Archive of Our Own

I. Look To Windward

Hermione braced herself against the nearest tree and coughed into her hand. When she pulled it away from her mouth, she was unsurprised to see drops of blood marring her skin.

Her vision blurred, and for a moment it seemed the entire world was on fire—her skin crinkled and charred, her very bones ached, her lungs spasmed as they absorbed the ashes. Then everything set itself right, and she was in the jungle, the thick, wet bark of the indigo tree pressed against her back. She glanced up at footsteps as Clair, a fellow expeditioner, approached, her face streaked with mud.

“Oi, don’t go dying yet Hermione,” she said, offering a pained smile, far from her usual bubbly self but clearly trying her best. She gestured towards the dark castle, looming menacingly in the distance. “We have a long way to go, yeah?”

Hermione almost laughed at the absurdity. Their expedition had landed at the beach with a full company, and she’d seen two dozen of their best fighters cut down instantly by only one man. “What, just you and me?”

“Mmm, no, Clea and Clem are up ahead.”

“Lovely,” she said with a groan. “What an army we’ll make. Surely the Queen will be quaking in her very fine shoes.”

Clea was their cartographer, Clem her assistant and the expedition’s occasional bard, and Clair was one of their healers. Hermione herself was their lead researcher on the starscourge. None of them were realistically any sort of threat against the mysterious blond man who had greeted them with such impossible violence at the beach mere hours ago. It was inconceivable that they should have thought to prepare themselves for such a force. Still, she pushed herself away from the tree and took a deep breath. With most of their vessels destroyed, returning home wasn’t really an option. They could either stay there and wait to die, or press onwards towards their goal: the distant castle and its cruel Queen.

“There could be other survivors,” Clair said, though Hermione was severely doubtful.

“Right, then,” she replied. “Let’s see if they’ve found anyone else.”

She winced as she followed Clair through the lush vegetation. Every step ached dreadfully. She’d gotten caught on the periphery of one of the explosions sent from the vicious man’s wand. The expeditioners inside the blast radius had been pulverized. She was fortunate to still have all her limbs, even if the probable internal damage was causing her to cough up blood from her lungs.

It didn’t take very long to catch up with Clem and Clea, both of whom looked similarly roughed up from the fray.

“Hermione! You’re alive!” chirped Clem. He had a cut on his forehead but otherwise didn’t seem to be in terrible shape.

“You hardly look it though,” observed Clea. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Hermione responded. “Did either of you see anyone else who might have survived?”

Clem shrugged. “I saw the entire left flank get wiped out instantly.”

“The center didn’t last long either,” said Clea.

Hermione shifted her weight with a grimace. “Did anyone get a look at the attackers?”

“I could hardly see a thing,” said Clea.

“I only saw one bloke,” Clem chimed in.

Clair frowned. “But that’s impossible, isn’t it? How could one bloke take out hundreds of us? There must have been more.”

“I only saw the one,” Hermione agreed warily, glancing around as though he might pop out of the jungle trees to finish them off. “He looked sort of strange, didn’t he?”

“I’ve never seen hair quite that blond,” said Clem, as though hair color was some damning piece of evidence.

Clea shrugged. “I don’t know. He looked old enough to be someone’s grandfather. Weird, right?”

They were all silent for a moment. Hermione winced and brought her hand to the bleeding wound on her stomach. It was painful, but she’d certainly had worse.

She frowned at that thought. Had she? But from what? And when? This was her first trip to the mainland, and her life up until debarking at the beach had been extraordinarily uneventful. Perhaps she’d lost a bit too much blood? She was feeling a bit addled.

“Hermione, you’re seriously hurt,” said Clair with a concerned look. She stepped forward and withdrew her wand. “How are you even alive with a wound like that? Here, let me—”

Whatever she was going to say was lost beneath a thrum of magic. The next thing Hermione saw was a slash across the healer’s throat. Clair looked vaguely surprised, bringing her hands to her neck. Blood seeped through her fingers, and she fell to the wet jungle ground, dead.

Hermione hardly had time to register the corpse, as when Clair collapsed, she saw something that filled her to the brim with dread.

He was right in front of her: the blond man. The man who had slaughtered her entire expedition, her co-workers, her friends.

Clem and Clea waved their wands helplessly, but all Hermione could do was stare. The man floated through the air with magic she’d never conceived of, leaving a trail of fire and burning trees in his wake. His face was covered by a strange, skull-shaped mask, and he wielded an ornately carved cane around as though it was a sword. He had white-blond hair and cold grey eyes. And there was something strangely familiar about him that Hermione couldn’t place, but it hardly mattered, because this was it. This was the end. He’d slaughtered hundreds of the expedition’s best fighters in seconds. What hope could she possibly have to survive?

He raised his cane, and she shut her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But after several agonizing seconds, it never came.

She opened her eyes and instantly wished that she hadn’t. In his gaze behind the mask, she’d never seen such feral loathing in any creature before.

“You,” he hissed venomously.

Hermione’s blood ran cold, freezing in her veins. He knew her? He couldn’t know her, it was impossible. This expedition was her first time to the mainland of Arcadia, and she’d surely remember someone like him.

“This place was never meant for you,” he said with a glare. “You shouldn’t be here, Mudblood.”

She flinched at that, though she couldn’t explain why. Mudblood? She’d never heard the word before. Had she? Still, something in the way he said made her stomach turn.

He curled his lip and raised his cane. She braced herself again for death when movement flashed in her periphery. She looked up, watching in awe as a man leapt in front of her, smoothly blocking the curse and facing their foe. Her body was rooted to the spot as the two men eyed each other.

“It’s been a while,” her attacker said, sounding faintly amused. “This is the path you’ve chosen, is it?”

Her entire body felt numb. She couldn’t make out much of her rescuer. He had a lithe build, and his head was covered in a cowl.

“It would seem so,” replied the hooded man in a calm voice. She was struck again by the familiarity of his voice, but she couldn’t quite place it.

The blond man shook his head sadly before reaching up to remove his mask, revealing an almost ethereally handsome face. His sharp grey eyes had turned melancholy. “You’re a fool, then. You know I’ll do whatever I must to protect her. Family is all we have here.”

“You know nothing of family. Not really,” her protector replied, a scoff in his voice. He kept his wand trained on his foe, quickly flicking his gaze over to her. She caught a glint of silver in his eyes and a strange expression on his face as he fixed her with an intense stare. “Go, now. I’ll find you.”

Her mind rattled with questions, but she didn’t dare stay to ask them, instead rushing to Clem and Clea.

“Who the fuck was that?” Clem asked breathlessly.

“Shut up and run, you fool,” snapped Clea.

They did, running as fast as they could as far as they could, deeper and deeper into the jungle. The trees ought to have felt like a protective canopy, but Hermione remained on high alert, waiting for the blond man to emerge from the trees and claim their lives.

She lost track of time as they moved, and eventually, her legs came to a stop all on their own. She glanced down at herself to assess the damage. The blood from the wound on her stomach had seeped, dampening her shirt and trousers. She blinked at herself, somewhat in awe that she was alive, when she felt a faint ringing in her head. Her vision flashed again. Raging flames licked at her feet, a suffocating cloud of ash filled her lungs, and she withdrew her bloody hand from her stomach with a sob—

When she came back to herself, Clem and Clea were staring at her oddly.

“Think she’s gone into shock?”

“Perhaps we ought to stop…You know, set up camp here. We still have enough supplies between the three of us, don’t we?”

“Are you mad? Did that guy look like he sleeps? If we don’t keep moving, he’ll catch up and kill us!”

“Hermione looks like she’s about to collapse, and I can’t make it much further either. If we don’t rest, he’ll kill us for sure, won’t he? Either him or the bloody starscourge. But feel free to run off on your own into the jungle. We don’t even have any idea where we are right now!”

“Clearly there are people out here who have survived the scourge, right? Maybe we can too, but we’ll definitely die if he chops our heads off!”

“Hermione? You alright? Hey, no no no, don’t pass out—”

Hermione’s head felt fuzzy as her eyes fluttered open. The last thing she remembered was the rapidly approaching ground and a cold, encroaching darkness, but now she felt a pleasant warmth spreading throughout her tingling body.

She looked up at the face of her healer and couldn’t help the smile that sprang to her face. “Hello.”

He glanced at her as a golden hue emanated from his hands and seeped into her skin. “Hello there,” he agreed, matching her smile. He had a small dimple at the corner of his left lip but not his right. He’d never failed to bemoan the lack of symmetry, though she’d always retorted that it gave his face some desperately-needed character.

“I miss you,” she mumbled, still smiling sleepily.

Something flickered behind his eyes, but he didn’t reply. He had a strange new scar just above his left eyebrow. She didn’t like the look of it there. He wasn’t a fighter, not really, and never had been. A smattering of stubble lined his jaw. It almost made her laugh. She’d loved that it gave him a roguishly handsome appearance, but he’d always preferred remaining clean-shaven and absolutely refused to indulge her outside of special occasions.

She basked in the warmth for just another moment before her strange, dream-like thoughts faded away, and her brain caught up with her present circumstances. She was still in the jungle on the mainland of Arcadia. They’d been attacked. The expedition was almost entirely wiped out. She’d nearly died as well, and then—

She jerked back as she recognized her healer: their hooded rescuer from just before they’d fled the blond man. She quickly rolled away from him and his warmth, withdrawing her wand and pointing it at him. He watched her with an amused expression.

She looked around nervously for Clea and Clem, but they were nowhere to be seen. A small campfire flickered nearby, wisps of greenish smoke gently rising in the sky. She stared at the roiling orange flames uneasily before returning her eyes to the hooded man.

“Who are you?” she demanded, keeping her wand level.

He raised his arms in the air, though he didn’t look particularly concerned about her implied threat. “Do be careful, will you? I’d hate for all the proper healing I’ve done to go to waste before your friends return.”

“And where are they?”

“Looking for food.”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t have any particular reason to disbelieve him, but she remained suspicious nonetheless. “The man who attacked us. You know him.”

He nodded, smirking in a somewhat infuriating manner. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?”

“Don’t toy with me,” she snapped. “We’d understood that everyone on the mainland had been afflicted, yet you and that man show no signs of the scourge. How is that possible?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Clearly your reports were wrong,” he replied with a languid shrug. “Look, will you please just let me heal you? If I don’t finish the job, you’ll bleed out and die out here in the jungle. Surely you want to live long enough to reach the castle, don’t you?”

She froze before tightening her grip on her wand. “What do you know about that?”

“I know you’re planning to kill the Queen,” he said in a careful voice. “I’m here to help. Now, I’m about to heal the rest of your wound. Promise not to curse me?”

She narrowed her eyes. The glowing warmth from his spells had faded, leaving her with the gnawing pain of her stomach wound and waves of cold, violent shivering that could only be her approaching death.

She didn’t really have much of a choice. He’d survived an encounter with the man who murdered her entire expedition. He was clearly dangerous and could likely overpower her with ease if he so chose, but it gave her a small sense of comfort to keep her wand trained on him.

“Fine,” she said, holding it steadily in her hand. “Go on, then.”

He looked amused again and gestured for her to sit. “It would be my pleasure.”

The light from his healing spell ensconced her once more, and she found herself relaxing into it. She watched, somewhat fascinated to see her near-fatal wound slowly stitch itself together.

“It looks really bad,” she observed quietly.

“That’s because it is really bad. Perhaps you’re a bit less immortal than you thought you were?”

She halfway rolled her eyes, but soon found herself relaxing even further as sweet relief swept through her body, ending the agony that had haunted her every step since the moment they’d landed at the beach. She tried to get a better look at the strange man, but his hood blocked a significant portion of his face from view while he worked.

“Who are you, truly?”

He glanced up, still wearing an amused smile. Something about the small dimple at the corner of his left lip sent a peculiar feeling through her. “No one of consequence, but I’d like to help, if you’ll have me.”

Before she could respond, she heard a rustling and some laughter coming from behind her as Clea and Clem returned.

“Oh, lovely, you’re awake!” called out Clem.

“Here, we found food! You can lower your wand. He told us where to go look. At the very least, we know he doesn’t want us starving to death.”

“I’m bloody exhausted. We can finally go to sleep, can’t we?”

“Eat first, you twit.”

They bickered back and forth a bit, but Hermione tuned them out, turning her attention back to her healer. The moon rose high in the sky, and the reflections of light through the dense jungle trees danced along the exposed lower portion of his face.

“There,” said the man with a nod. “All done. It doesn’t hurt anymore, right?”

It didn’t, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing how successful he’d been. “I’ll be fine, though I could use some rest… But what happens now? What if that man shows up to kill us in our sleep?”

“He won’t. I’ll keep watch.”

“What, you’re not tired?”

His smile turned rather sad. “I’m always tired. But you needn’t worry. I’m not going to let anything hurt you here.”

His gaze turned intense, and there was a strangely familiar glint in his shadowed eyes. Something in her head started ringing faintly.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

“I already told you: no one of any consequence.”

“At least tell me your name,” she said. She needed to know. The ringing grew louder, and she brought a hand up to pinch at her throbbing forehead. “Please, tell me.”

His eyes darted over her face, and then he lowered his hood.

Her head ached and her vision blurred.

She knew his name. His name was—

“My name is Draco.”

Over the next few days, Draco led them through the jungle with very few incidents, outside of an occasional skirmish with the Queen’s monstrous minions. The man from the beach wasn’t among them, and Draco dispatched the attackers with ease, leaving them as melted, murky puddles on the ground. He was a brilliant fighter. There was a wittiness about him as well, which Hermione found somewhat intriguing, but she was hardly keen on trusting him just yet. Sure, he’d saved her life and healed her, but to what end? He undoubtedly had motivations of his own that he wasn’t sharing with them, and the brief conversation between him and the man who had murdered her entire expedition had left her with a lengthy list of questions.

“I don’t trust him,” said Clem with an appropriately distrustful look as Draco scouted ahead.

Clea shrugged. “If he can handle all the fighting, that’d be lovely. He survived facing off against The Blond Man, didn’t he?”

Hermione didn’t particularly care for their enemy’s new nickname, as if Clea and Clem simply hadn’t noticed Draco’s own blond locks hanging loosely beneath his hood.

Clem waved Clea off, and they argued back and forth until Draco rejoined them—though Hermione was fairly convinced he’d overheard every word. It was something about the little smirk on his face when he looked at her.

He was certainly an odd fellow, but she agreed with Clea: what did it matter? If they shared an enemy, then at a minimum they could coexist for a time.

When Draco gestured for them to continue onwards, she kept a close eye on him, but she didn’t hesitate to follow.

The jungle’s humidity soon dissipated and the trees grew darker, blanketing the land in a thick, boreal forest, when Arcadia sent a new surprise their way.

As they paused near a small cave waiting for Clea and Clem to return from scouting the path ahead, Hermione froze as a growl emanated from within. She swiftly withdrew her wand, but Draco held up a cautious hand.

They waited as the growling grew louder, but as it came closer, it sounded more like labored breathing. What emerged from the cave was unlike anything she had ever seen before, and she wasn’t quite sure how to categorize it: it was a skeletal man shrouded in a tattered old cloak, but it seemed somewhat wraith-like, flickering in and out of existence like a shade under the moonlight.

The strange creature turned towards Hermione. Her blood ran cold as it fixed her with an eyeless stare, nothing more than a ghostly skull. It growled again, and she shivered.

“Lower your wand. Your spells can’t hurt him,” Draco said, eyeing the creature distrustfully. “Our shadow friend here wants to follow us, and there’s little we can do to stop him at the moment.”

“You can understand him?” Hermione asked, still feeling uneasy under its eyeless gaze.

Draco nodded, clearly on edge as the thing approached. It continued to stare directly at Hermione.

“I suppose he wants to communicate with you,” Draco said with a sort of pout.

“What? Why me?”

He shrugged and looked away.

Hermione did her best to hold the creature’s gaze, though she wasn’t entirely sure where its eyes were supposed to be as it shimmered in the air. “Um, hello,” she started awkwardly. “What can I call you?”

The shadowy creature said nothing, but she sensed an intangible, incredible amount of despair cascading from it in waves. For some reason, it reminded her of The Blond Man looking at Draco with sad, tired eyes.

It growled again before slowly slinking away into the darkness.

Hermione turned to Draco in bewilderment. “Who… What is that thing?”

Draco still looked a bit surly as he glared after the creature. “Nobody knows.”

She didn’t believe him, and he seemed to sense that.

He shrugged again. “Arcadia is strange, is it not? He’s a Shadow. He’s not as he’s meant to be right now. He’ll be with us until we reach the castle. There’s no point in trying to avoid him. He’s irritating, but he won’t harm you. Our goals align with his, and he knows that.”

That seemed to be all he wanted to say on the subject, but she pressed on. “He growled at me, didn’t he? Why does everyone on this bloody continent seem to despise me?”

“I don’t despise you,” Draco offered.

“This creature and The Blond Man certainly do.”

He chuckled humorlessly at that. “One day you might find humor in what you’ve just said.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, nothing. He’s no ally of the Queen and her knight, that’s certain.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

He caught her gaze. “Ahh, I know that look.”

“What look?”

“You’re thinky. Go on, spit it out.”

“You look like him,” she said, watching him carefully and not particularly liking that he spoke about her as if he knew her. “The Blond Man.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked somewhat amused. “Nothing slips by you, does it? It’s my damned hair, isn’t it? It’s gorgeous, I know, though it staunchly prevents any attempt at subterfuge on my part.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at his nonchalance. “That man is your father?”

Draco nodded. “His name is Lucius, and yes, he is… Somewhat.”

“Somewhat?”

“Indeed.”

She shook her head. “You’re a very odd man. It’s a simple question: is he or isn’t he?”

“Need I remind you that things are odd everywhere in Arcadia?” he said with a shrug. “You have to sense that, Granger. Don’t you?”

She frowned and felt a strange sensation, like something was tickling the inside of her skull. “Sorry, what did you call me?”

Granger? Where had that come from? It felt almost like a memory, something ancient from distant eons ago.

He laughed and shook his head. “Apologies. Old habits. Would you mind terribly if I call you Granger? It would please me immensely.”

“Call me whatever you like,” she snapped, feeling a nigh irresistible urge to slap him. “Does your ‘somewhat father’ have any weaknesses you know of? I assume we’ll need to get past him to reach the castle?”

Draco exhaled slowly. “It’s difficult to say. He… really isn’t himself at the moment."

“Are you speaking in your riddles again?”

“No, no. The real Lucius is… still a bastard if I’m being honest, but he’s more honest about it.”

From near his cave, Shadow growled again. She could feel the vibrations in her bones.

Hermione brought a hand to her forehead. “At least I can expect you to be unhelpful. What’s his problem now?”

“He has many, many problems,” said Draco with a grin, loudly enough for Shadow to hear. The ground trembled again.

“Don’t antagonize him!” she snapped. “Honestly, what’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, I have many, many problems too.”

“So do I, and frankly, at the moment most of them are you.”

“Ahh, I don’t doubt it. You like talking to me though, don’t you?”

“No, not at all.”

“No? Why don’t you leave and go catch up with your friends? Clem, Clea, and I’m sure we can scrounge up a Chloe or a Clarence around here somewhere. Or is it that you know I’m a tad more complicated than them, and you’ve been starving for a genuine conversation?”

She scowled, but he still looked amused enough that she couldn’t take him too seriously. “You’re not complicated at all. I fully expected you to talk in circles and say nothing even remotely helpful, and you’ve done just that.”

“No interest in defending those friends of yours? Fear not, I won’t tell Clem. I’d hate to hurt his feelings. He isn’t your paramour, is he? I’d guess not—he seems a bit too dim for your liking.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, he isn’t.” She scowled further, irritated at having allowed him to get under her skin. “And you don’t know what it is that I like.”

He grinned even more brightly. “Ah, I’ve upset you. I apologize for prying. I just can’t help it.”

“Can’t you?”

“I can’t, not when it comes to you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“No? We can change that, if you like. Why did you come here with your expedition?”

“I—” She cut herself off and shook her head. “It hardly matters, does it?”

“Of course it does.” He leaned in closer. “You matter, so it matters.”

She paused. The air between them felt strangely heavy, and she couldn’t help but reply. “I… never quite fit in back home. In fact, it never really felt like my home at all. It’s hard to explain, but I always felt a bit different from the others, like I was meant to travel a divergent path. I suppose I thought that perhaps I could find the source of the starscourge and cure it. Nobody else in the expedition seemed likely to do so.”

“So, that’s why you’re here? You want to help all these people? You want to save the world?”

“Of course I do. What sort of question is that?”

Draco nodded thoughtfully, continuing to smile at her. “Gods, you’re a bloody good person, aren’t you? Even Arcadia can’t take that from you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking,” he said, his eyes growing intense.

“Of course you were.” She once again felt herself grow uneasy and decided to redirect the conversation. “You still haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

His intensity abated, and he grinned again. “But I’m entirely uncomplicated, aren’t I? Surely you know everything about me by now.”

“I don’t know anything aside from the fact that you showed up out of nowhere and instantly started irritating me!” she protested.

“Bah, you know me. I’m a bit broody, I have an absolutely smoldering gaze, and my hair manages to stay gorgeous at all times. That about sums me up, no?”

“Honestly,” she groaned. “Tell me at least something, will you?”

He laughed and shook his head. The moonlight flickered in his eyes, giving them a brilliant hint of silver.

“Just tell me. Please?”

“Ah. I have such a hard time resisting you. What is it that you want to know?”

“Tell me what you know about the Queen.”

“I don’t know anything about her,” he said. Hermione was quite sure that he was lying. “She’s ruined my life as much as anyone else’s. Go on, ask me something more interesting, and make it actually about me this time. Do you want to guess my hobbies? I assure you, I have one that’s outlandish enough that I doubt you’ll believe me.”

“I assume your only hobby is being as bothersome as possible.”

“No, no. Bothering you is very good fun and all, but I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent painter.”

Something scratched at the inside of her skull, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge. “But you’ve always hated painting, haven’t you?”

She frowned at that, not sure where the words had come from, but he only smiled sadly in response. Before either of them could continue the conversation, Clea and Clem approached, bickering as usual.

“Sorry, we didn’t find any food. Clem got us lost.”

“No I didn’t! It was your fault. Where’d you learn to navigate?”

“Shut it. Before we starve to death, I propose we eat you first.”

“I have a suggestion before we jump right to cannibalism,” interrupted Draco. “I know a small town not far from here where we can resupply.”

Hermione rubbed at her temples in an attempt to stave off a growing headache. “We shouldn’t take too many detours. It isn’t far to Hogwarts now.”

Clea blinked at her. “Hogwarts?”

Hermione frowned. What had she said? Hogwarts? Unsure of what else to do, she looked to Draco somewhat helplessly. He seemed to sense her confusion and smiled gently.

“Yes, the castle. Hogwarts.”

The world tilted, and bright red flames danced behind her eyes. Her skull felt ready to explode out of her head.

“Like I said, we’ll need supplies for the journey. I’ll take care of that tomorrow.” Draco looked back to Hermione and gave her a rather infuriating wink. “For now, I suggest we sleep. Good night, Granger.”

After trudging for hours through the cool forest, the environment gave way to glimmering snow. They followed a trail beside a frozen river for hours until eventually, they arrived at the town Draco had promised. It was a small village, sparsely populated, but Draco knew its inhabitants well. Hermione could only watch dubiously as he walked up to a giant rabbit—well over two meters tall—and wrapped it in a hug.

“Draco!” the rabbit squeaked excitedly. “Long time, my friend!”

“Babbity!” Draco’s face lit up with an oddly innocent sort of joy. “Everyone, this is Babbity Rabbity. She can help resupply us for the journey to Hogwarts.”

“What? But Babbity Rabbity isn’t a real rabbit,” Hermione said with a frown.

“Try telling her that,” Draco replied, laughing softly.

Hermione shook her head. “This is wrong. She’s supposed to be an old lady!”

“What makes you so sure about that, Granger?”

Babbity Rabbity brightened considerably, and her ears twitched. “Oh, this is her? Hermione Granger?”

Draco nodded, while Hermione brought a hand to her throbbing forehead.

Before she could react, the rabbit swooped forward and wrapped her in a hug.

“Don’t worry,” Babbity whispered, patting her on the head. Despite herself, Hermione leaned into the confusing comfort of her arms. “Draco will protect you here. He’s my best friend, you know. You should visit me when you finish your trip to Hogwarts. That is, if I’m still here…”

The rabbit's squeaky voice turned melancholy in a way that made Hermione’s heart ache. “What do you mean if you’re still here?” she asked slowly, fighting against a creeping buzzing in the back of her head.

Babbity didn’t respond. Draco quickly jumped in and separated them. “Babbity’s a bit melodramatic, that’s all. She always has been.”

“Draco,” Hermione whispered. Her head spun; suddenly, it was a struggle simply to stand. “What’s happening? What does she mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You look tired. Why don’t you rest? Babbity and I can handle the supplies.”

She still felt suspicious, but he had a point: her skull felt like it could hardly contain her brain any longer and it was about to breach.

She watched in a daze as they gathered supplies and prepared to depart. When she looked back up at Draco, he was having something like a heartfelt goodbye with Babbity Rabbity. She almost felt like an intruder by watching. Babbity Rabbity caught her eyes and smiled mournfully, and Hermione fought off a growing disquiet until they departed.

That night, she dreamed of fire.

When she awoke, it was everywhere—roaring red flames engulfing their camp in the snowfield. Twigs snapped on the ground as they got caught in the inferno. She could feel the heat of it licking at her face, crisping her skin. She tried to scream for help, but no sound emerged from her damaged throat. Clea and Clem were nowhere to be seen. Draco stood nearby, unmoving, fading in and out of existence every time she blinked. Then a woman appeared in front of her, all dressed in black.

Without ever having seen her before, Hermione knew her: the very reason they launched their exposition in the first place. The grotesque cruel Queen. The one responsible for so much death and destruction throughout the lands of Arcadia. The one they called the Mistress of Death, with sadness in her striking blue eyes and cruelty at her fingertips. Her white hair hung limply at her shoulders and blood-red tears stained her cheeks. She wavered there as though she was finding it difficult to stand on her own.

“Turn back,” the Queen whispered softly. “Go, grow old, and die in peace.”

It sounded like a fine idea as Hermione stood there, rooted to the spot, all of her nerve endings shrieking in agony as the flames surrounded her.

“There is only despair here,” she promised. As if to accentuate his point, the flames flickered more brightly, melting away the remaining snow and filling Hermione’s lungs with a thick, ashy smoke. “This place was never meant for you.”

The fire spread towards Draco, unmoving and helpless, watching Hermione with desperate eyes. His mouth was open in an eternal scream.

“No,” she whispered, but her vocal cords felt strained and sore. Draco’s eyes looked impossibly sad as the roaring fire charred away his skin to specks of ash. The cursed flames licked at her ankles, then her legs, then her arms, then her face, and she couldn’t even cry out as she watched her skin bubble and burst and then—

The Queen stepped forward and cupped her face. Her son took after his father, but he resembled her in anguish.

“You understand,” she whispered. And for a moment, Hermione did understand, but the fleeting thought was soon engulfed in the fire.

Unsure of what to do, she looked desperately to Draco. Entirely consumed by flames, his skin melted off his body, creating a puddle of blood-red ink at his feet.

“No!” Hermione choked out. Suddenly she felt like an onlooker observing the scene. Bursts of fire emerged from her palms, beautiful reds and oranges as though she were painting, drawing a line straight towards the Queen, whose eyes widened in terror.

“Stop,” she begged. “Please, please let me have this, please.”

The inferno continued to grow, the fire devouring her and the world around her as the Queen sobbed.

Then everything, even the flames themselves, froze.

Shadow took a menacing step in front of her and stared down the Queen.

The Queen’s agony turned to fury. She looked far less frail and much more threatening as she glared at Shadow. The air crackled with tension, flickering even brighter than the fire as the two of them had an unspoken conversation. Their locked gazes transcended existence. Eventually, the Queen let out an anguished shriek and fled.

Shadow turned his dangerous gaze to Hermione. She could almost hear his words, and for an infinitesimal moment she understood the terrible truth of Arcadia. Then he snapped his bony fingers, and the world trembled.

She cried out and collapsed to the snowy ground, the smell of ash still lingering in her nostrils, but the hellfire of her vision was gone.

“Hermione!” The shout came from a distance, beyond the ringing in her ears.

Strong hands moved to grasp her as she struggled for breath.

“Draco,” she coughed out as she gasped for air.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Draco as he held her. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

“What the hell is going on?” came Clem’s voice from nearby.

“There you go, Granger,” Draco said softly. “Just breathe. What happened, can you tell me?”

Her breathing gradually calmed, but she kept her eyes screwed shut. Her heart hammered violently against her ribcage.

She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see his burnt corpse or her own mangled flesh. She clung to him tightly.

“Please tell me. What did you see?” Something in his voice filled her with yearning. He’d been standing in front of her just moments ago, but she felt as though she hadn’t seen him in a lifetime. The thought of it nearly caused her to be overcome with grief.

After another heaving, shuddering breath, slowly—very slowly—she opened her eyes.

Her vision took a moment to adjust, but everything seemed perfectly ordinary: the snow dusting the ground; Clem and Clea standing nearby looking worried; Shadow, who seemed to almost begrudge the fact that he’d intervened in her nightmare. And Draco, the only thing in all of Arcadia that mattered to her, though she couldn’t explain why. Draco, watching her with those impossibly expressive grey eyes. Draco, unburnt and melancholic and beautiful and alive.

“It wasn’t real,” she muttered as she trembled in his arms. “It wasn’t real. Was it?”

He didn’t reply, only holding her close as she trembled until she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open any longer.

It had only been a strange nightmare. It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

Hermione watched Draco through the flickering campfire. Something about the sight of him there, surrounded by flames, filled her with the same unease her nightmare had wrought, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It felt like if she did, he would disappear and be lost to her forever, and the thought made her feel hollow inside.

“He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” asked Clea one night with a grin. “You haven’t been able to take your eyes off of him.”

Hermione half-heartedly shrugged. She hadn’t really had much time to seriously consider his looks. She supposed he was fairly handsome in an abstract sense, and she quite liked the prominent little dimple on his cheek whenever he smiled. He constantly insisted his hair was gorgeous, and she begrudgingly had to admit that he wasn’t wrong—though where he continually found products to care for his hair in Arcadia was an enigma that he refused to reveal. Aside from his physical traits, there was an intelligence in his eyes that she hadn’t seen very often throughout her life, though it was tempered somewhat by a pervasive sadness that, even when he was playfully cajoling her, never seemed to dissipate.

In any case, she didn’t particularly care for the way Clea was eyeing him, though she couldn’t quite explain why.

“Perhaps he is,” she replied, “but I’m not interested.”

“Really? You could’ve fooled me. The way you’ve been staring at each other, I’m surprised you haven’t already jumped each other's bones. You’re really not interested?”

“I—honestly, with everything else going on, now is hardly the proper time for a romance, is it?”

Clea’s grin widened. “I’m not talking about romance, you sweet thing. I’m talking about sex.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Right, yes, that’s nice too, but…” She looked over at Draco again, and something stirred within her. Some faintly primordial thing that she wasn’t prepared to grapple with. “No, I’m definitely not interested.”

She didn’t believe herself, and clearly neither did Clea, who raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No? So you’d have absolutely no problem if I stood up right now and asked him to shag?”

“No, not at all. No problem whatsoever.”

Clea grinned mischievously and stood.

“Oh, honestly,” groaned Hermione. “Please don’t—”

“Oi, Blondie,” Clea called out. “We’ve managed to survive yet another day, against all odds. Would you fancy a celebratory shag tonight?”

Draco looked surprised before chuckling to himself. “I, ah, thank you for the offer, but I’m afraid not.”

Clea pouted at him, while Hermione couldn’t help but feel strangely pleased at the rejection.

“But it’s so cold in my tent,” she said. “Is it because you don’t like your nickname? I’m sure I can come up with another one.”

“No, it’s not you,” he said with a crooked smile. “It’s that I’m married, actually, and rather desperately in love with my wife.”

Hermione’s stomach sank, but then buoyed somewhat when his eyes flicked over to meet hers. His smile widened, like they were both in on the same joke.

Clea continued to pout but nodded begrudgingly. “She’s a lucky lady, whoever she is.”

His smile faded. “Quite the contrary. She would’ve been much better off if she’d never given me a chance.”

Hermione frowned, instinctively disliking his choice of words, but before she could say anything, Clem scoffed.

“Clea, how come you’ve never offered to take me to bed? We’ve known each other for years, and you hardly know this bloke at all. He could be working for the Queen for all you know.”

“I suppose he could be, but at least he isn’t as oafish as you are. You’re clearly only asking me because Hermione’s rejected you a hundred times, and I’m the only other woman around aside from old Babbity.”

“Bah. You’d probably shag Shadow before you considered me as an option.”

They went back and forth in their usual, predictable way. Hermione forced herself to watch them as she ignored the unsettling feeling of Draco’s eyes on her. Eventually, she returned to her tent. She set a dim lighting spell before pulling out her journal and quill.

She hadn’t been writing for very long when she glanced up at a flickering shadow outlined against the entrance to her tent.

“Knock-knock.” Without waiting for her response, Draco slipped into her tent.

“Oh, please do come in, thank you for asking,” Hermione replied with a roll of her eyes.

He smirked roguishly. “I do beg your pardon, but it’s a bit of an emergency.”

“An emergency,” she repeated, fully ready to roll her eyes again.

“Oh yes.”

“Right, of course. Well? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Believe it or not, it’s something your friend mentioned earlier. She said her tent was cold, and I wondered if yours might be the same.” He waved a hand with a dramatic flourish through the air. “And now I’ve confirmed that it’s cold indeed. Quite the emergency! How ever do you put up with this?”

She raised a dubious eyebrow. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I am,” he said with a laugh before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a waterskin. He held it out to her. “I brought you something that might help.”

She eyed his offering suspiciously for a moment before taking it from him and examining it closely. “You brought me water?” she asked blankly. “How sweet.”

“Not quite.” His eyes had an almost endearingly mischievous sparkle to them. “Go on, give it a taste. What are you writing? Penning Arcadia’s greatest novel? Oh, please tell me it’s smutty literature featuring me.”

She took a small sip from the waterskin and almost laughed. Of course it was wine—she should have guessed. “Obviously not. No, I’m keeping a diary.”

“Hm. Sounds like smutty literature to me, then.” He seemed in good spirits as he watched her take another sip of wine. She hadn’t had wine since… She could hardly remember. Had she ever had it before? It tasted familiar. She could almost picture them sitting across a table from each other at some fancy restaurant, stemmed glasses in hand, candlelight reflecting off his face.

She shook her head. “You’re ridiculous. I’ve been detailing our journey. If we should fall, perhaps another expedition will stumble upon our corpses and find this journal. It’s for those who come after.”

“That’s pessimistic of you,” he said with a nod. “Careful not to spill any wine on those pages. It’s precious out here, you know. How do you like it?”

“It’s quite good, actually,” she admitted before handing it back to him.

“Don’t sound so surprised. This vintage comes from before the Cataclysm. Ah, let me tell you, the grapes were something back then. Alas, they suffered more than most of humanity when the world fell apart.”

She laughed for real this time. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually laughed. But the wine was making her feel warm inside, and something about her companion’s odd mirth was infectious. “The Cataclysm was over one hundred years ago. You’re talking about it like you were there for it.”

“How do you know I wasn’t?”

“Because that would make you over one hundred years old.” She paused and laughed again. “And then I’d have to compliment you and say you look very good for a centenarian.”

“Ah. We can’t have that, can we? I imagine you’d sooner say something kind about our cruel Queen than me.”

“Yes, I think I would. You specifically go out of your way to annoy me, whereas the Queen surely has no idea who I am.” Her nightmare sprang to mind: the Queen standing before her, surrounded by flames, pleading desperately. She shook her head to clear it of the sight. “Besides, I feel a bit sorry for her sometimes, while I have absolutely no sympathy for you.”

He ignored her bait and watched her intently. “Do you really? Feel sorry for her, that is?”

He looked so serious that she tried to fight against the wine and give it a thoughtful consideration. Please, let me have this, the Queen had begged. “I suppose I do, somewhat. People generally aren’t born cruel, are they? Something terrible must have happened to make her the way that she is.”

Something in his expression twitched. Draco leaned in closer and pressed his forehead to hers before bringing a hand to delicately cup her cheek. Her heart raced in her chest, and it wasn’t the wine that pulled her inexorably towards him.

“Oh, Hermione,” he whispered, his wine-scented breath tickling her lips. “Why the fates saw fit to send you to Arcadia I have no idea. This place as it is now was never meant for you.”

Their lips were hardly a breath away. Perhaps it was the wine that made her want to close the distance, but instead she pulled back to look at him. He wore the same sorrowful expression as the Queen had in her nightmare. As Lucius had in the jungle. The same pervasive despair.

“Your father said the same thing to me,” she said slowly.

His expression didn’t change, but he dropped his hand from her cheek. She felt some regret at its absence.

“Draco,” she whispered. “What will happen when we get to the castle?”

A ghost of a smile flickered onto his face. “Once the Queen is gone, this place will finally know peace.”

It wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Draco seemed to know that, but his eyes were so far beyond melancholy that she couldn’t find it within herself to press him.

They made their way through the snowfields towards Hogwarts in the distance. The Forbidden Forest was scourgeland, with its charred, ashy trees that bled black ink. It would certainly be dangerous, but Hermione found herself more and more focused on Draco. She couldn’t stop thinking about how close they’d been in her tent the other night, his hand on her cheek, before he rather abruptly left her alone. It had left her cold. She didn’t like the idea of being without him. She couldn’t understand why, but every strand of her being seemed to pull towards him, and she wasn’t sure how to resist it. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to.

Turnabout was fair play, she decided, and that night, entirely unable to stop herself, she made her way into his tent. He glanced up as if he’d been expecting her.

“Are you here for me, or for the wine?” he asked.

“Neither,” she said, but she gladly accepted the wine when he passed it to her. She nodded to the parchment in front of him. “What’s that? Surely you weren’t serious about your artistic proclivities?”

He looked amused, though still a bit sad, as he often was. “Deadly serious. I’m an excellent painter.”

“May I see?”

He held the parchment out to her, and for just a moment she found herself distracted by his fingers, of all things. They were quite long, weren’t they? And more delicate than she’d expect from a man so seasoned in combat. Of course those fingers would be useful for many things, painting included.

Next, she actually looked at the painting itself. Her breath left her lungs in a rush as she took it in.

If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought it was a painting of her, but upon closer inspection, she thought not. The woman he’d painted was impossibly, ethereally beautiful. She looked up at Hermione and gave her a sly smile, as if they shared a secret. The woman had similar curly hair and facial features. Hermione wondered if it was a picture of the wife he’d previously mentioned: a long lost love, preserved eternally in his canvas.

“You’re…very talented,” she forced out.

He nodded, showing not an ounce of humility, naturally. “I come by it honestly, for what it’s worth. My parents are both very talented painters. My mother more so than my father. She really feels her art, and in a particularly unique way as compared to most.”

Something about the way he said it made her sad, though she couldn’t say why.

“It’s a shame, really,” he continued. “As much as my parents wished I would, I never enjoyed painting. I rather preferred playing the piano.”

“Oh?” She smiled. “I’d like to hear you play sometime.”

“In that case, I should warn you: I’m exceedingly terrible at it. All my talent lay in painting. It’s truly a great tragedy.”

She laughed and realized that, at some point during their conversation, she’d reached for his hand, gently sliding her fingers along his skin.

“I have a piano back home,” she said, a vision of it springing to mind. Was it in Arcadia? No, it was from a different place. Her real home. It wasn’t a grand piano, but it was serviceable enough. They’d kept it in a room in the back of the house, one where they didn’t often bring guests. A room just for them. She could imagine the small crib on the ground beside it, could see him playing a tune, not nearly as terrible as he claimed to be. Then the flames came to life, emerging all around them, and the piano burned with the rest of them, and she could smell the ashes, and she could see him there, on the ground, screaming—

She took a deep breath before smiling at him. “You can come by after all of this is over and play it. It’s nothing grand, but it functions properly. I think… It would be nice.”

He didn’t reply, instead further entwining their fingers and bringing her hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to each of her knuckles.

“Can you promise me that?” Her heart thundered and her head began to ache. “Please. After all of this is over…”

He nodded, but his eyes were still so sad. “I’ll do anything you ask of me,” he said quietly.

She pressed a hand to his heart, filled with fear that if she wasn’t vigilant enough about guarding it, it would stop beating altogether.

“Don’t leave me,” Hermione whispered, and she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

Draco hesitated only for a moment before he kissed her back fiercely. His tears were wet against her cheek, and she pulled him even closer.

“Please, don’t leave me,” she whispered again, as they made quick work of each other's clothes.

His stubble was rough against her skin. Then her vision flashed. He was clean-shaven, as always, and they were home in their bed, and he’d never looked happier as he kissed his way down to her stomach, pausing only to look up and smile brilliantly at her. Then it flashed again and they were in his tent in Arcadia, and he pushed inside her with an anguished cry.

Their breath and their tears mingled in the darkness, and she held him close for fear that when she next blinked, he would be gone.

Hermione looked around uneasily. She was in the castle, Hogwarts, in a strange room filled with curious trinkets and baubles. Before her, a scrawny, teenaged Draco stood at a glowing easel, frantically painting as fast as he could.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked, but he didn’t reply, only continuing to paint. Ink of impossible hues splashed everywhere, dripping off the canvas, covering the floor, slowly sludging its way until it covered everything that ever was. “Draco…” She reached for him to calm his frenetic energy.

At her touch, he jerked back and stared at her, his face twisted in pain. He reached for her hand, smearing it with thousands of unnamable colors. “Please, help me,” he begged.

She pulled her hand away and tried to step back, shaking her head, but his vice-like grip only tightened. “I don’t know how.”

His grasp on her hand tightened even further. “You know.” Blood-red tears leaked out of his eyes and stained his pale cheeks. “You know.”

He held her hand even as flames gathered in her palm, and they both cried out as the inferno devoured them. He was older now, but his skin still charred to black and flaked off of his body. Every single nerve ending screeched in pain, and it hurt to breathe, and it hurt to move, and her flesh boiled, and then—

She awoke with a gasp and looked for Draco. Even though he’d promised he’d never leave her, he wasn’t there—

She took several deep breaths and tried to center herself. She was in Draco’s tent, with a distance still to go before they arrived at Hogwarts. There were no flames surrounding her, devouring her, destroying her.

Unable to shake the disturbing vision, she dressed herself and left the tent. It was cool out, and her breath misted in the air as she exhaled with relief. Draco sat at the top of a hillock overlooking the castle.

He didn’t say anything as she sat next to him, but nevertheless wrapped a comforting arm around her as she curled up against him. They sat in silence, watching the sun rise in the distance.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked eventually. “The sunrise, that is. It looks like something you could paint, if you wanted to.”

He didn’t reply, only pulling her closer to him. His lack of response made her heart beat nervously in her chest.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a simple thing to play a sunrise on the piano. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t actually agree to play for me. Will you?”

His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. “I told you, I’m not very good at it. I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate ears.”

“I’m not so delicate.”

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.” He brushed a renegade curl off her face and tucked it behind her ear, leaving his hand to linger, cupping her cheek.

“When this is over, we can do anything we want. Right?”

His tormented eyes roved her face.

“Right?” she pressed desperately.

At that, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. She sank against him. Whatever words she wanted to say didn’t feel like enough, so she let him hold her and kiss her as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky.

The approach to Hogwarts went far smoother than she’d anticipated. There was no vast army protecting the castle, only a magical shield that prevented a confused Clea and Clem from passing through.

“Even Shadow gets to go through?” complained Clem with a scowl, but he relented after Hermione promised to look for a way to take down the barrier.

They didn’t have to go very far before they were greeted by Lucius, with the frail Queen just behind him. She looked exactly as she had in Hermione’s dream, before they had all gone up in flames.

Hermione watched as Lucius stepped forward, his eyes darting between Draco and Shadow. A muscle rippled through his cheek as he clenched his jaw. “You chose him over your real family? He has no love for you. You know what he aims to do, Draco.”

“Draco is dead,” Draco replied. Hermione’s heart froze in her chest. Even if she knew what to say, she was unable to speak.

Something in Lucius’s face seemed to break. “But you’re not.”

As Lucius took a step towards Draco, Shadow intervened with a growl. The world shook beneath their feet.

“Shadow will handle him. Let’s tend to the Queen,” said Draco quietly. He pulled Hermione along, even as Lucius fell to his knees in terror at Shadow’s feet.

Lucius screamed, but she didn’t look back. The Queen watched their approach with icy blue eyes. She looked even frailer than her nightmare version, her face drawn with torment. She fell to her knees just as Lucius had.

“Please,” she whispered in a used, scratchy voice. “Please…”

Draco knelt before her, and, drawn by something unknowable, Hermione joined him.

“Go on,” said Draco, his voice hoarse. “You have to do it. I… can’t. Make it painless, if you can.”

Hermione’s wand felt heavy in her hand.

The Queen reached out with both arms and brushed her bony, starscourged fingers against each of their cheeks.

Hermione’s hand trembled as she placed her wand against the Queen’s heart. This wretched woman was responsible for so much suffering, but unbidden, she remembered a conversation with Draco one night in her tent: something terrible must have happened to make her what she was. Hermione couldn’t help but pity her.

“Please…”

Hermione took a deep breath and cast her spell to stop the Queen’s heart, and with it, the scourge. It felt almost anti-climactic as the Queen smiled tearfully at her, shut her eyes, and faded away into nothingness.

Hermione heard a strange buzzing in the back of her skull, and time suddenly felt a bit funny. Two people came running up—who were they? Clea and Clem, her fellow expeditioners? Who were they really? What were they?

“Did we do it?” asked Clem nervously. “Is it over?”

Clea grinned. “I think we did it, didn’t we? Her reign is over.” At that, she laughed, walked over to take a hold of Clem’s face, and pulled him to her for a joyous kiss.

Hermione thought she wanted to smile, but her head ached too severely, and then she caught sight of Draco’s face. He looked so intensely miserable that he almost seemed to be in physical pain.

“Draco?” Her own voice sounded unfamiliar. Her mouth felt dry and her throat itched. “What’s the matter?”

He stayed silent, and her apprehension rose rapidly. Eventually, he exhaled and turned to face her. “I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “About what?”

He looked at her, his eyes despairing, and he reached down to lace his fingers between hers. “About… everything.”

Before she could question him, the world grew dark. A blood-red moon eclipsed the sun. She watched in frozen horror as wisps of smoke danced around them, seeping the landscape of all its color. It moved onto Clea and Clem, who looked vaguely surprised before they drained of all color and disintegrated into dark ash.

Something screamed in her head. Hermione could feel herself on fire, her very bones cursed. She screwed her eyes shut and clung to Draco. Draco, the only thing that mattered as the world faded around her.

She felt more than saw Shadow gathering all the energy from the fracturing world. Shockwaves of magical energy emanated from him, but there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Draco wrapped his arms around her. As she buried her head in his chest, he whispered, “I’m so sorry. Everything will be okay. You’ll see.”

She held on to him tightly as everything fell to darkness.

II. Caramel

Hermione reluctantly opened her eyes.

She’d been awake for hours, but in the darkness she could cling to the idea of sleep. Glorious sleep, free from the burdens of reality. Free of existing in a world where crippling pain and horrors haunted her every step.

She forced herself to sit up in her bed, the effort of which almost instantly knocked her back down. The tremors in her hands had improved somewhat, but not completely, and her fingers still shook as she reached for the pain relief potion on her nightstand. She lifted the flask to her lips, trying not to spill any of it through her trembling. She’d have to restock soon—she was running out ahead of schedule. Clearly she’d been building a tolerance to the potion’s effects, but the thought of weaning herself off was out of the question.

Every waking second was agony.

She’d hardly managed to get through the struggle of dressing herself and onto her morning routine when there was a knock at the door. It was surprising—she hardly ever had unexpected visitors anymore. She thought about leaving it be, but the knock sounded again.

“Hermione? You alright?” called Harry from the other side of the door.

She felt particularly out of sorts today, more so than usual, and didn’t want to strain her constantly-sore throat. Instead, with a grimace and a great amount of effort, she flicked her wand through the air and opened the door for him as she sank down onto her most comfortable sofa.

“Thanks,” he said, walking in and glancing around for her. He was wearing his Auror robes, fresh from the field, no doubt. “It’s good to see you—”

Harry’s voice broke off. His eyes widened as they darted over her face, but he recovered quickly. She didn’t mind much—he likely hadn’t seen her without her glamour charms since the attack two years earlier, and she hadn’t had the time or the energy to apply them just yet. Surely it was a bit of a shock. It even shocked her whenever she caught a glimpse of what remained of her scarred face in the mirror.

He smiled gently and moved to sit by her side. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. I’ve just come from an anomaly site, and…” He trailed off awkwardly.

She’d long ago given up hope that he’d knock on her door with news that they’d captured her masked attackers, whoever they were. Former Death Eater sympathizers with a grudge had been the assumption at the time, before the investigation had stalled out.

Harry seemed to be wavering, so she gave him a look, as best as she could manage. Thanks to the cursed fire, it was difficult to speak comfortably. Her expressions might not have come across as well through her mangled skin, but Harry had always known her well enough to understand what she was trying to say. Now, he knew she was nudging him to get to the point, even if he very much didn’t want to.

“It’s Malfoy Manor,” he said, watching her cautiously as her heart stuttered in her chest. “Something’s going on in Wiltshire. The Manor’s protective spells are up, and they’re impenetrable. There are bursts of magic seeping out of it, and it’s causing earthquakes. They’re getting worse—we have no idea how bad it might get. We think Lucius and Narcissa are still inside, but our attempts to contact them haven’t been successful. You know I wouldn’t have come to you about this unless I was desperate, and… Well, I’m desperate, Hermione. I really need your help.”

She sank further into her seat. She hadn’t been to the Manor in a long time. A very long time.

Not since Draco was still alive.

“There’s some obscure magic going on. I’ve tried to send a team in, but they couldn’t even get past the front gate. The Unspeakables are on the scene, but—”

She listened as Harry explained the situation, but stared past him, looking instead at her old piano in the corner of the room. Even though it was scorched beyond repair, by some miracle it had survived the cursed fire when nearly nothing else did. It could still make music, though undoubtedly it was out of tune by now. Sometimes she could shut her eyes and picture Draco sitting there, his fingers dancing lightly along the keys. But then she would inevitably see the rising flames behind him, emerging from the inept wands of their skull-masked attackers—

“—And like I said, I’m out of options. If there’s anyone who might have a chance of getting inside the Manor, then it’s you, and—”

“I’ll go,” she forced out through her strained vocal cords. “I’ll go.”

He looked grim but nodded. “Do you need any help getting ready? I have a car ready for you outside.”

She made it clear that no, she didn’t need any help, and that she was grateful for the car. Apparating and other means of magical travel put too much strain on her weakened body that she avoided them altogether at this point.

She wouldn’t need very long to get ready, even though sometimes willing herself to stand up could take half the day. Still, the idea of saving Lucius and Narcissa’s arses from whatever they’d been up to filled her with something, a strange sort of drive that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She cast her routine glamour charms so that she would at least look somewhat presentable when she arrived. She told herself that she wasn’t doing it for anyone other than herself, and that it was nothing different from simply applying makeup. It certainly wasn’t to prepare for potentially seeing Draco’s parents again for the first time since they’d come to see her at St. Mungo’s after the incident. It hadn’t been a kind visit: Narcissa had screeched and sobbed and laid Draco’s death at her feet, while Lucius had tried to corral his wife away—but not before leveling Hermione with a look of such cruel disdain that it was clear how entirely he agreed with his wife.

She hadn’t seen them since. There hadn’t been any cause to: their son was dead, and their future grandson was gone before he’d ever been born, lost in the aftermath of the assault that had very nearly killed her too.

Before long, she grabbed the cane that she couldn’t walk for very long without and met Harry. It wasn’t a lengthy car ride, but it was a quiet one as she focused on steadying her breathing.

“Alright?” Harry murmured after helping her out of the car when they arrived at the Manor grounds.

She nodded, ignoring the pitying looks from his nearby colleagues as she leaned heavily on her cane. She gazed up at the Manor in wonder. Harry was right to be concerned: she could feel the waves of oppressive, ancient magic leaking from the grounds. It smelled like burning, and for a moment she shut her eyes.

“So? What do you think?” he prompted.

She shrugged weakly, and he helped her walk towards the gate. She could feel the Manor’s magic calling to her, whispering gently on the wind.

“If I can get past the gate,” she said slowly, her voice as hoarse as ever, “I’ll find out what’s going on and put a stop to it.”

Harry looked nervous. “Don’t take any risks. If you can get the wards down, then my team can handle whatever’s in there. If you discover anything, great, but then come right back out. Don’t put yourself in any unnecessary danger. Okay?”

She ignored him and shuffled up to the gate. She could feel the thrum of familiar magic. It felt like Draco. Tears sprang to her dry eyes. She could feel it recognize her, react to her, yearn to welcome her in.

The gate creaked open, just wide enough for her to slip through, before it slammed back shut with a loud metallic clang.

“Hermione,” Harry said, sounding tense. He’d walked up right behind her, but the Manor was willful. It would never allow him to pass through its gates. Not now, while its occupants were in danger. “Come right back out. Please? You know he wouldn’t want you to put yourself at risk.”

She ground her teeth but nodded. She wasn’t sure that she could make any promises, not there, and she began her slow trudge towards the front door. She for breath as she fought against the oppressive waves of violent magic emerging from the ancient house.

Just like the gate, the door opened only a hair to allow her to pass. Before stepping inside, she glanced back towards Harry, but he was obscured by a thick, roiling fog. It set her even further on edge, but she steeled herself and crossed the threshold into Malfoy Manor.

She leaned on her cane as she walked into the foyer and looked around. The Manor felt oppressively dark and quiet. Shadows danced along the walls, playing tricks on her eyes. Even the portraits seemed to have silenced themselves and remained motionless.

“Hello?” she croaked. Her voice was quiet and scratchy, yet it carried through the house, echoing off the walls.

She shuffled forward warily. She hadn’t been inside the damned Manor for years. Not since she and Draco had broken the news of their engagement, and before that, only to get tortured to the edge of sanity during the war. His parents had reacted negatively to their engagement—much to Draco’s disappointment and her own complete lack of surprise—and that had been that. She’d known it hurt him more than he’d let on, but he’d sworn to cut off contact until they came around. He was sure that they would eventually. None of them could have known that he’d never speak another word to either of them ever again.

A faint, eerie glow emerged from an open doorway further down the hallway. There was nothing else to do but fight against her weak, aching muscles and push forward.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of forcing herself to take step after painful step, she made her way into the drawing room. It was beyond strange, walking voluntarily into the very place that had featured so prominently in her nightmares for so long, and yet it seemed muted now.

It had been replaced in her nightmares by hellfire.

She looked around and almost jumped back when she saw them: Draco’s parents, alive and unharmed.

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated as she took them in. Neither moved. At all. They were entirely frozen in place, like statues: Narcissa, sitting on a chair upon a plush pillow; Lucius, standing beside her with his arm outstretched.

Directly before them was an object she’d heard much about but had never seen: Draco’s canvas from when he was a boy. An extraordinarily rare and highly desired magical artifact. An heirloom passed through generations of the more artistically inclined Malfoys. The one that he could paint entire worlds in and magically enter. Where he’d played when he was a boy. Where, when he was only five years old, he’d painted Babbitty Rabbity as an anthropomorphic rabbit instead of a wise old washerwoman because he hadn’t known any better and had wanted a best friend to play with. Where he’d found solace during dark days. Where, even when his tastes trended towards music, the canvas loomed large, an unsubtle symbol of the albatross of familial expectations.

A pervasive sense of dread threatened to overwhelm her.

She frowned as she observed his parents more closely. Clearly they’d entered the canvas, the world their son used to play in, and whatever they were doing in there was causing peripheral magic reverberations that permeated into the real world. But why? Surely not to have a friendly conversation with Babbitty the Rabbit whilst reminiscing about Draco’s childhood. Draco had told her all about the relic, and he hadn’t neglected to mention the warnings: that it could be terribly, dangerously addicting, and that anyone who spent too much time inside, or who found themselves too entranced with the worlds within, might find themselves unable to return to reality.

This had to be about Draco, somehow. It had to be. There was no other explanation. But it was impossible: Draco was dead. It still made her heart ache to think about.

She frowned further and flicked her wand through the air, holding her breath as her detection spell sank into the canvas.

It was impossible, she reminded herself as the spell worked its magic. He was dead. Even if some obscure, fractured part of his soul lived on in the canvas, it wouldn’t be him. Not really.

Her heart twinged, remembering the little dimple at the corner of his left lip whenever he smiled that he’d always bemoaned, and the way his deft fingers danced upon her skin, and the look of pure pain and terror and love as he’d used up whatever magic he could muster to cast a shielding spell over her right before the fire engulfed him—

He was dead.

She moved closer, her very bones aching nearly as much as her heart, and positioned herself next to Lucius, whose arm was outstretched desperately towards the canvas. Stark lines marred his exhausted face. Narcissa had always been an extraordinary painter, according to Draco, and she sat, still as a statue, streaks of tears rolling down her pale cheeks. She looked far frailer than the last time Hermione had seen her. Her hair had gone fully white, and she looked almost emaciated, her stony face etched with an all-encompassing grief.

Hermione eyed the canvas. It swirled violently with living, breathing spirals of impossible colors. She thought she could hear soft voices from within, calling out to her. Something inside her stirred, something that she couldn’t quite define.

Had Lucius and Narcissa entered to look for Draco? To be with the only piece of their son, her husband, one more time?

Were they trying to bring him back?

It was impossible. Whatever remnant of him that remained in there wouldn’t be the real him. It might look like him, and sound like him, and act like him, and if it somehow had any of his more recent memories then he would know her, and—

Her spell activated, not detecting any particularly dark magic. It wasn’t a Horcrux, but there was something. Some part of him—some sliver of his soul—was still in that damned canvas, and his parents were rending reality apart to try to find it.

She shook her head and raised her hand. Harry would want her to go back and tell him what she’d found, but she wasn’t in any danger. Nothing could hurt her inside the canvas. If Draco was in there, he wouldn’t be real. It was simple, actually: she had to enter the canvas, extract his parents, and destroy the cursed thing.

He wouldn’t be real.

She shut her eyes, steadied herself, and reached for the canvas. As she projected herself inside of it, she immediately found herself struggling against a current of despair.

The world around her was nothing but darkness. She tried to fight the unexpectedly powerful magical waves flooding over her, but there was little she could do as the pressure built around her. Could she sense him out there, beyond the icy tides?

No, and it didn’t matter if she could: he was dead. She had to find his parents and get them out.

Out in the distance, looming in anguish over the canvas, was Narcissa. Her grief was the source of the darkness, damaging the very essence of the canvas itself. She couldn’t see Lucius, but she could sense him, like a Shadow, in conflict with his wife.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” Hermione called out. Her voice was swept away into the void, and her legs grew weak as Narcissa’s despair crashed against her own, growing stronger and stronger. Soon, it was too much to withstand.

As she prepared for the next wave to sweep her away, for just a moment, she could see everything as it was. In Narcissa’s never-ending mourning, she’d entered Draco’s canvas-world of Arcadia. There, she’d painted an obscene false family. Hermione could sense her out there, ruling over a ruined land. At her side, her stern-faced false Lucius, a painted twin of her real husband, capable of defending her realm. He was meant to stand beside a false Draco, crafted lovingly from the fragments of his remaining soul. Together, they would be a family once more and protect the canvas.

But neither of them were real.

The real Lucius was there as well, imprisoned by his more powerful paintress wife, fighting desperately to free them both. He’d escaped only in the form of a Shadow, with the sole goal of destroying the canvas from within. Only that would free her from her debilitating despair, and the ancient magic that would inevitably drain the life from her as she lost herself to her grief.

Hermione cried out as her remaining strength faded to nothingness. The riptide of sorrow swept her away, nearly drowning her, and some distant part of her recognized what was happening even as she felt herself fading away: the boiling magic of Narcissa’s grief, manifested in the canvas, was overwhelming her, painting over own existence. She cried out in anguish into the abyss. She hadn’t been prepared for it and couldn’t fight against it. Her memories of the real world tore away, replaced by those of a fabricated, painted reality. Before it entirely erased her, she sensed him. She felt Draco out there. And even as her mind ripped to shreds, she thought that perhaps it didn’t matter so much if it wasn’t really him, if only she could just see him one last time.

She watched in awe as the darkness around her was painted over, and she vaguely wondered if she wouldn’t hurt as much as one of Narcissa’s painting-creatures. Would her bones still scrape against her own skin whenever she took a step? Would her glamoured scars remain on her face? Would the hollowness of her heart where memories of Draco resided feel full?

She knew what she had to do. She’d have to fight against her own existence in Draco’s painted world. She’d have to find a way to aid the real Lucius—the Shadow—in banishing his wife from Arcadia, all without knowing that that was her goal.

Draco called out to her like a distant dream.

Would she recognize him if she found his fractured soul in this world? Would he help her fulfill her goals, or would he once again be her enemy? It didn’t really matter, did it? She had to find him. She had to see him again. She had to find out how to bring him back. She had to. She had to.

He was dead, but part of him lived, and maybe that was enough.

Her mantra faded away as the world swirled in brightly painted colors. Then everything faded to darkness, and Hermione she found herself reborn in the desolate, anguished despair of Arcadia.

III. Even In Arcadia

Hermione’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy as she blearily swam back into consciousness. Her head felt as though it had been trampled by a stampede of erumpents, and her vision blurred as she attempted to stave off nausea.

She sensed a presence kneeling in the mud next to her. She didn’t even question that it was Arcadia’s painted version of Draco.

“W-where is everyone?” she asked, bringing a hand to her forehead to forestall the overwhelming ache as he held her close.

He moved a hand to her lower back to brace her as she struggled to sit up.

The world tilted, and her vision swam as she looked around. She was at Hogwarts, wasn’t she? The castle was there, right in front of her, but the rest of the world was strange, with dark streaks of color bleeding from the eclipsed sky.

“Draco,” she said slowly, reaching almost blindly for his hand. “Please tell me. Where is everyone? The last thing I remember is—”

She grimaced, and her vision stuttered. The last thing she remembered was seeing Draco’s parents, frozen in the Manor’s drawing room, just before she entered the canvas—

No, it was her friends, Clea and Clem, the last remaining members of their expedition, exploding into bright bursts of paint—

She was a member of the expedition. She’d been born off the mainland of Arcadia, and she’d dedicated her life to researching a cure for the starscourge that was plaguing their world—

“No,” she hissed through her teeth as she screwed her eyes shut.

Her name was Hermione Granger. She’d been born in London and had gone to Hogwarts for school. She’d met her future husband there, though it had taken years after the war for their relationship to truly begin. While it had torn friendships and families apart, it was the best thing that had ever happened to either of them. They’d been preparing to start their own little family until he was brutalized right in front of her, and his murderers had set her and her entire world on fire and left her for dead. The spell they’d used had been dark, so dark that she had never been able to heal properly, and every waking moment was anguish—

No.

“No, no, no,” she mumbled again. Hermione wrapped her arms around her stomach as she leaned in and pressed her face into Draco’s chest. He held her close, running a soothing hand along her back as she trembled.

She felt more than saw Lucius’s presence. The real Lucius, the one whose mission had been to banish his wife from the canvas, and who she’d unknowingly assisted. Freed from the magical prison created by Narcissa, he appeared now as himself rather than a Shadow. He remained quiet for a time, watching the two of them, before he let out a deep, tired sigh.

“My son’s canvas contains very powerful magic,” Lucius said in a voice that was almost shockingly gentle. “It can be overwhelming for someone who hasn’t experienced it before, particularly without a guide. It can be beautiful. It can be healing. And it can be addicting. It can’t have been easy for you to enter this place so unprepared. I thank you for it.”

She twisted herself in Draco’s arms and blinked up at Lucius. Her vision flashed, and for a moment, she saw him furiously slaughtering her expedition before turning his cruel gaze on her, but—no. While this Lucius had been consistently cruel to her, from when she was a young girl to when she and Draco had become involved, and then all the way to her hospital bed after Draco’s death, his eyes no longer held the malice she’d come to expect. Now, he simply seemed exhausted.

She eyed him warily, memories of her hospital stay coming to mind, warning her not to trust that grief had altered his character so thoroughly. Her grasp on Draco’s hand tightened.

Lucius eyed her back. After she refused to respond, he sighed and flicked his gaze over to Draco, who tensed against her.

“The Malfoy family owes you our gratitude as well… Some of Narcissa’s finest work, truly. What she did was unnatural and unfair to you most of all, and I regret the pain that we’ve caused. You have my thanks as well, for helping free her. Oblivion is hardly an award, but perhaps that’s the outcome that we both desire, no?”

Draco’s entire body relaxed. He nodded slowly.

Hermione felt a jolt down her spine and sat straight up. The world spun at the suddenness of her movements, but she forced herself to leap to her feet. Draco rose without a word beside her.

“Oblivion,” she repeated. “What are you talking about?”

Lucius turned his gaze back to her. “I’m destroying this canvas, Ms Granger. I have to destroy it now, while Narcissa is too weak to return.”

“No,” she said, moving to stand protectively in front of Draco. “You can’t destroy it. Narcissa is gone, she’s home now.”

Lucius shook his head. “You don’t understand the grasp this place has on her. This isn’t the first time my wife has refused to leave this place, nor will it be the last as long as it exists. I’ve tried to hide the canvas away, but she’ll always find it. She’ll return again and again until it destroys her. She’ll never willingly part with it, so I’ll do what I must.”

Her heart thudded rapidly in her chest. “No. No, you can’t. Not if it’s the only piece of Draco left. You can’t.”

“For the sake of the living,” he said wearily, “we must part with the dead.”

Draco exhaled deeply from behind her and laced his fingers through hers once again.

“No.” She reached for her wand with her free hand. Magic didn’t function the same in the canvas as in the real world, but she understood it well enough, and Lucius didn’t seem inclined to fight against her. “I won’t let you.”

He looked somewhat irritated, though not entirely unsympathetic.

“Do you know what I see every day?” he asked softly. “Allow me to show you what my life has become.”

He waved his cane through the air, and swirls of color spiralled in front of them. It was a glimpse into the real world, where she saw her own damaged body in front of the canvas, her arm reaching out beside Lucius. A terribly weakened Narcissa had fallen from her seat. She was on her knees, coughing violently and painting the floor with her own blood.

“Do you see?” Lucius continued. “She gets weaker every time she returns, yet she’ll keep coming back, again and again until the last breath has left her lungs. She’s hardly more than a living corpse thanks to this canvas, and I’ll not let her lose herself to her grief entirely. I refuse to.”

“But you’ll kill him,” she cried.

“My son is dead,” he said with a note of finality in his voice, not sparing another glance at Draco. “You know this.”

She stayed silent for a time, only tightening her grasp on Draco’s hand and her own wand. Lucius continued watching her, seemingly content to let the silence linger.

She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Can you give me time to say goodbye? I never thought… I never imagined I’d have the opportunity, and this is as close as I’ll get.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “That’s unwise. Did you not hear me? This place, it can be impossible to resist, even for the strongest of us. Even for you.”

“I never got to say goodbye.” Tears stung her eyes. “I’ll be fine—I won’t fall into the same trap your wife did. I won’t stay long, and I won’t lose myself. I only need a few minutes, please… I’ve lost so much…”

“We’ve both lost so much. We all have.”

This time she stayed silent, waiting.

Lucius still looked dubious, but ultimately his exhaustion claimed victory over his resistance. “Very well. Good luck, Ms Granger. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

At that, he strode through the swirling portal to the real world. It closed behind him, leaving her and Draco alone.

She exhaled in relief and instantly stepped into Draco’s arms. She pressed her lips to his, and he let her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. They stayed like that for a time, holding each other close under a sky drained of color. The sun remained eclipsed behind a dark moon. The entire world was quiet, desolate, and lifeless.

She pulled back to smile at him and brush her fingers against his cheek. “You never liked stubble. Perhaps I can try my hand at painting and get rid of it for you, what do you think? I may not be a talented painter, but I can feel the magic here now. I imagine I can become decent enough if I practice.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen you try to paint before. I don’t think I want to risk my face—you’d need an awful lot of practice.”

“We have time,” she said brightly.

“Do we?”

He looked as melancholic as ever. She didn’t like it. She much preferred his smile. She’d always loved teasing him about that little dimple on his cheek.

“Can I show you something?” he asked, gesturing towards the large doors of the castle.

She eyed the entrance, hesitating.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

Something in his tone set her on edge, but eventually she nodded and followed him in.

Hogwarts itself was empty. Not only were they the only people in it, but there were no portraits. No decor. It felt ominous walking down its halls. She wondered if it might do as a sort of practice easel. She could start with a simple hallway and see what she could accomplish. See what life she could breathe into the place.

“You know,” Draco started as he led her up the stairs. “I never expected to actually meet you.”

She frowned uneasily as a thick glob of multi-colored paint oozed its way down the staircase beside them. “Oh?”

“I’d often dreamed of it, but it seemed impossible to me. As impossible as the world outside this canvas. Whenever I came across an expedition, I’d try to help them, even if they were doomed to fail. What hope did they have against their creator? Yet I thought I owed my mother, such as she is, that much. I knew she was dying here, and it was all I could do to try to force her from this place. To give her a chance to live.”

They reached the top floor, and her unease only grew as she eyed the corridor. The ground was smeared with strange, viscous colors that she’d never imagined before.

“We’re almost there,” he said, pointing further down the hallway. “It’s that room just ahead, do you see?”

They walked through the thick paint, coating their shoes with it. Just before they reached the door, she came to a halt. Suddenly, her heart was hammering in her chest, and she felt sick to her stomach.

“I don’t want to go in there,” she whispered.

He took a hold of her hand, entwining their fingers with a gentle smile. “It’ll be okay. I’m right here with you.”

Draco opened the door to the painted world’s Room of Requirement. A white light emanated from the room, so bright that it nearly blinded her. But Draco entered regardless, and she couldn’t help but follow.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the bizarre reality of the painted realm’s Room of Requirement, but then there, in the room’s center, she saw him: the scrawny, teenaged Draco that she’d caught glimpses of in her visions. Draco, crying endlessly, frantically painting the colors of Arcadia. Draco, vibrant, glowing, flickering in and out of existence like he wasn’t meant to be there. The little piece of him that had drawn his mother inexorably into the easel, again and again, desperate to be with the only fragment that was left of him.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him.

Draco gave her hand a squeeze. “Lucius didn’t believe you, you know.”

It took an eon for his words to make their way to her. “What of it? I don’t care what he thinks.”

“You should.”

She pursed her lips. She felt dizzy. She didn’t want to be in this room any longer.

“Why don’t you leave right now?” Draco prodded gently. “You know how to. You can leave and come back later.”

“No.” Hermione shook her head sharply. “We need a plan first. If I leave, Lucius will destroy this place, and I can’t let him do that to you.”

“Things are different out there. You aren’t even going to try to convince him not to? He may not be sentimental about this place, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to reason.”

She finally turned to face him. “I can’t risk losing you, Draco. Not again.”

He smiled tiredly. “I’m not Draco, remember?”

But you look like him, she thought, and you act like him, and I miss you so much—

“So that means you don’t deserve to exist? No, I can’t accept that.”

Draco’s smile faded. “It’s not really your choice, is it?”

“It is, because I’m not going to do nothing and let you burn this time! Don’t you see how it could be? I can already see how the magic works here, and I can learn even more about it—you can teach me. I can bring back Clea and Clem, and everyone else from the expedition.” Draco’s face fell further with every word, but now that she was picturing what could be, she couldn’t stop. “I could even paint in Harry and Ron, and anyone else who you want to see. All of our friends. I could paint our son, Draco. We could have our lives here, the lives that were stolen from us—”

“You’d be this realm’s creator? Just like the Queen?”

“No,” she said vehemently. “No, not like her.”

“But you would be.” His grasp on her hand tightened. “Your grief would overcome you, just as it did her, and the scourge would spread. You would never be able to bring yourself to leave. You need to go back, Hermione. To your life, your real life.”

“What life, Draco?” she cried out. “What life? One without you? Without our son? One where I’m in excruciating pain every moment of every day, and all it does is serve to remind me of the day I lost you? What sort of life is that? That’s existing, it isn’t living. Not the way we could live here, together.”

“I’m tired, Hermione.” In that moment, he both sounded and looked it. He led her towards the Draco in the center of the room, still painting away. He placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And so is he. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

The ghostly Draco paused and turned to look at them. Blood-red paint leaked out of his eyes and ran down his pale cheeks. He nodded and let out a pained sob.

“It’s okay,” Draco said softly. “It’ll stop hurting soon.”

He flicked his beautiful, exhausted eyes up to her, then placed his hands on her shoulders. Her heart ached as she met his gaze. “It hurts me too, being here… I shouldn’t exist, and he deserves to rest. And you? This place is not worth your life.”

She stayed silent, tears pricking at her eyes before falling silently down her cheeks.

“I may not be Draco, but I know you, Hermione,” he said. “You won’t let him suffer like this when it’s in your power to help him.”

She dropped her head against his chest, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

“It’ll be alright,” he continued, drawing small circles along her back. “You’ll be fine.”

“Everything, every day, is a reminder that you’re gone,” she said, shaking her head. “Every step and every breath is agony, but I would suffer through all of that and more if I still had you. But I don’t. You’re gone, and I’ll never have you again.”

He pulled back and pressed his hand over her heart. “You’ll always have me, Hermione.” When he leaned in to kiss her, his tears mingled with hers. She sobbed against his lips: it felt like a farewell. He took a hold of her hand, and she felt his magic alight within her as they summoned a portal back to the real world. Back to the cold reality where she was haunted, surrounded by pain and death.

She looked to the portal and took a shuddering breath.

“I’m grateful that we met,” he said before she could step through, his voice wavering. “Draco will always be with you, and so will I.”

She looked back to him, searing his half-smiling face into her memory. “I love you,” she said quietly. And then she left the strange, desolate, despairing, beautiful world of Arcadia behind.

When she opened her eyes, Hermione was back in the cold, painful reality of Malfoy Manor, and every piece of her ached. Her bones felt like they were scraping against her skin, and all she could see was Draco’s tear-streaked face behind her eyes.

Lucius’ arms were wrapped around his sobbing wife, who looked profoundly exhausted. He glanced up at her emergence and raised an eyebrow, which was perhaps the extent of his ability to express surprise at the moment.

He looked her up and down, his expression neutral even as his gaze lingered on her facial scars. Her glamour charms must have faded while she was in the canvas.

She leaned heavily onto her cane and withdrew her wand once again. She could feel the Malfoys’ eyes as she leveled it at the artifact and whispered the words of a spell. As the flames emerged and engulfed the canvas, Narcissa let out a mournful cry. The magic of it faded away with the fire, and she thought she could sense Draco’s relief, and his gratitude, as real as if he was standing right beside her.

After one more dreadful cry from Narcissa, all was quiet. The last remnants of Draco’s soul had burned to ashes.

She didn’t know how long they stayed that way, mourning together in silence, but eventually Harry and his team of Aurors rushed in.

“Hey.” Harry ran over and wrapped an arm around her. “You okay?”

She tore her gaze from the remains of the canvas and looked at Narcissa, who watched it with tears streaming down her face. She was still too weak to cry out again, but Hermione could hear her despair anyway. The same sound echoed inside of her.

Narcissa turned her wide eyes to Hermione and held her gaze, until Lucius eventually ushered her out of the room.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Harry nudged again.

“No,” she said, voice straining through her weakened vocal chords. Already she yearned for the freedom from pain she’d experienced in Arcadia, but that possibility had burned away. She thought she could feel Draco in every molecule of ash that fell to the ground.

“No, I’m not okay,” Hermione repeated. “But I will be.”

A cool breeze ghosted against her skin as she stared down at Draco’s grave and remembered him. Not the Painted Draco she’d met in Arcadia, and not him in his last moments as the fire consumed everything, but the real him, living in happier moments. She remembered their first date, and their first kiss. She remembered their wedding, and how he wouldn’t admit how hurt he’d been when his parents hadn’t shown. She remembered sitting on their sofa reading a book, glancing up to watch him play a tune on the piano, his fingers dancing lightly along the keys, smiling and showing off a bit when he sensed her eyes on him. She remembered his lips trailing gentle kisses along her stomach when they’d found out she was pregnant, and he swore to be a better father than his own.

She leaned against her cane and shut her eyes. Her potions were less and less effective every day. It hurt to even breathe, but the agony still paled in comparison to the pain of knowing she’d never see his smile or hear his laugh again. That she’d never feel his fingers foxtrot on her skin. Sometimes, she thought about the burning canvas. She wished it had brought her peace or closure, but it had only torn open familiar wounds and left her so broken that she was surely beyond repair.

Her tears felt like ice in the cool, crisp air as they clawed their way down her face.

After a time, how long she had no idea, an arm looped through her own. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know that it was Narcissa, but she forced her eyes open anyway. Narcissa still looked frail, but she’d been gaining some of her health back since the day Arcadia burned.

They stood there in silence, gazing at the grave. Lucius stood nearby, looking somber.

She leaned onto Narcissa’s arm more heavily. It hurt a little bit less than standing on her own.

“Perhaps sometime,” Narcissa started slowly in a thin voice, “if you should be so inclined, we can meet for tea, you and I. I’d like to talk about my son. That is… You can tell me about him, if you like. The real him.”

Hermione didn’t immediately reply; she could only think of Draco. She could see the heartbreak on his face from the pain his parents had caused him. She thought about him in the canvas, forced to live a false, tortured existence because of his mother’s inability to face her own grief.

Then again, hadn’t she been close to falling into the same trap? Hermione understood Narcissa more deeply than she had ever understood anyone. Hermione had only been in the canvas for a brief time, but in Narcissa she shared a commonality: since Draco’s death, it was the only place where they’d been able to feel anything again.

Would Draco want her to say yes?

Her throat was sore, so she didn't speak, but eventually, very slowly, she nodded. Narcissa relaxed. She wouldn’t have to have tea right away, and she could back out if she truly wanted to. But did she?

She shut her eyes and thought of Draco. Would he be pleased with her choice? She’d never know for certain, but as the gentle breeze picked up, she thought that she could feel him there, standing beside her, wanting nothing more than for her to live again.

Perhaps someday it would feel like a new beginning, but for now she remained silent, standing there with Narcissa at Draco’s grave, knowing that no matter what, Draco would always be beside her.