Chapter Text
“‘O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good.
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.’”
“Draco, don’t you think it’s a bit early for Shakespeare?”
Draco looked up to see his wife standing in the doorway to the nursery, her arms folded across her chest, and a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She looked radiant in a cranberry red cocktail dress, with her chestnut brown curls spilling over her bare shoulders. She came to stand behind his chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her chin on top of his head.
“I thought you’d prefer for me to read her Shakespeare instead of Quidditch statistics,” he replied with a grin.
“Well, why can’t she like them both? It’s perfectly acceptable for a girl to enjoy Quidditch.”
“No daughter of mine will ever play Quidditch,” Draco said with finality. “There are way too many boys on the Hogwarts School Quidditch teams.” He clutched their baby daughter protectively to his chest, as if a hoard of hormonal teenage boys was threatening to stampede into the nursery at that very moment. Hermione laughed and shook her head.
“Draco, she won’t be a baby forever. Someday she’ll be sixteen, and there will be boys knocking on the front door, wanting to take her out on a date. What will you do then?”
“That’s fifteen years from now, so I have plenty of time to come up with a list of hexes to use for the occasion.”
“You’re going to spoil her rotten, Draco. Isn’t it bad enough that your father insists on lavishing her with outrageously expensive gifts?”
“You know it’s his way of showing his affection.”
“Draco, how many solid gold rattles does a baby really need?”
He shrugged, and Hermione seemed to decide to let the topic drop. Then she stood upright and gave his shoulders a brief squeeze.
“Come back to the party,” she said. “It’s almost midnight and you’re neglecting our guests.”
“Leala is a more engaging conversationalist than Potter. And she drools less than Weasley.”
Hermione chuckled, and as if she knew they were talking about her, their daughter made a soft cooing noise, and then settled back to sleep. Hermione walked around Draco’s chair to lift the baby gently out of his arms. He watched as she kissed Leala tenderly on top of the head and carried her over to her crib to lay her back down for the night.
He hadn’t known it was possible for a man to feel as content as he did at that moment.
The past three years had not been easy. It had taken time, effort, and months of counseling for Draco and Hermione to heal their old wounds and re-adjust to married life together. However, some things would never change. Draco was still prone to brooding, though his bouts of gloominess had lessened considerably after Leala’s birth one year ago. Hermione was still stubborn and willful, with time and motherhood managing to make her even more so.
They were both still susceptible to arguments and bouts of miscommunication, but the make-up sex continued to be amazing. In fact, the local florist had begun selling what she called “The ‘I’m Sorry’ Special,” because Draco so frequently requested it as a peace-offering for his wife. The bouquet prominently featured daisies, of course.
Some things, however, had changed, and Draco’s relationship with Harry and Ron was one of them. Though the three men still called each other by their surnames (and Draco suspected they always would), they had developed a strange, but supportive, friendship. In the three years that had passed since Draco returned to England, the only major fight had occurred not long after Leala’s birth. Ron, who had been visiting the Malfoys at their London flat, had commented that he didn’t think it was humanly possible for a baby to have that much hair.
Draco, who was secretly pleased that his daughter seemed to have inherited her mother’s bushy curls, took Ron’s comment as a moral offense and promptly threw him out of the flat, saying he was not allowed to return until he developed some tact. A few months later, Ron had finally been allowed back into the Malfoys’ home, but only after Hermione had patiently explained to Draco that Ron hadn’t meant to insult their daughter, and that if Draco was waiting for Ron to develop some tact, he would be waiting for a millennium at least.
When Hermione had been elected as the first-ever Muggleborn Minister of Magic upon Kingsley Shacklebolt’s retirement six months prior, it had added a whole new level of craziness to their lives. She had immediately made sweeping changes throughout Wizarding Britain, and proved that she was a force to be reckoned with in the political arena. Draco frequently joked that he could now get away with anything, since he was, after all, shagging the Minister of Magic.
Sometimes, Draco still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, dreaming that someone, or something, had taken his family away from him. But then he would roll over, pull Hermione into his arms, and allow himself to be lulled back to sleep by her reassuring warmth. His fears reached a whole new level after Leala was born, and Draco had come to realize that fear was the price you paid when you loved someone more than life itself. He knew that anything could happen - he could wake up one morning and lose them both, lose everything – but he had stopped focusing on the “what ifs” and begun focusing on living in the moment. Because he had learned the hard way that borrowed time was better than no time at all.
Draco’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a chorus of voices coming from the living room down the hall, as they chanted in unison: “Ten… nine… eight…”
He stood up and went to join Hermione, who was still hovering over their daughter’s crib.
“So much for getting back to the party,” he teased, looping his arms around her waist. She grinned and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Oh well, the company’s not too bad in here, either.”
“Three… two… ONE! Happy New Year!”
The flat was suddenly full of the lilting strains of Auld Lane Syne and the sound of Ron and George enthusiastically testing out the new line of Weasley Wizard Wheezes’ noisemakers. Draco rolled his eyes and cast a Silencing Spell on the nursery door, and the room slipped into peaceful silence.
“Happy 2010, Draco,” Hermione whispered, rising up on her toes to give him a kiss. Draco kept one arm around his wife’s waist, and reached over to rest the other on top of his daughter’s blond curls, encompassing his whole family in his embrace.
“Happy New Year, love.”
And as Draco kissed Hermione once more, he recalled just how much he liked the turning of a new year. It was like turning a page, and finding a fresh piece of parchment just waiting for him to write whatever he wanted to write on it. New beginnings were never easy, but Draco knew that sometimes, they were worth the struggle.
And sometimes, they were even better the second time around.
~fin~