AN: First of all, I want to take the time to say I really hope you are doing well, wherever you are, whatever has happened in these past few months. It's a crazy time. Please look after yourself and those you love, and stay safe.

I'm sorry this chapter took so long. My uni term was moved online so I've been really busy with online classes, essays and reading. Then, lockdown was a stress in and of itself. I don't blame you if you thought this fic was finished or abandoned! But it's not! This fic will get the ending both it and you deserve. One more thing: very random but it was something that struck me – I watched The Man from U.N.C.L.E recently (I LOVED IT) and the relationship between Gaby and Illya reminded me of the Dramione dynamic! Although I should NOT be starting any new fanfics, I might log it for a later idea… Harry and Draco as the spies, with Hermione as Gaby… It's my favourite trope ~ going from strangers to enemies to grudging acquaintances to intrigue to crush to cannot-live-without-one-another. Perfect. We love a slow burn.

One final thing: despite the books not specifying it, I'm going to go with film canon that Hermione's scar spells out 'MUDBLOOD', just because it adds high quality angst.

Chapter Thirty Five – Gold

The Ministry atrium was decked in gold. Silken banners hung from the beams, cascading down the walls in a victorious river of liquid gold, golden statues of man and wizard in harmony stood on pedestals, and gold framed portraits of those among the honoured lined the walls. There were people everywhere, in robes of every colour under the rainbow, dresses that swirled along the tile; both Ministry workers and former members of the Order of the Phoenix had congregated to celebrate the key figures of the war. Hagrid shuffled bashfully in a corner, in his moleskin suit and frilly pink shirt, standing beside the surviving Weasley twin, whose hair had grown slightly to become uneven tufts of vibrant orange. He wasn't smiling, but the ghost of his old grin flickered across his face as he murmured to Hagrid about the men and women who passed them by. Hagrid twisted his hands, but occasionally, his booming laugh would echo around the atrium, and heads would turn his way; his cheeks blushed red, and George hid his triumph behind his drink. Molly and Arthur flitted about, chattering away, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that their son was among the honoured, pointing out his portrait and sharing stories from his childhood. Ron had not regained his normal colour since arriving, his cheeks and ears as bright as the pink champagne, and Ginny took great glee in reminding him just what shade he remained every time she glided past. Bill and Fleur were a vision, like something of a Renaissance painting, the scars on Bill's face disappearing into the creases of his smile. Hermione awkwardly drifted from one group to the next, gently coerced into a conversation with anyone who caught sight of her, each wanting their moment with the brains of the Golden Trio.

Draco watched the scene from his place near the first Floo entrance, drink in hand. It was his fourth in under an hour.

"Is this so you can make a quick getaway?"

Raising an eyebrow, Draco turned and saw Harry. He wore an easy grin, one hand in his robe pocket, but Draco noticed the tension in his shoulders, the strain by the corners of his eyes. "Seems like you have a similar idea," he replied, sipping his drink and grimacing as it burned his throat.

Harry's smile faltered. "Large crowds still make me nervous," he said quietly. "This place, too… Nothing good happened here."

Draco's eyes flicked around the hall, remembering the old emerald tiles, the 'WANTED' posters that had littered every surface, the statues of ongoing oppression; those had been the first to come crumbling down when hatred and fear were defeated. Somehow, though, he could still see their outlines, as though they had been scorched into the earth as a reminder of the blood on their hands. Just because it had dried didn't mean it wasn't there. Draco clenched his fist shut when he thought he felt something drip between his fingers. He took another sip of his drink.

But all he drawled was, "The gold not doing it for you, Potter? Didn't they take the inspiration from your house?"

Harry chuckled. He scratched the back of his neck, where Ginny had tied a ponytail in an attempt to tame his unruly hair. "Bit garish for me actually."

"I see you haven't cut the rat tail yet," said Draco, pursing his lips. "Weasley not snipped it in your sleep?"

"I know you mean Ron," he said, rolling his eyes and grinning. "But no. The ponytail lives on."

Draco smirked slightly, but as he looked out at the atrium, his eyes glazed over and his expression became distant. Then, he muttered, "I don't like crowds either."

Harry looked at him, and Draco glanced sidelong. Harry reached up and clasped his shoulder, tightly, briefly, before he let go.

"How's the teaching life treating you, Professor Malfoy?" he asked. "Hermione tells me you're a pro. Any troublemakers?"

"You mean any Potters, Weasleys and Grangers 2.0s? No. Thank Merlin. Though I can see why Snape was such a grumpy git all the time. It's enough to drive a man insane."

"I'll try not to be offended," said Harry.

Draco scoffed. "I don't know how you can take offense from anything I have to say when your face has been blown up on the walls of the bloody Ministry."

Harry was quiet for a moment or two, before a heavy sigh dropped from his lips. "None of that matters," he said quietly. "I'd sooner be anywhere else in the world than here. Ginny had to force me to come. If it was up to me, displays like this would be cancelled altogether. This isn't healing. It's just reopening old wounds."

Draco glanced at him. "I thought you'd be used to all this by now," he said. "The fame. Everybody wanting a piece of The Boy Who Lived Not Once But Twice…"

Harry laughed slightly, but the sound was breathy and pained. It sounded like he spoke through his teeth when he admitted, almost wistfully, "I'd give anything to be a nobody, Malfoy."

Draco swallowed thickly. "Me too, Potter."

They looked at one another, suddenly eleven years old again on the steps of Hogwarts, both shackled by their names, locked into a destiny beyond their control, a fame, or infamy, beyond their comprehension; a potential friendship hovering on the air between them. Instead of shattering it, Harry took it this time, reaching across the years of animosity and opposition to hold Draco's shoulder.

He let go and, as if flicking on an internal switch for his voice became light and full of mirth again, he said, "You can't escape it now. Whilst I can live out the rest of my days in the shadows as a Quidditch Player's trophy husband, you've fallen for the future Minister for Magic."

Draco balked, blinking rapidly. He feigned ignorance, forcing a scoff, which scraped his throat. Scathingly, he replied, "Fallen-? Ha! I don't know what you're talking about, Potter-"

His eyes landed on her regardless.

When he looked back at his companion, Harry was grinning. "You're as easy to rile as you were at Hogwarts. Nice to know some things just don't change."

Draco scowled, shaking his head with a disdainful flick. Harry laughed loudly now.

He sighed, glancing into the room, and said, "I should probably go and save her from Penrose. He's currently trying to prove that the Brothers Grimm were really Wizards trying to throw Muggles off the scent of the magical world. Poor Hermione is likely the first Muggleborn who entertained a conversation with him. Most people know to make a quick getaway as soon as he brings up Snow White and the Draught of the Living Death-"

Harry excused himself, downing his drink and leaving it on the nearest table, but not forgetting to pick himself up another before he sacrificed himself to Penrose's intense ramblings. Seamlessly, he eased his way in, and Penrose relinquished Hermione, diverting his attention, allowing her to slip away unheeded.

She made a beeline for Draco. Her hair had fallen away from the clips she had painstakingly slid into place earlier that evening, ringlets loose and bouncing around her face as she made her escape. Her dress was blush lace, hanging off her shoulders, tiered like a waterfall. The heat from the crowd had left her frazzled, her hair frizzing, her skin flushed, her breathing huffy. Hermione twisted on the spot when she got to him, exhaling slowly, releasing all the pent up anxiety she had been harbouring.

"Well?" she asked, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Her knuckles were white around the stem of her glass, the drink having gone flat and warm after barely touching her lips since she'd picked it up on her arrival nearly an hour previous. Her eyes flicked around, taking stock, before landing on him. Almost perfunctorily, like a stressed hostess as opposed to the esteemed guest of honour she was, she asked, or rather, demanded to know, "Are you having a nice time?

Draco looked down at her, eyebrows raised. Then, his eyes swept the room and he grimaced. "If my blood wouldn't add to the Gryffindor colour scheme, I would have offed myself five minutes after we got here," he told her plainly.

Hermione hummed. "Five minutes. That's longer than I expected you to hold out."

Despite himself, Draco found himself smiling. But when he caught the eye of a nearby Ministry official, his face dropped and he looked hastily away.

"I hate it here," said Hermione, the admission leaving her lips as a rushed, shaky breath.

He scoffed. "You hate it here? Try turning up uninvited."

She looked at him suddenly. "You were invited. I invited you."

Draco glanced at her, and the sincerity of her gaze momentarily threw him off-guard. He caught himself quickly enough, and smirked. "Is that all I am to you, Granger? Arm candy?"

Hermione's face split into a grin, and then she threw her head back and laughed. The sound was sweet and free, and when it tapered off, the smile remained wide and bright on her lips as she looked up at him. "Yes, Draco," she said sarcastically. "You're nothing more than a piece of meat to me."

He clutched his chest. "I feel objectified. Do I truly offer so little to you? What about my titillating conversation? My charm and charisma? My quick wit?"

Hermione blinked up at him. "What about them?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and turned away from her. "Minx," he muttered under his breath. Hermione heard, and her grin widened.

He finished the rest of his drink, and casually summoned another, deftly catching it as it soared into his hand, sloshing over the rim.

Hermione frowned. "You should probably slow down," she said. "I don't know how much longer this is meant to go on for. Maybe pace yourself-"

"Granger," he cut her off. "The only reason I've made it this far is because I was drunk five minutes in."

"What happened to that titillating conversation?" she asked shrewdly.

"It's selective," said Draco. "I don't control it."

"Draco," berated Hermione, using what he had since dubbed her teacher-voice.

"It's very difficult to make conversation with someone when everyone swerves out of your way, Granger." She closed her mouth and stared at him. He huffed a laugh, and added sourly, "Nobody wants to talk to a former Death Eater. I was on the wrong side, remember?"

"I thought we'd moved past this," she murmured, touching his wrist.

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, and shrugged, though gently enough that he didn't shrug her off. "Apparently not."

He took another long swig, barely wincing this time. Hermione watched him, forehead creased, lips pursed. "We can leave now if you want," she said.

His eyes shot to her, and he scrutinised her for a moment, before one corner of his lips pulled up into a small smile. "No. This is your night, Granger. Try enjoy it."

She frowned, crossing her arms. "Easy for you to say."

Draco raised his eyebrows at her, and she reciprocated the gesture, eyes widening in a silent battle of wills. He smirked, but neither one of them had the chance to respond, for the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, began his speech.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," his voice boomed around the atrium, and a hush ran along the crowd, as every head turned to the marble stage. "Thank you for joining us here tonight as we celebrate a year and a half of peace."

Draco shifted slightly. Hermione's fingers stretched out and stroked his knuckles.

"The world has changed in the past two years," the Minister continued. "We survived a hateful and terroristic regime, the oppression and hunting of an entire group of our population, our colleagues, our classmates, our family, our friends… We fought in a war and some of us did not make it. We paid a heavy price for peace. We paid with lives, we paid with pain, we paid with heartbreak and the destruction of the world we knew. But from that rubble, we have built a fair society. From the ruins of yesterday, we have protected our tomorrow." Kingsley stopped. He cleared his throat, and looked down. "It was a gruelling road. And we still have a long way to go. But we are going.

"We are here to celebrate the men and women who made today possible, to whom we owe our lives," he continued. "If I can invite Mr Harry Potter, Mr Ronald Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger to join me on the stage. To honour their efforts, it is my pleasure to present them with the Order of Merlin, First Class."

The crowd clapped and cheered, and Hermione stole a breath before she left him with a glance. The people closest to them parted to let her through, turning to look at her, and it seemed to be only then that they noticed Draco. One by one, heads turned, smiles falling, hands faltering, eyes snagging as they flitted from Hermione to Draco. The murmurs rang through the crowd, and more heads turned. Draco ducked his head. Their eyes burned holes into his skin. His skin crawled. His blood boiled. The alcohol burned his throat as he downed his glass.

Hermione waded her way through the gathering, finding Harry and taking the hand he offered her. Ron met them at the bottom of the steps, and they made their way up together. The Golden Trio. The inseparable heroes of the Second Wizarding War. Their faces were emblazoned across the banners, blown up, and they smiled dazzlingly, brilliantly beaming as their namesakes made their way to the stage.

Kingsley greeted them, shaking their hands, handing them the handsome gold medal. The crowd was still cheering, but it was faltering; like a ripple, row by row, murmurs continued, heads turned, and the murmuring intensified.

He felt like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen in place, shackled to the spot. It had been a year and a half since the war, eight months since his trial, since he had been acquitted of all charges, and yet Draco felt drenched in guilt.

Ron was grinning on the stage, bashfully waving back at his parents on the front row of the crowd. Harry was smiling thinly, barely hiding the panic in his eyes. Hermione nervously smiled, unaware of the trial on the floor.

Draco heard snatches of the whispers.

"-Malfoy-"

"Draco Malfoy!"

"What's he doing here?"

"- and with Hermione Granger?"

"- isn't he a Death Eater-?"

Hermione realised too late. Her smile faded. Their eyes met from across the atrium, and the distance between them felt like miles, years, entire wars.

The room spun, and she was the only thing still in focus. Draco felt sick, his stomach coiling with guilt and grief, and he wished, in that moment, that he could be someone better, someone different, for her. He wished he could be the kind of man to stand by her side and feel he deserved to be there, to proudly watch on as she was lauded with praise and glory, all of that which she had earned. Hermione mouthed his name, and it felt like a blow. He reeled, stumbling back, and then, turned on his heel. He heard her call after him, his name echoing around the Ministry, but her plea fell deaf on his ears as he vanished into the Floo.

oOo

Hermione fled from the stage.

She ripped her hand from Harry's. She called his name, but he disappeared without looking back. Pushing her way through the crowd, forgetting the medal in her hand, ignoring everyone else- the Floo enveloped her before she could think twice about leaving.

McGonagall's office was dark and empty as she stepped out of the fireplace. Hermione heard the stone staircase churning outside, and made way for it, pausing so it could unravel itself once more to let her descend. She stumbled onto the corridor, catching a glimpse of his blond hair as he disappeared around the corner.

"Draco!"

She started after him, then stopped. A frustrated yell tore from her throat and she kicked off her heels, erupting into a sprint. She forgot completely about the awards ceremony, about anything and everything else in the world. She needed to find him. Hermione needed to find Draco.

She ran through the castle, chasing the shadows, running as fast as her legs would carry her, clutching her dress to her waist. Her heart pounded, her breath loud. Every corridor she turned onto was empty and silent, shrouded in darkness, and she tried to push herself to go faster, ignoring the lightening stitch shooting up her side, stopping only when she made it to the entrance hall. The door was cracked open, moonlight spilling into the castle. Hermione let herself catch her breath, wandering over to peer outside.

He was little more than an outline against a blue night, but she recognised the way the starlight laced through his hair, and the point of his shoulders. Hermione stopped in the doorway, her chest heaving, and stared at his back. She dropped her dress and walked towards him, past the heavy, wooden doors, down the stone steps, barefoot on the damp wintry grass. With each step, she felt her heart beat just a little bit more quickly, heard it a little louder in her ears. Her breathing was harsh on the silent night air.

Without a word, Hermione sat beside him and stared out at the shimmering black surface of the lake.

"I'm sorry I made you go tonight," she said.

Draco scoffed. "You didn't make me, Granger."

The words didn't appease her, and she felt the guilt creeping through her body, eating away at her.

"At least you got your award," he said, voice a bit softer. "It wasn't a completely wasted trip."

Hermione stared down at the little award in her hands. The metal was cold and it felt cheap to touch. "It is odd how gold can so often look blunt and dull."

"You never look dull, Granger," Draco told her scathingly. She scowled at the bite in his voice, and opened her mouth to argue but he beat her to it, "You're like a golden light in the dark. You're fucking blinding and it's both infuriating and relieving at the same time because you're so righteous that you can't see how you're the only thing keeping us all on track."

Hermione looked at him. He was still staring out at the lake, shredding blades of grass between his fingers. He was pale and beautiful, the hollows of his cheeks and stubble along his jaw accentuating the ghost of aristocracy. His eyelashes cast a shadow, long as they were, and his eyes blinked away the starlight. He was all points and harsh lines, like he had been drawn with a fine liner, but there was something smudged about him, something soft.

She forced herself to clear her throat and look away, but her eyes snagged on her scar. She ran a thumb over her forearm, tracing the scar with her fingertip. A tear snagged on her eyelash, falling only when she blinked. "It doesn't feel right," Hermione murmured. "I feel so consumed with guilt every time I try to move on. It was so long ago, but it feels like only yesterday. So many people are dead. So many people are hurting. And I dress up and chat and get given a medal as if everything is suddenly right in the world… I don't-" More tears fell, and, suddenly frustrated, she huffed, wiping them away. "I don't like it. I don't want to pretend everything is okay when it's not. I'm still hurting. I have a right to be hurting."

Draco stared at the ground, his eyebrows furrowed together as though he was painstakingly counting every blade of grass he could see. He reached out and took her hand and squeezed it.

"Fawkes could probably heal it," he said.

Hermione shook her head and looked at him. Their hands were still interlocked between them. "I'm not ashamed, Draco. I don't want to hide it."

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he looked away. "I see," he muttered. "You don't want to hide it because you don't want to run from your past like I did. Is that what it is?"

"No!" She shuffled closer, taking his hand in both of hers and pulling it onto her lap. "Draco, you were never a Death Eater- look at me!" Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes to hers. Even in the dark of the night, he could see the persistence in her face; the wide sincerity of her eyes, the thin purse of her lips. "You were never a Death Eater. Erasing your Dark Mark isn't you running away. It's you taking back your life. It's giving yourself the choice you weren't given then. Do you understand? I am a Mudblood, Draco. And I'm proud of that. That's why I don't want to hide my scar. But that's my choice."

Draco stared at her for a very long time. She couldn't read his face in the moonlight. It dappled him, cascading across his cheek and neck. He squeezed her hand and murmured, "I want to show you something."

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it. Then, she nodded, and said, "Okay."

He helped her to her feet, and they made their way back to the castle. She still had no shoes, and her feet were starting to go numb. The medal hung from her wrist. There was space between them as they wandered up the hill. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets.

They slipped through the heavy doors and into the castle, and Draco flicked his wand, the locks turning, the bolts sliding. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, and when he set off towards the dungeons, she followed.

Draco stopped outside a door. Hermione stopped with him. His hand froze on the handle, and he didn't look at her for a moment or two, until she reached out and touched him, bringing him back to her. He raised his eyes to hers, and opened the door.

It was a tiny room, pitch black, and Hermione had to blink and wait for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. A fire lit suddenly in a bracket above her head. There was a cauldron in the centre.

"I'm sorry," said Draco.

Hermione glanced back at him, a frown creasing her forehead, a question on her lips. He was staring at the ground, avoiding looking at her. His shoulders were slumped, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I feel like I failed you-"

She shook her head. "Draco, you could never-"

"Granger, please." There was a pain leaking into his voice that shut her up. Hermione pressed her lips together and stared at him. "I wanted to help you, like you helped me. I thought I could find a way to restore your parents' memories but-" He sighed, clenching his jaw, screwing his eyes shut. "Nothing is working, or not altogether. I take one step forward, and then something happens that means I end up taking two, three, four steps back. I thought I had it. I didn't want to show you, or tell you what I was doing, until I had it, because I didn't want you to get your hopes up. I didn't want to fail you."

Hermione stared at him, then she turned, slowly, haltingly, and her eyes traced the notes covering the walls; there were lists of ingredients, reminders of possible modifications, outcomes tracked, failed experiments crossed out. The cauldron in front of her was a pale pink, shimmering like moonlight. She wondered how many variations of this potion this cauldron had held. Her chest felt heavy. Her head felt light, and she was sure it wasn't the fumes.

She looked back at Draco. He still wasn't looking at her. He had done all of this… for her. His face was blank, but Hermione could see the mask slipping. The corners of his lips were tightly pinched. His eyes were pained.

Without really thinking, Hermione stepped towards him, and he finally looked at her when she was right in front of him, and he couldn't look at anything else. She looked between both his eyes, and she wondered how she could ever have found those blue eyes to be icy and cold. He was so full of wonderful, colourful and scorching feeling.

Draco's face changed slightly, a small frown pulling his eyebrows together. He gently wiped away the tears on her cheeks. "Why are you crying?" he whispered.

Hermione swallowed. "I don't know," she whispered back, and then she kissed him.

She kissed him hard, her hands coming up to cup his jaw, lifting onto her tiptoes to reach him, and his arms only hesitated for a second before they encased her. He was warm and hard and lovely, and Hermione kissed him because she hadn't kissed him all those other times. She kissed him to say thank you, to say I see you, to say something she wasn't ready to say out loud. His arms crushed her to him, locking her in place, holding her as though he feared she would be ripped from him if he let her go.

His lips were soft, his teeth hard, and Hermione kissed him breathlessly, like her life depended on it. She was consumed in him.

She was suddenly eleven, her excitement dropping dead in her stomach after hearing Malfoy call her a Mudblood for the first time, recognising by the hateful sneer of his voice that it wasn't a kind thing to be called, though not understanding the full implications of it.

She was fourteen, crying on the grand staircase in her Yule Ball dress, hearing his insults echo around her head, adding to everything else anyone had ever said about her.

She was sixteen, standing at the foot of his bed in the empty Hospital Wing after Harry had sliced him open and left him bleeding out in the toilets, staring at his sleeping form, and wondering when a childhood rivalry had become this.

She was eighteen and fighting in a war, writhing, screaming, on his dining room floor, his aunt leaning over her, carving her up, marking her for life. D. Catching his eye from across the room, Hermione was the only one to see the tear fall. She heard his voice casting them a lifeline – I can't be sure –

She was back in that dark corridor again, back in Hogwarts after the war, seeing him sitting alone on the floor, the blue band glowing around his ankle.

She was sitting in the kitchens, spoon dangling from her nose, relishing in the warmth blooming in her stomach when he laughed, however short and unwilling the laugh was.

You're staying, Granger?

She was standing opposite him, beside the Black Lake, watching as he broke, as he shattered.

I can't stand to look at you, Granger… because I need you. I fucking need you –

They were sitting in the Hogs Head, and Hermione watched the snow fall in his eyes. She saw him from across the Ministry floor, shackled, his eyes ringed with sleepless under-circles, his lips the colour of peonies in spring, every last thread of hope drowning. Then a small, cracked smile –

My, Granger. I didn't realise you'd go so far for a good night's sleep.

Hermione kissed him harder, hopefully, furiously, brokenly, wondrously, pouring everything she had ever felt for him into this kiss. He tasted like jasmine.

Draco pulled away slightly, and Hermione followed him, her lips still seeking his, until he murmured, "Wait, I have to stir it three times counter-clockwise."

She opened her eyes, and couldn't hold back her laugh. Obligingly, she disentangled herself, stepping back, and allowing him to attend the potion, watching the focus filter back into his face. Draco turned back to her before the potion had even stopped spinning, and for the first time, there was a smile on his face totally free of pain and worry.

He reached for her, and Hermione stepped into his arms. "Where were we?" he murmured against her lips.

He kissed her again, desperately, until she whispered his name. Draco pulled back and took her hand, leading her from the cupboard, hurriedly restoring his wards, pulling her through the corridors, until they were safely ensconced in his bedroom.

Draco turned to her, his hands pushing her hair back, cradling her face. He was trembling as he touched her warm skin. This close, he could see the almost invisible freckles, spattered like constellations across her nose. He could count every eyelash, see the speckles of brown and gold in her eyes. She was so beautiful to him, so warm and lovely. She was every ray of sunshine, every intricate snowflake, every hopeful flower shoot in spring. She was everything to him.

Draco leaned down, and Hermione closed her eyes, her breath hitching in her throat as he kissed her softly. Their lips danced and her hands flitted over his body, clutching him closer to her. His fingers found the buttons lining her spine and he traced them, relishing in her shiver.

"Draco, please," she breathed against his lips.

He stopped. "Are you sure?"

Hermione looked up at him, and nodded. "I'm sure."

One by one, he undid the buttons, never once looking away from her, feeling her skin as it slowly revealed itself to him, warm and golden. He slid his hands up over her shoulder blades. Her dress pooled at her feet. Draco's eyes devoured her. He committed her to memory. He poured himself into loving her, because it was all he could do. He wanted her, he needed her. Against all odds, Draco Malfoy needed Hermione Granger, and he could no longer justify being afraid of saying it.

It was chaos, rapturous and explosive. They made love to one another like the world was ending.

Or maybe it was only just beginning.