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The Politician\'s Wife	By : pir8fancier Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 14285 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Betas:: All my thanks to hazelhawthorn and alliekatgal. But especially to my dear friend zeldaohzelda, who has been an incredible friend during the health saga suckage. I dedicate this story to her.

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One month, three fist fights, six Howlers, and one bitch-slap fest later later: early summer, Hogwarts, 12:30 am.

The music from the band followed me out the door as I made a beeline for the rose garden, where I could collapse in peace. A somewhat secluded stone bench to the far side of the garden sat tucked away behind a gazebo, second only to the Astronomy Tower as the preferred snogging spot when we'd been students.

Harry had insisted that the wedding ceremony be held at Hogwarts when the moon was at its utmost ebb so Remus could attend without any aches or pains. Hunkering in the shadow of the castle, the garden was as black as pitch; it was like trying to walk through ink. At seventeen, I could have navigated this blindfolded. At forty-one, it was an obvious case of use it or lose it.

Ten minutes later, I'd reached the general vicinity of the bench, but at the cost of a heel from a brand-new pair of dress shoes (lost somewhere near the rhododendrons) and two bloody knees. Taking small steps so as not to smack my already throbbing knees into stone, I hunted for the bench. A voice said, "I'll share if you will, Granger. I'll even move over so you won't have to perch on the end, afraid you'll catch some loathsome disease."

The red butt of a cigarette glared for a brief second. Damn.

Malfoy.

"Here," he said. A hand groped at my hip and then pulled on my robe to guide me to the bench. I hesitated a little, fixed my eye on the red dot, approximated where I thought my arse should go, and hoped it actually met the bench. My knees hurt, and I needed to fix my shoe.

"How did you know it was me, Malfoy?"

"It was either a herd of rampaging elephants, trampling the garden to dust in their wake, or you trying to navigate through the garden in the dark. You have a rather distinctive thud to your walk."

Count to ten, Hermione. Reparo your shoe, healing charm to your knees, curse him with a quick jellylegs hex if you're feeling generous, a long, tortured batbogey hex if not (the batbogey hex a clear favorite), and then you can leave.

"Which one is he telling now?"

"I beg your pardon? And, by the way, sod off," I replied absentmindedly, searching for my wand and then realized, belatedly, I had no wand.

"You know. Which story? The chess match in the bowels of Hogwarts or the one where he and Harry fought off three hundred and forty-six Death Eaters with only one wand between them? That's my personal favorite. The number of Death Eaters grows with each telling. By the time he's fifty, it will be four thousand and three Death Eaters brandishing machetes, wands, and portable rocket launchers."

"Fuck off, Malfoy," I snapped. Of course, that was exactly why I'd fled the room; the days were long gone when I could pretend to listen in sycophantic rapture to Ron regale the crowds with his increasingly fantastical war stories.

"What? Be grateful he�s only a crashing bore. You could be married to my wife. Who, in a pathetic attempt to make me jealous, is chatting up a seventh-year Hufflepuff moonlighting as a bartender. Has the woman no shame? As if I give a flying fuck, but consorting with Hufflepuffs?"

"You are insufferable. Pansy should get an Order of Merlin for being married to you for twenty years. You should be caged and put in a zoo so that children with long sticks with extremely sharp ends can poke you." I wish I had a long sharp stick. I'd jab him with relish. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be hobnobbing with your guests?"

"Oh, I don't think so." I sighed. It was too much to think he�d take the hint. "Potter is the man of the hour. Most of the guests are in paroxysms of joy that I've wandered off somewhere, hoping against hope I've been eaten by the giant squid," he commented, all too accurately. "Not that I think you'd be planning such a sad demise on my behalf."

"Hardly. Not sufficiently painful by half. Would you please shut up."

"Hardly," he mocked. "I have a rather large bone to pick with you. Not a single compliment has passed your lip..."

That would have elicited a short snort and a frosty "when hell freezes over," if he'd given me half a chance.

"...regarding my picture perfect behavior this evening. I'm mortally wounded, Granger; I want you to know. Several people are going to be most disappointed on Monday morning. I checked the book last night; the odds were fifty to one that either Potter or myself would be dead before the 'I dos.' Odds mostly on me. Which is damn insulting. But, amazingly, Potter and I have survived this horrendous ordeal without killing each other. Color me surprised. A bloody miracle, really. I have no intention of returning to the reception just yet. It would be a shame to muck it up now."

His hand found mine and he used the other to wrap it around a frosty bottle of something. I jumped. I hadn't even known how warm I was until the cold damp from the bottleneck soothed the palm of my hand. "Drink?" The cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth.

He kept his hand on the bottle, and raised it with mine as he slowly brought it up to my mouth. I rarely drank. It seemed like Ron drank enough for the both of us these days. Nights out, one of us needed to navigate home, and over time it tacitly fell on my ever-increasingly sober shoulders.

I hesitated.

"Oh go on, Granger. Even you wouldn't be so completely boring and predictable as to refuse to drink champagne at the wedding of your best-friend�s daughter. Surprise me, why don�t you," he cooed.

God, I hated him. He knew exactly what buttons to push. I yanked on the bottle, trying to wrench it away from him, but he anticipated me and held on tight. Oh. This was particularly nice champagne. Dry, tart, like a first kiss. Just the way I liked it. I shoved it toward him, and then grabbed it back again for another sip, ignoring his throaty chuckle.

We passed the bottle back and forth in this odd manner for several minutes, Malfoy cupping the bottom in his palm, me holding the bottleneck. Despite his ever-disgusting presence, the refreshing lure of the cold champagne--Merlin, it was warm tonight--was more compelling than a stumble back to the castle and the prospect of listening to Ron relate the story of finding the fifth Horcrux. I said to myself, "You are sitting alone, on a bench in the peace of the rose garden. A bottle of rather fine champagne has magically appeared. You are not sharing a bench or a bottle of champagne with wizarding England's premier moral degenerate, who doesn't even have the decency to keep his vile opinions of his vile wife to his vile self." A few swigs later, and it wasn't much of an effort anymore. The tension of the day dissipated with every swallow.

It was a miracle no one had been hurt.

The only thing the Potters and Malfoys agreed upon was that the marriage ceremony performed by the tattoo artist, although legally binding, was completely unacceptable as wedding ceremonies went, and that a proper wedding was in order. Unfortunately, it was the only aspect of the wedding they agreed on. The weeks leading up to the wedding were punctuated by fist fights, Howlers, and a cat fight between Ginny and Pansy in Madame Malkin's over a robe that both of them coveted. The nadir was the brawl to top all brawls at the rehearsal dinner, with Harry and Malfoy casting hexes at each other over the ice sculpture, a shockingly poor rendering of the Sorting Hat. As the evening progressed, it began to melt under the heat from the lights and became rather phallic looking. Which Malfoy pointed out, in his own special way: "Feeling inadequate, Potter?" Which caused Harry to shout back, "At least I can keep my dick where it belongs, unlike that arsehole son of yours." Which in turn caused Malfoy to cast the first, but not last, hex. Which caused Molly to Stupefy the entire room in her zeal to stop the fight.

Remus, the only person Harry and Malfoy both respected, finally demanded that if the wedding wasn't going to be a total blood bath, all wands were to be confiscated upon arrival at the wedding. Wands would be returned at departure. Only when Lily threw the bouquet and the couple headed off to Venice for a two-week-long honeymoon did I finally allow myself to relax.

What a beautiful evening. I couldn't hear the music from here, just the soft lapping of the water as it nudged the lakefront. The lights from the Great Hall haloed into the dark night, making the castle look, well, magical. The nauseating smell of cigarette smoke obliterated any possible scent from the night-blooming roses...

"Malfoy, I know for a fact that there are several varieties of night-blooming roses surrounding this bench. It would be nice to smell them as opposed to eau de tar and carcinogen."

With a cough that sounded remarkably like a laugh, he ground out the cigarette.

"Your wish is my command, fair Granger."

"Stop it," I growled and hoisted the bottle up for another sip. "Must say it's uncharacteristically mature of you."

"Mature? Must rectify that immediately. How so?" and he pulled the bottle toward him.

"I am going snap off your leg and beat you to a bloody pulp with it if you don't stop it. With Harry. Staying out here, out of the way. Not that I think he'd have the wherewithal to even land one punch."

"Agreed. He was well on his way to being pretty well stinking when I left. How drunk was he the last time you saw him?"

"Hammered. Completely hammered." Harry wasn't so much dancing as holding Ginny in his arms and swaying, oblivious to the music, telling her over and over again in a loud voice how much he loved her. Still after all these years.

"I'll wait for another hour. By that time he should be insensible. As much as I enjoy our little tussles--the world isn�t right on its axis if Potter and I don�t tear into each other like lions on the Savannah at least twice a year--tonight is not the night. Looks bad for the future Assistant Minister of Magic to be throttling his arch rival cum in-law at his son's wedding."

"Thank god. I'd actually thought that for a moment you were considering someone else for a change. Now my world's right on its axis."

I pulled for the bottle.

"Sorry," he said and turned away. "This one's dead. But�damn it all to hell, I know I brought at least three�of course, could have thought it wa...Lumos. Ah hah!" In the glow from his wand, I could see him holding another bottle of champagne in the air, waving it triumphantly as if it were a flag.

"You bastard," I yelled. "You brought a spare wand. What if..."

"Shhhh," he admonished, and flapped his arms frantically. "Don't want to bring everyone and their brother out here, do you?"

"Stop that ridiculous arm-waving," I hissed in a loud whisper. "You nearly clubbed me with that damn champagne bottle."

"Well, you stop with that ridiculous shouting," he demanded. "And you can take that attitude and shove it up your ever stiff and swotty ass. Are you absolutely mad? The man's Head Auror. You and Lupin might have conveniently forgotten that Potter is a fucking genius at casting wandless spells, but yours truly did not. I fought next to that absolute wanker for two years and personally saw him shatter both of Dolohov's arms by lifting an eyebrow. Granted, Potter�s usual choice of weapon as far as I am concerned is his grubby paws. Why he is so intent on throttling me to death is a mystery. Odd little kink of his. Think he's a pouf? Will do anything to get his hands on me? Or do you suppose it some sort of Muggle thing, this compulsion to kill people with his bare hands as opposed to eviscerating them with his wand? Silly me. He likes to do that too.�

"To know you is to throttle you, Malfoy. Let's leave it," I sighed, silently conceding the point about the wand. As much as I hated to admit it, I really couldn�t blame him. Better not to dredge up that old history, because as much as I love Harry, I couldn't possibly defend him when he�d used that spell unwittingly on Malfoy and nearly killed him. "Do something useful. Open that bottle. And do it quietly. Without words. Like for the next hour. Of course he's not a pouf. That should be obvious."

�The children? That means nothing,� he snorted, dismissing my comment. �I wish I had a galleon for every time Baxter-White propositioned me, I�d be twice as rich, and the man has five children.�

�Baxter-White is gay?� I was shocked.

�A newsflash to him. Not the rest of us. Here�s my wand; give me some light. Having trouble opening this bottle.�

�Hello? Is there a wizard in the house? There are spells for that, Malfoy. And I don�t believe you. He acts so, well, brazenly macho. You�re wrong.� I trained the light on the bottle. �I wish I�d a galleon every time he�s groped me. I�d be rich. At every party that over-sexed troll grabs my arse.�

�With his wife and half the room watching. Sadly, it�s not a commentary on how delectable your arse is, Granger. If you�d actually called his bluff and dragged him behind the curtains for a fast and dirty shag, he�d run for Wales. Am positive he only does his wife from behind. Can�t imagine how else she keeps getting pregnant. This fucking cork will not come out. Come on, you cunt, come on,� he grunted.

�For god�s sake, can we dispense with the obscene commentary?� I begged.

�It�s part of the ritual, Granger. Struggling with recalcitrant champagne corks accompanied by ribald commentary.�

�Oh, please.� Now it was my turn to snort.

If you weren�t,� he grunted yet again, continuing to struggle with the cork, �so goddamn naive, you�d know that sad little homophobic shirt-lifters like Baxter-White, who is as bent as a thirteen-knut galleon, by the way, act like over-sexed trolls to convince everyone and themselves that they aren�t bent. The second part of that equation is that champagne tastes better if you swear at it while you open it sans magic. Magic does something to the bubbles. Ah, she�s coming.�

I tried to understand how a happy-handed, posturing jerk like Baxter-White and his pathetic need to hide his homosexuality from all and sundry, including himself, related to swearing and champagne bubbles. Usually, unfortunately, I never have any problem following Malfoy�s train of thought. How much had I actually swilled down in the last thirty minutes? Clearly, too much.

�Malfoy, this doesn�t make sense��

�Hush! Nearly, nearly�Ready?� With one hand, he grabbed me by the front of my robe and pulled us face to face, and with the other he brought the bottle up between us and thumbed the cork. �Now!� he shouted.

The cork flew out into the night, and the champagne fizzled over in a glorious rush. The two of us fought for the champagne as it burst from the bottle, elbowing each other in the ribs with vicious jabs, trying to catch the last of the spray.

�You win, Granger,� he gave in, laughing, his low baritone full and, oh my god, Malfoy sounded happy. It was a real laugh. Not the usual amused �hmmm,� from a single nostril, but an honest-to-god belly laugh. Had I ever heard Malfoy laugh before? Then there was a thud, a "fucking hell!" that sounded like it was coming from the direction of the ground, and then a, �Oh, no harm done, champagne�s all right. Granger, give me a hand. Fallen on my arse, I'm afraid.�

�Malfoy, are you pissed?� I began walking around and swotting the air, trying to find his head.

�Absolutely stinking drunk off my nut, to be honest. No lectures, thank you very much��

My left foot connected with something rather solid.

�Oomph! Fuck me, Granger! You just kicked me in the balls! Not on! Fortunately for you I am so fucking pissed, I can�t feel a thing.�

�You have the wand,� I reminded him. �A little light and your precious bits wouldn�t be an endangered species.�

�Granger, do not attempt to sneer. It doesn�t suit you. Your usual banshee in heat mode is so much more in character. Have I told you lately how much I adore you? And I do not have the wand. You had it last. What did you do with it?�

�Dammit,� I moaned. �I must have dropped it when the champagne blew. Stop sitting there like a useless lump of shit and start looking for it.�

�Help me. I�m blind drunk for fuck�s sake. I�ll do a cleaning charm on your gown,� groused Malfoy.

�Can�t,� I mumbled. �I fell on my way out here, and both my knees are bloodied.�

�Stupid Gryffindor-esque bitch, why didn�t you�we are idiots. Accio wand. Lumos.�

There he sat, legs spread, propped up on his elbows, wand in one hand, champagne bottle in the other, his hair glinting in the faint, faint light of his wand. Even sprawled on the ground in a drunken tip he was grace itself. I was suddenly aware of the natural ease he�d developed as he�d grown into a man, replacing the manufactured, tight elegance he�d cultivated as a youth. With no effort, I imagined him as the blond he�d been, an almost unnatural white blond, the complete silver hiding under the half glow from the wand and my own memories.

�Granger, come here, you bint. Let me heal your knees. I heard someone utter a tortured squeal before you showed up in all your glory. Had a reckless hope that it was that Irish idiot Finnigan getting swallowed whole by the giant squid. But it was you getting attacked by the rosemary. There. Better?�

�You have an unhealthy fixation on that squid.� I leaned down to feel my knees. All healed. �We should go back��

�Not yet,� he insisted. �We still have half a bottle to finish. Let me remind you, I have the wand. So unless you intend on facing the herb garden unarmed, you�re stuck with me.�

I eyed him. �You are ridiculous. I think both of us are quite drunk enough��

�Granger! Are you drunk? Me too! Let�s celebrate by having a drink and then another��

�Stuff it. I don�t think you�re drunk in the least,� I accused. �You�re putting it on. You aren�t even slurring.�

�Anti-slurring charm,� he confessed. �Spent Christmas of my fifth year devising that invaluable little gem. See, we Slytherins didn't waste time on worthless charms like transfiguring teacups into moles. We devised useful spells, like being able to get through Binn�s lectures with half a bottle of vodka under our belts, no one the wiser. You wouldn�t believe the number of tedious Ministry functions I attend completely shit-faced drunk.� He gave me a look of such sheer self-congratulatory glee that I burst out laughing. I held out my hand.

�Up, you worthless idiot. And I�ll have you know I was not transforming teacups into moles the Christmas of my fifth year. I was��

�God, Granger, don�t tell me. It was no doubt far beyond the capabilities of anyone in your class and probably even far beyond the most brilliant of the seventh years. Let�s park ourselves on the floor of the gazebo. I�ll fall off the bench.�

He kept a hold of my hand as he weaved both of us toward the gazebo. I didn�t say anything, but somehow his comment about my precocious behavior in school, instead of making me proud, made me ashamed. And he wasn�t even trying.

He pulled me into a corner, plastered his back against the vee of the walls, and slid down, his arse hitting the ground with a soft thud. �Come here," he demanded, his hand pulling on mine. "Turn around and sit down. Squash against me.�

�I will not,� I sputtered.

�For fuck's sake, Granger. I�m not going to feel you up,� he snorted and pulled harder. �Frankly, I am so drunk that if they told me this very minute I was the Minister of Magic, I wouldn�t even get a hard on. Don�t be so miss-ish. I need a pillow and something to lean against and you�re it. I�ll fall over otherwise,� he grumbled.

Oh dear god, I was swaying too. How much had I had? Not that much. Uh. Perhaps that much. I didn�t so much kneel down as collapse. He lurched over, grabbed me by the armpits, and dragged me in front of him.

�Bring your knees up,� he ordered. He wrapped his arms, then his legs around me. �Now hold my arms against you. That�s it.� He rested his head against my shoulder and promptly fell asleep.

I sat there for a few minutes, trying to sober up so that I could steal his wand without him being any the wiser and then make my way back to the castle. We were all staying the night. He was so drunk, he�d just sleep it off in the gazebo, wake up in the morning stiff as all hell, no doubt with the headache that ate Scotland, but with both our reputations intact.

I was just about to make my move when he murmured in my ear. �May I have a cigarette?�

�No, you may not. You�d light my hair on fire.�

�Too true. Granger, why do you always hide those fantastic knockers of yours behind shapeless and utterly tasteless robes?�

�What? Sod off!� I struggled to get away, but he held me fast.

�Stop acting like a virginal nun who�s just been propositioned by a randy bishop. I�m not making a pass at you. I told you. Those parts haven�t a hope in hell of working. All my extremities are numb. Was just wondering. It�s certainly not my fault you have exceptionally nice tits. Which you never display. Except on the odd occasion. I mean, you looked very fetching tonight. And don�t tell me it�s a matter of money; I know exactly what both of you earn. I�ve a slew of appropriate insults to lie quite justifiably at Weasley�s feet, but regrettably being a miser isn�t one of them. What�s wrong with that fucking husband of yours? I would be ashamed to let you out of the house in those rags you call robes.�

�First of all, get your filthy little hands off our employee files, and how predictably feudal of you, Malfoy. As if Ron has any say in what I wear,� I pointed out.

�Stop fidgeting,� he complained into my ear, as if I had moved. �Not a question of being feudal. Why not show off your wife? Weasley should do something. Granted, he�s swimming up stream. Only you would sprint with alacrity to be first in line for the Ministry�s Employee of the Month�s Hideous and Atrocious Robe Award. All I am saying is you have an agenda just like the rest of us. You�d get a lot more accomplished if you tarted yourself up a little. Flashed those gorgeous tits now and again.�

�When I�m Undersecretary for the Promotion of Pornography, I�ll consider your advice.�

That got a muffled laugh into my shoulder and then he fell asleep again, only to wake up with a start.

�You smell nice.�

�You don�t. You smell like a rotting pile of ash.�

No response. He�d fallen asleep again. I bided my time and had actually half-eased myself out of his embrace when he woke up again.

�Not getting away just yet,� he mumbled and dragged me back into his arms, needling his chin into my shoulder.

�That hurts, you wanker. You still have a pointy chin. Malfoy, come on. I need to get back,� I pleaded. �Ron will wonder where I am, and I doubt you want him to find me standing in as your human pillow.�

�Sod that husband of yours, I have a wand, and I will hex him if he makes a fuss. We�ll leave in five minutes. Promise.�

He snuggled his chin back into my shoulder, albeit it a little more gently.

�Nice wedding present. That flat,� I noted, trying to keep him awake.

�Not having my grandchild brought up in some bedsit. Besides, Potter paid for the wedding. It was the least I could do. Ten more minutes.�

�Wand or no wand, I�m leaving in four and a half minutes. They were absolutely lovely, weren�t they, Malfoy? Malfoy?� I elbowed him.

�Ow, you bitch; that hurt. Who was lovely?�

�You have four minutes. Your son. Lily.�

�Uh huh,� he murmured, which sounded like it was on the verge of becoming a snore.

�Three minutes,� I reminded him and nudged him again. �And the wedding party was really top notch.�

�You are the most impossible woman! Why won�t you let me sleep?� He stretched his legs. �I must admit Pansy really knows how to throw a good party. Expensive parties, as Potter has found out much to his dismay. Sadly, it�s the only thing she does well. Even then mother always has to whisper in her ear. A tendency toward too much glitz. But, yes, it was rather nice.� He yawned. �All right, up, my lovely Gryffindor. Although I can�t tell you how disappointed I am I can�t go in to the office on Monday and tell everyone I spent the night with Granger.�

God, wouldn�t that make the tongues wag? Somehow we got to our feet, Malfoy falling over four times to my three.

�You ready?� he asked. �Lumos. You know what's the best part about the wedding? My son is speaking to me again. We�ve actually had a total of four conversations where he hasn�t called me a bastard or a traitor once. Well worth the price of having Potter as an in-law.�

�I don�t know what you expected. You�ve got that walking advertisement on your forearm.� I grumbled and let loose a yawn of my own. �Of course he�d come to Hogwarts and hear the unadulterated version of the war. Not the rose-colored version you no doubt fed him as a child.�

The loose and easy set of his shoulders snapped back. �Shut the fuck up, Granger. I don�t need to justify myself to you or my son. I made stupid mistakes. We all did. How clean are your hands? Hmmmm?�

"Cleaner than yours," I snapped back. "Your rather tardy appearance in the Order..."

"Shut up," he demanded again, as he dropped his wand to grab my shoulders and then shook me. Hard. "Imagine if you had a child and that child was your world. Your world," and he shook me again to emphasize this fact. "You're married to a woman whose idea of an intellectual challenge is whether to replace the dining room curtains with red velvet or red silk. This child loves you. He loves his mother, but he sees very early on that she's a rather vapid woman, and he turns to you always because he trusts you. You love this child more than you ever thought it possible to love another human being. And then he goes off to school and stops talking to you. Stops trusting you. Hates you. Children are the cruelest things in nature. They see things in black and white. There are no greys. You're evil. You're good. Nothing in between. He couldn't understand what it must have been like for me, who trusted the adults I'd known all my life. Believed in them. Not realizing until almost too late, until I'd been branded like a piece of cattle, that Voldemort cared nothing about the wizarding world. All he cared about was his own mortality. Try explaining that to a child and getting him to listen. To understand."

Completely sober now, he wrenched me close to him and then pushed me away and let go. I fell against the wall of the gazebo.

"I love it when people who don't have children nonchalantly toss off sentences like, 'what did you expect'? Like they are parenting experts. Comment away. By all means. You always were the most insufferable know-it-all."

"Shut up, Malfoy," I warned.

"I expected him to understand. But pardon me." There it was. Right on schedule. The Malfoy scorn, the sneer. "I should have asked for your opinion. Your lack of expertise, your very childlessness wouldn't be the slightest hindrance to instructing me on the proper and correct way tell my son about my halcyon days as a Death Eater. You could put it in a classified memo. That's your style..."

"Shut the fuck up!" I screamed.

"Listen." He jabbed a finger in my direction. "Just because you and Weasley decided not to bless this world with red-headed brats, just too busy drafting those memos, do not presume to tell me my business or my son's business. Guess that memo about having children got lost in the 'in box'. Busy week and all..."

I wanted to kill him. Literally kill him. I threw myself in his direction, my hands failing, my nails desperate to catch skin and hurt and scar and maul.

"Fucking, fucking bastard." I screamed. As fast as I was, he was ready for me. He tried to grab my arms, to stop me. "Can't have, can't have..." I batted his head, grabbed an ear and twisted. He yowled in pain and wrenched his head away. Good. "Because of your evil, fucking evil aunt...no children�cursed me." My hand raked his cheek. "Cursed..." He found one wrist and yanked it back behind me, tight, trying to stop me. Oh fuck, that hurt, that hurt so much, but I didn't stop. I wanted to hurt him. My other arm tried to grab his hair, my heels to break his shins. I wanted to shatter bones.

"Stop, it. Stop, goddamit, or I'll break your arm," he yelled, and he wrenched my arm up even tighter. The pain shot across my entire body and the utter agony of it broke my hysteria. I sagged against him, crying softly. He let go of my arm to slowly turn me around and then held me while I cried it out.

I brought one hand up to my face, another to cradle my barren abdomen, and buried myself in his shoulder, weeping for all the children Ron and I would never have.

At some point, I realized that he was stroking my head, gently, but firmly. He hadn't told me to ssssh or that it would be all right. For which I was grateful. There is nothing worse than someone trying to deny your true grief. There are some things you mourn forever. I'd thought I was past this sort of outpouring; I hadn't done it in years. But during the reception, Lily was already bringing a protective hand to her stomach, and then Dominic's hand would follow hers, and I had to fight off the nearly overwhelming urge to start sobbing and rage anew at the evil machinations of Bellatrix Lestrange.

I shuddered and he hugged me even closer.

"Bellatrix?"

"Yes." Her final act before Kingsley Shacklebolt killed her. "She said to me before she cast the hex,'One less Mudblood polluting the waters,' and then aimed." And she knew that Kingsley was behind me, but instead of fending off his hex, she hexed me. Those terrifying eyes were glittering with joy that her final act would rob me forever of my children. What creates a woman who would rather that I live my life with the knowledge I could never have children at her hand as opposed to killing me?

"St. Mungo's?" His voice, scratchy and low, said he knew the answer.

"Hopeless. The healers said it was like a wildfire had consumed my organs. Apparently they can grow bones but not a uterus."

I'd had nightmares for years after that visit to St. Mungo's. Not your normal nightmares, where everything is freakish so that even in the midst of a horrible dream you can console yourself that it is only a dream, these nightmares were a solid replaying of the healers telling us what the curse had done to me, the hopelessness of the case, and the look on Ron's face when he realized we'd never have children. And when the four of us bought houses right next to each other, it haunted me the nights and weekends he spent over at Harry and Ginny's, playing endlessly with his nieces and nephews while I'd lie in bed curled up in a fetal position, hearing their hi-jinks through the open window. Eventually, I'd close the window to shut out the sounds of Ron�s laughter and the squeals of the children, but I could still hear them.

"Hermione," Malfoy whispered in my ear. "I am sorry. I didn't know. I am often intentionally cruel, rarely unintentionally cruel. So sorry, so sorry." And he kissed the top of my head and crushed me in an embrace, causing me to shriek at the pressure on my sore arm.

"Oh, oh, your arm," he murmured, and with an Accio wand, we began to heal each other. My arm first, then he handed me the wand and I spelled away the bruises and scratches. When all done, we stood there for a moment looking at each other, sober and exhausted, and he brought his hand back up to my hair and brushed away tendrils that had plastered to my tear-drenched face. He spelled away the tears and with another brush of his hand to my head, asked, "Ready?"

I nodded. We walked back to the castle in silence. At the steps he said, "I'm going to have a fag, you go in," a tacit nod to the fact that my reputation would be in tatters if it appeared we were coming in together from the garden, at what I figured was roughly three a.m.

Too tired to say anything more than, "Night, Malfoy," I trudged up to the Gryffindor Tower where Ron and I were spending the night. Based on the amount of champagne he'd consumed before I left the reception, I assumed he'd be passed out. Sure enough, I heard the snores before I even entered the room. I turned him off his back over to his non-snoring side and tucked a blanket around a bare shoulder. Making my way over to the window, I could just make out the red dot of Malfoy's cigarette as it waxed and waned in the dark. After a minute, I couldn't see it anymore. I undressed and climbed into bed, curling myself up against Ron's back. With a snort, he shimmied back into me and fumbled for my arm to bring up against his chest. I listened to his breathing deepen before I whispered the apology I said in his ear every night before I went to sleep. "I'm sorry, Ron. So sorry, so sorry."

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TBC

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The Politician\'s Wife