Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N. - Hello folks! So, I think a quick explanation is in order. The reason why I'm giving flashbacks to these other peripheral characters is because you're going to be seeing more of them and I want there to be some kind of understanding for who they are, what motivates them, and where they're coming from when they have interactions with our favorite couple. I don't currently have plans for any other flashbacks to this extent, but no promises. I'm so sorry that this chapter has taken me so long. Half of it was written, but got lost around January. BUT, thanks to your encouraging words, I got back on the horse, and rewrote what I lost. I know it's been a very long while, but hopefully this chapter is everything you expected, and deserve!

Sidenote: I posted a sneak peak of this chapter a few months back on my tumblr (same name as here), and considering how long it takes me to update, I'm thinking of doing that more often. Thoughts?

A SUPER HUMONGOUS THANK YOU to Elle Morgan-Black and my new beta rivergirl75 for helping me turn this chapter into what it is! They are angels!

To TayMoroko25, Guest (1), Guest (2), coyg81, lakelady8425, Whit96, Nassirah Mussagy, Anniebug222, Harry Poser, Guest (3), Kyonomiko, katelynnwho, Wolfling72, FranQuel, false account, D Puluse, TheRoseOfWar, esthe, PoE99, mrslara2112, PaleandBroodingsGirls, emmiet, lindseybee92, SeleneBlackburn, pgoodrichboggs, Samantha, Charleneclark1988, Guest (4), Guest (5), Potter Fan, Guest (6), catalina05, seatoncm, Nastya555, appleblossum24, DramioneAddict88, Wynter Phoenix, cha2010chi, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, , Beauty Eclipsed, viola1701e, Guest (7), moodygoody, aeris282: Thank you guys so much for your reviews! Your thoughtful insights, reactions, and criticisms are what push me to try to make every chapter the best that I can. So, really, you guys are my muse! On another note, I'm crazy nervous about the reception to Voldemort this chapter. I tried to keep him in character while expanding his depth a bit. Not sure how well I succeeded, but know that I gave it my all! And on that note, WE ARE OFFICIALLY ON THE SECOND HALF OF THIS STORY! Anywho, you guys are amazing, and thank you for sticking with me on this journey!

/If I fall short, if I break rank–It's a bloodsport, but I understand

I am all yours, I am unmanned; I'm on all fours, willingly damned

Loving you's a bloodsport/

– Bloodsport '15, Raleigh Ritchie

Chapter 16 - Lines in the Sand

Hermione woke to a nuzzling against her shoulder on New Years Eve. Light streamed from the window, basking her in its glow, and Hermione understood the meaning of contentment. Draco's smooth cheek and chin buried itself in the crook of her neck, and Hermione couldn't help but smile.

She smiled, eyes closed.

"Stop smiling," Draco grumbled sleepily.

Hermione's body shook with restrained laughter. "How did you know I was smiling?"

He could've said that he knew because once he'd called her magic, he could feel her emotions through the magic she unconsciously let out in the air; every time she was happy or sad, the air around them would call to him and whisper it to him. It was strange and invasive and he couldn't get enough of it.

"You intoxicate me," Draco said instead as he breathed her in.

Hermione moaned, transfixed by all of him–his voice, his words, his fingers nimbly playing with her folds.

"You're fucking vibrant, Granger." Draco nipped at her neck.

"Don't stop," Hermione sighed engrossed in the pleasure of him. It was wonderful, ephemeral, everything, and she never wanted to go back. She never wanted to know life without Draco's touch.

Don't stop.

Don't stop.

Her words were a mantra that sent a prayer to the gods–to the earth that obeyed their king...her king, whether or not she knew it.

"Never," Draco promised as his lips pressed against hers with insistence, and he maneuvered his body over hers. "I'll never stop, Granger."

Hermione's legs parted wide to accommodate Draco within them, and they lifted to wrap around his narrow hips.

"I'm so in love with you, it's agony," Draco whispered against her skin, as though he were imprinting the words into her very muscle and bones forever...so that she'd never forget.

"Your sighs captivate me," he purred. "Every inch of you enthralls me."

"Draco," Hermione said his name breathily. It was more than just pleasure. It was his truth, so heartbreaking in its honesty that she didn't know how to respond. His name was all she had. It was all she wanted. She repeated it like the most breakable of hopes in her palms, on her lips. "Draco...Draco, please."

"Tell me that you can't live without me," he whispered as he rolled his hips, the heel of her feet digging into him deliciously.

"I can't, I can't," her lips searched for his desperately. But he wanted more.

Draco Malfoy always wanted more, and he would never be able to stop wanting more.

"Tell me that you'd die without me," he bit her shoulder as he slid into her warmth finally. He licked the bruise he created, and moved so slowly that Hermione thought she would die from the pleasure, the building of ecstasy that rose higher and higher was torture and divinity in its purest form. "Tell me, Granger, because I'd die without you."

Her fingers dug into his back, but her touch was just as soft as his. This wasn't about reaching their peak, this was about falling in love all over again. This was about sharing a truth that was ingrained into his very soul, etched into the deepest depths of his being.

"I love you," Hermione whispered with as much purpose she could muster as a rush of pleasure so great curled her toes and made her arch her back.

"Don't ever stop," Draco moaned into her shoulder as he dove deeper inside of her, letting her orgasm seduce him further into oblivion. "Don't ever stop loving me."

"I won't, I won't," Hermione babbled, her hips rolling swiftly, desperately, jerkily with every jolt of electricity that passed through her. "Please, please."

Hearing his wife beg him only slowed him down further, until his body was a wave, rising slowly and crushing her pointedly with each thrust.

He was the greatest tsunami ever, rising in the space of crescendo, until the fall of his soul was inevitable–all he had left was losing himself in the immensity of loving her, and he did.

Draco Malfoy loved his wife with such ardor and completeness that the shudders that racked his body were an abyss of lightning and darkness that blinded him.

He was overcome.

He was in love.

He couldn't stop.

He didn't want to stop.

Bellatrix Black was born to a most ordinary prophecy on a stormy night. That's what she'd always heard, but no one would ever tell her what her prophecy was. She'd overheard her parents discussing prophecies–possibly hers– one night when she was six years old. She'd asked about her own prophecy from that day forward, but no one had ever said anything other than "oh, it's just perfectly ordinary, Bella. Nothing to worry about." Bellatrix was stubborn though, and finally, at the tender age of thirteen, days before heading off to Hogwarts, Bellatrix snuck into her father's study.

"What are you doing here?" Andromeda, her younger sister at eleven, whispered harshly, eyes wide with fear. "If Father catches you, there'll be hell to pay!"

"I'm not leaving until I find my prophecy! He must've written it down somewhere!"

"It's just ordinary," Andromeda rolled her eyes. "Lots of people have ordinary destinies. The Department of Mysteries is full because there are so many ordinary destinies. What's your obsession?"

"My problem is that they're hiding it," Bellatrix huffed out angrily as she shuffled through papers in a drawer. "Why hide it if it's ordinary? Why hide it if my prophecy is just to do my duty as a pureblood witch and marry? What's there to hide?"

"Searching for hidden things is never wise," Andromeda said before she turned and left.

Bellatrix didn't stop searching, but she never found anything either.

"Where are you going, Luna?" Harry looked up from his tea. She'd been visiting with Ginny for the day, locked in the room talking about things that Harry was sure he didn't care to know. Finally, as dusk fell, she had walked down the stairs, a dreamer's smile stretching her lips, and Harry couldn't help but ask.

"I'm going searching for nugle-pinicks," Luna's eyes lit up with excitement. "I read that there are a lot in this area. Would you care to join me?"

"Are they dangerous?" Harry smirked. "I'd hate to be attacked on New Years Eve."

"Don't worry, Harry," Luna smiled as she walked towards the backdoor. "I'll protect you."

Harry shook his head in amusement as he followed her out. Luna looked about her in that way that she always did. It was peaceful, and Harry let the peace she brought with her sink into him. Walking with her now, Harry could imagine what it would be like talking to her everyday, married to her, making love to her every night. He could see their children, just as whimsical and starry eyed as her chasing each other around his legs. He could practically hear her bell-like laugh on the wind, surrounding him, calling to him, begging him to join her on the porch with a glass of Italian wizarding white wine in her hand, hope and unimaginable love shining in her azure eyes.

But Harry knew he would never get that future. Not after the Marriage Law had been put in place. Not after he'd made a promise to Ginny, who loved him despite his disregard of her, despite knowing he could never love her the way she wished he would.

"Do you ever think of the first time we met?" Luna smiled whimsically, as though she was seeing into his mind.

"How could I forget?" Harry smiled impishly and teased gently. "An angel was walking with her eyes heavenward searching for her shoes."

His eyes were soft, in that way that she wished he wouldn't let them be. Not anymore. Not now that they were both promised to others.

"How's Queen Hermione?" Luna asked out of the blue, though she was just as relaxed as before as she gazed up at the clouds innocently. "Think any wrackspurts have gotten in her ears with the situation? This sort of thing really leaves a person vulnerable, you know."

"What?" Harry almost tripped over a rock, he was so startled. Harry couldn't fathom how Luna could speak so casually, so accepting of something that Harry could barely grasp. "Are–how do you–okay. Okay. Wait. I didn't see you at the Winter Solstice celebration."

Luna shook her head, creating a waterfall of blonde locks. "I wasn't there, nor am I a subject."

"Then how?"

"I'm going to be a Nott, Harry," Luna's gaze finally settled on him. They were focused and filled with a regret made up of helplessness. She hadn't chosen Theo, her father had. "Whatever children Theo and I have will be subjects of the monarchy. Of course I had to be told. Especially with all the protocol involved at meals and whatnot. Though no one truly believes she'll be that sort of Queen."

"You're going to be a Nott," Harry repeated as though he couldn't quite believe it. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe having Luna by his side had been such a foregone conclusion to him that it was only truly sinking in for him that she wouldn't be. Not forever.

"I'm going to be a Nott," Luna smiled sadly. She looked towards the twilight sky, the stars swirling far above their heads in the distant space unknown. "It's a bit strange, isn't it? Maybe the Kerrywhitters are in bloom this century? I've read they have a dreadfully strange impact on destinies"

"Do you love him?"

A streak of bitterness flashed across her gaze, but it was gone in an instant. Harry wondered if he'd imagined it. "Marriage in the magical world isn't always about love. Especially not for witches. At least, not for witches who aren't muggleborn."

"But do you love him?" Harry pressed. He needed an answer, despite knowing he wasn't prepared for it. "Do you think you could love him?"

Luna stopped walking and reached for Harry's hand. She held it gently in hers, and breathed for a moment. When she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Harry's heart beat furiously in his chest.

"Just because the Thestral doesn't drink when you take it to the stream doesn't mean it'll never drink," Luna said quietly. "People are a lot like that, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Harry shrugged, confused.

"People always long for a different river, a different waterfall, and wake up one day and wonder why they waited so long to drink from the stream they had," she smiled gently. "I think we can do better than that. I think the least we can do is try."

Harry wanted to tell her that it wasn't true. He wanted to say that he had no clue what she was talking about, but this was Luna–eyes always looking towards the sky, heart constantly searching for mythical creatures, soul that never needed information or confirmation to know the truth.

She always saw into the depth of him; now was no different. It didn't matter that he'd never confessed his feelings for her. She'd known anyway because she was Luna and he was Harry and she'd been by his side almost as long as Hermione.

"I want you to be happy," he whispered as he lifted his palm to stroke her cheek softly. "I just somehow thought that would be with me. I thought we had all the time in the world to figure us out."

"So did I," she closed her eyes for a moment. But Luna was like the wind, and her essence was too immense to be contained by sorrow, and so when she opened her eyes, she smiled, and with a twinkle in her eyes asked, "Now, would you like to go Whimplefuddle hunting with me? I'm sure I read that Kerrywhitters don't bloom in the forest unless there are Whimplefuddles around!"

"What about the nugle-pinicks?"

"This is more important!" Luna went to rush off into the bushes. "Coming, Harry?"

I wish you light in your life and in your heart.

Too bad Harry would've settled for Luna; he would've taken all the darkness in the world for just one kiss from the love of his life.

He grinned, a sharp pain in his heart. "There's nothing else I'd rather be doing on New Year's Eve."

Cygnus Black stood tall and regal as he called for his wife and daughters to step forward. Bellatrix was annoyed, destroyed at the prospect that soon she'd have to choose a husband–be chained forever.

"I've heard the strangest rumours," Cygnus started slowly. His eyes glinted dangerously, and Bellatrix knew that she'd done something to displease him. She always did though. At the tender age of eighteen, she couldn't remember the last time her father smiled at her. He continued, "I've heard that you plan to refuse to get married."

"I don't want to get married," Bellatrix said quietly. There was a madness in her heart that told her that if she killed her father right then and there she wouldn't have to. But she ignored it. She always ignored it. "But I will, of course, do my duty."

"Your duty?" Cygnus whispered. It was the quiet before the storm, and Cygnus was a force as he exploded. "Your duty? Your honor! Serving the Black line should be your honor! Continuing the Black line should be your honor! Strengthening the Black line should be your honor!"

Druella stood by Bellatrix's side, shoulders squared.

"Few witches consider it such an honor, Cygnus," she waved his temper tantrum away as she walked towards the bar. "She will marry."

"And will I be happy?" Bellatrix pointedly asked. The fire in her heart burned brighter with the wary look her parents exchanged.

"Happiness is a complicated emotion," Druella tried to smoothly reply, but Cygnus would not be ignored.

"Worry less about happiness and more about respect, power," He took the drink Druella offered him calmly. "I've been discussing your prospects with Abraxas. Our king believes that a match between you and one of the Lestrange boys would do both of our families good."

Bellatrix frowned. "I thought I was allowed to pick my fiance. You've always said that I could choose, as long as they came from the right bloodline and family."

"You can," Cygnus raised an imperial eyebrow and purposefully twisted his original meaning. "You may choose between the Lestrange brothers. Either one will suit."

"Suit us or King Abraxas?" Bellatrix snarled.

SLAP.

The palm of Druella's hand stung. Bellatrix's cheek was bright red, but there were no tears in her eyes. She wouldn't let them see her cry. She wouldn't let anyone see her cry. Not ever. Not as long as the fire in her heart continued to rage and yearn for death and destruction.

"Respect your king and father. They have decided," Druella drawled lazily as she turned away and continued to drink her glass of wine. "Be glad that you can choose at all."

Be glad that you can choose at all.

There was something so wrong, so confining, that Bellatrix was sure that she'd been trapped in the body of a bird inside a cage all her life and was just now coming to realize that no one would ever let her out. Her heart beat furiously, and words poured forth without her consent.

"I am not cattle," Bellatrix whispered harshly. "I am not a thing existing for your use. I am your daughter. Your daughter! You're supposed to love me! You're supposed to want me to be happy! "

Druella and Cygnus shared a heavy glance. Cygnus, without another word, stood and left the room. Bellatrix was hurt though not necessarily surprised. Blacks weren't known for their emotional range, let alone their affection.

Druella smiled sadly once Cygnus was out of hearing range. "My dear, you are strong, and that is what all Blacks should be. But you are too headstrong, too full of desire for a freedom you can never have."

"Why? Why can't I ever have it?"

"Because you were born a witch. And a witch's freedom is never hers. Never true. Only a shadow of what it could be."

"Not if we change–"

"I would if I could, but the final word lies with your father and the king."

The glass in Druella's hand along with all the glass in the room shattered; it was still only a fraction of the pain that pierced Bellatrix's heart.

"Is this love then?" Bellatrix said bitterly.

Druella waved her wand, repairing the broken pieces in the room except for Bellatrix's heart.

"This is your father's love, and the love of a king for his subject." Druella pursed her lips, and gave her daughter the best advice she'd ever been given. "Pray that your future husband does not love you any more than you are already loved. That would be a truly terrible fate."

"Did you pray for that?"

"Yes. Never forget, Bellatrix: the more you are loved by a man, the less freedom you have."

Bellatrix never did forget. Her broken heart and bruised shackled soul wouldn't let her forget.

The wind was harsh as it crashed against the high stone walls of Castello Zabini in the South of Italy. As was befitting a castle on the open peninsula not at war, Blaise smiled wide as he welcomed Theo into his home.

"How's everything on this magnificent New Years Eve?" Blaise opened his arms in that way of his that told whoever was visiting that the world was at complete peace.

"Eh, you know how England is," Theo shrugged with that quirky smile of his. He hugged Blaise back, clapping him on the back. "Lots of shit and rain," Theo smirked jokingly.

"Talk to me," Blaise ushered him towards the main guest room, which was airy with high ceilings and windows that stretched from top to bottom. "How's the fiancee? And the opportunistic father-in-law?"

Everything about Blaise's demeanor screamed mockery, and Theo couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"My thieving future father-in-law is perfectly criminal," Theo sardonically smiled while Blaise guffawed. "How's the pregnant wife?"

Blaise shrugged, some of the exuberance taken from him. "She's good. Entertained buying everything in sight for the nursery."

As they reached the guest room, Blaise went straight to the bar to pour them both a glass of firewhiskey. Theo didn't bother to take in his surroundings, as he'd been coming over to Blaise's since he was a small child.

Blaise passed him a drink. "Has Loony Lovegood driven you crazy yet?"

"Don't call her that," Theo pursed his lips with a severe frown. "She's eccentric, and definitely has a touch of sight, but she's not loony."

"Sight? Truly?" Blaise raised an eyebrow as he passed Theo the glass.

"Truly," Theo took the glass and dragged a long sip. "Sometimes she'll say something so nonsensical that I'm completely struck, and other times she'll say something so precise, that I can't help but wonder. And those times–those are the times that a week or two or three later, I'll come back to her and kind of just want to tell her she was right about everything."

"Sounds like I should've just gotten her to marry me," Blaise threw himself on the couch. Theo gave a small smile, but there was too much in his heart to allow him to fully relax. Blaise saw it, and took a breath. "What's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong?" Theo frowned. He wanted to bare his soul, but he hadn't had a soul-baring conversation in so long that he wasn't sure how well he'd be able to do it. Honesty, complete honesty, was one of the hardest things in the world.

Blaise looked at him, truly took in his friend, and questioned when everything changed–when everything had shifted so severely that they'd grown into the type of strangers that only understood each other when the world was shrouded in darkness.

"You know you can tell me anything," Blaise looked into Theo's eyes squarely. "I know nothing's exactly as it was, but we're still friends. Best friends. Brothers. Nothing can ever change that. Not when I'm the Prince and you're the Protector."

Theo scoffed. "I don't know what kind of Protector I am. Not when I can't protect Draco from his destiny. Not when I can't protect you from a life you never really wanted. Not when the fact that none of our lives are going to turn out the way we envisioned–I don't see what kind of protector that makes me."

"Just because our lives don't turn out the way we thought, that doesn't mean that they turn out bad. Just different," Blaise shrugged. "Different isn't bad. Not always anyway."

"Maybe," Theo lit a wizarding Cuban cigar. The wisps of smoke turned into different shapes as it went higher into the air in the space between them. "But I still remember Uncle Lucius telling me I was a protector, y'know? That meant something, coming from the King–our king. It still does. But I don't know how to protect him."

"Draco doesn't need protecting," Blaise leaned forward.

Theo looked away and shook his head disbelievingly. "Of course you would think that. You're such an enabler. You never stop to think that anything that he does might be a bad idea, or at the very least shitty."

"That's not true! I just don't always expect the worst of everything."

"It's called common sense! Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me that you're okay with how deep he is in all of this? This war?"

"Whether you or I like it or not, it's not our place to question our king," Blaise said firmly, eyes burning harshly in defense of his friend and king.

Theo sighed, shoulders slumped, defeated. He let out a puff of smoke, and Blaise relaxed. He knew that whatever was bothering Theo, it had to be born of this.

"What's really going on , Theo? Because whatever it is, it's not just about Draco and how submerged the monarchy is in this war."

"Zabinis would benefit from the outcome of this war either way in regards to monarchy politics."

"Sure, but we're also loyal, and I don't appreciate you deflecting and questioning my loyalty to distract me." Blaise saw through the clear attempt, and hit at the heart of the matter.

Theo sank into the chair and nodded his head slowly.

"I wonder what my wedding night might be like."

"You lost your virtue a while back, Theo," Blaise rolled his eyes. "I was in the room next door being deflowered myself."

Theo glowered. "Don't be an ass. I mean with Luna. I've never deflowered a girl before."

"You worried she'll cry?"

"I'm worried that all she'll do after I marry her is cry."

Blaise saw the truth in Theo's words and felt he owed him some in return.

"I don't think that I'm truly worthy of the kind of devotion that Tilly shows me," Blaise bared himself. "Sometimes, she smiles at me and I think that I've become the kind of person that could love her more than Draco, than my name, than my legacy, but that's never the case. Even when I lie, and tell myself that it is the case, that I've grown–become better, worthy, I know that's not true...I guess even though Tilly doesn't spend a lot of her time crying, I haven't really made her happy either. Not really."

Theo nodded.

Happiness was a hard thing to give; even when it seemed so close, it always seemed to slip right through their fingers–the slightest of winds could blow it away, and the women who called themselves wives and fiances were left to bear the burden of their failures.

"Join us tonight," Lord Voldemort said silkily.

"I'm supposed to be preparing for my wedding," Bellatrix pursed her lips, annoyance at having to stay behind shining clearly in her eyes.

"Come, Bella," Lord Voldemort smirked at her. "Would you not rather be drenched in the blood of Mudbloods than bathing in the petals of lilies? Would you not rather be by my side?"

His eyes were cold as he gazed upon her, but there was an affection somewhere in his heart for her. She knew that. She was daring and wild, which he liked. No one could convince her otherwise.

Would you not rather be by my side?

It was at that moment that she knew she would do anything for him; despite the fact that he'd made it clear that his flirtations weren't to be taken as anything other than harmless–she genuinely loved him.

Bellatrix loved Lord Voldemort, and her love was an ocean trapped within a bottle the size of his palm, carried in his back pocket, forgotten and ignored.

But she loved him nonetheless.

It never mattered that he would never love her.

She didn't need or want his love; Bellatrix knew that men had a way of breaking the things they loved.

"What are you hiding from me?" Hermione whispered hours after their lovemaking. They were still, in the silence on the night that beckoned them closer and closer to the New Year.

She asked because Draco Malfoy was always hiding something. It was just his nature. She wasn't sure if she hated it or not.

"Maybe you're the one hiding things," Draco smirked, humor and sadness etched into the lines of the corner of his lips.

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Malfoy."

"I thought I was 'Draco' now?"

"You'll always be Malfoy to me," Hermione smiled, an echo of how he'd comforted her once.

Draco took a breath, his hand warm and scalding on her thigh. His eyes looked at the ceiling of their bedroom in Malfoy Manor, and he wondered why they weren't in that ridiculously priced hotel room that he still paid for.

"Malfoy?"

"I love you, Granger," Draco whispered. "I love you so much that I feel it in my bones, in the very depths of me."

"I love you, too," Hermione whispered confused. She gazed at him in the darkness.

"But loving you has nothing to do with trusting you…"

"What does that mean?"

"It means...that there's a prophecy...about me," he looked at her and Hermione felt like she was gazing into oblivion as she looked into the depths of his silver-obsidian gaze.

"What does the prophecy say, exactly?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, "I know your only experience with prophecies is with Potter's, but in the magical community, prophecies are sacred knowledge, not to be shared verbatim with everybody."

"I'm not everybody. I'm your wife."

"Yes, you are my wife, who I love, and perhaps I'll tell you in time when that love has turned into trust."

Hermione was genuinely flabbergasted. Her eyes were full of confusion, awe, and enough hurt that Draco thought he could feel it in his own bones. "You can't just bring that up and not share it!"

"You asked what I was hiding," he shrugged. "I told you...I don't want more secrets between us."

"How many secrets are between us?" she whispered. Hermione wanted to know, but she was simultaneously afraid of the answer.

"Enough."

The sound of their breathing filled the air around them. The silence taunted Draco, reminded him that despite his love, despite how close he was physically, despite how deeply he imbedded himself into the very fiber of Hermione's body and soul, he was still so far from his wife.

"I can't tell you word for word," his hand trailed her arm softly. His eyes were trained on hers. He wanted her to understand that his love had nothing to do with this. This was about how he was raised, and he was raised as a strict pureblood–to be king, and the prophecies of kings were dangerous things. "I just can't. One day, I will. But–not yet."

"Can you tell me the basics then?" She flipped on her stomach, and leaned on her elbows.

Hermione's brows were furrowed, but Draco couldn't help but smile at the vision she created, glowing from pleasure.

"Do I get to ravish you again if I do?" he smirked.

"I'll consider it," Hermione gave him a coy smile that caused Draco to chuckle. It wasn't often that Hermione bothered to flirt with him. Flirting was fun and light–none of the things they were.

He wondered if it could've been who they were if they'd met under different circumstances. But Hermione's smile slid off just as quickly as it appeared, and Draco knew that there was no universe where they were anything other than how they were–hating and loving each other to the brink of insanity.

Maybe even further.

"My prophecy basically says that whatever side I'm on will win."

Hermione froze.

Inhale. Exhale.

"How long have you known?" Hermione choked. She tried to remind herself that she didn't believe in prophecies.

But she believed in Harry's.

Maybe.

Probably.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

"My whole life," Draco smiled bitterly.

There was resentment in his gaze that Hermione didn't understand, but she couldn't bother with his turbulent emotions at the moment. She was too floored, too overwhelmed, too broken that he'd kept something so massive from her for so long.

She thought about his Death Eater garb, filled with blood. The way her hands were constantly stained from trying to clean his bloody clothes. She thought about the Death Eater mask that hung in the corner of their bedroom.

She thought about his love.

"Have you chosen a side?"

Please, please, please, Hermione silently begged.

"I don't know."

I wish you a love that never dies, never fades, never changes.

If only Harry had gifted her a love that was uncomplicated, pure, and a little less blind–she would've taken that instead.

Minerva sat on her rocking chair, looking out into the twilight. She was curled in the chair with a dark red fleece draped over her legs; she felt like a young woman again–content, in love, with all the wonders and possibilities of the future set in front of her. She was hopeful tonight, as the new year drew closer, but not for herself.

Minerva McGonagall, educator until the end, was hopeful for the future of her students. She saw the students of Hogwarts banning together, despite all of the hardships they've had to endure with the Carrows running unchecked throughout the halls.

Of course, just as she thought of all of the bright spots in the darkness, Minerva couldn't help but think of the blemishes that were only waiting to become permanent scars: Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

Oh, she understood Hermione Malfoy nee Granger well enough–she had been Hermione when Tom Riddle had stormed into her life like a spicy watermelon margarita.

But we love each other, and I carry his name. We're forever linked as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. That'll get us through it–this war. It'll get us past this.

How foolish Miss Granger was to believe such a thing, Minerva mused sadly. A name didn't change anything. Being linked wasn't some type of miracle maker. She glanced down at her arm, and remembered the night that Tom had scarred her, remembered the pain and vulnerability in his eyes. She thought of the way he'd knelt on his knees, and they way she had wanted so badly for him to suddenly say he was reforming his ways, and that he'd never leave her side.

She'd been blind then–blind like Miss Granger was blind.

I'll love him enough for the both of us.

What a childish idea, Minerva pursed her lips.

"Frowning does not suit you, my dear," Lord Voldemort whispered from the shadows. Minerva, startled, sat up, and reached for her wand only to remember that she'd left it inside. She mentally cursed her complacency; she thought that being home during the holidays was some kind of safeguard–even Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters didn't Revel during the holidays.

Clearly she was wrong, and there he was, though she couldn't see him.

But she'd know his voice anywhere, despite the added vibration and slight hiss. It was the tenor of his voice, the way it crawled over her skin like a caress made from fine wine.

"What are you doing here?" Minerva snarled. She didn't want him anywhere near her. Her traitorous heart wanted him closer, if only for one infinitesimal moment. But she wasn't a young woman anymore; she'd learnt the dangers of such darkness.

"It is New Years Eve," he said evenly, as though that explained anything at all.

"Come to spread terror, I presume," Minerva raised a haughty eyebrow. "Well, then, come out of the shadows. Or are you afraid?"

It was a cheap shot, but highly effective when it came to Tom. Even in his youth, just the supposition that he might be afraid made his teeth grind. Decades later, he was still that same man underneath, so he stepped out of the shadows.

Minerva gasped, eyes wide, taken aback. He barely looked like a man at all with those snake like features.

"Does my new form repulse you?"

His smirk was a mask that hid his pains and fears well.

"I'd heard–but–why would you do something like this to yourself?"

"I was never vain my dear. You may leave vanity to the Malfoys and the Blacks, because you have never been vain either. Or has so much changed in such little time?"

"Little time?" Minerva spat. All of her anger bubbled to the surface alongside a little bit of self hate because even with the monstrosity he's become, her heart still lurched in welcome and hope. "We are practically fossils, and you are still fighting the same war you have always been fighting. A war against no one and nothing, because you do not care about the ideology much. All that you care about is power."

"Hmmm. Does it still hurt? My name on your arm?" It was petty, the reminder that she would always belong to him in her heart, but it was also an eternal link between them. A shared name kept them close to each other in a way they didn't quite understand. But it was also proof that he'd once cared about something–someone–other than power.

"Regrets often are painful," Minerva turned her back to him. She didn't know why he was here, but she knew that she couldn't stand the sight of him. Not when her heart still beat traitorously for him.

I'll love him enough for the both of us.

There wasn't enough love in the world to forgive the things he's done, and would continue to do.

"Why are you here?" Minerva repeated.

Voldemort looked away, towards the expanse in front of them, the darkness that had consumed suddenly with the waning light.

"I came to tell you that I have hated you more than I thought I could hate anyone. You deceived me, abandoned me–the Great Lord Voldemort. You, who were nothing in comparison to me, thought me beneath your love–undeserving of your affections and loyalty." His voice dripped with seduction and darkness as he continued. He let his immense magic push against Minerva's skin just enough to cause her to shiver. "I could have made you great by my side. Exalted and mighty. But all you cared about was looking that old fool in the eyes. But now he is dead. And where are you? Where am I?"

Minerva ground her teeth. "Exalted through oppression is anything but mighty, sirrah. But do not bother with excuses to make yourself into a victim of my betrayal. I loved you, as you well know, but love has its limits."

"You lie to yourself too well, my dear."

Minera spun around, fire in her eyes, but Voldemort's pale hands were touching her cheek, and her world was spinning. He was too close. He looked nothing like the man she'd loved. He smelled exactly like the man she'd loved, and if she closed her eyes, they were who they'd once been.

"You did not love me enough," Voldemort whispered silkily. "Because of you, I thought love was a delusion, a lie–but then I see my heir. I see how much his wife loves him, and I wonder, why you could never love me like that?"

Tears pooled in the corner of Minerva's eyes, silently falling as she took in the pain he must have felt; she cried for herself because she hated him in equal measure that she loved him and none of it was ever enough.

Cold lips pressed against hers, and Minerva let herself lean into strong arms for a moment. This wasn't about passion. This was about a love that could never measure up, and a hope that'd been crushed a long time ago when they were both young and recklessly stubborn.

Their lips parted, and Minerva opened her eyes. She peered into his obsidian gaze, and thought for a moment that she could see all the parts of him that she never could before.

Lord Voldemort leaned his forehead against hers, and let himself love her. But men destroyed the things they loved–Bellatrix was proof of that. He whispered, "Crucio," and Minerva's screams echoed in his heart, and he was full of love and vindication.

Harry watched everyone bustle around him, settling in for the new year. The Burrow was always so warm and inviting, even when everything was going to hell. Being at Grimmauld place was nothing like the burrow. Being with people who cared about him was nothing like the years he'd spend New Years Eve in the cupboard, alone.

"Enjoying the twins' harmonic melodies?" Charlie smirked at him as he approached, firewhiskey in hand.

"Not quite, but it's better than silence, yeah" Harry joked.

"Sometimes," Charlie agreed sardonically. "And sometimes it's definitely not. Usually, once they get more than a cuppa firewhiskey in them."

Harry laughed straight from the gut. The twins hopped on one foot while they held onto each other, a cup of liquor swishing in either hand. Ron and Ginny were laughing merrily at their antics, while Mrs. Weasley shook her head at them.

But despite the happiness that surrounded him, Harry couldn't stop thinking about all that he knew, and all that he didn't know.

"You're thinking about Hermione?" Charlie looked at him straight on. That was the thing with Charlie Weasley, he was such a straight shooter all the time while simultaneously being easy going that he always seemed to catch everyone off guard. There was no telling when he'd tell a joke or when he'd cut you down to size in his unassuming manner.

"I'm thinking about Malfoy," Harry corrected in a low voice.

"About his edict?"

Harry shook his head, and stared hard at Charlie. He didn't have much contact with Charlie, but Harry knew that he was a man of honor. It was in the lines of his face, and the strength of his jaw, and the set firmness in his eyes that told Harry that Charlie was trustworthy.

"There's a prophecy," Harry whispered slowly. "Malfoy's prophecy. It's...it's a game changer."

"What does it say?"

"That's the thing–I don't know the exact wording, but I know the overall meaning. I'm just...I'm not sure if I should tell the order."

"You would've told the order a year ago without hesitation," Charlie pointed out, not unkindly.

"A year ago he wasn't my king," Harry whispered harshly. "Whatever the hell that even means really. A year ago, he wasn't Hermione's husband. A year ago, everything was a lot more black and white in this war."

Charlie nodded in understanding. "What do you think is the right thing to do?"

"I don't know," Harry looked into his glass. "He can swing everything though."

"He's king," Charlie shrugged. "He can already swing everything."

Harry took a long sip of his drink.

What do you think is the right thing to do?

Maybe that was the problem: Harry didn't know anything anymore except that he didn't want to die, and he didn't want anyone else to die either.

"Ten! Nine!" The countdown began, and the cacophony of voices chanted all around him. "Eight! Seven! Six!"

Harry looked out the window, and laid his head against the cold glass.

"Five! Four!"

He remembered when he was a little boy, seven or eight, awaiting the New Year in his cupboard under the stairs.

"Three! Two!"

Harry wondered if he was still in that cupboard–except the cupboard was the world.

"One! Happy New Year!"

"I want to join in the upcoming Revel."

"No."

His voice grated on her, made her grind her teeth in annoyance.

"Why not?" Bellatrix tried to appeal to her husband's reason. "I am as much a Death Eater as you. As marked as you are."

"Because I'll be damned if I let you put yourself in harm's way–Revels are no place for a lady, let alone a wife."

"I can take care of myself just fine! I joined a Revel before we married–"

"Before is key," Lestrange pursed his lips. "I think it'd do you well to take a step away from the thick of it."

"This is my cause as much as it is yours!" Bellatrix yelled, affronted.

"And you are as mine today as you were when we married, yes?" Lestrange spat mockingly.

Bellatrix tensed even further. "What are you on about?"

"Your affair."

"You're delusional," Bellatrix rolled her eyes dismissively. But inside, her blood thrummed in her veins to kill, maim, destroy beyond comprehension until her heart was baptized in the glory of her sins and her freedom was hers again.

"And you must think I'm blind," Lestrange clenched his fists. "You don't think I have ears either? People talk. They say you're in love with the Dark Lord. They say that I'm being cuckolded like a fool."

Bellatrix smirked mockingly, despite the fire inside of her. "You really believe that the Dark Lord, with all of his plans, has the time to try and steal your wife?"

"I think that you chase after him, not the cause."

They stood, staring at each other, at a crossroads in their relationship. They may have been husband and wife, known each other for years, but they were still strangers in many ways.

"When I chose you, you promised that I could live my life, by your side, the way I wanted," Bellatrix started slowly. Her mind conjured an image of him on his knees, throat slit, blood gushing like a waterfall. She shook it away. Refocused, trying to stay calm. "But all you've done is suffocate me. And now you think I'm having an affair with the Dark Lord. This isn't what you promised. This is nothing like what you promised."

"I'm not trying to suffocate you," Lestrange fingered his wand in his right hand. His eyes were a storm, full of confusion and pain. And fury. "All I've done is try to keep my promise to you, but you want too much. I'm not trying to suffocate you–I'm trying to protect you. Love you."

"Love me less," Bellatrix snarled, and in an instant she was on the floor, screaming, convulsing as the crucio coursed through her body.

"I can't." Lestrange whispered, betrayal in his heart because he knew that even though she probably wasn't having an affair with the Dark Lord, she did love him. She loved Lord Voldemort more than she'd ever let herself care about him, and it was an unforgiving pain.

Love me less.

Pain.

Screams.

I can't.

The pain lasted forever.

Bellatrix was never the same after that. But she knew the weight of a man's love like never before, and it was brutal and mesmerizing. The pain was a part of her, searing things inside of her that could never heal.

It was midday the next day, New Year's Day, when Theo summoned Luna to Wintley Fortress. The fortress had been in his family for generations, going all the way back to when the Notts first came to England chasing the skirts of the Royal Malfoy family. The high stone walls were gloomy and claustrophobic, but Luna liked the endless stream of candles that adorned the hallways.

Though Wintley Fortress was connected to the Floo, Luna always insisted on floo hopping: she'd go from her home to The Principice – a rundown shop not even 10 miles from her home, to Miley Mickey's home in Diagon Alley who charged everyone a knut for passing through–a far cry less than Tom's establishment charged and a lot less crowded, though extremely debilitated; she'd stop there for a ridiculous conversation with Miley's cat, though the old woman insisted that the cat had a wanderer's soul stuck inside of it; after a cup of tea and surely a heart attack on her father's part when at this time he would usually realize that she hadn't yet floo called him to tell him she'd arrived at Wintley Fortress, she'd take the floo to Windsor Castle for only a moment where the butler would screech in fright at her sudden appearance (thankfully all workers at the Royal Palace were properly briefed), and with a smile on her lips she'd finally floo to Wintley Fortress.

The Notts weren't overly kind or accommodating, and so when she arrived no one was ever waiting for her except a house elf to escort her to Theo's private wing, which looked more like a prison than a happy home.

This was the truth of Luna's betrothal to Theo; she was marrying into a home that hadn't ever felt like one long before Luna or the Second War came about, and a marriage that bound two lost and helpless pawns who were buried underneath politics and unrealized love.

"You're too young to frown that deeply, my dear," Theo raised an eyebrow at his betrothed. He'd found Luna on the other side of the castle, far from his wing and where she was supposed to be. This wasn't new considering she hadn't actually followed the house elf after the first two visits.

"I saw Harry yesterday," she hummed as she traced a crack in the wall along the eastern hallway.

"Did he rant about his ineptitude or did he just talk up all his glorious traits?"

"That's not the kind of person Harry is, you know," Luna chided him softly. She was always so soft that Theo always felt like a brute for saying anything sarcastic. "He takes a lot on, a lot like you do. You're actually surprisingly alike."

"Me and Potter?" Theo said aghast, lips curled in disgust. "I think you're confusing me for Draco–he's Potter's best friend lately."

"Sounds like you're jealous," Luna smirked lightly. Her eyes were mischievous, and Theo thought he could love her if her eyes always sparkled like that. "I think Jangernuts cause jealousy. Have you eaten any lately?"

"I've more likely ingested arsenic, but you never know," Theo shrugged.

"You've been troubled lately," Luna swishd her wand casually. Sparks shot out of it, and she smiled lightly.

"Have you met my friends?" Theo said exasperatedly. "I'm always troubled. One got his girl knocked up, and the other seems to have lost all common sense, and is probably going to get me killed."

"Is that a real fear for you?" Luna stopped playing with her wand and settled her gaze on him. "That Draco will get you killed?"

"I'm the protector," Theo shrugged, but he couldn't help the way he leaned towards her. Her eyes were a wonder sometimes that ensnared him to his truth, and compelled him to speak. "I may be horrible at it, but I'm the protector. Sooner or later Draco's going to get in over his head, and I'll be there to bail him out. Regardless of how much every instinct of mine tells me to stay out of it, I won't. I won't and it'll probably be the death of me."

Luna closed the gap between them, raised her palm, and traced his cheek with her finger. "At least it'll be a worthy death–dying for someone you love."

"Whoever said I love him?" Theo barked out a bitter laugh. "He's my brother, my king. It's my duty to protect him, to die for him if need be. But I don't think I've loved him for a long time."

"You do," Luna whispered assuredly. "You couldn't resent him this much if you didn't love him."

"Maybe," Theo shrugged dismissively. He leaned his forehead against hers, and Luna tried to forget the way Harry had once done the same motion. "I just wonder if the worst happens, will anyone remember me, Theodore Nott? After I'm gone, after we're all gone, all that's left is a name–a title, stone walls, and a seat on the Wizengamot that's supposed to mean something. That's what we amount to–the fortunate. Places and possessions. But who will remember me, the person?"

"I will," Luna's wide eyes glinted with the signs of her destiny–their destiny. "I'll remember you, our children will remember you, but you won't die for a very long time. Kerrywhitters are in bloom this century and I've read they have an immensely strange impact on destinies. Maybe they've changed your stars."

"Maybe," Theo smiled. "We can only hope."

Maybe they've changed your stars.

But Theo always remembered the ordinary destiny of Bellatrix Lestrange, whose prophecy his father had imparted to him when he was fifteen years old, and Potter's prophecy as the chosen one became public knowledge: "The hall of Prophecies is full of ordinary destinies, Theo. Some people like Potter and the Dark Lord are fated for greatness. But the rest are destined to live forgetful lives; and some, people like Bella–Bellatrix Lestrange–their destinies are to live miserable lives, to never be happy, never be content, never be valued. You don't have a great destiny, but you're a Nott. You were born to a Red Giant. That's your fate."

"We can only hope," Theo gently kissed Luna.

Maybe they've changed your stars.

Theo doubted it. Destiny wasn't challenged so easily.

Sometimes Voldemort liked the way the wind felt against his face, on top of a hill, brutal and stinging. He could watch the waves for hours, contemplating new ways to push the boundaries of magic. These were the days that Draco wished would come more often, as he felt that he saw something in the Dark Lord that few ever saw.

"Why do you think I summoned you, Draco?" Voldemort said quietly, his gaze intent on the expanse of green and blue that surrounded them.

"It's the New Year," Draco answered cautiously. Being his heir had garnered Draco more leniency, less formality, but the Dark Lord would never stop being who he was: unreasonably dangerous. "Many scholars believe the New Year is the purest time for transformation, for new beginnings, new spells."

"Why do I ever summon you?" Lord Voldemort whispered harshly. His eyes snapped to Draco, and the wind whipped at them more severely. "Why have I made you my heir? Why do I teach you anything? What purpose do you serve?"

Draco didn't know what to say, but he knew that saying nothing wasn't an option. Not when the Dark Lord was in such a mood. "You summon me to teach me. To elevate me."

What purpose do you serve?

But Draco didn't have time to dwell on it because the Dark Lord was all consuming.

"Magic is not only about power, skill, innate talent" Voldemort began to float in the air slowly. "Magic–true magic–the greatest magic that exists comes from pain."

Voldemort spread his hands wide, and lifted his gaze skyward. Thunder roared, and lightening brightened the sky.

"Dumbledore, the fool," he spat his name in disgust, "praised love. Convinced his sheep that love is the greatest form of magic. The Order believe that it was Lily Potter's love that saved Harry Potter. Love as old magick. Why is that not true? Why is it that love did not save Harry Potter?"

Draco shivered in fear and awe. His lord looked magnificent as the rain began to pour, and the lightning created a halo around him.

Why is it that love did not save Harry Potter?

The greatest magic that exists comes from pain.

"Love isn't pain–"Draco started, but Voldemort cut him off with a glare.

"Love isn't pure!" Voldemort howled. His eyes glinted obsidian in the darkness, but his magic filled the air unrepentantly. His lips were curled in between disgust and enlightenment–between a snarl and a smirk. "Purity matters–the purity of a feeling matters! What other feeling is as pure as pain? What other emotion can be as all encompassing, as simple as pain? Magic, the greatest magic, is born from pain. Magic is fueled by pain; it was Lily Potter's pain–her husband dead, the cries of her child, that prompted the old magik. Love is a drop in the ocean of emotions–brutal, savage, unmerciful, but Byzantine. Ephemeral in its complexity."

As Draco listened intently, he wondered who the Dark Lord had loved, but he wouldn't dare ask.

Love is a drop in the ocean of emotions.

Lord Voldemort held his hand out. "Pain is magic, so you must channel the depth of your pain in order to be great."

Draco thought he had enough pain to spare, but–

Love is...brutal, savage, unmerciful, but Byzantine.

"Think of your darkest moment," Voldemort continued. "Relive your moment of despair, and sink in it."

Draco took a breath, and tried to follow his Lord's instruction. But his mind ran rampant with all the moments of darkness he'd lived the past year.

"How do I pick a memory?" Draco ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Push them all to the side," Voldemort said. His voice was hard as steel, but his eyes glinted with understanding; he'd lived a hard life full of pain too. "Let all the memories wash over you, then push them away. Block them all. The memory that does not allow you to block it–that is the your greatest moment of despair."

Draco closed his eyes, and did as his Lord bid. He thought of the first time his father had hit him with his cane. He reflected over the fear he felt when he'd faced Dumbledore, the Headmaster's eyes pleading with him. He let the image of Hermione's bloodied hands assault him, her pain filled eyes begging him to do better–be better. He felt Pansy's last kiss, salty with the tears that streamed down her face. He twitched remembering the way the torture curse hit him over and over again, until he couldn't breathe. He bathed in the blood of all those he'd killed, and how his soul stretched, tore, with every gruesome death. He thought of every moment that had ever haunted him, and pushed them away.

He pushed, pushed, pushed–but there. immovable, anchored to the very depths of his pain was the moment the crown had been placed on his head.

Duty was a strange affliction that Draco had never known could be such a suffering.

"Ah," Voldemort smiled cruelly. "I see you've found it. Yes, yes–now sink in it."

Draco let the agony of his duty wrap around him. His body vibrated from the torment. His magic felt as though it were rebelling against his ribcage.

"Yes, yes," Voldemort said gleefully. "Now, rise."

Draco opened his eyes–he wasn't sure when he'd closed it–and went to ask, but Voldemort's smile disappeared.

"Rise," Voldemort snapped. "Do not think. Do not breathe. Submerge yourself in the pain, and rise."

Draco closed his eyes again. He lowered all of his well placed occlumency shields until he was bare to himself, and felt the full weight of his duty, his kingship; the struggle of his crown created such an astounding ache inside of Draco's heart, that tears burned behind his eyelids and peaked from the corners. Minutes flew past, the trauma of his distress steadily grew until he was wracked with despair. Finally, finally, when he was openly sobbing, he thought, 'Rise.'

And he did.

His body floated into the air to join his Lord–no fancy incantation needed, no intricate wand movement, no broom or amulet infused with magic. Simply his thought.

Draco looked at the ground beneath him, and gasped.

"Pain is magic," Voldemort looked upon him, almost proudly, though his eyes were still cold, calculating. "You learn at Hogwarts about intent as a means to guide the outcome of your wand movement, of your incantation. Intent as a tool to help push you to achievement. But you carry magic in you. As do I. You are my heir, and as such the need to use your wand is beneath you."

"What does this mean?" Draco whispered.

"Now that you are full of grace, and free from your fear of your magic...This means that your retraining begins."

Your retraining begins.

Your retraining begins.

Why have I made you my heir?

Draco's heart thrummed like war and fear, yet the the Dark Lord's words stayed with him: What purpose do you serve?

Hermione spent the rest of the day contemplating everything she'd ever known about Draco. The way he smiled, the way he laughed, all the tiny little moments shared between them–most of them filled with loathing and hate and the kind of despair that warranted furious tears trapped inside of a boxed loved in her heart.

She tried to find among her memories any hint that Draco was born with a prophecy, with a purpose. She couldn't help but feel small somehow, surrounded by people who devoured her with the immensity of their destinies; Hermione thought of herself as just a wife, a student, a daughter, a daughter-in-law grudgingly, and a friend. She felt as though she was nothing compared to Harry Potter–the person who was destined to bring down a genocidal tyrant; she was nothing compared to Draco Malfoy–the person who was destined to choose which side would win, despite Voldemort's downfall.

She roamed Malfoy Manor like a ghost, trailing her hands over the walls, the staircase railings, the arms of the sofas. She roamed, forgetful and uncaring that the house was filled with Death Eaters coming in and out. She roamed, recklessly inconsiderate of the fact that Lord Voldemort was housed there, though he was usually out and about during the day, and she hadn't seen him for the Winter Solstice so she assumed he didn't linger for holidays at Malfoy Manor. Nevertheless, Hermione remembered Draco's fury that she didn't constantly practice her mental shields, and took this time as a moment to attempt to practice.

"You look worried," Narcissa stood regally in the doorway of the blue salon room. It was easily Hermione's favorite because of all the light that filtered in.

Having never really had a chance to explore the entire manor before at her leisure–or better said, having never trusted her surroundings enough to explore fully, Hermione couldn't have known that the blue salon room was also Narcissa's sanctuary.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," Hermione inclined her head respectively from her position next to the immense windows that overlooked the south garden.

"The Lady of the house can never disturb with her presence," Narcissa bowed her head slightly, and Hermione was thrown. There was a level of deference that Hermione didn't understand.

"I'm not sure I know much about being a Lady of a house," she responded self-deprecatingly.

"That is not what ails you," Narcissa wisely pointed out haughtily.

"Draco told me about his prophecy," Hermione looked out the window again. Twilight was upon them; its colorful truffle of hues a dazzling decadence that made the England fog almost whimsical. "He hid something monumental from me, and though I know I should be glad he's finally told me...it feels like a betrayal somehow."

There was something stirring in the elder Mrs. Malfoy's eyes that spoke of trouble to come, but Hermione couldn't begin to decipher what it meant or concerned.

"He is a Malfoy," Narcissa pursed her lips, clearly annoyed at something, though Hermione couldn't fathom what. She sat on a chair that was beautiful with a series of intricate designs, but was surely abominably uncomfortable. "Malfoy men play everything close to the vest–it is simply in their nature. It cannot be helped. But do not doubt that my son loves you–it is evident in everything he does. However, love and trust are not the same."

"That's what he said," Hermione shook her head. She couldn't accept that kind of thinking. That wasn't how she'd always thought love worked. That wasn't the way love worked between friends, so why should it work any differently between lovers?

Silence consumed them, and it was strange to be so at peace in the presence of Mrs. Malfoy. But they were both Mrs. Malfoy now, and somehow the night of the winter solstice had changed everything between them.

It was a peace that Hermione felt humbled by, though she didn't really know why. But peace was a fragile thing, easily shattered when Bellatrix Lestrange's demented eyes locked onto hers as she entered the salon.

"Well, well, well," Bellatrix sneered, and Hermione tensed. Narcissa tensed as well, though she didn't move from her station. "Should I be offended that no one invited me to tea?"

"The Lady of the house may invite and uninvite as she chooses," Narcissa stated ambiguously with aplomb. Hermione's lips twitched, but she thought it was wiser to say nothing and show no emotion.

"Of course," Bellatrix's eyes were once again trained on Hermione, but Hermione didn't turn away. She looked at this woman whose love for Voldemort was practically legendary, and wondered who she used to be–before Azkaban and Dementors had transformed her into what Hermione saw today.

"How is my Lady?" Bellatrix's words were like acid hanging in the air, poisonous though seemingly innocuous with its clear existence.

"I'm very well, thank you," Hermione tried to appear unruffled. Being a Malfoy is about entitlement, after all. "How are you and your husband? Enjoying the festivities this time of year?"

Hermione meant to punctuate how relaxed she was, but what she couldn't know was that she'd just reminded Bellatrix of her ascension to Queen, a status far above her. Bellatrix's onyx eyes were ablaze with indignity and a fury born from living a life lacking freedom while believing in one's superiority.

"Quite, though not as well as we would've, considering all the movement," Bellatrix snarled. The manic gleam in her eyes was worrisome, but she was still in control. She turned to Narcissa. "How's my brother-in-law? Reeling from handing over the baton so soon?"

"Bella," Narcissa barked sharply.

"What? He's not high hippogriff anymore," Bellatrix smirked cruelly. "I can say as I please."

Hermione watched the exchange with curious and sharp eyes. She knew there was something huge that she was missing, but she wasn't sure. Perhaps

"Be that as it may, this is still Malfoy Manor, and all Malfoys are to be given due respect," Narcissa said firmly. It was clear that she was not amused by Bellatrix's dig, and wouldn't stand for it. Hermione could respect that. She wouldn't have let anyone badmouth Draco in their home, either.

Narcissa reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley in that moment: fiercely protective of her own.

"As you wish, dear Cissy," Bellatrix turned and laughed unrestrained. Her laughter brought chills down Hermione's spine, and goosebumps broke out on her arms.

Bellatrix was terrifying, and with a smug smirk widely spread on her face, she knew it.

"Aw, did I startle the ickle Mudblood," Bellatrix taunted Hermione. Narcissa gasped, and went to reprimand Bellatrix but Hermione was quick to respond.

"Any Lady would be startled by feral beings," Hermione raised her nose in the air much like she'd seen Narcissa do. Draco, too, had that habit when swimming in his own sense of superiority, and though Hermione was not naturally haughty, she needed it like an armor against those who would demean her.

"A Lady? Ladies are strong! You're no Lady! You're weak," Bellatrix bared her teeth. "Look at you, bowing before Draco. Here, awaiting his presence! I could never bow to a man!"

"Says the woman who chases after the Dark Lord's tale!" Hermione snapped back. She wouldn't be cowed, especially not by her.

Bellatrix leapt towards her, wand drawn, face enraged. Neither Narcissa nor Hermione had a chance to react, before Bellatrix's wand was up against Hermione's throat.

"Bella!" Narcissa snapped. "Remember who you are! Remember your place!"

Her words just infuriated Bellatrix further, but beyond the haze of madness and bloodlust, Bellatrix knew that she could not harm her Queen. There was no telling what consequences Regicide would have, but no doubt it would be horrific. In the end, however, it was Hermione's wide eyes that prompted Bellatrix to lower her wand.

It was the eyes of a child–someone who had yet to realize how unfree they were; Somehow, disgustingly, she saw herself, who she'd been, reflected in her queens gaze.

Hermione took fast shallow breaths, her adrenaline pumping in her veins from fear. She wanted to step back, step away from the psychotic Death Eater, but even now, she couldn't back down. Her hand was poised to grab her wand from her pocket. Bellatrix saw this in her eyes too, and shook her head, unsurprised. Gryffindor Mudbloods.

Bellatrix stepped closer and whispered in her ear, "A crown won't make you his equal. It won't make you strong. You'll never be anything other than a mudblood, too weak to realize fully the magic in your veins, and too stupid to understand that men can't protect anything. Too insipid to recognize that men only destroy. Too blinded by your ickle feelings to grasp that the more Draco loves you, the worse off you'll be."

Bellatrix turned and walked away. She hated everything that Hermione was, her existence clawed at Bellatrix's intestines; this was hate in its purest form, but Hermione was also her queen now. So, in honor of that title that could not be stripped away from her now that it was done, Bellatrix gave her queen the only gift she could–truth. It was the same truth she was given once upon a time and didn't understand. Whether or not Hermione heeded her warning was no skin off her bones. She'd much rather the mudblood dead, but a miserable Queen had a habit of making everyone else miserable, and Bellatrix wasn't blind to the power she held over her life.

A crown won't make you his equal.

It won't make you strong.

Too stupid to understand that men can't protect anything.

Too insipid to recognize that men only destroy.

Too blinded by your ickle feelings to grasp that the more Draco loves you, the worse off you'll be.

A crown won't make you his equal.

Bellatrix's words reverberated in their minds; Hermione and Narcissa could only stand and watch her fade into the distance in silence, the cold air she left behind seeping into their bones and hearts; they had nothing to say because they both knew that she might be right, though Hermione had no clue how important that crown that'd been placed on her head the night of the Winter Solstice truly was.

It took Bellatrix 365 day before she finally accepted that her Lord wasn't coming to get her. She was trapped and isolated despite all the prisoners in cells surrounding her.

She had finally accepted that her lord might be truly gone, and she wept. She wept for the desolation that she knew she'd always feel.

Augustus Rookwood, who was in the cell across from her looked at her with haunted eyes. He could see that she'd finally accepted her plight. Now that she had nothing left to lose, Rookwood couldn't help but ask the question that'd been burning inside for so long.

"Why'd you do it? Why go after the Longbottoms?"

Bellatrix looked up, her eyes sparkling like the North Star. If it'd been the day before she would've ignored him, focused solely on breathing through the grief that her Lord was alone, possibly injured, somewhere in the universe waiting for her to return to his side. If he'd asked her the day after, she would've ignored him, too consumed by her grief at the possibility that her Lord was truly dead.

But at that exact moment, Bellatrix had nothing but the truth in her heart.

"I needed someone to pay."

"But why Longbottom? Why not Lupin or Dumbledore?"

Bellatrix's voice was hoarse as she closed her eyes and remembered. "Because Longbottom told me once when he heard I was marrying Rodolphus that I was pretty, too pretty to squander my life away for a man that wasn't capable of loving me right. That I could find a better husband to be a wife to."

"So you went after him for revenge?"

"He told me I was pretty, as though my beauty belonged to him. As though I lived to serve a man."

"You served the Dark Lord," Rookwood pointed out.

Bellatrix smiled, chest constricting as a dementor swept past her. "But he wasn't a man," she whispered. Her worst and best experiences flashed across her mind. "He was a god."

Lucius stood at the fireplace, arm bent on the mantle, his other hand nursing the finest bourbon French wizards had to offer. It tasted like honey, and he was grateful; he needed something to remove the sourness from his mouth.

"You sent for us, Father?" Draco walked in calmly with Hermione, Narcissa a step behind them. He'd barely gotten back from his time with the Dark Lord when an elf had popped into the room, bidding him to Lucius' side. On the walk, he'd bumped into Narcissa and Hermione–and what a strange sight that was–who were just as clueless as he was about the sudden summons.

"Yes," Lucius gripped his glass tighter. "We need to have a family meeting."

"That sounds ominous," Draco joked.

Lucius glared at him, but said nothing. It was harder than he thought, living to see his son be king. He'd gotten so used to rebuking Draco whenever and however he thought was necessary, that now that it was unseemly to do so without respect, the adjustment period was making him rather irritable.

"The House of Malfoy is playing a dangerous game," Lucius said darkly. Narcissa took the seat closest to him, while Hermione went to the window. Draco threw himself on the couch with an air of arrogance so pure that it was clear he'd been born and bred in such splendor. Lucius glared at Draco, "And these are not the times to be so flippant."

"I am anything but flippant, Father," Draco inclined his head respectfully.

"Good, because the Dark Lord has sent me a message." They all looked at him expectantly, and though he hated Hermione's presence, it was a moot point now. She was his queen, part of his legacy as much as Draco. She needed the constant reminders of her place, as a Malfoy. Being here for this conversation did that–cemented her place among them. So she could never forget, that if they burned, she'd burn with them. "The Dark Lord has amassed a large enough army to storm the Ministry. "

"He's had a large enough presence in England to storm the Ministry for a while now," Draco leaned his elbows on his knees, tense. "What's changed today?"

"He feels the time is upon us to start preparing to take the Ministry in a battle."

Narcissa gasped, but Lucius didn't look away from Draco.

"How long do we have before he attacks?" Hermione asked, panic shining in her eyes.

"Not long," Lucius pursed his lips. Regardless of how necessary it was to make his Queen feel as much a part of them, it still irked him to have to address her at all. Hermione was too flabbergasted at the news to pay attention to Lucius's clear discomfort.

"This is insane," Hermione covered her mouth in horror. "He can't just–he can't, can he?"

"The Dark Lord is great," Lucius said as though it was all the explanation needed. Perhaps for Death Eaters it was. But not for Hermione. Never for her.

"You can't just let this happen," Hermione turned to Draco.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What, pray tell, am I supposed to do exactly?"

"Choose a side!" she practically shouted, frustrated and afraid for their future. "Your prophecy is a beacon of light if you'd let it be."

Draco locked eyes with his father, and turned his back on Hermione. "Fate has already decided who'll win."

"That's such bull and you know it!"

"Leave us," Draco asked his parents. They nodded, and slipped out of the room as though they were never there. "You can't just push like that, Granger. Not in front of my father. His mind is more open to the Dark Lord's perusing than mine. He is not as trusted as I am–he gets screened more often."

"I thought he was a part of the inner circle?"

"He is, which is why he gets periodically checked. The higher you are in the ranks, the greater your position, the more your secrets must be laid bare at the feet of the Dark Lord."

"So asking you to choose a side in front of him–?"

"Can be very dangerous. Legilimency cannot give you suspicions, only memories and impressions of those memories–feelings. You know that, but still…"

"Why do you serve someone who makes you kneel?" Hermione asked him honestly.

"Because when you do kneel, he makes you rise," Draco thought of his retraining earlier. He remembered the feeling of being weightless and torn. "He makes you greater than you had ever thought you could be."

Hermione shook her head. "So that's the price for greatness? Inaction? You have to sit idly by as the world crashes and burns around you? Because if you don't do something, it'll be a slaughter. But you have a chance," she began to plead. "Your prophecy means that you have a chance to change the current of this war. I know you want to do the right thing. I know that you do. You just need to be brave enough to make the right choice."

"Fate has already decided who will win," Draco repeated solemnly.

But they both knew it was a cop out–a way to not have to choose a side at all.

Hermione sighed disappointedly and began to walk towards the grand doors. "You're better than this."

"What are you going to do, Granger?" Draco grabbed Hermione's wrist as she walked past him. He asked, but he already knew. There was never another option, because Hermione Malfoy would always be Hermione Granger and Harry Potter's best friend. Though Draco may love her, he didn't need her–not like Harry did, and that would always take precedence for her, despite how much she denied it.

He knew because he'd spent plenty of time in her head, learning her secrets and watching her accept her truths. Occlumency had afforded him a deeper understanding of his wife than he wished to have sometimes.

She might never say it, but she needed to be needed more than she ever needed to be loved. Helping the Order, helping Harry, ensured that everyone remembered why Harry needed her so much. It reminded everyone of her value, beyond moral support or Horcrux collecting.

What are you going to do, Granger?

"You already know," she responded calmly.

He did, but he wished he didn't.

"Go," Draco whispered after a moment, and let her go. As he watched her walk briskly away, he wondered what possessed him to turn such a blind eye.

He thought of His mother's sad eyes.

He thought of Bellatrix's manic laugh.

He thought of Hermione's blood soaked hands washing his clothes, and tear stained face.

He thought of the Dark Lord's words: Love is a drop in the ocean of emotions. Go repair yourself in the arms of the woman who loves you. How is Mrs. Malfoy?

He thought of his declarations: I love you back. Fucking Forever.

Draco realized that he didn't want to love her so much he broke her. But he was a Death Eater, and he wasn't sure he could love without leaving destruction in his wake. But he would try.

He would try, for her.

A.N – So what do you guys think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**