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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5048 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from anything in the Harry Potter universe -- stories, characters, settings, prior art.

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At 38
“You’ll know the right staff’s been hired when you lose a key member of a protected group — and you will lose them, possibly all, despite your best efforts. It is imperative, when these unexpected losses occur, that the community be supported. Social species feel the loss of their fellows every bit as much as humans do — even when losses are part of their lives…” — The Bureaucrat’s Guide to the Rehabilitation and Re-establishment of Endangered Species page 460
“Over the many years the Malfoys have managed this facility, it’s occurred to me that it lacked a proper name reflecting the necessary and valuable work done here. It would not have been possible without Astoria; she recognized that the war left many creatures in need of nurturing back to a better normal.”
Minister Granger-Weasley let the moment and memory linger to regain control of her treacherous vocal chords that fought the compartmentalizing of her own grief.

“It is with sadness and gratitude that the Ministry memorializes a gracious and gentle woman — and my close friend — by officially naming the ‘Astoria Greengrass Malfoy Refuge for the Rehabilitation and Re-establishment of Endangered Species’.”

Applause broke out sporadically, the bereaved confused whether decorum allowed them to acknowledge the honor with anything approaching happiness. From the podium, the Minister brought her hands together energetically. Her gaze, however, no longer observed the assembled mourners; it focused on a emotionally insensate Scorpius and a despondent Draco.
Her Chief of Staff picked up her intent without a word. Percy Weasley made a mental note to rearrange his sister-in-law’s duty schedule after the funeral.
_______________________

Madame Minister exercised her constituent-pleasing style as she engaged each guest on their departure:
“Thank you for coming, Minister Churchill. Yes, Astoria was a wonderful witch…”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Daphne. Tory was a great friend…”
“I agree, Arthur, she had a great capacity to love — creatures and children…”
“I’m sure Draco appreciates the effort you made, Cormac… Special waiver? No, can’t say I have. Percy can assist you…
“Mr. Nott, you’ve been so helpful to the Malfoys throughout the years. I’m sure my Chief of Staff can find time to discuss that regulation next month — I’m the executor for Lady Malfoy’s estate, you see…”
And so the afternoon trudged slowly to conclusion. All had the good graces to avoid noticing the absence of the Lord of the Manor — except one ginger-haired, well-lubricated git named Ronald.

“‘Mione — can I get a minute?”
“Excuse me?” she begged the Ambassador from France, plastering a pleading expression on her face.
“No concern, Mrs. Weasley. It is good to see you again, Mr. Weasley; so sad to have Britain’s ‘Golden Trio’ reunite on an occasion such as this. I was just remarking —”

Forcing her, by her elbow, away from the remainder of the Ambassador’s fanboy fawning landed them in a “small” study larger than their home — Draco’s, it turned out.

“That was RUDE, Ronald! I have an obligation —” she shouted, snatching her elbow from his grip to deny him control of her person.
“Seems to me you were playing ‘the NEW Mistress of Malfoy Bloody Manor’ out there, not Minister of Magic.”

Ice clinked as he downed the remainder of his cocktail.

“Who was supposed to do it!? Draco’s father is in AZKABAN and his mother is DEAD.”

Memory of Draco’s family’s census (Ron’s first-cousin-twice-removed) quelled the hot-headed ginger somewhat; golden spirits spilled while he refilled from Draco’s private bar with shaky hands. Top shelf alcohol (and long-term resentment of a wife too close to too many men) kept the third-wheel of the “Golden Trio” frosty.

“Mrs. Greengrass —”
“— you’re referring to the mother so overcome by her daughter’s death that she’s LITERALLY sedated on a lounge in Astoria’s sitting room —”
“— SOMEONE from his bloody family should be out there!”

The compulsion to roll her eyes and exit past Ron’s pettiness nearly won. Instead, she made her way to her favorite chair, a place she’d companionably read (and argued) with Lord Ferret many times over many years.
“Cedrella BLACK Weasley was Draco’s great-aunt and YOUR GRANDMOTHER! Why aren’t YOU out there assisting him!?”
A calming breath later, Madame Minister Granger-Weasley tried to reason with the idiot she’d married because of Rose.

“Please, understand —” she implored, her temper receding with great effort, “— I’m head of government for most of these people.”
“You’re MY wife — NOT HIS! Let the wanker manage his own affairs!”

Rage cast a crackling aura about her, tendrils of her escaping hair swaying in invisible winds. Wide-eyed, Ron and his liquid courage managed several backwards steps without falling or spilling.

“I doubt Ginny or Luna — or even your new ‘assistant’, Lavender, the ‘ex-‘ Mrs. McLaggen — would do that to you if I died.”

Ice clinked as Ron drained the glass to fortify himself.

“Fucking prat’s ALWAYS wanted you,” — and he stalked over to where she sat and grabbed her breast to mark his territory.

Staring into his unquenchable envy, Ron’s wife silently declared a truce and rose to leave.

“If you believe that, we have nothing more to say,” she informed him. “Please excuse me; I have duties to attend to.”

His final comment — hissed threateningly as the enchanted door recognized her and opened automatically — sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m not a fool, Hermione. I may not be ‘brilliant’ like you, but I know there’s more to your ‘relationship’ than that ZOO out there no matter WHAT Harry says. I can COUNT. I KNOW.”
________________________

“Everyone’s gone except Scorpius. Albus asked to spend the night; I put them in your childhood suite to give you some privacy.”

She found him where she’d left him after the entombment of his late wife.

“Where’s Rose Cedrella?” he thought to ask. “Don’t you have to get home?”
“Rose ‘escorted’ her father home; she’s looking after him until he sobers up. I have Astoria’s last request to fulfill — looking after you and Scorp.”
“Scorpius…”

Draco loathed nicknames. His teeth gnashed whenever someone called Rose Cedrella “Rosie”.

“He insists he prefers ‘Scorp’. Come inside, Draco… It’s getting late.”

His hand tenderly laid on her unyielding marble hip, Draco leaned into the slightly smaller-than-life statue of Astoria situated outside the mausoleum, seeking solace from her cool stone embrace.

“Has her portrait been unveiled?”
“No; I told ‘Scorpius’ ,” Hermione teased in mock annoyance, “you’d retrieve him. Albus and I will wait —”
“You’re the Executor,” the widower hastily reminded her. “You have to be here.”

Sighing, the Minister hooked her arm through his free one.

“Astoria’s waking could take time… I promised Harry I’d look after Albus.”
“We had it painted shortly after our wedding,” the grieving patrician reminisced, unhearing of her attempt not to intrude. “Didn’t want to leave it until… under the circumstances…”

The weather spell held over the ancient Manor cemetery, leaving raw emotions as the culprit for his shudder.

“You’ve barely eaten for days, Dragon…”
“Haven’t felt the need.”
“You need to eat,” the officious bureaucrat insisted.

Forever ago they’d cooked for relaxation, for necessity, for intimacy: a simple act between friends who were more together than either could allow.

“Shall I feed you?”

She prayed he’d recognize her cocky half-smile as a gauntlet thrown.

“Bossy chit. Will you leave me in peace if I surrender?”
“For a while. Come.”

They made it halfway to the southern wing closest to the kitchens, arm in arm, when despair descended and forced the bereft Lord to his knees in a display of emotion terrifying to watch.

“I never deserved her…” he sobbed, clutching Hermione’s skirts in his fists. “I’ve been bloody useless…”

Tenderly, she soothed him — with soft stroking of his silky mane — only just staving off her own tears. “Shhh, Dragon. You were the great love of her life.”

“Eighteen YEARS and I couldn’t-couldn’t BREAK it. Dark magic would’ve SAVED her… but I’m a fucking COWARD who w-w-wouldn’t… be-because Voldemort TERRIFIED…”

A finger tilted his face upward towards the light and away from menacing considerations.

“Astoria didn’t want that and you know it. She was well loved by you and Scorpius. That’s what mattered to her…”

Flicking her fingers away from his cornsilk strands of hair, Hermione set in motion the first mandate of Astoria’s estate — a plan presciently prepared by the woman who died too young.

“You called, Miss?” the house elf inquired as it apparated to the disturbing sight of his Master undone.

Large, rheumy eyes stared up at the estate executor.

“Yes. Please complete the instructions your Mistress left for you — and include Mr. Potter’s son. Thank you, Samwise.”
“Yes, Miss.”
__________________

Two hours found them all in casual clothes, the expansive table laden with Draco and Scorpius’ favorites (in a shameless effort by Astoria to entice them to eat something) and the four — Draco, Scorpius, Scorp’s best friend “Alby” Potter and the Minister of Magic — seated within a pavilion in the preserve.
Throat-clearing shook the two Malfoys from their brooding. Hermione spoke the second and third stipulations of Astoria’s last will in testament.

“Per your mother’s will, Scorp, she asked that her unveiling be done here. If you’re up to it, would you and Albus do the honors?”

The boy’s terror receded at the inclusion of his fellow Hogwarts outcast. His father muttered “Scorpius” under his breath, shooting a disapproving glare at Astoria’s executor.
Starting at the top corners, the boys (taller now than both fathers) lifted the satin cover from the portrait reposing on the gilded easel. The subject’s eyelids fluttered almost immediately open.

“My darling!” the young image exclaimed, on waking to the sight of her son. “And… Albus? Is that you?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“That’s not what you called me in life and I’ll not tolerate unnecessary formality. Aunt Tory will be sufficient, as it’s always been.”

The two were first cousins — thrice removed — by marriage.

“Astoria…” Draco growled at the distasteful moniker.
“My secret’s out!” the vibrant witch laughed easily in death. “Don’t be cross, Draco. I enjoy the name. How are you, husband? Has Hermione been taking care of you?”
“She’s been busy, love. She’s Minister of Magic now.”

The late Lady Malfoy raised her eyebrows as a grin spread across her two-dimensional face.

“Unsurprising. Hermione?”

On cue, the former head of MLE rose.

“Albus? I’d like your assistance, please. We’ll need a half-hour, Astoria — will that be sufficient?”
“I’m sure it will. I’ll send Samwise for you both. It’s wonderful, you know, to be free of the inconvenient discomfort of that curse. Thank you… For everything.”

Albus noted the blush on his living aunt’s face as she led the way deeper into the facility, far from the reunion of the Malfoys.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Hermione and Albus returned with Samwise, levitating crates ahead of them.

“Draco? Scorpius? Hermione and I put our heads together — when I had one —”
“ASTORIA!”

Laughter from both young men and giggles from Hermione stifled Draco’s cheerless chastisement of the simulacrum.

“I love you beyond life, Draco, but you can be rather humorless. Each crate,” Astoria’s image explained, “holds a habitat for an Occamy. Occamys have the rare ability to cast a patronus for their caretakers. They are my gifts to you both; my greatest loves. When grief troubles you, I want you to care for your pets and think of our best times together.”

Neither of her Slytherins could cast a corporeal patronus.

“I think,” Hermione whispered, “Albus and I will return to the Manor and prepare for bed. Goodnight all.”

Albus, oblivious to his living aunt’s restrained grief, loped up the path well ahead. The walk presented the Executor with her first opportunity to grieve.
Suddenly, she was spun into the chest of her humorless host.

“Lioness…” he breathed into her hair (as if he had the right to). “What thanks would be sufficient?”
“Spend time with your wife, Dragon. Let her care for you both.”
____________________

Unable to sleep, Hermione stood at the ornate window in the palatial bedroom — the bedroom where a fatally pregnant aristocrat once dissuaded the distraught swot from terminating her own pregnancy.
Astoria bewildered her, she fondly decided. The clever Minister had eventually surmised the true nature of her friend’s Slytherin cunning: cursed to die after producing an heir, Lady Malfoy manipulated the guileless Gryffindor, obligating her to care for the last specimens of the endangered species labelled “Malfoy existentium [Living Malfoys]”.
Silver light cast grey shadows across the gardens surrounding the Manor. The moonlight moved like wraiths, harbingers of woe. Mrs. Ronald Weasley did not absolve herself of duplicity in today’s regrets: the creature preserve and Astoria’s post-mortem plans kept Draco as near as she dared allow. What would Ron’s suspicions do with that knowledge?

The basalt-colored sky held no answers…

Still staring into the inky night well after midnight, Hermione witnessed three mostly complete patronuses making their way past the family crypt towards the creature preserve — one a grey Irish Wolfhound, the others a sleek silver swan playfully racing a frisky platinum otter. The ethereal spectres danced across the grounds before disappearing within the borders of the protected space…
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Notes: The Re-establishment of Endangered Species