Hello fanfic enthusiasts, it's always lovely to get to know a new handful of you with a new story. If you're a returning reader of my work – YAY! If you're here to harass me about finishing my other fics … *hides in corner* I swear I have an explanation. One of my best friends, shieldofiron (her dramione is wonderful check it out), asked me to write her this fic as her holiday present. I, of course, obliged! I have a beta on this but she doesn't have an account. All you need to know is she's great and saves you from a lot of typos. As always, JoRow is a god and I couldn't take credit for her work if I wanted to. Please REVIEW! I hope you like it.

THEN

Year eight was something of a test for post-war Hermione, for within mere seconds of stepping foot on the grounds she discovered she would not only be co-heads with Draco Malfoy but that they'd be sharing a dorm as well. Two rooms. One bathroom. One common room. One small, claustrophobic space. It wasn't as if she hated Malfoy, on the contrary, if the war had taught her anything, it was that she simply hadn't the energy or ignorance to blindly hate anymore. Too much death, too much unhappiness. When, she thought, had everyone stopped looking at each other as human beings? She'd had the whole summer holiday to mourn and grieve and grapple with things she'd done. All she really wanted to be was happy again.

Besides, as far as Malfoy was concerned, it was hard to hate someone that pathetic. He hardly spoke to anyone, much less made snide racist remarks. It was clear the war had done a bang up job on her former enemy and, truth be told, Hermione felt a bit sorry for him. Mostly, living with him had just been… awkward. Like, losing your virginity to your best friend, awkward. It'd been a month and they basically just brooded around one another, pretending the other didn't exist. Sometimes they'd do homework in the common room, you know, near each other. Once, Hermione asked him the page number for the positions homework. She didn't need it, of course, but the thick silence in the room was beginning to drive her as nutty as Lockhart.

He made a sort of grunting sound, acknowledging she'd spoken. That was something…right? Then he looked over her shoulder, snorted, and headed in the direction of his room.

"You're already on the page, by the way," he said. A low, gravely sound came from his throat, it could have been a laugh. "Smooth, Granger," he finished before shutting his door. Hermione had the decency to blush.

Hermione would have been willing to bet all the galleons to her name (not that there were many) that her cohabitant hardly even knew she existed. Well, until that day.

It was about a month or so into school. Hermione had been allowing herself an afternoon nap, something she rarely did, but this was meant to be her year of whimsy and Hermione always gave one percent commitment. So, on the afternoon in question, Hermione lay on her bed with a new novel in hand and when sleep pushed at her fluttering eyelids, she let them fall. She had been having a particularly interesting dream about the hero in her mystery novel when she heard the distant mention of her name. At first it was faint and infrequent and she brushed it off, returning to the handsome blonde in her fantasy. Then it happened again, a deep, resonant voice, muffled by the door. She woke instantly, wiping the grog from her eyes. Curiosity killed the cat, thin walls tempted curiosity. She promptly leapt off her bed and placed her ear to the door.

"Don't laugh, Pans," Hermione heard the deep voice say again. Now that she really listened, she unfortunately knew it well. The extended vowls, ugh, she could practically see the pretentious look on his face. It had to be Blaise Zabini on the other side of that door. "Granger's hot now," he went on. "It's whatever she's been doing with that hair of hers, lately. Far less frizzy, much more attractive." She should have been offended. She should have burst through the door and asked the shallow slytherin to find a better way to occupy his time. But she didn't. You see, it wasn't every day (or any day) that people called her hot and, as much as she hated to admit it, it felt kind of good.

She pet at her napped-on curls with a smirk on her face. She had discovered a foolproof method of taming them – let them grow out long enough so the weight of the curls overpowered their need to frizz up and out. It reached her elbows now, and she found she quite liked it that way, even if it was hell to comb out in the shower. And even if it did seem to draw unwanted attention from Blaise Zabini.

"Draco," Blaise continued, "tell me you haven't noticed her other new attributes. I dare say, the best thing about eighth year are the bodies of women forced into the uniforms of little girls." Hermione heard Pansy make an over dramatic barfing sound. On that, the two agreed. The Gryffindor thought she felt her lunch turn in her stomach.

"Draco obviously has higher standards than you, Blaise," rang a nasal whine that could belong to no other than Pansy Parkinson. "The only thing that's changed about the mudblood is a superficial interest in her appearance." Hermione's (un-muddy) blood boiled. She combed her room for her wand. She'd be damned if she was going to let Parkinson bring up that pureblood bullshit in her own room. "I don't know what makeup spells she's been using – "

"Shut up, Pansy!" Hermione heard a male voce say just as she was about to open the door.

"Draco!" Pansy gasped. "What's the matter with you?"

"I don't like that word, OK. It's juvenile." It sounded like Malfoy, it was certainly his unmistakable tone of distain, but could he really be defending her? Hermione wondered, briefly, if she were still in a dream.

"Since when?" Pansy demanded.

"Since when? Since we bloody lost a war and half our family because of something as stupid as liquid in veins. I could show you the blood stains on my parlor floor and you couldn't tell me if they were mine or hers." Malfoy was yelling now. Yelling in her name – Hermione Granger. It was very strange, to say the least. Somewhere during Malfoy's chastisement of Pansy, his voice had shifted from mildly annoyed to a fierce admonishment. It was making Hermione shiver and it wasn't even aimed at her.

"D-d-draco I'm sorry," Pansy stammered, Hermione felt the corners of her mouth quirk upwards.

"Means nothing to me," he replied. Perhaps he got embarrassed, Hermione pondered, thought he'd gone too far. "Voldemort's dead. You want to end up like him, keep saying shit like that," he ended finally. Maybe… he wasn't embarrassed at all.

"Yes, it's clear it means nothing to you, Draco," Blaise drawled sarcastically.

"She doesn't wear any makeup, by the way," Malfoy continued, attempting to steer them back to the original conversation.

"How would you know?" Pansy protested, her voice less surefooted than before. 'Serves you right,' Hermione thought.

"I share a bathroom with her," Malfoy said matter of fact. "I think – I don't know. I think she just naturally looks like that. It's kind of daunting, actually." Hermione felt herself blush. Yup, she was definitely still dreaming. Yet why she would dream about Malfoy saying such things, she didn't know.

"She can't have always been that way, right?" She heard Blaise say.

"You knows, she might have been," came Draco's voice again, "maybe we just missed it because she's so bloody annoying." Hermione groaned, that sounded more like reality.

"I'm bored of this conversation," Pansy complained in a voice that reminded Hermione of a child's. "I thought we were going to dinner."

"Awe, poor Pansy's feeling underappreciated because she's not the center of attention," Blaise mocked. Hermione almost blew her cover by laughing out loud.

"Fuck you, Blaise," Pansy said before Hermione heard the sound of their common room door close. She took a deep breath and slouched against her bedroom wall.

"What in Merlin's name did I just hear?" she asked herself, shaking her head.

That hadn't been the only time Hermione had witnessed Malfoy reveal an awareness of her beyond a grunt and a sneer. In fact, on one particularly unfortunate evening later that same month, Hermione found herself in the middle of a pissing contest between the slytherin and her boyfriend.

It had seemed a normal enough evening. Ron had snuck in to the castle to visit Hermione, something she always enjoyed, even if it did mean partaking in a lot more Hogshead food than she truly cared for. Stomach ache aside, she supposed it was worth it to get to see him and even Harry sometimes. She missed them terribly; being back at Hogwarts this year without them had turned out to be a trifle more lonely than she anticipated.

That night, Hermione and Ron were sitting in the common room in their usual position; Ron sitting on the couch, ranting about auror training, while Hermione laid with her head in his lap, telling him, more or less, to get over it. It wasn't the most exciting pastime in the world but it was warm, comforting and familiar.

At least it used to be comforting. That night Ron was fidgeting so much, it felt more like her head was resting on an agitated hippogriff rather than a person.

"Please, try to ignore him, Ronald," Hermione whispered. Ron had just jerked his head around to look at Malfoy for what seemed like the fiftieth time. The slytherin was elegantly draped across a small loveseat in the back of the common room.

Malfoy and Hermione had fancied that part of the room into something of a reading nook. The transformation of the space had been done with as little interaction as possible, of course. One would summon a shelf, the other a coffee table; and both happily placed their books in the space when it suited them. In fact, the book Malfoy was reading then was curiously one from Hermione's collection.

"I just don't understand why he can't go into HIS ROOM," Ron complained, the last bit loud enough for Malfoy to hear. That time, even Hermione looked back to see his reaction. Unsurprisingly, there was none. Same old expressionless Malfoy, wagging his foot as he turned the next page in his book. Though Hermione was sure that that little twinkle in his eye had not been there before.

"He's only doing this to get a rise out of you," Hermione said. "You've been around him long enough to know that. Just act as if he isn't there." Ron made a small grumble that sounded suspiciously like the word 'git', then readjusted himself in his seat.

"I'm hungry anyway, you ready to get something from Hogsmead?" Ron said. Hermione took a deep breath, giving him an apologetic face in return. "Oh no, Hermione, not again! You always do this. How is it possible that you're never hungry when I'm here?" Hermione was about to answer when Malfoy released an amused chortle.

"Something funny?" Ron glared at the slytherin.

"You, Weasley. Always you," he responded, eyes not leaving his book. "She's never hungry because you insist on bringing her your mother's tarts," Malfoy said. "You get here, you make – what I assume is – an attempt at kissing her then you force her eat a tart."

"What's it to you, Malfoy," Ron spat. His cheeks tinted a bit red.

"Means nothing to me, I just feel bad for her. Particularly since she doesn't even like them."

"Shows what you know," Ron said haughtily. Hermione was preoccupied with trying to conceal the truth. "My Mum's treacle tarts are Hermione's favorite. Always have been." Malfoy folded his book dramatically in his lap with his unmistakable grimace. Hermione gave him a warning stare that she greatly feared he wasn't taking seriously.

"Shall I tell him, love, or would you rather do the honors," Malfoy said smoothly to Hermione. She gave him the hardest look she could muster, it was hopefully something reminiscent of that joyous time when she slapped him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, jaw clenched.

"Don't you," he said with a full toothed grin. "So you do or don't give the leftovers to the house elves when he leaves?Are you receiving tarts from another location I'm unaware of?" Yes, Hermione thought, a swift smack would do him good. Though, it was Ron at the moment that looked like he'd taken the blow.

"I didn't want to make you feel bad," Hermione said hastily. "You love bringing those tarts and you're right, they were my favorites." She put a comforting hand on his red, freckled cheek.

"Were," he said, slouching in his seat.

"Perhaps, a full container every time you visit is a bit much," she said in her lighthearted, Hermione way.

"Yeah," Ron gave a shallow laugh. "I should've known you'd get tired of 'em after a while."

"Honest mistake," she said far too cheerfully.

"Since we seem to be in the mood for honesty," Malfoy began again. "You might also be curious to know that she doesn't want to go to the Chuddly Cannons match with you this Saturday or, really, any other Saturday in the future."

"Honestly, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped. She couldn't get him to say more than four words to her and suddenly he was chatty bloody Cathy.

"Have you been talking about me with him," Ron accused. "I don't want you talking about me to that – ferret!"

"Well that was original," Malfoy said under his breath at same time as Hermione's, "I can speak to whomever I please about whatever I please, Ronald Weasley." Ron's cheeks flamed.

"Trust me, Weasley, I have better things to do than waste my time gossiping about as dull a subject as you. It's plain, she hates quidditch. I don't even like her and I knew that. Do try to pay attention."

"That's not even a little bit true. Tell him, Mione!" Ron looked at Hermione and blushed further. Full on crimson, like the curtains in Gryffindor common room.

"I wouldn't necessarily say hate," she said, rubbing his arm. This sent Draco reeling. The unfamiliar sound of his laughter made Hermione feel unsettled in its infrequency.

"Why haven't you said anything?" Ron asked, sullen.

"Why should she have to," Malfoy began again. "It's only the most obvious thing aside from Dumbledore's flaming sexuality." Ron gave him a tired, confused look. "He was gay!" Malfoy sighed. "Bloody hell! There are times I look back on how much of an arse I was to the three of you, and I genuinely feel bad for the skewed images I had in my head. But, you, Weasley, you're just as thick as I always imagined."

Ron leapt at him, sinking a punch into Malfoy's jaw. Hermione, decidedly bored at the macho contest being held in her name, went to her bedroom door and cleared her throat.

"Let me know when you're done comparing pricks," she said, swinging her door open.

"No need, I'm clearly bigger," Ron shouted. Hermione actually gave herself a headache from the size of her eye roll.

The tart incident, as Hermione had taken to calling it, had been the last straw, as far as the slytherin was concerned. If he wanted to talk – fine – they were going to talk. That night she would resolve this Malfoy nonsense once and for all – and she would do it with chocolate!

It was around ten PM when Hermione had finally mustered the courage to do it. She was wearing the lucky pajama set her Mum got her for her fifteenth birthday. If she were honest, they were a bit snug now, in light of recent physical developments, but she felt she needed all the good fortune she could get. Deep breath. Cocoa in hand. And go!

Draco was studying on the main couch in front of the fire. He'd obviously been there awhile, Hermione noted, his shirt was a quarter unbuttoned and his hair all askew from running his hands through it.

"That's what you get for saving your potions essay to the last second. How many inches you have left," she asked. Idle chat – that was her plan? He looked up at her, lingered on her juvenile frog pajamas, then went back to his work without a word.

She sat one of the large mugs of cocoa she was carrying in front of him on the coffee table. He let out a deep exhale.

"What is this, Granger?" he asked.

"Hot chocolate," she replied innocently. She sat down next to him, taking a sip from her own mug. Draco's eyes lingered again on her nightclothes; it was beginning to make Hermione feel uncomfortable. He swallowed and turned away from her.

"What? Your boyfriend send you in here to poison me?" he asked, eying the mug before him. Hermione rolled her eyes…again. She switched their mugs and took a hearty gulp of the one originally intended for him. He watched her, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Either way," he straightened up, "I don't want any."

"There's Baileys in it," she offered with a smirk. He quirked an eyebrow, gingerly picked up the mug and took his own sip. Hermione was pleased.

"What're you playing at, Granger?" There was a bit of chocolate lingering on his lip. Hermione tried not to think about that as she formulated her proposition. It was more difficult than she would like to admit, his tongue poking out to capture the liquid. Malfoy gave her a harsh look, like his patience was wearing thin.

"Uhh, it's a peace offering, Malfoy," she said quickly, so as not to lose him.

"We are at peace," he said off-handedly, "We haven't fought once this year." He took another sip of his drink then went back to his books.

"We've also barely spoken three consecutive sentences with each other," she said. He stared into her hazel eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Did someone obliviate you?" He folded his hands in his lap. "I'm Draco Malfoy. You're Hermione Granger. Enemies, remember? You don't like me, I don't like you. That is about the only thing we agree on. Our mutual dislike for each other." She turned away from him, biting her lower lip. Merlin, he really was going to make her do all the work, wasn't he.

"One," she smirked, "don't flatter yourself, you are not and never have been my enemy. There were more important people worth my time." Hermione couldn't help but smile at the way Malfoy's jaw clenched. "Two, I don't even dislike you," she stated boldly. "Not anymore, anyway." Hermione's face was getting that expression on it, the one she got when she was sure she was right. "And… I don't think you hate me nearly as much as you tell yourself you do."

"Is that so?" he asked like it was, indeed, so. But Hermione refused to be dissuaded.

"Yes. It is. Uhhh…" she ran her hand up and down her exposed thighs, searching for something to say. Malfoy followed her movements. "Well!" She excitedly pointed in his direction, waking him from his blatant staring. "What about what you said to Ron today. It's a bit odd, don't you think, to pay that much attention to someone you're supposedly indifferent to. Hmm?"

"Not that odd," he said coolly. "I merely picked up on some obvious things about you that your boyfriend did not. Now, in other circumstances, yes, this would be considered odd behavior. But given the boyfriend in question…I'd say this is merely a case of me picking up something any person with half a brain would know if they spent any time in your general area. Say, seven years of school, for instance." Hermione turned to face the fire with an exasperated pout. Not her best debate strategy, even she had to admit. She could feel his smirk on her neck. Why did she want to be friends with Malfoy again?

"Ron's not as bad as all that, you know. He's not good at details, never has been. But he's kind and funny and smart, in his own way." Draco lifted his hands to the sides of his head in surrender.

"Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep with him," he intoned.

"Really?" Hermione said low, and menacing. She gave him a sideways glance that should have told him that remarks like that were unacceptable.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to talk more." He straightened himself out and brushed down his slacks like he was about to leave. "This has officially become not worth the booze." He stood to go but Hermione stopped him with a hand on his forearm and saddest look she hoped Draco had ever seen.

"Why are you so cruel to me?" she asked. Malfoy shivered like the interaction was making him uncomfortable.

"I ask you, again, do you remember who we are?"

"I should have known you were going to want to do this the difficult way," she said flatly. She let go of his arm and folded her own about her chest.

"I should have known you wanted something," he sneered. "Let's hear it, then. Is it galleons? Want me to invest in some ridiculous house elf foundation –"

"I already told you – I want peace. You can't give me that, why? You feel bad because your aunt tortured me on your parlor floor? Because you bullied me? Because your parents tricked you into thinking that my blood status had anything to do with my prowess as a witch? You feel guilty? Is it hard looking at me every day and remembering all that? Does my face remind you that your parents were bigoted death eaters and raised you to be one too? Is that an inconvenience to you? Tough. Grow up! If I can forgive you, you can forgive yourself." Malfoy's mouth gaped opened, a noticeable blush on his face as well. She puffed up confidently, lips pursed and waiting for his reply.

"What the fuck was that, Granger?"

"I think we should be friends," she said as plainly as if she'd suggested they ought to breathe.

"Why in Merlin's name, for all the reasons you just gave, would you ever want to be friends with me?" To his credit, it was a good question. One Hermione, herself, couldn't answer.

It had been a rough couple of months coming back to Hogwarts post war. Nothing was the same, and to top it all off, Ron and Harry had refused to come back with her. Ginny got asked to play quidditch professionally so she'd be taking her NEWTS without classes. Hermione was lonely and Draco was always there, looking as miserable as she felt most days. She didn't know what it was about him, kindred spirits, perhaps.

"Honestly, I have no idea," she said. "But somehow, I got it in my head that we should be. And I think you owe me to try." There is was, everything laid bare for him to take or refuse. She was out. Had nothing left. His response would mean the difference between this year being pleasant or unbearable.

And there he was, not answering. He just sat there, staring at his homework, light brows furrowed against his angular face.

"In the business of guilting people into your friendship, are you?" Malfoy said. Hermione gave him a disappointed look. "Sorry," he said quickly, "habit." There was a long moment of silence before he said: "So what now? We paint each other's nails or something." She snorted, a big embarrassing one reminiscent of a pigs, something about the image of Malfoy in Gillyweed Green.

"I think a toast would suffice." She lifted her mug. "Cheers, yeah?" Much to Hermione's shock, he lifted his as well.

"Cheers," he said, a little bit unsure. She looked at him with eyes the size of galleons.

"Really?" she questioned.

"Don't start doubting yourself now," he said with a smile. Hermione almost cringed, she didn't think she'd ever seen him smile for anything short of malicious intent.

"I would never," she said, clinking her glass against his. She grinned, taking a celebratory series of swigs from her mug. Malfoy did the same. Once they'd drained their first round, Hermione, feeling its effects, went to make the second.

"Hey, Granger," Malfoy said. He had just interrupted her diatribe about the incompetence of their new defense of the dark arts professor.

"Hmm," she responded, sleep and intoxication in her eyes. He was looking at her face inquisitively.

"Do you ever wear makeup?"

"Not really," she said, "Why? Are you saying I need it?"

"No, you don't. I was just wondering. I didn't think you did," he said pleased with himself. Hermione, fully remembering the conversation she'd overheard a couple weeks before, began to smile as well. Hopefully, he would assume it was the cocoa.

"Why?" she asked again, pushing her luck.

"No reason," he said casually. "So, what are you going to do about Weasley?"

"Don't go there, Malfoy," she said sternly. Well, as sternly as she could, strewn about the couch as she was.

"Fine," he said with a smirk. She hated that smirk, wanted to smack that smirk of his pretty face. This 'friends' thing was her idea, yes? "What would you like to talk about?" She looked down at his abandoned homework.

"We could talk about how you're not working on your potions essay at all. That's clearly an application for a professorship."

"What about it?" he asked, defensively. He quickly tried to collect the papers and books and hide them from Hermione.

"Nothing, only that it's not due for…years," she sang, teasingly.

"And," he said, "It's not like you haven't been working on your applications. I've seen the ministry packets in the nook. "

"Of course, I have," she said haughtily, "I only wonder what that says about you?"

"Swot's contagious," he joked. She wacked him in the arm. Hard. Then said:

"Professor Malfoy, that doesn't sound half bad."

And like that, they were friends. Real friends. If Hermione hadn't have been living it, she wouldn't have believed it either.

NOW

July was an abysmal month for Draco Malfoy. Two funerals, two brand new sets of robes he'll never wear again. He considered wearing the same set to hers as to his father's but he couldn't honor her in that way. Come to think, no one deserved to be put on the same level as his father – ever. You could tell that from the size of her crowd. It seemed the whole Wizarding World had come out to mourn their fallen hero. The brightest witch of the age, voice for the voiceless, the forgiver of the undeserving, the love of Draco's life.

Hermione Granger was dead and Draco had this horrible feeling in his gut that everyone else in the room thought that he would find that news pleasant. He tried to remain as anonymous as possible, hiding out in one of the abandoned rooms in the church. It was easy enough getting in, he simply had to side step past the odious witch making a display loud enough to distract from even the likes of Draco Malfoy.

"Went to Hogwarts at the same time as her, I did," he heard her say. "Didn't I, Frank?" The man she was with made an uninterested grunt as she proceeded to blow her nose dramatically for her audience. Draco swore he'd never seen the mousy, red faced woman in his life and was sure Hermione wouldn't have recognized her either. The witch ought to be ashamed, carrying on like that. Like any of those fame-seeking charlatans had any idea what she was really like. How much more there was to her than being Harry Potter's sidekick.

He angrily fisted the first doorknob he saw and threw himself into the room. Draco slammed his head on the frame once he'd reached the other side, letting out a breath that sounded more like a growl. The cool wood felt nice against his warm skin. Too nice, it almost relaxed him. Threatened to release all emotion he'd buried away.

"Hi," sounded a high-pitched chirp behind him. Draco turned with a start, looking around the small classroom for the source. It wasn't until he looked down that he saw the bright eyes of a little girl. She had white-blonde, frizzy curls that cascaded down her shoulders, big hazel eyes and a confident grin. There was no question whom she belonged to, the spitting image – well, apart from the hair color. Something lighter but more intense than a pain tugged at Draco's heart. Hermione had a baby- well, not quite a baby anymore, by the looks of her. That's when it hit him. The horrible truth that, he hadn't known Hermione either. Not these last five years. He was no better than Mouse Face back there.

"Hi," he said back instead, trying to shake the thought from his head.

"I don't think you're supposed to be in here," the girl responded resolutely. Draco almost laughed. Yes, she was most certainly Hermione's daughter.

"Probably not," he said, unable to look away from her. She was wearing a puffy black dress with a satin bow. It made him sad for her. Did she know her mother was dead? Did she know what death was? Draco didn't think he had at that age. "I like your dress," he lied.

"I don't," she pouted, pulling at the ends roughly. "It's itchy and I hate it." Draco grinned, he couldn't help it. There was something familiar about the way she pursed her lips, the way she ground her teeth in frustration when not getting what she wanted. "Aunt Ginny made me wear it."

Aunt Ginny, Draco repeated in her head. So she'd done it, Draco reasoned, shacked up with the Weasel. He wasn't surprised; a part of him always suspected she would. Unfortunately, with matters such as these, prior suspicion does nothing to quell the ache of confirmation.

When Draco focused back on the girl, she was staring at him with her head cocked to the side. He gave her a questioning look like she was supposed to say something, then remembered he was the adult. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to give them something to do.

"Uhh, what's your name?" he finally asked, awkwardly.

"Linnie," She said brightly. She gave him an approving head nod like she'd been testing him and he'd done something right.

"That's a bit weird, isn't it?" he blurted without thinking. He hadn't much experience with children, after all. Thankfully, the girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Mum told me it means…bright serpent," she put a stubby finger to her lips, "that's supposed to be a secret, so don't tell." Draco gaped at her. Bright serpent, what was she playing at? There was no way Hermione or Weasley, for that matter, would name their daughter… well, not unless – no. This girl was much too small and – bloody hell, she had his hair…. And his pout! The room suddenly seemed quite small indeed. Draco's heart began to race, sweat starting to ruin his new robes.

"Linnie," Draco began, "How old are –" but before he could finish the sentence, he heard the far too familiar sound of the wizard's funeral march. "Uh…bye," he said quickly. He'd never forgive himself if he missed a second of the ceremony. Like Hermione would somehow know he was late and give him a stern lecture about it after it was all over. But it was, in fact, all over and there would be no lecture. No self-righteous tirade about the selfishness of tardiness. At the end of the day there was only Draco, without even the hope that they'd be together again.

A week later had found him fidgeting in a ministry office next to none other than Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Ginny. They looked old, like adult, fake versions of themselves. It reminded Draco of when he finally saw Hermione again, after all those years.

It was only in pictures at the funeral, but still. She'd looked like joy personified, clutching the little girl he'd met in her arms. He remembered he was glad to see she found some happiness before she … Well, he didn't much like to think about it.

"We're here about her will, right, so what the bloody hell is Malfoy doing her?" The male Weasley asked in a tone he obviously presumed was a whisper. He presumed wrong.

"Merlin, Ron, he's right here," Ginny chastised her brother.

"I don't care if he hears," he said gruffly. "Oi, Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Draco turned to the redhead. Weasley had b uffed out since school, favored the build of his dragon brother over the lankier variety. Draco began to wager his chances of beating him in a fight. They were not good odds. Fucking aurors.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Weasley." Ron looked at him suspiciously, as did Potter.

"Sorry I'm late," a pretty young witch said as she edged her way into her office. She was carrying a rather large stack of papers. Draco recognized her from school. An older Gryffindor girl, Alicia Spinnit. "Given the unfortunate circumstances, the turnaround was quick and, as you can see, Hermione's will was more than a bit extensive."

"No surprise there," Potter said with a melancholy chuckle. Draco actually felt sorry for the git, there was no end to his suffering. The rest of his family wasn't enough, the world had to go and take Hermione away as well.

"Well, she was nothing if not thorough," Alicia agreed. Draco thought that was the understatement of the century. He sat there for about an hour listening as an endless list of objects and memories got passed to the other three people in the room. It was like they were ripping her apart before him, all the beautiful things that made her, her, distributed like empty pieces of her soul. It was beginning to make him sick.

"And finally," Alicia continued to read. Her voice hoarse. "I leave the care of my beloved daughter, Linnie, to Draco Lucius Malfoy." His heart stopped, he thought he must have heard wrong but Alicia was looking right at him. "May you love her as – "

"What?!" Ron Weasley roared. His whole face was red with what seemed to be anger and confusion. Draco couldn't blame him, he was undergoing a similar reaction himself. "That doesn't make any sense, he doesn't even know her!" He pointed an accusing finger at Draco. Well, Weasley was clearly not the father.

"I'd always wondered," Harry began faintly. "The blond hair…"

"What are you on about?" Ron said, turning his attention to his best friend.

"She's left this for the three of you. She knew this would be a shock." Alicia said, handing Potter and Weasley a red envelope. Potter took it and opened it. It lifted in the air and opened like a mouth.

"Sorry about the howler. My three favorite boys in one place again, the world never thought it would happen," sounded the eerily beautiful voice of Hermione Granger. Draco felt the pull at his heart again. "I should call you men," she said from beyond the grave. "Hopefully, we're all grown now." Everyone in the room looked near tears, even Alicia. "I'm sorry for lying and for keeping this from you. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right to any of you. Take comfort in the fact that I had my reasons. Draco, I can't begin to consider what you think of me but I've written a letter explaining it all. Ron, Harry, I love you so much! And you two have been the best dads to Linnie but (and listen because I know you won't want to hear it) I think she is better left with her biological father, Draco. I have an abundance of faith in him and I would not make this decision lightly so fight the urge to fight me and trust that I know what I'm doing." The tone was so typically bossy that Draco almost forgot to process what he'd just heard. "I trust you to not make this any harder on Linnie than it has to be. And because I'm worried I didn't get to say it – I love and miss you!" That was the end, Draco's body jerked when he watched the paper slice itself into a million little pieces.

"Linnie's my- my… Daughter?" Draco asked Ginny. She had to know, after all the howler was clearly not addressed to her. Not to mention her body language bore no sign of surprise.

"Yes," Ginny said, not meeting his eye.

"You knew?" Potter said to his wife.

"What did you do to her?" Ronald spat at Draco. "I mean, Hermione would never… with you." Draco stood, fury boiling in the pit of his stomach.

"Watch what you're insinuating, Weasley!" Weasley countered his stance. Alicia looked like she was at a loss for what to do.

"A bit defensive aren't you, Malfoy." Draco's wand was out and pointed at Weasley before the redhead had even finished the last syllable of his name.

"RON," Harry bellowed, lost in thought. "Sit down and calm down. Do you honestly believe that Hermione would leave her daughter to someone who did that to her?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore," he responded. But he did sit down.

"I do wonder," Potter continued. "Is this really what's best for Linnie? Ron's right, she doesn't know Malfoy. They've never even met."

"We've met. Once," Draco said distantly. "She has my pout." Draco watched as realization had hit Weasley. "I didn't know at the time. Not really." He took in a deep breath. "I agree with Potter," Draco said, shakily, like he never expected the words to come out of his mouth. "I don't know the first thing about raising a kid. About kids in general."

"Well then you'll learn, Malfoy," Ginny said sternly. "This is what Hermione wanted. She was the most rational, loving, clever person I knew and she said she wanted her daughter to be with his father. So that's what's going to happen. Draco, you won't be doing it alone. We'll be here to help you." Her brother looked like he was going to argue, but she gave him a fierce look and he quieted. "Now, Alicia please continue. There is a very confused little girl down stairs who would probably appreciate it if we got this sorted before she graduated Hogwarts."

"Ummm," Alicia spluttered. She picked up yet another letter and handed it to Draco. It was thick and heavy. "Here's the letter she spoke of. As for the rest of the will, I guess it must be directed to Linnie's guardian – father." She began reading again. "To my darling Linnie, I leave all my cherished books, with the hope that they'll take you on as many adventures as they did me. I leave you, also, the galleons in my vault at Gringotts and our home in Surry." Alicia put down the paper. "Mr. Malfoy," she said lightly. He shook from his daze and looked up at the woman. "She asked that you continue to raise Linnie in the house in Surry, as to make an easier transition." Draco nodded.

"Of course."

"Great. Well, the only thing left to do is for you to sign the birth certificate acknowledging your parental guardianship." Draco nodded. Alicia placed the birth certificate in front of him. His name was written in ink, faded, just as hers was. She kept this from him.

He dipped his quill into the ink, anyway, and signed. Nowhere near ready for the responsibility of that action.

Draco hadn't said one word to Linnie since he'd found out she was his… daughter. He'd let Ginny explain all that needed explaining in terms of why a complete stranger would be staying at her home with her while her mother was away. Away, that was apparently the story they were going with. Draco hated it. All his parents did was feed him lies. He hadn't given much thought to having children but one thing he'd always been sure of was absolute honestly. He didn't want to argue, though, because he didn't feel he'd earned his right to have an opinion on the matter yet. The matter being a living, breathing, child. What in Salazar's name was he thinking – was Hermione thinking – he couldn't raise this girl. Merlin, and now Ginny had left them alone together, in the Surry house.

He'd only seen the fireplace and the living room, but it already looked like Hermione. It was small and inviting. While the walls may have been white, the furniture was anything but; there were tons of beautifully patterned pillows, lamps and wall hangings. And pictures too, so many pictures! Some weren't even moving, Malfoy assumed those were the muggle variety.

"Aunt Ginny says you're my Dad," Linnie said after a while. Draco jumped a little, he had actually forgotten she was there. Yes, things were off to a wonderful start.

"Uhh… yeah, I am," Draco said looking down at her. She did look an awful lot like him, not more than she did Hermione, but it was still striking. How had he missed it before: her soft bulbed nose that was all his and nothing like Hermione's slender one, she even had his almost drooping tear-shaped eyes.

"You don't sound sure," she said smartly. Draco would have laughed if he didn't feel like he was failing another one of her tests.

"I'm sure," he responded quickly.

"Hmm," she huffed. She arched both her eyebrows and began to circle him, hands behind her back. Draco stood up taller. "I thought I didn't have a real Dad. Like my cousin Teddy. He doesn't have a real Dad or a Mum. They're both dead. But he's got Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny. I have Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron."

"And me," Draco said. He didn't know where the words were coming from but they felt like the right ones to say. "You've got a real Dad, too." She shook her head at him.

"My cousin, Vic, has a real Dad and he knows her. You don't know me, so you can't be my real Dad." Of course, their child would be the most logical five year old on the planet.

"What's your other name?" she asked. She stopped circling him.

"What?" he said.

"Mum's other name is, Hermione!" she offered, rolling her eyes as if he were slow. Cheeky little thing, isn't she.

"Oh," he faltered. "It's Draco."

"That's what I'll call you for now," Linnie said. She primly turned on her heals and marched away from him in direction of what looked like the kitchen. "You're on a Dad trial," she shouted from ahead. "Keep up." Draco hustled to follow her. He'd never been so intimidated by a human that barely made it to his hip before.

"I'm on a what?" he asked when he'd reached her.

"A trial. Like a test," she gave him the look like he was dumb again. Draco tried not to be offended. "Mum puts me on trial all the time. I need to make sure you're good at this whole Dad thing before I'm fully invested." That was it, Draco's jaw practically dropped to the floor. She was a bloody grown woman in a baby body.

"How old are you?"

"Five and three quarters," she grinned, holding out the appropriate fingers. It was the most childlike thing she'd done since he'd met her.

"You're clever, aren't you?" he asked, a fair bit of pride in his voice. If only that pesky pain would stop pulling at his heart.

"Very," she said, plainly. "Do you accept my trial?" She held out a small, pale hand.

"I think I'd better," he said. And this time, he did allow a slight chuckle. He took her hand with the tip of his.

"Me too." She gave the hand a hard shake, jumping up to do it. "This is the kitchen, by the way. I'm not supposed to be in here without an adult," she said. Draco nodded.

Linnie happily showed Draco around the rest of the house, not that there was much house left. They went down the narrow hall and into a little room that Linnie said was called The Study. As Draco looked upon stack after stack of books, novels, and ancient texts, he couldn't help but think of Hermione's will; she'd said "I leave all my cherished books, with the hope that they'll take you on as many adventures as they did me."

The slytherin looked down at the girl and ran a hand through his blonde locks, seemingly heavy with the weight of sadness for her. How was he ever going to tell Linnie about her Mother, he thought. And then came the perhaps more selfish speculation, how would he ever be enough compared to Hermione Granger?

He hadn't much time to linger on it, however, because he began to feel the tails of his robes pull beneath him. Linnie had a wide smile on her face, holding up a small, tattered old book of what looked to Draco like children's stories.

"The Tales of Beetle the Bard, they're Mum and my favorites!" the girl said cheerfully.

"I know them well," Draco responded, kneeling to her level and taking the book from her hands.

"You've read them too?" she asked looking suspicious.

"Oh yes," he said, with and exaggerated head nod. "Many times." He gave her a questioning stare out of the corner of her eye. "Can you keep a secret?" he whispered. Her eyes narrowed and sparkled with the thrill of mischief Draco recognized.

"I'm the best at secrets," she said darkly.

"Well," he began, "when I was your age, my father had no tolerance for – "

"What's that word mean?" she asked with a wrinkle in her brow. "The one with a 'T'."

"Tolerance," he repeated. "Oh, uhh, it means – "

"You shouldn't use words if you don't know what they mean," she chastised. "Mum says that's how witches and wizards get into trouble."

"Perhaps," Draco said with a pout, "But I know what it means. I was just figuring out how to explain it to a little thing like you."

"I'm little, my brain is not," she said sharply. Draco reared back.

"Alright then," he surrendered, hands on either side of his head. "Tolerance is like…the acceptance or liking of something. So, if my father had no tolerance of something then he doesn't like it at all. Do you understand?" She bit her lower lip in concentration then shook her head, embarrassed.

"Oh, that's my fault, I'm not explaining it well. Let's see. How about an example?" Her face seemed to brighten. "You, just a minute ago, had zero tolerance for me calling you little."

"Oh, I get it now. It's just like you have a small tolerance for Mum." Draco lurched upwards, losing his balance and falling on his bum.

"That's not true," he almost yelled. "That's the furthest thing from true!" His hands clenched into fists and the pain in his heart forced his eyes closed.

"Then why," her voice was very small, "do you look so sad when I talk about her? When you see her picture?"

"I –"

"Why did you stay away?" she said. Draco was struck by the look on her face. Her teardrop eyes glistened and the corners of lips turned down.

"Hey," he said helplessly. "I never finished telling you the secret." She turned to him, that look of disappointment in her eyes.

"Ok," she said finally.

"My Father, he didn't like things for children. I didn't have any books like this," he held out the book for her, she did not take it. "No toys. But sometimes, my Mother and I would get all dressed in disguises and sneak to the public library and she'd read to me for hours. All those stories." Draco felt a hand on his shoulder.

"I have no tolerance for your Father," she said with a smile. Draco laughed.

"Another secret," he scrunched up his nose, "me either." She giggled.

"Draco, are you a professor?" Draco chuckled, actually chuckled.

"No. What would make you ask that?" She turned away, hiding her face from him.

"I just think you would be a good one is all," she said very fast.

"Do you now?" he asked. He awkwardly attempted ruffling her hair;he'd seen other fathers do that to their children. Linnie didn't like it much. In fact, she swatted at his hand and Draco felt a familiar sting. A smirk formed on his pale face; that was not his first slap from Granger girl, after all.