It was unreasonably sunny. The perfect number of clouds swam under a radiant sun. The light glinted off the pond, and the fucking peacocks were preening.

But of course it would be a perfect day for Draco Malfoy's wedding, Theo grumbled to himself.

He stood alone near the veranda, watching as the guests filed in. Pansy was inside getting Granger and the Weasley girl ready. Blaise was best-manning. And Greg wasn't invited. Theo was still trying to figure out how he had gotten an invite.

When the cream envelope had arrived by owl to his flat in the city, he'd almost crumpled it into the fire. A sick joke — that's what Draco was playing.

He hadn't seen any of them for a year. After the Battle, and after his father had been sent to Azkaban and his inheritance frozen, Theo had spent some time traveling with the money he did have left. He'd met up with Pansy in France for a few months, and after a disastrous attempt to remain heterosexual, he'd gone to Amsterdam.

When Draco was released from Azkaban and started at the Ministry, Theo had read about it, but didn't reach out. Blaise wrote him once on his birthday, but he only kept up with rest of them through the papers. He'd watched from the Netherlands as Rita Skeeter spun a ridiculous story about Draco and Hermione Granger, and it wasn't until the Prophet printed an actual picture of a date that ended with a kiss that truly believed it.

He'd thought about sending a note of congratulations at the engagement. He'd thought about letting Blaise know he was back in London, if he ever wanted to grab a drink. He'd thought about sending an owl to Pansy in support of the Parkinson line on the cover of all the major magazines. But he could never get the nerve up.

So when the invitation arrived, his immediate thought was that Lucius must have made him do it. Nothing else made sense.

So here he was, waiting for the appropriate moment to grab a seat as far away from Ron Weasley as possible.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said a Scottish voice to his left.

Theo turned and looked up a few inches to find Oliver Wood standing with a halo of sunlight breaking him into silhouette. He swallowed thickly.

"Right." Theo's voice croaked over the single word, and he cleared his throat. "Wood."

"What have you been up to since… well, the end of the world." When he grinned down at him, Theo felt that same pull. The same desperate wish that had whispered across his skin in third year during a Slytherin and Gryffindor match as he watched the Quaffle slide into Oliver's grip.

"Traveling. Not much." Theo tore his gaze away. "You?"

"A bit here and there. Coaching a few amateur leagues in Quidditch. Bent up me knee well and good about a year ago, so I can't play professionally."

"Right. Er, sorry about that."

"Ah, it's nothing." Oliver buttoned his robes and said, "You'll be sitting on Malfoy's side, I take it?"

"I… I don't know. I suppose. I don't know anyone here anymore." Theo sniffed and glanced around, trying to look more detached than he felt.

"Me neither," Oliver said. "Let's grab a few chairs in the back then, yeah?"

Theo's eyes snapped up to him. The sun seemed to play tricks through Oliver's hair, across his stubble, and he couldn't look anywhere else. He was nodding before his mind could catch up.

Over the heads of the cooing females surrounding my wife, past the neutral yellows, greens, and beiges, just beyond the pile of discarded gift bows that Pansy says we have to keep to make a "cradle" out of, Blaise looks like he's falling asleep.

In fact. He is asleep.

I can recognize Oculus Dolus anywhere. His eyes are trained on Ginny Potter as she collects the guesses for gender, birthdate, weight, and all that rot, but they don't blink. And his head is lolled against his palm.

I lean into Pansy's side and whisper, "I'm going to take Blaise for a walk. Or a stiff drink."

When I slap Blaise's shoulder, he jumps, jerking the non-alcoholic pumpkin juice in his hand.

"Good nap?"

"Draco, it's ten in the morning. On my weekend." He rubs his face. "Who planned this thing?"

"Ginny Potter. And Pansy. Who still hasn't forgiven you."

"I know, I know," he says as I lead him from the sitting room and down to my father's old study where the expensive stuff is kept. I pour him a glass. "You enjoying the last of your freedom?"

"Trying not to see it that way, but I suppose." I take a sip from my tumbler.

"Well, you certainly won't be able to sneak away for a drink with me in London anymore. But" — Blaise sits in my father's old chair and kicks his feet up on the desk — "you and me can take the brat to the park. Maybe they can spend a day with their godfather in Honeydukes so I can buy their love. That sort of thing."

My eyes flicker up to him. "Been wanting to talk to you about that." I set my glass down on a shelf. "Is that something you'd be interested in?"

"Godfather?" His lips quirk. "I thought that was a given."

"Well, Granger wants Potter, of course—"

"Oh, bugger off. You don't want Potter influencing your spawn, do you? They'll all be in Gryffindor like that." He snaps. "I want it. Give it to me. I want it. I'll take the brat to the park and push it in a swing and teach it how to ride a broom..."

I eye him. "Do you know what a godfather is?"

"Like, the extra amazing uncle."

He swivels in the chair.

"Er, no," I say, running a hand through my hair. "There is a bit of mentorship, maybe. But a godfather takes responsibility for the child if anything happens to Granger and me."

"Right." He swivels again.

"As in… legally."

"Right." He sips his drink.

"As in… adoption."

The chair comes to an abrupt halt. "Ah." Blaise stares into his glass. "But Weasley will be the godmother, yeah? So the kid can go live with her."

I frown at him. "What if the Potters die with us? Horrible accident."

"Right. Well your mother—"

"She's dead too."

"...Pansy could—"

"Pansy isn't their godparent."

I watch the fun of it all leave Blaise's eyes. He takes a deep breath.

"Look, sure. If you're all dead, I can take over." He waves his hand, then lifts a brow at me. "But don't you worry, Draco. If you're dead, I'll take good care of her."

I grin. "Her? You think the baby is a girl?"

"No, no," he says, batting the air, as if trying to clear the word "baby" from the conversation. "Granger." He smirks. "As godfather, it would be my solemn vow to you, that I'd look after your widow." He winks. "Take care of all her needs."

My eye twitches. "That's not the role of the godfather—"

"I'll make it my role."

I turn on my heel and sweep from the room. "We're going with Potter."

"Better me than anyone else, Draco!" he calls after me.

The restaurant was far too nice. Hermione felt underdressed just standing on the sidewalk. Draco's hand on her back guided her inside, and she shifted from foot to foot as he spoke lowly with the maître d'.

Within moments they were being led to a table near a window, and she felt every eye on them on the long walk. She'd suggested going to a Muggle restaurant, but he insisted. He already had a place in mind.

The menu was decadent. The wine list extensive.

But she and Draco hadn't spoken a word to each other since they left her flat. And maybe they were no good at this. Maybe they should stick to sex. Maybe the only meals they should share were lunch in his office as they redressed—

"Are we celebrating anything tonight? Any champagne?" the server asked.

Draco looked at her from over the top of the menu. His eyes were a pale grey, flickering over her anxiously.

She turned her face up to the server to decline, and Draco replied, "Yes, thank you." He met her eyes. "First date."

She felt her cheeks heat as the server offered his congratulations and well wishes. Biting her lip, she looked back to the menu, focusing on how the phrase "first date" made her feel.

Like a promise of many more to come.

Chapter 4: Pygmy Puffs

"LUCY!"

The nine-year-old wobbled down the stairs into the entry hall and looked at her father.

"Yes?"

"Did you do this?" Draco asked. He didn't even bother gesturing toward the mess.

Lucy looked over the entry hall at the six dozen Pygmy Puffs littering the floor, tumbling around each other and squeaking wildly. She turned back to her father over the pink and purple sea of fluff, and said, "No."

Draco lifted a brow. "No?"

She shook her head, lifting a brow right back.

"How intriguing," Draco said, pacing through the Puffs. "Because I only just got home, and your mother would never allow such a disgusting display of fluff in her home." He stopped and looked at her. "So I would assume that the person who has been pestering me for a Puff to bring to Hogwarts would have conjured them."

"What an interesting conclusion," Lucy said flatly. "Well, since they're already here, I might as well keep them."

Chapter 3: Ambition

"And then, once I'm Head Girl, I will graduate at the very top, and they'll let me give a speech at the end of the school year, and I will go to a Muggle university for four years to make sure I didn't miss anything," Lucy babbled, balancing on the edge of her chair. "And then, once I'm done, I will come back and take over Malfoy Consulting Group because Daddy will be old and Mummy will be Minister of Magic by then. And then, when I'm older, I'll be Minister for Magic. And then all of my friends will come to my parties and I won't have to go to any of theirs because theirs aren't as nice as mine and they will bring me all the presents I want and I can tell Oliver Burns he can't come because he said he didn't like my pink dress last week and I don't need a stupid pure-blood boy at my parties anyway — I'll be Minister for Magic!"

The seven-year-old took a deep breath and continued. Hermione and Draco looked at each other across the dinner table, and simultaneously said, "She gets this from you."

Chapter 2: My Brilliant Wife

When people say she's the brightest witch of her age, they don't even know the half of it.

She has discipline. She has drive. She is stubborn and correct until proven wrong. She catalogs small details — colored light bouncing across walls with each turn of a crystal glass, the folds in parchment that indicate how long a letter has been pressed in a pocket, the song of a bird on your windowsill as it mimics the tune on the radio — but she would never bore you with these discoveries in the moment. No, she holds onto them until weeks later when the bird finally coos back an entire Celestina Warbeck verse, and when you mention how extraordinary it is, she just shrugs and says, "Yes, he's been doing that. Clever, isn't he?"

When she puts two and two together to make four, it's a stunning thing to witness. From losing a wristwatch to finding a loophole in a law, her mind can separate the necessary and the mundane, sifting through details that feel completely out of place until they click like a puzzle in her mind.

She is sharp. She is thoughtful. She is vigilant. She need only have a piece of the whole in order to craft a hypothesis.

So when she gets the flu and spends a full week with stomach cramps and exhaustion… When she's upending her breakfast into the toilet for several weeks after… I don't even bother asking the question. Because she's the brightest witch of her age.

I watch her excuse herself from morning meetings, returning grey-faced and glassy-eyed, and I know I must be imagining things because… there's just no possible way she wouldn't know.

I sit with her in the bath, letting my hands wander along her sides as she reads to me, and my hands slip to her belly, searching for a sign. She turns over her shoulder and smiles at me — and I think, this is it. This is the moment she tells me that it's true.

But instead she winks, dropping the book and twisting around in my arms, sliding her soapy body over mind, mistaking my wandering wands for arousal instead of research.

But who am I to stop her as she straddles my legs in the water. Her hands glide over my shoulders as mine slot our hips together. And when she's rising and falling over me, sloshing water over the sides, the suds drip down her breasts. And I know they're larger. I know it as if they were my own — because they are mine. I've mapped them and pleasured them and fucked them and come on them and they are swollen.

Her head falls back, breath panting harshly, and I say, "Are you pregnant?"

She laughs, her face tilting back to mine, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, ready to poke fun.

But her hips pause.

And her face freezes.

And I watch her click the pieces into place. The details she was too clever to notice. My stupid, brilliant wife.

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The poison worked its way through her system overnight, leaving a lethargic hum in her veins the next morning. Once the adrenalin of the initial shock had seeped from her, her body felt the aftermath like a lead weight for the next few days.

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So, George was on the run.

It must have been during the Auction itself. He was onstage with Ludo when the girls began to fight. At least they'd won something during that moment.

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Breakfast appeared the next morning along with Narcissa Malfoy. She escorted Hermione out to the balcony while Remmy set up the breakfast tray and the tea service. She eyed the grounds, looking for weaknesses as Narcissa talked.

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She woke slowly, her body trying to drag her mind back into sleep for a few minutes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a real bed. The cots in the tent weren't as comfortable as this, and Harry snored so loud she was afraid he'd rupture the Protection Spells—