Smoke and Mirrors by JewelBurns
Summary: Sequel to The Choices We Made.

With Voldemort dead and Harry's cancer settling life should be returning to normal for Harry and Snape but things aren't always as they seem. Instead they find themselves challenged in new ways. When dangerous events start after Harry's return to Hogwarts can Snape figure out what's going on before they're torn apart again? HPSS mentor Healing/Coping
Categories: Parental Snape > Guardian Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Draco, Dudley, Hermione, Original Character
Snape Flavour: Snape Comforts, Snape is Depressed, Snape is Desperate, Snape is Kind, Snape is Loving, Out of Character Snape, Overly-protective Snape, Snape is Secretive
Genres: Angst, Drama, Family, General, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Media Type: None
Tags: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Azkaban Character, Hospitalization, Injured!Harry
Takes Place: 7th summer, 7th Year
Warnings: Alcohol Use, Character Death, Out of Character, Romance/Het
Challenges: None
Series: Choices We Made Universe
Chapters: 84 Completed: No Word count: 697412 Read: 514938 Published: 15 Nov 2020 Updated: 30 Sep 2023
Malfoys' Interlude: Meet the Malfoys by JewelBurns
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: This chapter was written by my beta, French_Charlotte, and reviewed by me for content and characterization.

Monday, 18th, August 1997

"This? This is your chateau? It's beautiful!"

Standing on the circle path, Draco smirked down at the glazed cobblestones mortared perfectly around the marble fountain. He let a familiar arrogance fill his voice. "Surprised, are you? I suppose you would be after staying in Weasley's hovel. Do they at least clean their trough daily?"

Hermione readjusted her beaded bag on her shoulder and slapped the Slytherin's arm. "Don't start, Draco," she warned in her half-joking, half-serious tone that managed to get her point across. But given the stars in her russet eyes, he's own point had reached its mark.

"It's your home for the next week," the Malfoy heir quickly tacked on with a fleeting, almost nervous smile. "You're free to go anywhere you want, enjoy the gardens or vineyards - we ferment our own champagne here, at houses and cellars on the other side of the property. I can arrange for a tasting for us tomorrow if you'd like."

The Reims château captured the true essence of the Haussmann style architecture with cream-colored sandstone facades, remarkable mansard roofs angled at forty-five degrees with dormer windows, ornamental reliefs and intricate hand carved stone mouldings, and rows of florid, arched windows framed with twisting iron wrought rails. It embodied the very meaning of Old World, French charm while also doing an applaudable job at striking intimidation in the hearts of those who came across its regal path.

Designed in a rigid, H-shape with three stories and a top floor, the entrance was a grand affair in the very center with the two sides of the building valleying a vibrant green front lawn and perfectly carved hedges. Thick, limestone pillars stood vigil around the front doors that were situated under a modest balcony accessible from the second story. And the garden that welcomed visitors and its masters was filled with French lavender that became more fragrant at dawn, vibrant orange blossoms, and delicate violets and roses.

It was strange how nervous Draco felt. Usually so emboldened with arrogance and a hefty dose of egotism, he rarely worried about the thoughts or judgments of others. Why should he, according to his parents; lions never bothered with the thoughts and opinions of sheep. But ever since they used the portkey moments ago that transported them from Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, England to Malfoy Chateau in Reims, France, he couldn't calm the whirlwind festering in his stomach.

He'd seen the Grangers suburban house, had fallen in love with the whimsical bliss of their casual homestead, and was suddenly nervous over living with Hermione for a week in another country at his family's ancestral home. Not to mention, he would finally broach the subject of dating a Muggleborn to his parents, considering they were planning on staying together, all four of them, in the chateau.

Could something go wrong? Most likely if his father was still the same man who threw a punch at Arthur Weasley in a bookshop while shopping for school supplies. But was his father that same man? He honestly didn't know anymore. Not since they survived the nightmare at the manor a few months ago, when they were all forced to grab at the shattered remains of their previous lives and try to piece their existence and family back together. His father had changed, just as they all had, but how and to what extent? He wasn't sure.

Would Lucius Malfoy, renowned Pureblood supremacist and once upon a time decorated Death Eater, accept that his only son and heir was courting a Muggleborn? More than courting, if Draco was being honest with himself. He was willing to die for Hermione, willing to take another's life for her, willing to do anything to ensure she survived and was happy. If he had his way, he'd make her his wife within the hour. But wishing that was a selfish deed in and of itself; a brilliant witch with a flawless record, she had the world at her fingertips and he didn't want to trample on her future with his own desires.

Now standing on the front lawn of the chateau, a few yards away from the gatehouse where the portkey dropped them, Draco was beginning to think having her spend the holiday with him in Reims was a colossal mistake. If his father didn't dish out some demeaning sentiments to her, his emotionally stunted mother would. Narcissa Malfoy still couldn't be bothered to look at her only son the same way she used to, only seeing him as the living reminder of what happened in their home. She was broken in her own disorganized way, unable to deal with the mess of their family.

Maybe the entire holiday was a mistake.

"I'd love to have a tasting," Hermione's response brought the blonde back to the present, her words caressed with her own nervous tilt. She looked apprehensively between the Slytherin and the enormous chateau. "Are we… going inside? I thought we were having dinner with your parents. We shouldn't keep them waiting."

"Hm? Oh, right. Yes, you're right. I can show you to your room, too. You'll be in one of the suites in the northwestern wing. It's lovely - overlooks the back gardens, if I remember correctly."

She smiled, the curves of her lips twitching with nerves. "Do you not come here often?"

"Not really. We used to visit more when my grandfather was alive — he split his time between living here and our other manor in Vecstameriena, Latvia." Maintaining a level smile at her, he didn't indulge that their Latvia manor was infested with haunted creatures and spirits, was more of a museum for dark artefacts, and a place he loathed visiting.

They made their way into the elegant manor, where two witch servants were waiting for them at the threshold to take Hermione's shrunken bags. Draco already vanished his luggage to his bedroom once they used the portkey, assuming he'd still be settled in the same bedroom he always had when visiting the chateau.

Though she looked awkward and morally challenged in doing so, Hermione was eventually coerced to hand over her palm-size luggage to the waiting servants. After they left, she turned to the Slytherin with an arched brow. "No house elves? I'm proud to see SPEW left an impact on your family."

He gave a haughty tutt and guided her towards the grand staircase, a marvelous creation made of matte alabaster marble and small sparkling granite diamond shapes wedged periodically between the stairs. Their steps were softened by the plush ornate stair runner. "The domestics here are more reliable than French house elves," he explained. "Employing them - yes, employing, they are salaried - ensures our safety. French house elves are known for being vicious and feral creatures. They ripped the throat out of a wizard last month during an attack to sacrifice to their pantheon."

Hermione froze when they reached the second floor and turned to him with mouth open, brows knitted in horror. "Oh my gosh, that's awful! You're joking!"

He cracked a smile. "I absolutely am." And he was reminded all too well how he pulled the same stunt with Harry months back when telling him about the fabricated ghosts that swelled the tunnels under the manor, the same tunnels that saved them both from their torment and impending demise.

The chateau's interior was as posh and elegant as the exterior. And in many ways, Draco actually preferred it to their Wiltshire manor that was properly his home. Unlike Malfoy Manor that maintained a sea of morphing shadows stalking one room to the next and splatterings of dark gothic architecture weaved between depressing Elizabethan designs, the Reims Chateau was bright and welcoming. Odd that it had half the windows the manor did, but somehow still provided a light, airy, and spacious ambiance.

It continued to maintain the beautiful Haussmann style with light grey hewn stone and quintessential decorative moulding, pale marble and limestone pillars and flourishes, and the occasional splash of color in the awe-inspiring, woven tapestries hanging periodically between timeless Malfoy portraits. And as the two teens walked from one corridor to the next, Draco allowed the relaxing, open ambiance to calm his nerves. Maybe the holiday wouldn't be a fantastic failure in the end, after all. If nothing else, he felt proud to be sharing his heritage with the witch he loved.

"I won't need much time to get ready for dinner," Hermione said after eyeing a portrait of Draco's great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother watching her with narrowed, judgmental eyes. "Unless you think I should take longer. I don't know how these things go. I'd just hate to show late for my first meeting with your parents. First impressions and all that."

Reaching Hermione's room, Draco turned the gold-coated bronze doorknob and pushed it open for her, gentlemanly gesturing for her to enter first. "They're just having drinks in the parlour, and if we let them keep at it, the meal will be infinitely more relaxing. Dinner won't actually be served for an hour so take all the time you need, Hermione. If you want to get a tour, we can do that before."

The suite was tastefully kept with the same bright, airy milieu as the rest of the chateau. A quaint sitting room greeted them with rich velvet couches, an entire wall of floor to ceiling white bookshelves with an antique desk centered between them, and tall sweeping ceilings bringing in more light than it absorbed. A doorway on the opposite end led to a tastefully romantic bedroom with fanciful layers of billowing floral fabric swept over the bed and another door that led to a lavatory as large as an entire floor of the Weasley's house.

"Again, I'm blown away by all of this, Draco," she mumbled as she surveyed the sitting room, nervously fingering the hem of her cardigan. "But honestly, I don't need all of this. A…A smaller room would be fine."

He smirked. "We don't have smaller ones." A lie but he wasn't about to put his girlfriend in the lesser guest rooms shoved on the first floor. "My room's at the end of the hall. Did you want me to show you around or did you want to…" He blinked, recognizing he was treading in unfamiliar waters. "I don't know… powder your nose or whatever?"

Hermione returned his blink with one of her own before looking down to assess her attire - a cheerful lilac sundress hemmed just below the knee, dainty but tastefully modest, and a white knitted cardigan. "Do I need to freshen up? What am I saying? Of course I should! Is this dress alright? Should I change into formal clothes?" She chewed on her bottom lip. "What are you wearing?"

Leaning against the side of the doorframe, Draco studied her in amusement. Had it been a year or two prior, he would've relished the overwhelming nerves the Muggleborn battled, interpreting it as a testament that his family's overwhelming presence was a weaponized power in itself. And maybe years back, when he'd torment the know-it-all Gryffindor and call her derogatory names like he was waving around a trophy, he would've found sport in watching her squirm at the prospects of meeting his parents for the, technically, third time.

Because she had already met the infamous Lucius Malfoy twice before - the first during the summer prior to second year. They were twelve and he still looked at his father in salivating adoration and striving to earn the elder Malfoy's affections and approval through any way he could. Back in those days, the word Mudblood slipped off the tongue as easy as his name and he could convince himself his soul never wilted from it.

Now, looking at Hermione, he'd hex someone into oblivion if anyone called her that.

"Robes," Draco eventually answered unhelpfully when he realized she was still having a mild panic attack and began to rifle through her now normal sized luggage. His penchant for Muggle clothes was still strong, but had waned considerably since his visit to the Grangers and completing the animagus ritual. He just wasn't wearing the same wardrobe he had before the Battle of Malfoy Manor. Instead, he ordered a whole new set of couture robes that, while they looked similar to their predecessors, they felt renewed and different.

The witch shot up from the couch, where she was emptying the mini-wardrobe she somehow managed to fit in her suitcase, to look at her boyfriend in desperation. "Well, is my dress appropriate? Does it compliment you? I should've let Ginny talk me into buying more dress robes."

"What happened to that Gryffindor bravery? You sound more like a Hufflepuff to me."

A pillow went flying off the couch towards him, but it was easily caught thanks to still well-honed Seeker skills.


"This chateau is beautiful, Mr and Mrs Malfoy. And my room is… huge and lovely. I don't think I've ever stayed in such nice accommodations before."

Listening to Hermione bumble through another round of compliments, Draco repeatedly speared the tip of his fork in and out of the first dinner course, a delicacy of duck foie gras cooked in a buckwheat crust and local berries. Somewhere in Eastern Europe, his etiquette governess was having a mild panic over his indecorous table manners as he shattered them left and right.

After convincing Hermione that she looked more than presentable for dinner, the blonde Slytherin took her on an abridged tour of the chateau, condensed enough to fit in their pre-dinner hour gap, with the promise to show her everything else - the champagne cellars and brewing warehouses, the fountains with a teeming fae colony, and, of course, their hidden library - the following day. When they entered the elegant dining room, an expansive chamber with several unused antechambers attached to it, both teens had exchanged nervous glances; she was eager to give off a good impression and he was apprehensive of his parents souring the only bright spot of his life.

The introductions were awkward at first. Unsurprisingly, his father had immediately taken the lead, but it was the incredibly surprising greeting he opened with that really left Draco amazed:

"It's so very nice to meet you again, Miss Granger."

Again. And just like that, the mood and scene had been set, authored by none other than Lucius Malfoy, acknowledging all previous meetings with that one simple, innocent word, holding so much meaning behind it. Draco had felt a burden lifted from his shoulders; no longer did he worry about how to recognize the troubled waters between his family and Hermione and whether or not they were going to function on the faulty assumption that those prior introductions ever existed. Did they start anew and pretend they were meeting for the first time? Did they courageously face the past? It was never in his family's nature to confront their mistakes; they were masters of slipping blame to others or covering up any blunders to their names. But facing those blunders head on?

Anyone but Lucius Malfoy would've been clumsy in the introductions and tense circumstances. The epitome of control and poise, his calculating smile never faltered for a second as he took Hermione's hand in his - the same hand used to hold his wand and kill countless Muggles - and gave a genuine handshake.

The air had turned solid for a second while everyone waited for the explosion. For the other foot to fall. For the fallout to decay the moment. But it never came. At least from the Malfoy patriarch, there were no demeaning or judgmental words laced in his countenance. From Narcissa Malfoy, however, the aristocratic woman eyed Hermione in a strange cold shrewdness, the look making Draco immediately feel skeptically defensive. His mother could insult someone through backhanded compliments all the while looking perfectly noble while doing so. He was prepared for that; he wasn't prepared for the appraising frostiness.

Draco gave up on murdering his foie gras with his fork and instead downed his second glass of champagne.

"It's a family heirloom," Narcissa proudly answered the Gryffindor with a saccharine smile, the corners of her lips cut as sharp as diamonds. "Draco is set to inherit it - all of this. And his wife, whoever that may be, will be the madam of his assets. We haven't betrothed him, you know. He's considered one of the most eligible and sought after heirs."

A panicked, confused look crossed Hermione's face as she nervously glanced at the Slytherin teen beside her for a second before looking back across the grand dining table at the other witch. "Erm, I…"

"Mother," Draco mumbled in a warning growl. He didn't know where the Malfoy matriarch was going with that string of thought, but he wasn't interested in finding out. They were only one course into the dinner with six more to go, and they already had to send for a second bottle of champagne.

Narcissa pretended she didn't hear her son; ignoring his presence was becoming far too second nature for her. "Among Pureblood society, it's not unheard of for prominent young heirs to be arranged in a union with a witch from an equally influential family. Sometimes even at birth! But we've allowed Draco a rare opportunity of choice. And I do hope he...shows more urgency in concreting his nuptials." She gracefully swung her fragile flute to her full-lips, curving them daintily around the rim to steal the smallest of sips.

Draco narrowed his gaze on his mother. At first, he worried she was flaunting his "eligibility" to his Muggleborn girlfriend in a way to scare her off. To intimidate that, yes, there likely were Pureblood families dying to throw their daughters into a marriage with him. But the more she droned on, the more Narcissa Malfoy sounded uncharacteristically pushy about it.

She sounded like she was trying to sell the idea of marriage to Hermione.

"I can't imagine not having that kind of choice," Hermione politely responded, but the stiffness in her voice told Draco she was beginning to get defensive. "My parents have always encouraged me to make my own decisions and to stand by them, even if they're the wrong ones."

"Your parents..," Lucius's honeyed words cut in. He'd been watching Hermione carefully throughout the entire meal, studying her in the way he studied his dark artefacts and ancient books. "Muggles, yes? Was it difficult for them to support your decision of embracing a witch bequest, abandoning your kinship, and studying in a world so divided from their own? A most intriguing breed of people."

The room turned silent and Draco's cheeks began to flush with heat. "Father, that-"

"It really wasn't difficult for them," Hermione cut in, her shoulders squared back and spine stiffened straight up, making her pale lavender dress fall femininely around her slender form. Though he wouldn't dare say it then, Draco would later tell her how marvelous anger looked on her. "They knew I was different from them and my peers. I think they were more relieved to know that I had a rightful place where my aptitudes could be turned into a lifestyle."

Lucius smirked at her. But it wasn't his normal belittling smirk typically reserved for Muggleborns. It was satisfied, as if he were expecting her reaction. " 'Rightful' is a fascinating term to use. Among all of your celebrated masteries and proficiencies, Miss Granger, 'entitled' wouldn't be one I'd so quickly extend to you."

Only the Malfoy patriarch could both insult and compliment in the same sentence and leave his audience confused on how to interpret and react. The skill was renowned, and one Draco used to envy. Part of him wanted to jump in to stand up for his girlfriend, but he wasn't even sure there was anything to defend. His mother seemed preoccupied with discussing his unwed status to his girlfriend, and his father… well, he wasn't sure what his father's angle and end-game plan was. But such was the risk with Lucius Malfoy. Rarely could one dilute the wizard's intention long before his ambitious goal succeeded, if at all.

The second course was brought out: John Dory from La Barre-de-Monts on a bed of risotto, caviar garnish, and champagne sauce.

Hermione didn't even look as the servant exchanged her empty plate with the new course. She stared back at the Malfoy patriarch in the way she stared at her cauldron when trying to decipher a tricky potion brewing issue. "Aren't all born witches and wizards entitled to live in the world they belong in?"

"Are they? I can think of a select few who had a similar sentiment of entitlement. Ironically, they are the same ones given the monikers of the darkest wizards in our lifetimes," Lucius casually said in an almost distracted tone as he picked up his second fork at his place setting to poke at the new course. "Entitlement is as useful of a concept as laziness - truly, they're fraternal twins, often coming hand in hand. But for you, Miss Granger, you claim entitlement out of impractical humility."

Her eyes blazed with scorn. "Impractical humility?"

The rich, succulent dish couldn't distract Draco from the strange air around him. His mother continued to stare at his girlfriend through sizing up, examining eyes, as if she were weighing the artistic qualities of a robe and if it met her impossible standards, while his father weaved in and out of his confusing vernacular towards whatever damnable goal he sought.

Draco wanted to defend her - he was expecting to. But he didn't know what to defend her from.

Hailing a servant with a mere raise of his heavily ring-ladened hand, Lucius nodded at the dish in front of him when the servant approached. "Too much caviar powder. Remove it." He turned to Hermione immediately after, as if he didn't send the fifty-galleon plate away. "Yes, impractical humility. You see, humility is a perfectly viable blade to keep at one's side, but like all tools, it's useful in only the most specific of circumstances. An overuse of it makes the edges dull and lose their luster. It's no longer a tool but a bludger to yourself."

The Gryffindor witch lowered her hackles some, considering the older wizard with a skeptical but intrigued gaze. "Humility is a fine quality to have."

"Oh, I agree," Lucius replied with a canny smile. "But time and place is what separates it from being banally flawed to a useful asset. You, for example, have no reason for being humble when it comes to your many accolades, especially in the present audience. You are entirely within your limits to claim you belong in the magical world not because of an inherited entitlement, but because you rightfully earned it."

Draco almost dropped his third flute of champagne. It was a compliment from Lucius. And yet, it wasn't decorated and flowery and the type that left you feeling warm in an aftermath glow. It was the type that was skeptically flattering.

Before either teen could react, Narcissa Malfoy pipped in: "Did you know that this chateau was built originally for Draco's ancestors' wedding? Isn't that romantic? I'd say it is about time we have another wedding here. Next winter, perhaps?"

The blonde teen rolled his eyes. "Mother, you are about as subtle as an anvil."

The third course came out: Lobster from L'Île-d'Yeu, turnip-rooted millefeuille with tomatoes and zucchini. No one noticed it being served. A fourth bottle of champagne was uncorked and brought out.

"Your impressive academic records are storied, Miss Granger," Lucius began in a professional, to the point tone. There was no snide lilt in his words, no hidden insult waiting to spring out. It was all business. "When Draco came home during your first year winter break, we berated him for allowing a Muggleborn to surpass him in marks. He'd been raised in a highly magical household, surrounded by it and provided with the best tutors in preliminary magic, and yet he was a junior to someone new to it."

Lucius paused there, staring at Hermione, waiting for her reaction. It was how he managed complete control over the conversation, giving cues for when he wanted their input.

Uncertain on how to feel with his father's words, Draco looked over at his girlfriend. On one hand, he complimented Hermione, but at the expense of putting down his own son. Being second to Hermione in class work was always a difficult spot for the Malfoy father and son; for years Draco resented the Gryffindor witch for being the catalyst that drove him away from getting his father's rare acceptance. All he ever wanted was his father's impossible approval. When his father was tossed in Azkaban and he stopped holding onto that resentment, he was finally able to breathe freely and be honest with his feelings of admiration for Hermione.

Hermione took a small bite of her lobster and cleared her throat. "Draco's always been my academic rival." Her smaller hand reached under the table, finding Draco's to lace their fingers together and give a supportive squeeze. "He's caught up in his classes even without being in them and is probably the most intelligent person I've met. You should be proud of him."

Immediately, Draco looked at the head of the table where his father sat, trying to ignore his ache to hear the older wizard validate and acknowledge him.

But Lucius wouldn't give him the light of day. His focus - proverbially and physically - was centered on Hermione, and his son didn't exist in that moment beyond being a conversational engine for his point. "Have you given your career any consideration, Miss Granger?"

The Gryffindor blinked, taken off-guard by the random inquiry. She'd been expecting to go to battle with Lucius, or to defend her boyfriend in the face of his bullying father. But much like the Slytherin teen, she was beginning to realize the questioning wasn't an interrogation to pin her into a corner and humiliate her; it was to study her rigor, tenacity, intellect, and wit. She was being interviewed for a position. "I… have been weighing my options. Research has always been easy and interesting for me, especially with the more… restricted subjects. But I want to use it for good, so maybe researching and cataloguing dark magic for the Ministry. Most Dark Arts isn't necessarily prohibited but there's so much that's unregulated."

The irony in her words brought the entire table to a silent standstill. The three Slytherins exchanged a few looks and Draco wondered how many bottles of wine they'd burn through before they reached the seventh course.

Lucius shattered the silence with a soft chuckle. "Researching dark arts for the Ministry? Fascinating and dangerous work, Miss Granger. Unfortunately - or perhaps, fortunately, depending on which side you stand - the more potent dark artefacts are coveted by ancient families who have no interest satisfying the Ministry's scholarly whims and giving up their family heirlooms. Because it's never scholarly - it's control and regulation. You said it yourself. How do you plan to circumvent that disincentive?"

The Gryffindor paused only long enough to sip her champagne, and Draco internally applauded her at how casual she made it look. Under the table, he caressed small circles with his thumb on the back of her hand. "I never said I'd remove the artefacts," she replied. "You can keep them - they'll just be catalogued."

The Malfoy patriarch shallowly elevated a sculpted brow. "You mean to say 'they', I'm sure, Miss Granger."

Hermione grinned unapologetically. "That's what I said."

And just like that, with a wolfish, marauding smile, Lucius leaned back in his chair, giving Hermione a look worth more than every sickle and galleon in his swollen vaults: approval. And Draco felt his own overwhelming anxiety flutter away like birds being released from their suffocating cages. While he hungered for his father's own approval, to get it for Hermione was unexpected yet so much sweeter. He could live with trying to constantly earn the Malfoy patriarch's eye - he'd already lived seventeen years doing it, so what was another few decades? - but to get Hermione approved by him was… monumental.

Had the night ended on that note, he would've been beyond relieved, happy even, and able to push away the numbness he surrounded himself in since the nightmarish Battle of Malfoy Manor. But life wasn't so grand to him, and his father continued speaking.

Lucius tented his fingers. "You know, Miss Granger, I had Narcissa check the Genealogical Society on a hunch before we left England. Your command of magic is revolutionary, especially for your origins. A puzzle worth finishing. And I wasn't the least bit surprised to discover that your father has a direct - albeit estranged - blood relation with the Dagworth-Granger lineage."

A Pureblood family. Draco didn't know the Dagworth-Grangers well - they weren't part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, though they were Pureblood all the same with impressive feats - but he knew Hermione was Muggleborn with painfully Muggle parents. He'd met them before, had seen her father covered in grass clippings and smelly petrol, and watched him have a conversation about a Muggle sport with a neighbor. There was no magic to be found, none.

The fourth course was brought: beef from Chauvigny, salted crusted potatoes, and truffle mushrooms sabayon.

Hermione furrowed her brows and looked briefly at Draco in confusion, who only mirrored her expression, before turning back to the elder Malfoys. "Are you sure? My entire family are Muggles. There's no way that I'm-"

"Quite sure," Lucius interrupted as he began to delicately cut into the palm-sized beef medallion. "Narcissa has already gone ahead and ensured your name will be added to their pedigree chart." He looked up from his meal to smile briefly at the teens across from him. "Perhaps now that you are blood-related to that family, one that is highly revered for their potioneering accomplishments, you may find your Dark Arts research ambitions much more viable. I will say that I was rather pleased to discover the relation between you and that particular Pureblood family, despite the familial distance."

Just as Draco began to open his mouth to argue the accuracy of this so-called, serendipitously discovered "Pureblood" relation, his mother dreamily cut in: "Connecting the Malfoys with the Dagworth-Granger pedigree has not been done before. Your wedding will be the talk of Pureblood society and the wizarding world!"

Draco grabbed for the fifth champagne bottle and filled his glass to the rim and wondered whether his parents' reactions to Hermione was a blessing or a curse.

Much later on after dinner had come to a close and the four witches and wizards went their own separate ways, Draco followed Hermione back to her suite. It was an unbecoming, audacious move for a Pureblooded son - and now, apparently, a distantly related Pureblooded daughter if his parents had their way - but he didn't care. He needed to be with Hermione, to feel empowered in her bolstering, brave presence, to confirm that he didn't scare her away with his parents' odd antics, convoluted conversations, and machinated pedigree. He needed to know that they were alright before he cornered his father to demand what he was playing at with this Dagworth-Granger business.

Prior to coming to France, Draco expected to be caught between his old, Pureblood existence with his staunchly fanatical parents and his Muggleborn, stubborn girlfriend. But he didn't expect the tables to turn so dramatically that he could no longer tell if the tables were even standing anymore. The climate and landscape had dramatically changed all by his parents' words and apparent preparation for the meeting; because that's what they must've done. As he always did, his father cultivated that dinner conversation long before it actually occurred. It was a game of chess to him: he knew the end game and only had to nudge the pieces to acquiesce to their placements in order to achieve the desired result.

"Anyone can have strength to incite action with results and consequences, Draco. That's just a law of nature," Lucius had told his son in the days leading up to his first year at Hogwarts. "But a Malfoy has power. And power, when guided by wisdom, produces not just results but intended consequences."

Slipping into her suite, Draco immediately wrapped his arms around Hermione, wordlessly tugging her in close and savoring the familiarity of her in fear that it would be the last. Would she slip away? Leave him in Reims? Did she resent him and his family for everything they said and did? Was she just being polite with having sat through the remaining dinner courses and politely engaging in the pleasant conversation that filled the table?

Hermione immediately returned the embrace with fervor, nestling her face against the crook of his neck, content to stand there as long as he was. And though they didn't exchange any words, the language shared between their flush bodies spoke apologies, liturgies of love, and promises for a better future together. And they existed in that span of admirable silence, allowing the rest of the world to stop existing while they only focused on each other.

"I'm going to talk with him," Draco eventually said, pulling back after what felt like minutes had passed. "And… And I'm going to get this figured out. I can get your name taken off the pedi-"

"Draco," she shushed him with a quick kiss on his lips, her own curled gently in opposition to his worried expression. "It's fine. What does it matter? I know what I am and I'm not ashamed of it. So what if some dusty old stacks has me listed as an estranged, distant relative? I don't care about blood. I never have. You know that."

He wasn't convinced. "But by doing that, they're making a statement that they don't accept you as a muggleborn."

Shifting her hold on him, she gently guided him to the couch to sit. "So? They're accepting me. Or… I think they are? It sounds like if your mother had her way, it'd be our wedding in a few days and not Fleur and Bill's."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I haven't a clue what's gotten into her lately. I think she's just wanting a way to get back into society's limelight and out of the gutter. I think she sees you as the way to do it. Which I'm going to tell her that you're not that!" He began speaking swiftly, spurred on by his panic that he could lose the one and only good thing in his life. "I'm not dating you because you're Saint Potter's best friend - I couldn't care less! I'm not looking to elevate my social status through you. I love you and I'd spend the rest of my life with you even if it meant being on the bottom rung of society."

Hermione stopped moving, maybe even breathing, as she stared at him. "You love me?"

He blinked. Was that his first time actually saying it to her? Since the Battle of Malfoy Manor, he'd shied away from any inkling of emotion, instead embracing the ignorant bliss of numbness. After being raised to never allow emotion to overcome you, even at the expense of concealing and suppressing feelings, to suddenly have so many was like being dropped in the middle of the ocean when he never learned how to swim. Where others were taught - even encouraged - to welcome and validate emotions, he wasn't. "What? Of course I do! I'd give my life for you, Hermione. And I practically did months ago when I kidnapped Harry to make sure you would live."

The witch continued to stare at him unblinking, and he worried if she even heard him. And for a few seconds, he worried that he made a horrible mistake by proclaiming his sincere adoration for her. He absolutely loved her beyond anything that he could put into words; she was the one and only thing in his life that kept him striving towards a place of benevolence, but he worried that he would soil her own radiance with his darkness. Or that she would find his heart too infected with shadows to love.

He'd done horrible, implorable things - killed, tortured, all for the good of the Order but he did them. Good intentions didn't erase the actual deeds committed, and it didn't make his mental anguish and ugliness any less grueling.

Just as he prepared to blanket himself in the coldness of Occlumency to shield himself from her rejection, Hermione surprised him as she leaned forward, making their lips meet. At first the kiss was fragile and delicate, the type that had to be handled carefully lest you wanted it to slowly unravel at the seams. And Draco breathed in her love and smell and taste, and panicked as he fought to decipher the chaste kiss's meaning.

She pulled inches away, their lips ghosting over each other as she spoke, "I love you, too."

All of his doubts and worries were cast aside with those four small words. And he knew that no matter what transpired with his father later on, him and Hermione would be better than alright. She accepted him for all of his faults and flaws - his bigotry past, prejudiced parents trying to make concessions to accept her while not entirely waffling on their traditions and beliefs, and dark acts committed when he was a spy. And he accepted her stubborn bravery, friendship with Potter and Weasley, and Muggleborn nature and parents. They came from two completely opposite lives and spectrums, and somehow built a plane of existence for them to thrive and meet in between. There would always be aspects of each other's lives they simply couldn't understand or change; and that was alright. That was part of the unconditional acceptance process in learning that puzzles were composed of intricacies with some pieces extending one way and others extending inwards. In parts, the pieces look jagged and incomplete, but together they harmonized perfectly.

In a messy tornado of clothes being tossed to the side, hurried kisses, and urgent touches, the two stumbled clumsily towards the bedroom.

In the aftermath of their intimacy, they dreamily talked about everything and anything, still caught in each other's arms and intertwined in the sheets. They chatted about the upcoming wedding, laughed about how Disneyland would be fun and interesting when they visited the next day, and he made fun of her horrible attempts at French. She spoke rapidly about how excited she was for the start of their final school year, now that he finalized his accommodations offer from Dumbledore and Snape, and offered various study schedules to manage their overwhelming coursework. To become a healer, Draco had to get at least 'Outstanding' or 'Exceeds Expectations' on Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, all the while still excelling in his coursework in his other classes.

"You're still going the healer route?" Hermione asked as she shifted her body against his, looking up at the moonlight flooding silver radiance on the ceiling molding.

Draco nodded as he carded his fingers in her hair. "I'd like to. But I want to do more than just magic healing. I want to be hands-on in treatment and program development for my family's new Muggle Disease Center. But in order to do that, I need to learn about Muggle diseases. And I honestly haven't an idea on how."

The witch hummed a little before shrugging and simply stating, like it was the most obvious answer in the world, "Well, you can learn through Muggle schools."

And that launched an entire conversation on what Muggle education entailed, how Muggle primary and secondary schools functioned, what university was and what Hermione would've studied had she not committed to a life of magic and being a witch.

As the hours twisted further into the night, the teens' voices grew dreamy and sleepy. And they moved more sluggishly through their conversations: Hermione proudly spoke about her ambitions as Head Girl, and Draco promised to use his new animagus form to sneak into her room.

The moon was just cresting to its zenith when they both fell into a blissful slumber.

To be continued...
End Notes:
Coming up Next: The Wedding


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