my dream state was the edge of a memory. It felt different than a dream — more solid somehow. That's why I was reading Wattleburn's book. I can't imagine what significance such a simple spell held for me.
I don't want to tell Draco yet for fear of getting his hopes up. Also, sometimes when I talk about memories, he seems to bristle. Then, he'll change the subject or scowl, and his voice will deepen. I think he's worried about me. Apparently, I was in a magical coma for over a month last year. He says it was excruciating to sit by and wonder each day if I'd ever wake up.
The memory could be significant for any number of reasons. I'd hoped that reading more about the various uses of the spell might jog my recollection.
I scan the titles of other simple spellbooks, but nothing seems to catch my interest. I'm upset that I couldn't recall more of the memory tonight. I sigh and wind my way through the stacks, headed back towards the door to the Manor atrium. I feel melancholy. I love Draco, and I love our life together, but he seems happy to wait forever for my memories to return, and I'm sick of living a half-life. I'm desperate to know more about who I was before.
I see another book sitting on a side table by my favorite chair, and my lips turn upward. The leather cover is care-worn, and the pages are thin from use. Hogwarts: A History by Bathilda Bagshot. Draco mentioned early on that it used to be my favorite book. I'm not sure if it's from knowing that tidbit or not, but the new me also cherishes this work.
I often still ask Draco to read some of it to me in the evenings, and carrying it around makes me feel connected to the old Hermione.
Sometimes just sitting and running my fingers over the pages helps me feel better. I imagine my former self pouring through the same pages, which lifts my spirits.
Hoping it will do the same trick now, I pick the book up from the table and stand in the glow of the fire while thumbing through the pages. I feel the gentle breeze against my hand. Closing my eyes, I take in the smell of parchment and leather tannins. I sigh, feeling a bit better, and open my eyes again. Though, before setting the book back on the table, I notice something shocking.
The inside title page is missing.
I hold the book closer to my face to examine the tragedy in the low light of the fire.
Who would do that to my beloved text!?
I run my finger over the rough edge of a ripped-out page in the crease of the binding and fume. I know it seems irrational, but it feels like a piece of me was torn away.
I take a shallow breath feeling my ears warm in anger, then notice something else mysterious, though subtle. There is an indention along the center of the page as if someone wrote on the ripped-out page. The book traitor must have written plenty hard enough because I can almost make out the three words that the assailant wrote before stealing the page from the book.
Draco's heavy footfall echoes on the marble tile outside the library's door. He's coming to meet me, but I have to figure out who would dare to defile my book and what message was so important that they needed to destroy the entire page to erase its memory.
I summon some cool ash from the stone near the fireplace and rub it onto the page to reveal the words. Then, my heart slams into my stomach, and the hairs on the back of my neck raise on end. My arms shake, and my vision blurs as Draco says from the door, "Hermione —?"
Etched out across the page are three words, written in my own familiar script.
Don't trust Draco!