Manacled

“You cannot.” He announced it in a tone of finality. “You will stop. You will stay inside whatever sad little safehouse they keep you healing in, and you will not go foraging again.”

He grabbed her firmly, and backed her up against a wall as his lips crashed into hers.

When their lips were almost touching she paused, half expecting to find a knife buried to the hilt in her stomach.

There was a brief moment of stillness between them—breathing slowly. Close enough for the air to ghost across each other’s faces.

“The Hogwarts Trio, Christmas 2002. Harry Potter with friends Ron Weasley (See: Weasley, Ron, chapter 7) and Muggle-born witch, Hermione Granger. Granger left England at the start of the second Wizarding War to study healing abroad. She survived the war but died during imprisonment while a surrogate in the Repopulation Program. She was a non-active member of the Order of the Phoenix and did not fight.”

She looked down at the onyx ring on her hand for several seconds before she spoke. “Love isn’t always as pretty or pure as people like to think. There’s a darkness in it sometimes. Draco and I go hand-in-hand. I made him who he is. I knew what his runes meant when I saved him. If he’s a monster, then I’m his creator. What did you think was the source of all his rage?”

Lord Voldemort died in January 2009, a week after Aurore’s third birthday.

When she learned to walk, she would trail after people like a little shadow, watching Ginny in the kitchen and gardens, Hermione in her lab, and Draco on his daily route testing the wards. She only needed to be told a rule once, and she would follow it perfectly.

She would have been almost angelic, if not for the influence of James Potter.

From James, Aurore learned race around the house on a toy broomstick at such breakneck speed that Draco would turn white; how to climb the hills and trees and scrape her knees and tear her clothes, and make soups and mudpies in the creek. She also learned how to wrestle, to Draco’s eternal chagrin.

Hermione often woke in the night to find a tiny, serious face gazing intently at her, so close that their noses were nearly touching. It would have been almost terrifying if it had not been a regular occurrence since Aurore had been moved into her own bed.

“Mummy, can I cuddle you?”

Draco talked to Aurore more than he talked to anyone, even Hermione.

He would monologue to her about anything, about the trees, and the furniture, all the shops where he’d bought books for Hermione, about what the weather might be, and what all the colours and hues of the analytic spells meant. Aurore would listen to him intently and fret when he got distracted or fell silent for too long.

Despite Hermione’s philosophical opposition to co-sleeping, Aurore slept in the middle of the bed between Draco and Hermione. It was not because Aurore needed her parents in order to sleep, but because they needed her. Hermione regularly fell asleep on the floor next to Aurore’s cot, holding her hand. Draco would get up several dozen times at night to reassure himself that Aurore was still breathing.

She was the loveliest thing Hermione had ever seen.

“Look at her, Draco. She’s ours. She’s all ours. You’re not going to hurt her.”

He stared down at his daughter for several seconds.

When he moved, she could tell that he’d stopped breathing. His fingers spasmed as he started to reach out. He hesitated and then just barely brushed the baby’s palm as though he expected his touch to poison or break her. The tiny hand reflexively closed around his finger, gripping it.

Draco sat frozen.

Hermione watched him and recognised the expression in his eyes as he looked down at the little person who was clinging tenaciously to him.

Possessive and adoring.

Hermione felt speechless. Ginny and Topsy were both speaking, but Hermione paid no attention. The baby furrowed her feather light eyebrows and widened her eyes briefly.

They were as bright silver as a lighting storm.

Hermione gave a sob and held her tighter. “Draco—she has your eyes.”