The words hang in the air for only a moment before being swallowed by the silence that follows.

In the stillness, his other senses are heightened. The taste of salt from the waves pummeling the Cornish coast outside is light on his tongue. The smell of mildew that blooms in the walls is grounding in its familiarity. The breeze from the open window brings with it a dankness that he can feel in the tips of his fingers. The cold light of late afternoon kindly obscures the shabby interior of the cottage, its corners dim and secrets well hid.

Standing in the midst of it all is his biggest secret, all damp curls and wooly mittens and coiled energy. Having unleashed her two-word announcement onto their world in her typically matter-of-fact way, her brown eyes are wide and expectant, her breath quickened.

It's suddenly clear to Draco that she's waiting for him to respond. He searches his brain for something, anything useful.

Out of the depths comes only a question: 'Is it mine?' He's relieved at the plain logic of it. His eyes widen and his eyebrows rise as he makes to voice it.

But she senses his question before he can speak the words, and her face hardens in reply. The anger and hurt anchors her, and she is no longer nervous. Her eyes blaze across the small room in warning.

Of course it's mine, he thinks, with an apology that he cannot utter. The baby is mine, though the woman may never be.

He thinks to clarify also whether she intends to keep it, but at the thought and the quick breath he takes before asking, he sees the answer to that in her eyes too. And the answer is, I don't know.

With a start, he realizes that the answer might depend even a little bit on him. That thought terrifies him more than anything.

He's consumed suddenly by the vision of a pudgy baby with her brown eyes and his hard mouth. Thinking what it would be like to hold that baby, his fingers twitch. He's never held a baby before – he's never wanted to – but he just knows he'd be rubbish at it and would probably drop it if he tried. The fear of hurting that baby hits him with a fierceness that shocks him.

What's become of him, all of a sudden? Is this, here, what it feels like to be an adult? He's always thought that meant knowing what to do, or at least knowing his own mind. But instead it feels like powerlessness.

And isn't that something. He didn't know he was capable of feeling any weaker. A pawn in a war not of his making, the mark on his arm tethering him to a madman, this cottage is his only sanctuary, at the same time that it's the site of his greatest peril.

He comes here as a spy for the Order out of sheer hopelessness, an acceptance of death born not from heroism but suicidal wish. The knowledge that she would be his only contact did nothing to soften that desire at first.

At first.

But now, he feels as though every moment not shared with her within these dilapidated walls is only prelude to the moment they're together again. Since their rash beginning in late fall, through the deep of winter and limping into this unusually icy spring, every day he pulls himself toward her, to their next meeting. Every danger and every risk brings him closer to her as though tethered by rough rope, and he focuses all his strength on pulling himself along.

He's begun to see the future as nothing but the steps his feet walk back to her. Day-to-day he lives, from each close call to narrow escape. But this is progress, at least, from a time when he could see no future at all.

And this haven is a precarious berth. At the very edge of the country, Cornwall is the point at which the land reaches out into the ocean, stretching westward as though straining against England itself. Its craggy finger pushes away from all that's behind it, yearning to be anywhere but there.

It suits him. It suits them. Draco runs toward it every time with the same wild abandon, as though nothing that's come before really matters once he's here.

His mind is racing now, fully aware that he's going to have to say something and soon. He looks away from her keen expression and the disappointment that's beginning to show there.

Glancing into the tiny bedroom, his eyes fall on that damn vase of flowers on the side table, standing like a sentinel over the lumpy bed. It's a garish, overlarge bouquet, made of some unnatural material invented by Muggles to stave off the inevitable decay they so fear. The flowers stand unfaltering against the passage of time, the same at each rendezvous as the first time he saw them.

He admires their resilience as much as he does the woman who brought them here. They are whimsy tempered with reality, a sensible indulgence in the face of overwhelming dread. Fake, lifeless flowers are all they can sustain. Lifeless is 'deathless' after all, and it's worked for them until now.

He takes a deep breath and faces her, finally.

"Okay," he says. That one word is both wildly inadequate and the only response possible.

Hermione's sharp nod in reply and the grim set of her mouth seems to agree.

Still, he means it in every good, significant way he can possibly muster from this precipice they've found themselves upon. 'Okay. I'm here with you, where you are. Here we are, and this place is fucked up, but how much worse can it get with us here together?'

But they both know the answer to that question: this much worse. Because the only thing worse than living in the world the way it is now, would be to bring a child into it.

To even contemplate it is to see the future as real, as somewhere other than only this cottage and just having a space to breathe.

And Draco doesn't know how.

...

A gust of the particularly chill fall breeze breached the window of the main room as she placed the vase of flowers on the rickety table, careful to turn the side with the chip toward the wall.

All purple orchids and orange daylilies, they could have only looked more incongruous in the seaside cottage if they were real. They had belonged to her grandmother, but they outlived their first mistress as surely as they would outlive them all. Crammed in a corner of her parents' spare room, they'd gathered dust until Hermione had retrieved them that morning on a whim. No one would be missing them now.

Hermione knew they looked absurd. She knew he would make fun of her for bringing them there to that cheerless cottage, and she relished the thought of his reaction. Anything was better than the empty resignation that had taken him over.

If Malfoy (or any other Slytherin, for that matter) had ever known anything, it was how to survive, how to weave himself through the motives of others to achieve his ends, and always – always – turn things to his advantage.

But he didn't seem to know how to do that anymore. Or (and this scared her more), he no longer cared to.

It was all supposed to be over by now; the Battle of Hogwarts should have been definitive, and they should have won the day. But Voldemort had Apparated himself and the majority of his followers away before Harry could reach him in the Great Hall, and no one was more surprised than Hermione that the megalomaniac had been able to recognize his position and opt for retreat.

Now the game had changed. They didn't know if Voldemort had made more Horcruxes, but since he had to be aware they were on to him, they must assume he had. With Professor Snape dead, they needed someone on the inside, and Malfoy had miraculously presented himself. Many in the Order would have doubted his trustworthiness as double-agent if they knew, but one person in particular never would.

Because no one could understand his reasons for helping the Order better than Harry. In retaliation for Narcissa's lie in the Forbidden Forest, Voldemort had killed both her and Lucius directly following the battle. His usual blind spot regarding love and family led him to believe that in making an example of the parents, their son would become more obedient, instilled with a loyalty bred from fear.

Voldemort still thought there was nothing more to fear in this world than the threat of death. But he never understood what motivated Harry beyond reason, beyond sense, beyond all safety and all he held dear. Malfoy too would not rest until he brought the hellfire of vengeance on the beast who had killed his parents.

But the information Malfoy brought to the Order was all too much, too soon, she feared. They were really big things from the start, like the most secret of safe houses and devastating nighttime raids, and the Death Eaters had to be thinking the Order was on the luckiest streak they'd ever hit. It was madness to think Malfoy could sustain this flow of information for much longer.

He would be found out, and sooner rather than later. And Hermione's job for the Order and her purpose in life should have meant she'd be more than happy to use him to whatever end would bring the war to a close as soon as possible, whatever the consequences to him or anyone else.

But Malfoy seemed not to care about anything. He seemed just as content to fail if it meant an end to everything, and that made him dangerous, to the Order as well as to himself. And of course it was the Order Hermione was thinking of, most of all. That was most important, always.

So Malfoy had to be reached. He had to be helped, brought back from whatever mission drove him like the hounds of hell's razor-sharp teeth were inches from his heels.

Then she felt the ripple of a presence pushing through the wards before she heard the footfall on the gravel path. Her heart lurched against its confines at the feeling; she wasn't due to meet him here for hours, but she recognized that stride. As usual, she drew her wand.

Malfoy came through the door with a casual air that hadn't been appropriate in years and dripping wet from head to toe. It must be raining in Wiltshire. She aimed her wand at him.

"What was the name of the Muggle boy I dated between fifth and sixth year?" she demanded.

He pursed his lips slightly; he bristled whenever she brought up anything from her romantic past. Frankly, she did it on purpose, and his response always delighted her.

"Sebastian," he said tersely. Then his gaze found the flowers and he froze, a note of confusion furrowing his brow. He studied them, as though they were a wholly foreign object he couldn't identify.

As always, his stillness made her nerves jangle, and she blurted, "Aren't you going to ask me some—"

"No," he said absently. "Let's live dangerously." And the irony only shone from his eyes for a moment as they flicked toward her before returning to the flowers with benign curiosity.

"Aren't you supposed to be at a—" Revel. She refused to say it. Death Eater Revels were too horrific to even conjure by name.

Malfoy gave a sort of half shrug and a shake of his head that could have meant anything. Her stomach twisted, wondering if something terrible had happened, but his affect was unworried. Actually, 'apathetic' would be more apt, and it always made Hermione antsy when he got that way.

Since he seemed even less troubled by his soaked clothing, she used the wand still pointed at him to dry him with a quick flourish, needing to do something to release the nervous energy that threatened to overtake her. He shuddered slightly at the spell but otherwise didn't react. Though his study of the flowers was unabated, he didn't seem in the slightest bit amused by them. He reached out to touch them, and his expression changed only slightly by the surprise of finding them to be plastic.

After countless minutes of his study of the flowers and her study of him, she said, out of a restlessness that made her want to scream it, "Do you want tea?"

His only response was a shrug. She couldn't bring herself to ask what he thought of the bouquet, even after he followed her into the kitchen. Leaning against the archway, he drank his tea in silence and made no mention of them.

When he finally began to speak, it was to begin what had become a game of sorts between them. He asked unimportant questions about anything and everything, and Hermione responded in kind, and her anxiety abated as they slipped into the easy, comfortable routine of it all.

What was the name of your first pet? Did you ever wish for a brother or sister? What's your favorite smell? What would you do with your time if you were trapped in a room for 24 hours with nothing?

It was the sort of conversation they usually used to pass the time, to extend each visit, and to pretend that there was nothing more important in the world than inane trivia. To be fair, these sometimes yielded the factoids used for their identity tests, so they served enough purpose for them to justify forgetting the rest of the world for just a little while.

"Where would you be right now if you could choose anywhere and any time of your life?"

Malfoy said this with the same casual tone as the rest, but it suddenly struck Hermione as the point he'd surely been gearing toward throughout. He'd moved closer to her through their easy conversation, and he now stood in front of where she had perched herself on the kitchen counter. His hands were in his pockets, his stance easy, belying his keen expression.

Hermione started to reply, only realizing belatedly that the answer was not on the tip of her tongue. Seconds ticked by as it dawned on her that it was not a simple question at all.

She thought about her childhood, the times of carelessness and endless discovery, of birthdays, and parks, and puppies, and gardens, and that spot between her mum and dad on the sofa for an evening of telly. But then she recalled the unease that followed her wherever she went, the feeling of being different, of not belonging, of striving for but never reaching whatever it was she truly wanted but could not name.

Then she thought of her adolescence, of learning she was a witch, of the discovery of a new world and the home she found at Hogwarts, of classes, and late nights, and Quidditch matches, and long, warm weeks at the Burrow. But then she thought of year after year of growing darkness, of worry about Harry, of feeling like a hunted animal and like she still didn't belong in this world she was desperate to claim as her own.

The years after that, the last couple of years, well... those didn't bear thinking of. A time of endless anxiety and grief, each new day brought less certainty about the victory that had seemed so sure just a year ago. She definitely didn't want to be in the here and now.

And that was the most sobering realization of all. Because maybe it wasn't Malfoy's hopelessness and apathy she feared, but her own. It was threatening to overtake her. All the fear and resignation had taken root and renewed itself with her every breath, and if this cottage had become Malfoy's escape, it was at least as much for her too.

Bringing those damn flowers was like a reflex, the last vestige of cheer and hopefulness from a girl who had forgotten how.

Where else would she go? When?

"I don't know. Some other time. Some... far-off place," she said, and she'd tried to hold them back, but the tears came anyway.

She couldn't look at him. She wasn't holding herself together, much less instilling in him the strength to carry on, and how was she going to keep Harry on track, to find the Horcrux, to discover the solution, to win this war... she was the one who had to keep everyone on track, to keep the hope alive, and she'd worn down to nothing, and all she could feel was shame flooding all the empty corners inside.

Then she felt him.

Malfoy moved close, and the heat from his legs radiated toward hers as they swung restlessly at the knees. His breath was on her face. She opened her eyes and through her tears, saw only his mouth, close to hers.

Here.

Now.

That's where she would be, her heart answered.

She couldn't even remember the rest.

Her lips met his tentatively at first. A quick breath later, his hands dug possessively into her waist. Her legs wrapped around his slender hips and pulled herself as close as she could. She couldn't feel anything then that wasn't him.

All her senses devoured him. The taste of his mouth. The feel of his tongue against hers. The smooth cotton of his shirt under her hands. The belt loop against one curved finger as she yanked him closer, ever closer.

At some point, he scooped her off the counter and was walking her backward toward the bedroom. She was all in favor of that, but she couldn't focus on anything that got in the way of her short-term goal of savoring every bit of skin she could reach.

He was more about the big picture though, and they made it to the bed. What happened then she only recalled afterward in pieces, a disjointed collage of rolling and reaching for each other, feeling like she could never get enough.

When she awoke, the flowers filled her vision. He'd moved them to the table to watch over her as she slept, a sleep more deep than she'd had in a year.

...

"Draco... Draco."

His mother's voice calls to him, pulling him from a deep sleep. It's always like this, and he keeps his eyes closed as he savors the warmth of his bed and the dip next to him when she perches on the edge of it.

"Draco... it's 2:23am, and I'm seeing you for the first time. We're here, in this room, because I want your first taste of home to be your own space, your room. You'll know it better than anywhere else in the world and always feel safe. They hand you to me and I say, 'Draco, I'm your mum.'"

He opens his eyes then, because that's when he does in the memory, and he sees the room around him in its Pensieve rendering. His mum is on his bed, and his younger self is curled up under the covers, his white-blond hair already mussed, though he hadn't been sleeping for long.

It's his birthday. The summer between fourth and fifth year, it's the last one where possibility meant the promise of a world that would soon be his. There's a glow to everything around him, a tinge of nostalgia that coats the draperies, the wood, and shines in his mum's hair.

Memories never get it quite right. Though they're taken from one's senses and the extensive capacity of the brain to document what it perceives, there's a surreal radiance to the happy times. As a document, they capture the feelings more than the actual trappings of any event.

And lately, Draco only looks at the happy times. He lives in the Pensieve now more than in the present, reliving again and again the events in his life when he felt secure, when the outside world was only something to conquer, and anything standing in the way of his happiness would bow to him in time.

He has to do this on the days he doesn't see Hermione. The only way he can keep breathing, it seems, is when these memories remind him how. The shimmering, ethereal realm of his past is the only time and the only place he wants to be if he can't be with her.

But now he's journeying through the past on a particular mission,revisiting all of his birthday moments with his mum in a desperate attempt to find some clue as to how a parent should feel and act. He's tried everything else over the past few days, and he doesn't even know what he's looking for at this point.

Is he hoping to find that he can identify with some basic, primeval quality in his mum that will make it obvious to him that he's destined to be a parent? He's not sure Hermione would even accept him as such. Is there a place in this world for them to be together? Even if there is, is there safety to be found anywhere in this world for any child?

There's a part of him that hopes to find definitive proof that it's hopeless, and he's a little ashamed at how comforting that possibility seems. The fact that his father is absent from every one of these memories he takes as a sign in itself. The Malfoy men are not known for their warmth and nurturing. Draco feels like that legacy alone could (and maybe should) get him off the hook.

He's visited all of these birthdays before, most of them recently, but he never really listened to anything more than the usual I'm-the-most-important-thing-in-the-universe message that every child gets from the story of his birth. What his mum says in each is so much more, the message of each he could never fully grasp before now.

His father wasn't there when he was born. Lucius had been called by the Dark Lord and of course had no choice but to appear. He'd been gone for days; his mother's voice always shakes when she says this. She must have felt so alone.

Draco was born nearly a month premature, a fact that his mum had always said kept them from going to live with family in France. That they were likely planning an escape from the impossible position in which they'd found themselves is inherent in the tale, and he knows from other stories that Narcissa was trying to get them out of England for a while.

The story always ends with her proud mention of the Malfoy ward of the Maternity wing of St. Mungo's, which came from a large endowment and was dedicated on his first birthday. But everyone knew they'd done so as part of the public relations offensive his father had undertaken after the Dark Lord's disappearance, an effort to rehabilitate his own image and save the family name. It had never really worked; the taint of Lucius Malfoy's involvement with the Death Eaters clung to them. And though young Draco wore it as a badge of honor, he realizes now what people thought of them, and how that hurt them all.

But beyond all the facts and events that make up the story of his birth, he hears the most important truths in his mum's voice. The terror she'd felt. The desperation with which she'd searched for a solution. How much she loved him and wanted him and thought only of bringing him into a world where he could be happy and safe, where they could be a family, and where darkness would never touch him.

Draco hears it… recognizes it. It fills him.

In his parents' lead is a clear lesson: there is no path to freedom and safety through a world with the Dark Lord. There is no life to share with anyone if fettered by the mark on his arm. There is nowhere far enough to run. There can be no legacy born from cloaking himself in loyalty and playing both sides.

His parents failed; their one true risk taken too late.

Draco looks around his room, that same room in which he was born but which has not been safe for years, and he sees everything clearly.

The sounds of the Revel going on downstairs pulse up through the floor, the whoops of the Death Eaters and the screams of whichever Muggle or Muggle-born who is the evening's entertainment. He's gotten by without attending them for weeks, since discovering they forget he's there if he stays in his room.

Never thought of as any use, it's easy to hang in the background and glean little bits of information here and there when he needs to. No one views him as a threat.

All that has been important is that he remains able to see Hermione, that he can always find his way back to her. So he keeps to the outer rim. If his eyes and ears are shut, if he just holds his breath, he can stop time and cling to the impossible berth on which they've found themselves.

Just another day with her... just another... and another.

But his foothold is slipping at the edge of the world.

...

It was the fifth trip to the loo that day, proving yet again that 'morning sickness' was a shuddered at the thought, still not used to the idea.

She missed her mum. If she could only talk to her, she'd coax those stories from her of when she was pregnant with Hermione, stories she'd never really listened to very closely before. Was she okay? What should she expect? Was she doing everything right? Was she doing anything right?

What should she do?

Hermione had never felt more alone.

She wanted to run away, to find her mum in Australia, to take it all back, to be nothing more than a daughter again, curled up with her head on her lap. So much had been solved with her mum's fingers running through her hair. Hermione's tears fell as she felt the tingle of memory on her scalp.

Settling, as usual, for dealing only with what was before her and what was happening right then, she splashed water on her face and straightened to look at herself in the mirror. Her mum was there, around the eyes and the lines and curves of her mouth. She'd never noticed the resemblance before, but she'd never looked (or felt) this tired before, either.

Hermione was so tired.

Leaving the en suite with her head down, the door closed with a slam when she noticed Harry sitting at the end of her bed in the shadow of the sole lit candle. She jumped, then tried to play it off, but she'd been avoiding him, and the expression on his face said he knew it.

There was something more in his expression, but there was always an edge to him when they were at Grimmauld Place, a sadness mixed with anger that Hermione wished she could erase permanently. She'd taken to looking at his forehead when speaking to him, and she couldn't remember the last conversation they'd had.

She wracked her brain for something to say now, feeling strangely out of practice at small talk. But Harry beat her to it.

"Something is happening," he said.

"What?" she breathed, her heart suddenly pounding.

She meant for him to repeat what he'd said, not explain – wanted to be sure he'd actually said something so terrible, not hear what that terrible thing could mean. After years of war, she didn't like anything happening. 'Something' happening could only be bad.

And damned if Harry didn't seem to get all of that from a one word reply. When did she become so bloody transparent? Not just to him, but to Malfoy, and Ginny, and Molly... Ron even. Like she was made of thin parchment, her every emotion written upon it for the world to see.

He sighed, removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt with his infuriating I-don't-know-what-I'm-going-to-do-with-you shake of the head. Putting them back on, he said, "There are movements we've noticed. Death Eaters no longer where they were. Businesses have closed, entire departments at the Ministry shut down, and things have gone very quiet. Hermione, something is happening."

"Well, I don't know—" She executed a very jerky, ill-timed shrug. "I haven't heard anything, and Malfoy doesn't seem to have—"

"You can't keep this from happening," Harry said firmly.

"What?" she said, but this time, she was just stalling. She'd heard perfectly well what he'd said, and she knew what he meant.

"You've been meeting Malfoy for nearly a year, more lately than at first," he said with a meaningful look she chose to ignore, "and yet you haven't had any usable information to present in over three months?"

"Harry," she began, "it's a really... delicate time right now, and he's working on it, and getting closer, I know it, and soon..." She trailed off. Even she wasn't buying it.

"Hermione, listen to me," Harry said, and his tone was kind. "The war, the end, is coming. You and Malfoy... you can't keep it from happening."

And, Christ, when he put it like that, it sounded pretty stupid. Of course the two of them couldn't stand in the way of the freight train bearing down upon them, but she hadn't realized until that moment that this was precisely what they were trying to do. Just hold off, have time with each other, deny the worst of the world outside for just another day, and another...

But growing inside her was something that could not be denied. Lost in her thoughts then, she didn't hear what Harry said next, and he had to repeat it.

"Hermione... does he know?"

She genuinely didn't understand the question at first. Then something in his eyes made it clear that he wasn't a fool, that he knew exactly why she'd been spending so much time in the toilet. Frankly, he'd probably heard it.

"Wha-whoo?" she tried lamely, but the look in his eye put an end to that brief tactic. Of course he knew about that too. Harry was getting unbearably smug.

"Yes," she said and swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. She'd been trying not to think about it until she had to see Malfoy again, because as much as she was trying to reach a decision by herself for herself, what Malfoy had to say about it mattered more to her than she wanted to admit. Thinking about his ambivalence on the subject really wasn't helping.

And Harry seemed to get all of that too, from just the one syllable, the compassion and support that can only come from a best friend shining clearly in those eyes she could no longer avoid.

Shit. Crying again. She already hated herself pregnant. Her mum had always said she'd enjoyed every minute of it, and Hermione had always assumed that she would feel the same. She wanted to feel the same. She wanted to feel happy and sure and suddenly wise and able to handle everything, like her own mum.

And though it wasn't exactly a decision Hermione felt like maybe she could fake it, could just embody all her mum was to her and mother herself. Bolstered, she wiped her tears and went on the offensive. She felt stronger than she had all day.

"Harry, don't you even think about keeping me out of everything just because of this. You know I'm up to it. I'm not going to be pushed aside, like some fragile..." Something, she thought angrily. Her brain had turned to mush lately.

Harry smirked at that, and it so annoyed her that she was definitely finished with the crying. Probably for the rest of the day.

"I'm not going to try to tell you to do anything, Hermione. I mean, I want to swaddle you in bubble wrap and lock you in the furthest room in a castle with a moat under the strongest Fidelius possible and keep anyone from finding you ever."

At that, a part of her doubted her ability to stick with the crying embargo, but she held firm.

"But it would be pointless," he said simply. "Shielding your loved ones from danger is never enough. And it never works, not for long. Not for long enough anyway."

And of course it doesn't. Harry's parents had tried it. Dumbledore had tried, along with an entire generation who had struggled to keep things from happening, to keep from doing what it would take to rid the world of Voldemort. Because trying could mean destroying everything they held dear.

But it was in trying not to that they'd done that very thing. The darkness left in the wake of those good intentions had swallowed up any semblance of a childhood their children were likely to have.

Sirius had understood what it took. Remus and Tonks had embodied the debt and paid it with their lives.

Hermione was struck with an understanding she felt it in her bones; finally she could forgive each of them for jumping into the fray and giving it all, though it meant breaking Harry's heart and leaving Teddy behind.

You can't stand on the sidelines and hope someone else will work it out. Being a parent makes you a part of the game. It's not anyone else's job then.

Harry took her hand, kissed her forehead, then made to leave. At the door, he turned, saying, "Hey, did you hear about Bill and Fleur? Ginny just came back from the naming ceremony."

"Oh?" Hermione asked vaguely, not really wanting to hear about it right now.

"They named her Victoire. Born on May 2, 1999, the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. How's that for optimism?" He winked, and the old Harry, the one who used to get excited over nothing more thrilling than Quidditch and Treacle Tart shone through.

Just because you can't see something doesn't mean you can't believe in it. The end of this war was out there, just waiting for them to find it.

As two (former) Muggle kids who'd discovered in a flash the existence of the world of magic, Harry and Hermione knew that better than anyone.

...

Draco is at the cottage before her, and that's a first. It's so out-of-the-ordinary, in fact, that Hermione comes through the door with her wand drawn, asks him three identifying questions, and it still takes him handing her a cuppa (her favorite flavor) and the question, what do you prefer, baths or showers (showers), before she's sure it's him.

It's the first he's seeing her since she told him of the baby, and it's excruciatingly awkward. They each wait for the other to speak first, to say what they're thinking, but neither give a clue.

Sitting at the small table in the kitchenette, after the silence, sips of tea, and bites of stale biscuits, Draco takes a deep breath and starts.

"What's your lucky number?"

It takes her only a short moment to respond, grateful for the comfort of routine.

"One," she says. She chose it as a lonely child and has never given it up.

"How many pairs of shoes do you own?"

After a bit of mental counting, he answers, "Thirty-four." She gasps at that, but to be fair, most of them are dress shoes for special occasions, and he hasn't had cause to wear them in years.

"Have you ever fired a gun?" he asks.

"No. Honestly, Malfoy, I've told you I don't know how many times that most Muggles don't own guns."

"How long can you balance on one foot?" she counters.

Five minutes and lots of laughter later, and it appears Draco can last for seventy-two seconds and Hermione for eighty-nine (but only on her left foot).

"Do you like marzipan?"

She makes a face. "Bleh. No."

"If you could learn any language fluently what would it be?"

"Mermish, definitely," he answers without thought. At her raised brows, he explains, "You don't spend seven years in the Slytherin dorms and not become fascinated with everything about the Great Lake."

"Would you trade some intelligence for looks or some looks for intelligence?" he asks, and he didn't realize (honestly, he didn't) that it's such a loaded question. Ten minutes of hurt feelings later, and they abandon it.

"Do you prefer green or red grapes?" she asks, magnanimously moving on.

He pauses, thinking she's taking the piss. "They taste the same."

"They taste totally different!"

"Seriously, Granger? Do you have a preference, then?"

After another five minutes' discussion, they abandon that question as well.

"Which foreign country do you dislike the most?"

"France," she says, and when Draco protests in defense of his ancestry, she continues, "It's just Paris. If I believed in reincarnation, I would swear that I lived and probably died in the French Revolution. That whole city felt like it was against me."

"That's just because you were a tourist," he teases.

Hermione ignores him and asks, "What is your favorite tree?"

"Hawthorn," he says simply.

"Which do you prefer, sunrises or sunsets?" he asks, and he knows she'll take this question seriously.

"Sunrises," she says, because she's decided to start looking forward to tomorrow again.

"Have you ever done something really unbelievable, only to have no one around to see it?" she asks.

He smiles. "All the time, Granger, all the time." And her laughter makes him feel so good, so undefeatable, he goes all in.

"Hermione," he begins softly, "if you could choose anywhere or any time, where would you be?"

She smiles and feels every inch of the strength she'd been searching for. "The future. Home. With you."

The moment needs nothing else.

Draco takes a deep breath and says he thinks he knows where the final Horcrux is, and that he's sure the Dark Lord made only one. He speaks of overheard conversations and errands to a cave in the Forbidden Forest, and of seeing thirty Death Eaters head off before taking the extraordinary risk of following them.

He's ready to give all he's learned in the past year. He's ready to bring everything to the Order. He's ready to join them now and leave the rest behind.

She's breathless, hating every word he utters, knowing what it all means. But she's ready to push off from this precipice with him and strike out for new land.

It's a start. They don't need to be able to see the end from here.

When they marry (two years hence, because Hermione insists on waiting and proving to everyone that they're not doing it because they 'have to'), their daughter will wear a garland of flowers on her head, woven this very day from those everlasting purple orchids and orange daylilies.

It will take a few tries to get the wreath right, but Draco manages it.

Magic helps.

-the end-