Author's Note: This was written for the 2011 Dramione Remix over on LJ, and my chosen couple was Odysseus and Penelope from "The Odyssey."A huge thanks to my betas, Elene and Joanna! Any errors that remain are entirely my own.

I've had this plot bunny bounding around in my head for a very long time but I couldn't think of a believable way to bring it to fruition. It was frustrating and I had more or less given up hope of ever getting to write it until a friend cajoled me into signing up for the 2011 Dramione Remix on LJ. I picked my couple (brave, steadfast Odysseus and loyal, cunning Penelope) and was, for a moment, stumped on how I would tell their story within the Potter universe. Then: boom. Inspiration struck like a thunderbolt from Zeus. Finally, I had my answer.

The Odyssey, though it was not a popular book in my high school, was an epic I fell in love with almost immediately, and the admiration has lasted for almost a decade now. Persistence and patience, fidelity and faith, hope and love: universal themes weaved into an intricate storyline that was brimming with action, adventure, magic, and wit. I don't know how much of that I've managed to capture below, but I'm marginally sure I did my couple justice. And that's what really matters, right?

Chapter One

"Once more."

Hermione looked up from her page and sighed. "You said that last time." She shifted in her seat until her bare feet were wedged between Draco's right thigh and the couch.

"Merlin, your feet are cold. I can feel them through the fabric! Don't you ever wear socks?"

"It's April. It's too warm for socks."

"And yet your feet are cold."

She shrugged and turned back to her book – a Muggle novel called The Aeneid, written thousands of years ago by some dried-up old Roman.

When he had first seen her reading a Muggle novel, he had scoffed. He didn't know why she bothered. Wizarding literature was not only more germane to her life now, but also more immersive. Quite literally, too, if one was willing to spend the gold on it. Yet she was unwilling to 'let go of that part of herself' and argued that 'a great story transcends cultural divides.' Her words, of course, not his, and he continued to scoff until she read him a scene from Jane Eyre, the scene where Jane hears Mr. Rochester calling out for her though they were miles apart.

The magic in that passage, though it was unlike the kind with which Draco was familiar, was enough to persuade him that maybe Muggles did know a thing or two about storytelling.

However, the dust jacket of The Aeneid sounded less like magic and more like a treatise on Muggle ancient history. It was a prospect that interested him none at all, so that particular novel would not be one he would take up when she finished, no matter how persuasive she was.

And Merlin, could she be persuasive.

"Your hands are cold no matter the season," she remarked absently. "If my feet are occasionally chilly, who are you to judge?" He smiled, though she didn't see it, and turned back to his own reading: a far less amusing Malfoy Holdings yearly report.

He was twenty three years old, less than two years away from assuming Lucius's position on the board of directors as Paramount Administrator and Heir Apparent. Being groomed to take his father's place had its drawbacks. The droning reports were one of them, as was all the time he spent schmoozing clients. Whether in the office, traveling abroad, or on the Quidditch pitch (where he was contractually obligated to throw the game in his client's favor – a task which he utterly loathed), Draco did so much schmoozing that it felt like it was all he did.

At least he was good at it.

The perks of the job, however, far outweighed the odious task of charming billfolds from the pockets of rich old wizards. Exclusive use of Malfoy Manor, for instance, was lovely. His parents had unofficially retired to a cottage on the eastern edge of the property. He still saw his father for work, but the evenings and the weekends were his own. He also bought a luxury traveling broom, which he wrote off as a business expense, received a new set of dress robes, courtesy of his mother, and commanded his own fleet of elves. Fleet was hyperbole, actually. He had two – Tippin and Radey – and they were more than adequate to fulfill his relatively simple needs.

But the best perk of all, and the perk he took immediate advantage of after the Battle of Hogwarts and the ensuing trial, was that he could begin courting Hermione Granger.

He had had an inkling of his feelings before their fourth year at the Quidditch World Cup. He had told her to run, terrified of seeing her flying fifty feet in the air with that Muggle family. He was desperate that she not be hurt and utterly confused as to why he felt he felt that way. Then at the Yule Ball, as she descended the staircase, a vision in flowing, periwinkle blue, the inkling coalesced into something more.

From then on, he was lost to her. He dogged her friends at every corner just to see her, was cruel to them in ways no one else could be so that she would look at him, catch his eye, and maybe glimpse the truth of what he thought, what he felt.

He hated to hurt her so badly, but it was all for protection. His protection. It was a weak excuse. Back then, his excuses often were. But how could she ever accept him on her own? They would never come together naturally. He was daft to hope for it. Pushing her away somehow made it easier for him to cope with that hard reality.

And then seventh year started. And then she had been captured and brought to his home and tortured in the now-sealed wing of Malfoy Manor. He had watched her writhe and cry and scream and done nothing to help her. Hadn't even tried to alleviate her pain. The memory still haunted him. He recalled clearly how hot his blood had burned for her, how he had been consumed by rage and despair, and how, as she disappeared with Potter and Weasley, what he felt didn't matter anymore, anyway. If she hadn't wanted him before, the possibility of her wanting him now was decidedly impossible.

And then in the Room of Hidden Things. All Draco had wanted was his wand: ten inches of hawthorn perfection with a core that knew him like his mother's simply did not. It was Crabbe's bloody idea to capture Potter and bring him to Voldemort. Draco didn't care about Potter. He had stopped caring about any of them since he realized how hopeless he must have looked through Hermione's eyes. It was habit and habit alone that kept him with those buffoons. Had Crabbe survived the inferno, Draco would have cursed him senseless and exorcized him from his life like a malignant tumor.

He disliked thinking ill of the dead, but after putting them all at risk – putting her at risk? She had been stunning in her ferocity, though, bearing down on him with teeth bared and wand raised. Her face was bloodied, her clothes were frayed, but still she seemed to glow with power and control. She was vicious. She was intense.

She was beautiful.

Nearly as beautiful as she was in her pain. Seeing her scream, the sobs that wracked her body, the agony of her expression when she thought Potter was dead… It was different from watching her tortured in the Manor. It was like her capacity for love had been made manifest. Draco had never seen such passion before, such depth, and seeing it in her, in the woman he loved – yes, damn it, loved! – brought him to his knees. That was the moment he knew that she was the better witch, would always be the better witch, the better person. That was the moment he knew that he would always admire her for it.

Yet despite the pain and hatred and tears that were a product of his bigotry, she had stood up for him at the trial. She had defended him, even called him brave for surviving where so many would have died. The weight of his misery and guilt had lessened then and, in the reprieve, he saw her as if for the first time.

As his grey eyes locked upon hers, they connected.

And, miracle of miracles, she understood.

It was like all of the tacit messages he had tried in vain to communicate over the years exploded in a firework of clarity. It was an experience so profound it was almost spiritual, which was saying something because Draco had never believed in that bunk. He owled her a week later, the eve he was declared "Not Guilty." He asked her out to tea to talk. One night later, he had his reply.

That was almost five years ago. Time had since taken them down a road Draco had been sure he would never get to travel: weekends shared with their respective parents and friends; nasty fights which turned into duels she always won, and not for a lack of effort on Draco's part; tentative apologies culminating in wild, almost vicious make-up sex; hours in each other's company spent in silence that was at once comfortable and meaningful. It had all led them to tonight, to this night, where the second stage of their lives would, Merlin permitting, begin. A giddy bubble took form in Draco's chest and he clutched at the small box in his left pocket. Best not get ahead of himself.

"Just once," he repeated, dampening the glee in his voice. "I promise not to ask again."

"Oh, do you?"

He held his head high, ignoring her skepticism. "Malfoys always keep their word."

"I have evidence to the contrary," she deadpanned.

"Never!"

She rolled her eyes and shut her book, gesturing with it for him to ask.

"The Prince and the Pauper."

"Mark Twain, also known as Samuel Clemens. Rich boy and poor boy look alike, meet on the streets of London, and switch places. Each grows up in the other's environment and switch again just before the poor one is made king."

"The Count of Monte Cristo." One of his personal favorites, though it hit perhaps a bit close to home, thematically.

She glared at him. "Alexandre Dumas. Unfortunate sailor accused of being a traitor and imprisoned for it right before he was to marry the woman of his dreams. Escapes from prison, murders or otherwise ruins his accusers, and starts a new life with a new love, finally at peace."

Draco smiled devilishly. "Rugged Heartache."

"A bodice ripper?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, the one the Weaslette was raving about. The one I saw her slip into your bag after dinner with Scarhead and the Ginger two weeks ago. The one by that witch… Oh, what was her name?" He tapped his finger against his chin, silently delighting in the flush of red slowly creeping into her cheeks.

"Ginny's married now."

"She'll always be Weaselette to me."

"You know I hate those nicknames."

"And I'm so keen on Ferret."

Hermione groaned; Draco smirked. "You're supposed to be reading your report," she chided, opting for a different line of attack.

"I like listening to you better," he parried. "Not everyone has this talent, you know."

"I do know, and it's a talent I'm beginning to regret sharing with you."

She said it seriously, but Draco savored a secret smile. Hermione was immensely proud of her quirk – the uncanny knack to recall title, author, and plot of any book she'd ever read. As she read faster and more voraciously than anyone he had ever known, it was doubly impressive. "Rugged Heartache," he repeated.

She sighed. "Last one and I mean it this time! Aphrodisia Boon. Broken-hearted after discovering the affair of her boyfriend and her boss, jilted heroine Natalia Sunshine vacations in the Himalayas where she meets a man cursed to look like a Yeti. She eventually finds the book which tells her how to break the enchantment, but not before she and the Yeti fall madly in love and do unspeakable things in his den."

"Sometimes I wonder about her." The words were barely audible through his gasping laughs.

"As do I," she agreed, though clearly not finding the summary as funny as he did. Probably because she had to read it. "Oh, leave off and finish your report."

"Blast the report," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "It's Friday night."

"It is, but you promised your mother lunch tomorrow, and we're meeting up with my parents on Sunday for dinner."

He scoffed. "My mother just wants to make sure that Potter and Company are still on for the Solstice Gala. You know she doesn't actually want to see us." He ignored her reprimanding swat and continued. "Besides, how can you expect me to focus when you're such a lovely distraction?" He ran his hand up her bare calf to the crook of her knee. She squeaked and flinched away at his tickling touch.

"If I'm such a distraction, then I'll just leave now. I don't want you to be preoccupied this weekend."

"I don't want you to leave."

"Then I suggest you focus," she reprimanded gently, removing his hand from her knee.

He held onto her, placed a tender kiss on her knuckles and when he spoke, his voice was low and seductive. "Hermione, I don't ever want you to leave."

Her fussy exterior disintegrated when he smiled at her. She smiled back, her brown eyes warm, radiating what could only be love. Draco took a deep breath and produced the box from his pocket. He opened it and let it rest in the cup of his palm. He did not need to look at the ring. He knew what he would see there: a starburst of emeralds, diamonds, and platinum. His own design. What he drank in, what he needed to see, was her expression. He was not disappointed.

"Elope with me, Hermione," he whispered, humored by her delight and surprise. "Elope with me tonight. It's perfect for us: you don't want a big wedding… I don't want to face my mother..." Her lips quirked upward. Draco laughed and shifted closer to her. He could smell the sweet scent of her breath, which came in excited little puffs. How could her very breathing be endearing? "We can go anywhere you want," he continued. "See anything you want."

Her eyes lit up, turning from almond brown to glowing mix of gold and copper. "Cairo?"

Draco beamed; it felt like his chest was about to burst. "I'll take you to the top of the Great Pyramids," he whispered into her ear.

Her voice was velvet skimming across his skin. "Brazil?"

"We'll raft down the Amazon," he trailed kisses along her neck and jaw, "and across the continent itself."

She very nearly purred with pleasure. "The Arctic?"

He scoffed. "As charming as you would look in a parka, I had rather hoped to see you with fewer clothes on."

This earned him a proper kiss with tongue and fire. He lost himself in it completely.

"What about our weekend plans?" she asked when they had come up for air.

"Told our mothers that I'd come down with the flu. Neither fussed much."

"So arrogant," she chided, but her smile remained. "A Portkey?"

"Arranged. Tell me where you want to go."

"Greece," she answered at once. "The Parthenon. I want to get married under the stars."

"Before the eyes of the gods?"

She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. "Maybe we'll visit Delphi on the way home."

"I heard they have a decent oracle."

Another laugh, another kiss. Gods, he should have proposed ages ago. "As long as we keep it to ourselves for a while. No sense in causing a fuss."

"As long as you stay the night. And every night hereafter."

Hermione wound her arms around his neck. "I'll get my things."

With Draco's help, it took her less than twenty minutes to pack, and only that long because he couldn't keep his hands off her. The discomfort of the Portkey was immediately remedied by their arrival at the picturesque Grecian coast. Soon, he located a Registrar (reimbursed healthily for the late hour) and traveled to the Parthenon. They joined hands and spoke words that would bind them together for eternity, witnessed by the moon and stars:

"I'll be your comfort in pain, your shelter from rain. Your light in shadows, your courage when wind blows. Your warmth in the cold, your strength when you grow old. Come sickness or health, poverty or wealth, with honesty and trust, you are my whole life and true love. Through hell and high water, there will be no other. Take this ring and share my heart, and may the Fates never tear us apart."

As Draco and Hermione slept together routinely, he held neither of them to lofty expectations. But there was something different about making love to his wife. She was a part of him now, a very real and tangible piece, and she gave herself over to him willingly, the perfect partner. Her hands were like silk upon his shaft, her tongue dancing over the head slowly, sensually. Her rhythm brought him to the edge ecstasy and there she let him hang, teasing him like he loved and hated. But he gave as good as he got, using his tongue and teeth in wicked ways, and held her to him as she bucked and moaned and begged him to stop.

He moved up her body at a leisurely place, planting kisses as he went. He detoured at her breasts, rolling and flicking her sensitive nipples until each stood at attention. She grabbed for him, pulled his cock toward her heat. He entered her slowly, blissfully, and her whimpers almost brought him over. Buried in her to the hilt, cradled in her hips, he began to rock, to thrust, slow and deep – exactly how she liked it. He tried to keep the pace, tried to build her up slowly, but the heady combination of her smell, her lips, and the feel of her all around him broke his concentration. He needn't have worried. Her back arched, her arms tightened around his body, and she sang for him again the tune he loved best: his name in the key of utmost bliss. He shouted her name in perfect harmony and, with his final thrusts, filled her with his seed, claiming her for his own just as she had claimed him.

His wife. His. Forever.

Draco was fully prepared to spend a week this way, nestled inside her whenever possible and treating her like the goddess she was the rest of the time, but there was just something about the best laid plans. Only two days later and, instead of pleasuring her, he was watching her pack. He fought the urge to speak and lost. Again.

"Don't go."

Even in his nightmares, Draco never imagined he would have to beg his bride to stay with him during their honeymoon. But alas, this was the fifth time he had said those words, though the first time he phrased them as an order. No matter the tone, Hermione was obviously tired of hearing it. She shoved her travelling cloak into the large duffel bag and huffed. "You know I have to. Quit badgering me about it."

He did know. That was what made asking her to stay so painful. The Improper Use of Magic Office typically didn't have anything to do with tracking and apprehending Dark wizards. That was work better left to the Aurors. But in the case of former Death Eaters, Hermione was always called in to assist. The combination of her, Potter, and Weasley was unbeatable in the field. After all they had gone through in school and the joint training they had received under Ministry tutelage, they acted more like a single entity than three distinct people. Potter would shield, Weasley would hex, and Hermione would be three steps ahead of them all, placing traps and protective wards precisely where they needed to be for a successful capture. He had seen them practicing only once and it was a sight that had both filled him with pride and chilled his intestines: anyone on the wrong side of their wands had no chance of survival. And yet…

"I have a bad feeling about this."

"You have a bad feeling about all of my fieldwork."

He growled and tossed his hands in the air. "Am I not allowed to care for the well-being of my wife?"

The tension in the room seemed to dissipate with Hermione's smile, as did some of Draco's ire. She chuckled and voiced his thoughts. "It's a good thing we eloped. I don't think your parents would care for me leaving early from our honeymoon."

"I don't care for it," he grumbled. He crossed the room, took her by the hips, and kissed her firmly. "You're supposed to be producing an heir, not chasing down the Carrows."

He thought the quip would earn him a half-playful, half-serious swat and a glare. Instead, she stepped back from him, her eyes full of daggers. Draco groaned and rolled his eyes, dropping his hands from her waist. "Don't be an arse," she snapped. "And how do you know it's the Carrows?"

He shrugged. "Who else could it be? They're the last two. The last two that really matter, anyway." Hermione huffed again and turned back to her duffel. "They're more dangerous than you think," he intoned, sounding perhaps a bit too sinister. "You'll underestimate them."

She groaned and dropped a small pile of shirts onto the bed. "I've been doing this for years, Draco, and I'm damn good at it. Don't you trust me?"

"I do," he groused. "It's your team I don't trust."

"Seven other people. Seven! Three Aurors, two MLE officers, an Obliviator, and a Field Healer. That's eight total."

"I know how to add."

"Then do you know statistics as well? The Carrows will be outnumbered four to one. We're more than a match for them."

"What about Weasley? Potter?"

"You know they're in hospital."

"Bangladesh." He said it like a curse. Last week – the first week Hermione had ever missed an assignment because of some hullaballoo with an unruly Quidditch crowd – those two goons had managed to get themselves severely cursed. However indestructible the trio may be together, apart they were still human, fallible and mortal.

"I'd feel better if they were there."

Hermione's brow darkened. "As would I, but there's nothing for it." Her wand vibrated softly. They both looked askance at it. "That's my cue." Draco frowned and crossed his arms before his chest. Hermione pried his limbs apart and inserted herself between them. She belonged there, with him. His eyes prickled uncomfortably. He stared out the window, unable to look at her for fear of what he might do.

"I'll be gone three days, at most," she said softly, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. "And then we can resume where we left off." She palmed his manhood which, despite the circumstances, quivered to life. She chuckled impishly as a smile forced its way across his lips. She raised herself up onto tiptoes and kissed him, a gesture he returned with fervor. He wrapped his arms around her tightly.

"I love you, Hermione." His cracking voice betrayed his worry.

"I love you, Draco," she whispered. "And nothing's going to happen, you'll see. I'll be fine. Oh, and before I forget…" She slipped her wedding ring off her finger and pressed it into Draco's palm. "Take care of this for me. I don't want to lose it."

If the foreboding he felt had been heavy before, now it crushed him. But before he could breathe, before he could grab her wrist and launch into a tirade about how dangerous this was, how uncomfortable he felt, and how much he didn't want her to go, she Disapparated.

Desolate, frightened, and unreasonably panicked, he looked around their suite. Rumpled bed sheets were stained with the evidence of their lovemaking. Towels lay on the bathroom floor, where the air still smelled like her citrus shampoo. The bedside table sported a pair of her knickers, never picked up after being so hastily discarded just days ago. His heart twitched, compressed; it was just mess without her to give it meaning.

Draco did not bother to gather his things. He simply slid the ring into his pocket and Disapparated to the nearest Portkey. Within the hour he arrived at the Manor, where he could lose himself in rooms that weren't saturated with memory.

Three days came and went with no word. This was often the case on assignment. Owls could be intercepted, Patronuses destroyed, Floos monitored. Communication was risky, sometimes even impossible and, though Draco hated it, he dealt with it as well as a new husband could. Which is to say he dealt with it not at all. Every two hours, he Floo'd the Ministry. Eventually, they stopped answering. When he stormed in, demanding to see her department head, he was politely shown the door, assured and reassured that as soon as they heard something, he would, too.

A week passed.

A month passed.

Three months.

Six months.

Eight.

He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop wandering from room to room, staring out the windows, waiting by the Floo, the front door, the broom shed. Couldn't stop staring at her wedding ring. Couldn't stop twirling the metal-and-gem reminder around his fingers. Couldn't stop wishing for her return. Couldn't stop imagining the circumstances behind her disappearance. Couldn't stop hating himself for letting her go like he had. Couldn't stop cursing himself for being unable to bring her back.

Yet for all the movement he was doing, Draco felt utterly paralyzed.

His mother was as understanding as she could be but, by month eight, she threatened institutionalization.

"She was a lovely girl," she told him, "and of course you're hurting. But she wouldn't want you to go on like this, dearest. She'd want you to continue with your life. Get married, have children. Move on."

Draco knew his mother's sympathy was insincere. His and Hermione's relationship pulled the Malfoy name out of the mud just like Narcissa had wanted. He was certain she never expected them to last. Had probably counted on it ending, in fact, so that a more acceptable alliance could be made. Narcissa the politician. It made him sick.

Her fury if she knew the truth – that he had married Hermione and planned to fill the Manor's halls with bushy-haired, half-blooded progeny – would have been epic to behold. And though little would amuse him more than his mother's anger, his primary concern was always Hermione. She had wanted him to wait. She had wanted them to be a secret. He couldn't break that promise to her. He couldn't tell anyone.

In January, he didn't have to.

It started as a knock on the door, loud enough even to be heard from the library where he was pacing, memorizing book titles, authors, and synopses, trying to remember her voice. He bolted to the door and threw it open, bowling over poor Tippin in his haste. He looked out into nothingness, then down at the stoop.

A basket. A wicker basket covered by a thick, blue quilt and, if the heat radiating off it was anything to judge by, a powerful warming charm. He fell to his knees. His entire body shook and his trembling hands could barely draw back the blanket.

A baby. A newborn. Red, wrinkled face. Eyes shut. Hands fisted and held near its chin.

The count was automatic. Ten fingers. Ten precious, tiny fingers.

His own fingers ghosted over the infant, an inch from its skin. He could feel its life, its fragility. Like if he touched it, it would shatter into a million pieces. But he had to know. His finger and thumb tugged upwards on its bonnet.

A full head of platinum blond hair.

Gravity doubled. He collapsed, his shaking arms barely holding him aloft. He couldn't breathe.

He had a son.

Wide, silver eyes stared frantically out into the blackness. He crawled past the basket and his breath escaped in the shape of her name, a puff of white in the dark, January air.

Who else? He had never strayed. And the hair. Carried on the Y chromosome, homozygous dominant – a Malfoy gene through and through.

She was alive.

She was here.

She had to be. She wouldn't have entrusted their child's delivery to anyone else. And if she was here, she could come back to him. She could come back to him and complete him. Take his hand, restore his sanity. Love him, love them. She could come back and give him his life back and he would never let her go again.

Hermione.

He shouted her name until he coughed blood, until his voice was nothing more than a rasp, a wheeze, and a sob. There was only emptiness to greet his entreaties, but there was not silence.

The infant. He was crying, squalling with ferocity so great it nearly equaled the misery Draco felt.

He crawled back to the bassinet and sat before his son. His beautiful face was screwed up from bawling and his tiny limbs flailed against the efficient tuck of his blankets. A scrap of parchment revealed itself from beneath kicking legs. Draco needn't have lunged for it, but he did, and almost tore it in his frantic opening.

D.-

Our son, unnamed. Please forgive me. Love, eternally,

-H.

Tears trekked flash-frozen rivers down his cheeks. He wept unashamedly into his hands, clenching the letter tightly in his fist.

Our son.

Our. Son.

He sobbed out a great laugh of overwhelmed joy and looked – really looked – at his baby. He had Draco's chin and Hermione's lips. Draco prayed he would have her eyes as well.

All at once, the hollowness in his chest lessened. The eight months of madness that had crept upon him, that degenerative tar of disease and insanity, seeped away. The world regained its clarity and the nighttime did not seem as dark.

His son was a reason to stay sane.

His son was a reason to live.

Their son!

Draco rose to his feet, steady and composed for the first time in nine months. He folded the note carefully and put it into his pocket alongside her ring. He lifted the basket and turned around. Before he closed the door, the night cried a long, keening wail, pitiful and haunting. And Draco felt immaculate because this was what she had wanted.

He would not disappoint her.

.