Hermione sat in the lobby of St. Mungo's, not completely sure why she'd stayed to inquire after Draco's health. Maybe it was to tell him she had attempted to rescue the other members of his family from the Manor, but because of the restrictions, had been unable to—the burning welt on her palm was proof of that. When she'd returned to search for any remaining Malfoy relatives, she'd not found any and had been unable to Summon them if they were inside the Manor.

Perhaps it was to atone in some way for the guilt she felt at having knowledge of the Malfoys' peril beforehand and not doing enough to prevent it. She knew Draco would probably blame her in every way possible for the tragedy and thus wanted… what? A chance to defend herself?

Did she need to?

She glanced at the clock on the corridor wall, its soft ticking marking the minutes of the late hour. Wouldn't it look odd to others if she were found to be here waiting for news of Draco Malfoy? What would Harry say? Merlin forbid, what would the Weasleys think?

Just as she'd worked herself into a tizzy about the ramifications of being associated in any way with Malfoy, a Medi-witch approached her. "Mr. Malfoy is stabilised now. You may see him," the woman said softly.

It was on the tip of Hermione's tongue to politely decline, to tell the matron that she only needed to know if Draco would survive. But the look of undisguised pity on the witch's face made her rethink her initial panic.

She merely nodded and followed the Medi-witch down the corridor until they came to the last room on the right. The woman pushed the door open and motioned her in, leaving Hermione alone inside the dimly-lit area. The bed was surrounded by curtains, but a small lamp on a bedside table illuminated a prone figure upon the mattress and the outline of a chair off to the side. As quietly as she could, Hermione shifted the drape aside and sat, looking over Draco's slumbering form.

She could see several bruises in different stages of colour, as well as multiple cuts to his arms and face; a minty smell accompanied the sheen of dittany ointment liberally applied to facilitate rapid healing. His injuries seemed superficial, yet he remained unconscious. What had happened?

Hermione had known that Draco was married, and with a child on the way; it was all over the front pages of the Daily Prophet with frequent regularity. So why had she found him stumbling out of the Manor, bloody and bruised, without the rest of his family? Where was Lucius? Draco's wife and child?

Lost in contemplation, Hermione barely heard the soft grunt coming from the bed.

"Granger," Draco rasped. "What're you doing here?"

She started for a moment then composed herself. "I…" Well, so much for being verbose.

Draco frowned and tried to sit up, only to wince and fall back with a huff. "Why am I in hospital?" He waved off her answer. "Never mind; obvious from the pain." He scanned the length of his arms, touching each fading mark, his eyes clouding over, as if he were remembering some horrible scene that he wanted to forget. His gaze darted to Hermione. "Usually you can't keep your mouth shut. Should I be honoured you've decided to hold your tongue in my presence? Don't tell me you think you could dare touch me while I was unconscious?"

Any pity or concern she felt at Draco's circumstance evaporated with his snide words. "I'll remember that the next time I find you bleeding and insensible on the ground." She stood, glaring.

"What do you mean?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"It's hardly any of your business," he snapped and turned away to stare out of the lone window in the room.

"Fine," she retorted.

She shoved the curtain away and stalked off, stopping just inside the door when she felt a pang of conscience at her own display of temper. Why was she letting him rile her this much? He was Draco Malfoy, the insufferable pure-blood wizard that had made her life nearly unbearable. Of course he always knew where and when to nettle her into reacting; he'd been raised to goad those he considered inferior, just because he could. It wasn't necessarily his fault he was an arrogant prick, though; he came by that genetically.

But something in his defensive attitude struck a chord within her—would she be as stand-offish if someone were to ask about Ron? Odds were that she would. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Draco was watching her intently. It was clear he was nervous, pensive about her presence. Then she realise that he'd never been told anything about his family. He was injured, alone and probably worried sick about his wife, though he'd never show it.

"I don't know what has happened to bring you to this point, Draco Malfoy," she said quietly. "But you have my sincerest sympathies."

Ignoring his shout demanding that she explain herself, Hermione left the room and St. Mungo's behind.

Three days later, Hermione stood in her kitchen stirring blackberries, lemon juice, cinnamon and the first batch of honey from her colony in a saucepan. One of the hidden rooms the skeleton keys had unlocked held a small library, including recipe books that featured honey as the main ingredient. When the smell of burnt sugar assaulted her nose, however, she realised her thoughts were fixed elsewhere, refusing to be swayed.

She'd read that morning in the iProphet/i that Draco's entire family had perished at the hands of his mad wife, their child as well. Based on the details in the paper, the scene inside the Manor had been horrific. Draco's wife had gone into an early labour and her mind had finally given way; she'd lost all control of her mental faculties and tried to rid herself of the babe. Thankfully, the specifics were vague. Lucius had apparently tried to prevent her, but had died by her hand in the process. Draco had been at the Ministry; alerted by a house-elf that something was dreadfully wrong, he'd Floo'd home to find his father dead and his wife trying to kill their child. He'd immediately had to defend himself from hexes and curses flung his way by said insane spouse. By the time Draco had stumbled out of the Manor that night, Lucius, Astoria and their child—a boy, stillborn—were all dead.

Hermione removed the saucepan from the cooker, placed it in the sink and braced herself against the counter, staring out of the window. Her mother often said that things happened for a reason, but that the reason might not always be clear. That, in time, the meaning would emerge—what was, what is, what shall be. As a child, Hermione likened the sage advice to pieces of a puzzle falling into place. This time, however, the puzzle was not worth completing. No parent, regardless of who they were, should have to bury their child.

A sudden rap on her front door caused her to take out her wand and cautiously move towards the front of the house. Except for the odd social call from Harry and Ginny, Hermione had never received visitors—her residence was Unplottable, with Harry as the Secret Keeper. Just as she was about to cast a Disillusionment Charm, an unmistakable voice sounded from the other side of the door.

"Granger, I know you're in there."

Shock and trepidation warred within her chest. Why was Draco here? How had he found her? When she got her hands on Harry Potter, it would be debatable whether he could ever father any more children.

"It's important," Draco said, his voice raised in irritation. "Trust me, kissing Potter's arse is not even on my list of things to do in this life, but I need to speak to you."

She snorted, imagining the things Harry had made Malfoy do in order to find out where she lived. "Give me a moment," she called out.

Glancing in the mirror that was part of the entryway coatrack and bench, she supposed she looked presentable enough. She ignored the momentary impulse that she needed to tidy her appearance for someone who had never thought much of her to begin with, and opened the door.

She cautiously made her way to stand just outside the entrance. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you criticise my inability to hold my tongue just a few days ago?" Hermione watched as a retort died on his lips.

He opened his mouth and closed it several times before looking away. Surprised at his reticence, she studied him at length.

Draco's grey eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot—either he'd been crying in the not too distant past, or he was severely lacking when it came to restorative slumber. She guessed it was both. The shoulder-length hair he'd sported earlier was now cut to resemble the style he'd had during their school years—it had the effect of making him look impossibly young, even though he was dressed in mourning robes. She was about to remark that he needed a few good meals when he turned his gaze back to her.

"I'm not sure why you were near the Manor... that night," he said, "but I'd like to… thank you, for bringing me safely to St. Mungo's."

She wasn't about to tell him how she'd known his family would be in trouble; she hoped he'd simply accepted that she happened to be in Wiltshire that particular night. "You're welcome," she said softly, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. When his stare became too intense, she dropped her gaze to the ground. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more, but I was—"

"Prevented by the barrier," he finished. "It wouldn't have mattered. They were already…"

Neither of them bothered to complete the thought.

Draco shifted back and forth nervously. "The funeral is tomorrow," he finally said.

"Ah. The Prophet hadn't mentioned that. I'm surprised Rita Skeeter hasn't badgered the information out of you."

A hint of a smirk made his lips twitch. "Rumour has it she's a half-blood, and since the funeral is on Malfoy property…"

Hermione snorted. "She's tenacious enough to try and breach the barrier if it means an enchantingly nasty story." She turned the now-scarred palm of her hand towards Draco. "But she might think twice once she actually touches the gate."

"Three drops of Romanian Longhorn dragon's blood will remove the mark," he said, his demeanour clearly uncomfortable.

She studied him for a long moment then looked at her hand. "No, I think I'll leave it; it's not painful. Besides, it reminds me that I was stronger than whatever tried to hurt me."

"If that's how you feel," Draco muttered. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine. "I'd like to formally invite you to the funeral, and since I'm requesting your presence, the barrier will pose no threat."

Her jaw must have gone slack, for he gave her a disgusted look. "What?" she managed.

"Hadn't realised you'd gone feeble-minded in your isolation, Granger."

She pursed her lips in annoyance. "I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you just invited a Mudblood to your deceased family's funeral services."

His fist clenched and unclenched as red tinged his pale cheeks. "The only family that I'm burying with any reverence will be my son, Granger. I hadn't thought you'd be prejudiced against an innocent." Draco's brief flash of temper deflated in the next moment. "Sorry. I only meant to extend my gratitude for saving my life." With a brief nod, he stepped away and headed towards the gravel road that led to her house.

"Malfoy!"

Draco came to a halt and spared her a glance over his shoulder. "What?"

She bit her bottom lip, weighing her options. "Inviting me to this funeral wouldn't be in retaliation for Skeeter trying to manipulate her way in, would it? The ultimate snub?"

He tilted his head to the sky then turned and gave her a smirk. "Partly."

Unbidden, she returned a smile. "Send me the details."

"Expect an owl," he said, his expression now sober. He remained in the middle of the lane for a long moment, staring at her, as if trying to reconcile a painful conflict within himself, then he turned and Disapparated.

Hermione checked and rechecked her attire several times before she gave up the effort as hopeless. It wasn't as if she were trying to impress anyone in the wizarding world. But then this was a pure-blood event… and she'd been invited. Her. Cold sweat prickled her skin. Merlin, even if they didn't hex her the moment she set foot on the grounds, something was bound to happen before the day was through.

When she arrived, she found she was able to pass the barrier—thankfully Draco hadn't rescinded his offer—but she cast a Disillusionment Charm anyway, not fully trusting the wizards and witches present to keep their opinions—and wands—to themselves. She discreetly followed a couple that were making their way down a path that edged the perimeter of the Manor proper. Once she rounded the corner, she had to stifle a gasp at the sheer magnitude of the Malfoy family crypt.

The mausoleum was round and nearly as large as the mansion, with massive verde remeggiato green marble pillars that supported a high dome. The dome itself looked to be black marble as the base and frame, with stained-glass depictions of the Malfoys' lengthy past as the skylight. A significant portion of the rotunda was left open to the elements, to allow for scenery. The rest was filled with crypts, tombs and effigies of ancestors.

A few moments after arriving, Hermione was heartily glad that of the fresh breeze that drifted through the overly crowded mausoleum. Too much magic in one place, strong magic at that—it would have been enough to make even the Dark Lord nervous. Hoping to avoid any confrontations, she firmly wedged herself into a darkened niche and waited.

The funeral had all the traditional trappings; people were weeping, the coffins covered with orchids and lilies. Draco stood near the dais, his hand resting on the smallest coffin, his face stoic. His eyes, however, searched the audience. Was he looking for her? Taking a chance, Hermione briefly lowered the charm when his gaze came near her position, allowing him a glimpse of her before she cast the charm again. His attention remained fixed on the spot as he nodded imperceptibly, then let his gaze drop to sweep the crowd once more.

Words were said—mostly disingenuous attempts at consolation for the young widower and orphan—and Hermione observed that Draco's thumb idly stroked his son's coffin during the whole of the service. No tears filled his eyes, but the hollow look grew deeper the longer the Ministry representative droned on.

An hour later, and everyone had apparently deemed that enough tears had been shed, enough meaningless platitudes had been foisted upon Malfoy, and they had better things to do with their time. When she and Draco were the only people left in the mausoleum, Hermione removed the charm and rolled her shoulders to shake off the draining effects of keeping a spell maintained for so long.

Draco still hadn't moved from his spot near the tiny casket and she wondered if his knees had locked to keep him standing. She slowly approached him until she was able to sit in one of the chairs situated closest to the dais.

"He was to be named Scorpius," Draco murmured, his eyes never moving from his son.

"Very appropriate for a Malfoy heir," Hermione said with a slight nod. She was about to add that Skeeter would've killed to get that tidbit of information when she heard a sound that caused her to gasp.

Buzzing.

She knew Draco's attention had shifted to her, but she couldn't help the tension that flowed through her as she watched a lone bee fly into the mausoleum. Her stress changed to confusion, though, when it flew straight towards the coffins instead of towards herself.

For several minutes it buzzed around the flowers, dipping into the luscious blooms, until finally it landed on the smallest coffin. Hermione followed the insect's every movement, watching as the bee once more ascended to make large circles around the tiny casket and then slowly, very slowly, flew over to Draco.

It circled his head and hovered for a couple of seconds, and Hermione was surprised at Draco's indulgence; he didn't even twitch when the bee flew close to his nose and hovered once more. He stared at it as if hypnotised, until it bobbed once and flew out into the waning afternoon light.

Hermione released the breath she'd been holding. "Malfoy?"

He blinked and then pinned her with a stare. "Do you know what that was about, Granger?"

She mentally berated herself—she'd forgotten to inform her bee colony of the Malfoy family's passing. It was probable that when she returned home her bees would have swarmed, and she'd have to start all over again. Groaning in frustration, she rubbed her temples as she recalled something the beekeeper in Devon had told her earlier. "In times past, it was said that bees were a young person's soul and they flew from the mouth of the deceased upon their death."

"Are you saying that was the soul of my son?" Draco bit out harshly.

"I don't know, Draco," she said. She dropped her head in her hands. "I don't know anything anymore."

"Unlikely." His voice was closer. "I don't believe for one minute that little Miss know-it-all leaves any book unread. You know something. Tell me."

She raised her head and glared at him. "Being snippy with me won't induce me to tell you anything, Malfoy."

He arched a brow, waiting.

Sighing heavily, she stood and began to pace. "What if you knew, beyond a doubt, what was going to happen tomorrow?"

His answer was instantaneous. "I'd become obscenely wealthy by using whatever future information I could."

"Of course you would," Hermione muttered. "But what if the information wasn't something you could use for gain? What if it was more like telling you whether you'd be wealthy or poor, a hero or a villain, lucky in love or unlucky in life? What would you do?" He looked poised to answer, but she didn't give him the chance. "What if you found you had the power to change things? People, events, maybe even your own life? Would you even know where to start?" She shook her head and looked at the small coffin. "Maybe you can't know… until it happens."

Silence filled the chamber. Hermione glanced at Malfoy. He was paler than usual and he swallowed several times before speaking.

"Life is no fancy tale, Granger," he said finally. "We're all subject to the Fates, if anything; a posh upbringing doesn't guarantee a splendid life. I'm a prime example of that."

A pang of sympathy fluttered in Hermione's chest as she watched Draco turn to his son's coffin and place a gentle hand on the lid. "I used to think life was like a book," she said quietly. "A beginning, a middle, and maybe a satisfying end. But life doesn't always come with a set of instructions. In fact, most of the time it just comes—every morning, like clockwork. It's there when you open your eyes, and it's still there, even if you're not." She moved to stand opposite Draco, his son in between them. "I think the trick is to assume your life is going to work out." Risking a hex, she placed her hand over his, her thumb rubbing his trembling fingers. "Of course, it never does, so you do the next best thing: you take it one disaster at a time."

His eyes met hers, then slid away. "My whole life has been one bloody disaster after another."

"It's easy to be cynical," she mused. "Not everyone is a paragon of virtue."

Draco removed his hand from beneath hers and moved away. "Dumbledore tried to help me, once."

Even though she'd heard the story from Harry, Hermione was keen to know Malfoy's version of those events, so she remained quiet.

"He told me he once knew a boy who made all the wrong choices, but he never told me what happened to him." Draco glanced at his son's coffin. "Maybe if he had, things might've been different." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Because she couldn't ignore someone when they were in pain, Hermione walked over to Draco and laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "It matters, now more than ever. You have a chance to make choices as you see fit, not because something is expected of you. You can build a life with someone who can find that cynical heart inside you, no matter how deeply you've buried it. Use your instincts—it's not always easy telling the good from the bad."

"I'll definitely choose someone who isn't completely insane, though I'm not sure who would have me at this point." He squeezed her hand once in return and stepped away.

His dismissal made her feel like she'd overstayed her welcome. With a curious ache in her chest, she made her way towards the exit of the mausoleum, pausing at the doorway. "Draco?"

Malfoy looked up at her.

"Learn to count the living, not the dead." She smiled briefly and left.

As she'd feared, when she returned home, her entire colony had swarmed, leaving the hives empty. After the emotional and physical drain of the last few days, she felt like razing the ground as she'd seen in the other field and leaving the estate to rot. It was a near thing, but at the last moment, her wand was stayed by the very thing that had frustrated her no end: bees.

A small cluster of fifteen to twenty bees gathered near her, landing on the newly emptied hives. A multitude of whispers washed over her as she heard them 'discussing' the location and Hermione's temperament. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell them to sod off—she'd find a colony that wasn't so sensitive, thank you very much—when she recalled the parting words of the beekeeper in Devon.

Honey bees will not do well in a quarrelsome family, nor do they like to hear foul language—they prefer to converse politely and quietly.

Sighing in resignation, she greeted the bees and asked if they would stay. Please. After much debate—two of the drones considered Hermione's hairstyle rather dubious—they agreed to grace her with their presence.

Four months later, they were still there. She made it a regular habit to tell them of all the goings on in the wizarding world, as well as the Muggle, leaving nothing to chance. In turn, they supplied her with honey that had people clamouring to purchase multiple jars at a time, beeswax that made the best candles, and of course prophecies of all sorts, most of them incomprehensible. The last had been two weeks ago—The white dragon seeks his treasure!—and she was still trying to decipher its context.

The colony also offered an odd sort of companionship. Of course she still had visits from Harry and Ginny… and now little James, but they had their own lives. And she had hers.

She hadn't heard from Malfoy since his son's funeral, and nary a word had been mentioned in the Prophet. It was as if Draco had completely disappeared. She'd asked the bees about it once, where he might have gone, but they remained resolutely silent on the subject. Though she hadn't expected any sort of reciprocation on his part—she'd never been part of his social circle—she had hoped to at least develop a friendship with him.

The thoughts were pushed aside when it came time to harvest the honey and wax. The day dawned dreary and wet—not exactly conducive to lulling the colony to sleep with a smoker. But it was the appropriate day and she refused to risk having the colony swarm just because she didn't want to drag her arse from the bed. Just as she slipped her wide-brimmed hat with netting onto her head, there came a knock at her door.

Sure that she looked utterly ridiculous in her outfit, Hermione held her wand aloft and cautiously opened the door. Her heart rose into her throat at the sight of her visitor.

Draco Malfoy, much the worse for wear and sodden to the bone, stood on her stoop, fidgeting. He wore a wan smile that morphed rapidly into a look of horror as he took in her getup.

"I don't think I want to know," he muttered.

She rolled her eyes and opened the door wider to allow him inside. He entered and stood uncertainly in her modest foyer, sparing a glance here and there, taking in her house. "Cozy," he offered.

"This forced politeness is killing you, isn't it?" she chuckled as she removed her hat and baggy white uniform.

He watched her carefully. "I wouldn't say that. More like I'm out of practice."

"Hmm, I wondered why I hadn't seen your name in the Prophet lately." She folded the clothing and laid it on the entryway bench for later use. "Where've you been?"

"A lot of places; everywhere and nowhere," he said evasively. "Following your advice."

"What advice?"

He shrugged. "Making my own choices. Mostly frivolous ones up until this point."

A squeezing sensation wrapped itself around her heart as she thought of Draco telling her that he'd found someone that could see past his transgressions. She viciously willed it away. "A few frivolous decisions every now and then are good for the spirit," she managed. "I remember spending an exorbitant amount of Galleons on three bottles of Sleekeazy just before the Yule Ball in Fourth Year."

"Only three?" he chided with a smirk. "I would've guessed it'd take at least five."

"Shut up."

He arched a brow. "Hit a nerve, have I?"

She crossed her arms defensively. "Was there something you wanted, Malfoy? Or did you just come here to gloat at my fashion inadequacies?"

His attempt at a smile faded. "Sorry. Old habits. It's easier to be on the offensive than to—"

"Let down your guard," she said.

"Right."

The awkward silence grew heavier. Draco kept glancing between Hermione and the door. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath.

"What?" Hermione could hear the softest whispers from her bees, but Malfoy's mumbled words were barely audible.

"I'm acting like a bloody idiot, standing here, debating whether to ask if you wanted to visit the Manor… or not." He must have seen her look of utter surprise, as he went on hastily. "It's just that I found an acre or two that I'd never known about—apparently, Father kept a hunting box deep in the forest—and I was reliably told by a local beekeeper that it was a prime location for an apiary. She told me that you were the expert, that I should consult you on how to go about setting up my colony."

She stared, nonplussed. "Beekeeper in Devon, right?" He nodded and Hermione laughed nervously, remembering the last prophecy the bees whispered to her. The white dragon seeks his treasure!

After years of hearing bees tell her of future events, Hermione knew with certainty that her future lay along the same path as Draco's. So instead of wibbling over whether she was making the right decision or not, she seized her future with both hands. That was the secret, when you got right down to it—treat every day like it was your last, or your best.

"Let me gather my things and I'll meet you at the Manor, all right?"

"I can wait for you," Draco said with a great deal of conviction.

She smiled shyly, unable to stop the fierce blush that stole up her neck and into her cheeks. "I won't be long."

As she made her way up the staircase, she heard him softly say, "Good. I've waited long enough."