The following week, Draco started each class with Sylvie on his shoulder. His younger students were so relieved to see the Potions Mouse unharmed that the news she would be assisting with lessons was accepted with no more than a shrug. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth year students all found it different levels of hilarious that their staid professor had, for all intents and purposes, adopted his longtime, unofficial mascot.

But no class took Sylvie's presence quite like his N.E.W.T. students, who gave her a round of applause. She accepted it with unusual humility, covering her face with her paws until they quieted. Cait practically collapsed with relief, missing Nadia's accusatory look. Draco caught it, however, and wondered how much Nadia already suspected.

The lesson itself went well. Draco observed from his desk while Sylvie scampered from table to table, students whispering their congratulations and gratitude. She had returned to his desk by the lesson's end, sitting at his wrist as the students turned in their vialed samples.

"I'd like to see you after class, Ms. Vargas." The young girl blanched. "You too, Ms. Burke," who was next in line.

The girls took their time packing up, and when the rest of the class had left, Draco gestured them to sit. Sylvie sprinted up his arm and settled on his shoulder before he stood. He walked around his desk and looked down at the two teens.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us about what happened last week, Ms. Vargas?"

Cait lifted her chin and shook back her dark brown hair, proud and defiant to the end.

"No."

"Very well." Draco turned to Nadia. "Our investigation revealed that Ms. Vargas slipped powdered Bicorn horn into your brew before the required addition of Valerian root. If you had added the root, your cauldron would have exploded. I doubt even Madame Pomfrey would have been able to Heal you."

Nadia turned wide blue eyes to Cait, who looked forward, gaze unfocused, jaw clenched, though he saw the subtle quiver of her chin. At least she felt the severity of what she'd done.

"This type of sabotage goes beyond House politics, personal vendettas, or academic rivalries. It shows a callous disregard for the well-being of your peers, which cannot be tolerated. Ms. Vargas, I am revoking your N.E.W.T. privileges. You are no longer welcome in my class."

He let the pronouncement hang. To his surprise, Nadia broke the silence.

"What about Hippocrates' School?" She looked at Cait. "You want to be a Healer."

"Wanted," Cait corrected, her voice choked with grief. "May I be excused, Professor?"

"Yes."

She left with as much dignity as her lost dreams would allow. Nadia watched her leave, calculating.

"I don't think she meant to hurt me."

"If her actions didn't come from intention, then they came from ignorance. That's just as bad."

Sylvie lashed her tail against his neck. Rebuke for the theatrics, he supposed. Nadia considered that for a moment, then stood.

"Is there anything else, Professor?"

"No, that will be all. Enjoy your weekend."

"Yes, sir."

It was an odd reply, not quite fitting the situation. Nevertheless, he waited until she'd shut the door to let his shoulders sag. He felt the silence like a weight.

"Did I just ruin her life?"

Sylvie pressed herself against his neck. A comforting gesture that sent a warm rush through his chest.

"Thanks."

But the worry did not disappear. Something had shifted, and the following Friday's class was subdued. Cait's dismissal had altered the relationship between him and his seventh year students, their questions more formal, their answers more succinct. Discussion had disappeared. Even Cryil, who could be relied on for some arcane question on theory, was restrained.

He didn't like it.

"How do I fix it?" he asked Sylvie over dinner. She stopped munching on her dandelion green to look at him. "Do they just need time, or is it going to be like this for the rest of the term? I've never dismissed a student before, and Cait was one of the strongest brewers I've had. A natural, like you."

Sylvie chittered and went back to her salad. But after supper, she disappeared.

It was fine. She was independent and self-sufficient. He had no reason to worry. He didn't own her, after all. He had no right. And the reason he was almost apoplectic when she returned far too late was not due to any misplaced ideas about responsibility or entitlement but because he had promised to keep her safe, and he couldn't very well prevent her from getting eaten by a cat or snatched up by an owl if she were roaming the castle.

Arguing with a creature who couldn't speak wasn't easy, but Draco did his best. The distance between him and Sylvie lasted a full week. She refused his hand, kept her back to him at night, and disappeared for hours just to spite him, he was sure.

The sour mood of his N.E.W.T. students and his companion seemed to break the first Friday of May. Draco attributed it to end of term excitement. The weather grew fairer each day, and the outlook for the weekend's Quidditch match, a highly anticipated bout between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, was ideal: clear and dry.

Then Nadia placed three potion samples on his desk at lesson's end. The first, her own from that day's brew: the bright, active gold of Felix Felices. The other two were brews from the past two weeks: the distinctive matte white of Skele-Gro and the sparkling sample of SpermatoNOa, a male contraceptive released from patent two years ago.

Nadia stared him down, her jaw set. Sylvie's tail swished against his shoulder.

"I've already given you passing marks for these brews."

"They're Cait's."

Draco's fingers tightened around his quill. Sylvie's tail stilled.

"Explain."

"She found me in the Library the day after you booted her from class. She apologized, and we started talking." Nadia affected a shrug; there was more to the story, but it wasn't for him to hear. "I don't think one bad decision should stop someone from pursuing their goals, so I offered to tutor her. I shared my notes from the previous two weeks and helped her brew them. More like observed, actually. She didn't need my help."

"How did she source the ingredients?"

"She bought them herself."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"All of them? One just doesn't happen upon unicorn hoof clippings in a Diagon apothecary."

Nadia shifted her weight, an unconscious tell.

"We may have had a little help with some of them..."

Draco sent Sylvie a sideways look. Far from looking cowed, the mouse met his gaze with a stubborn intensity that, for whatever reason, reminded him of his Gryffindor students. He looked back at Nadia.

"Why should I accept these?"

He realized too late that the rest of the class had stopped packing up. All eyes were trained on him and Nadia.

"We were in our second year when you started teaching," she said, as if she'd expected the challenge. "Do you remember what you said to us at the start of term?"

Draco set his quill down so that he wouldn't snap it.

"You said that everyone deserves a second chance, and that you hoped we could see past what you'd done to give you yours. Did you mean that, Professor?"

He had, and she knew it. Draco was grudgingly proud of how she had cornered him; she was a good fit for Slytherin.

He set Cait's samples aside.

"Tell Ms. Vargas to see me after her classes let out on Monday. I'll have her work reviewed by then and will have made my decision. My final decision," he was sure to emphasize. But that did nothing to diminish Nadia's grin.

"Enjoy your weekend, Professor."

"Play well tomorrow and maybe I will."

Nadia's grin turned competitive. She had been a Chaser for the past four years and Team Captain for the past two.

"The Cup is as good as ours."

"I'm counting on it. Longbottom and I made a bet that I'd very much like to win."

Nadia left with a laugh, and when the door closed, Draco picked up Cait's samples. They looked flawless. Consistency, color, clarity... She had been one of his best students.

Sylvie hopped down onto his desk, rearing on her hind legs to sniff at the vials.

"You overstepped," he said.

The mouse stopped her inspection to look at him, ears falling.

"I'm glad you did."

She perked up at once and leapt into his open palm. He scratched her head with his finger, her eyes closing in pleasure.

He loved her.

Admitting it was easy. The feeling was pure, like the best moments of his life had been distilled and concentrated to potent strength. Sylvie wasn't swayed by the opinions of others or the distant darkness of his past. She knew him for who he was, the person he had chosen to be. And he knew her, too. Better than he knew anyone else. He could read her feelings through the height of her ears and the pace of her chittering, the swats of her tail and the exaggeration of her eyerolls, the pressure of her teeth and nails against his skin.

Draco had grown up in a world of conditional affection, where his value hinged on what he achieved, but Sylvie's love for him felt different. Limitless.

And as much joy as her presence gave him, it hurt, too.

Luna had written, and Draco and Sylvie had taken another trip into London, spending a full day at the Ministry. Once again, Draco was barred from observing the tests they put her through, but Sylvie was returned to him so exhausted she could hardly stand. Rolf agreed with Luna's assessment: Sylvie was just a mouse.

Just a mouse.

Draco considered himself a rational man. Three experts had examined Sylvie and found her to be intelligent, empathetic, and charming. But they hadn't found her to be human. It didn't feel like the truth, but what were feelings when measured against objective data?

Admitting he'd been wrong wasn't the painful part. Instead, it was admitting why he wanted so desperately to be right.

Versions of the fairy tale existed in cultures across the world: a woman suffering under a terrible curse, a lonely soul finding love, an against-all-odds cure, a happy ever after. The romantic ease of two matched souls finding each other across circumstances and time appealed precisely because it was the opposite of reality.

Love took work. It was a messy process of trial and error, full of grief and heartache and self-loathing and effort. It didn't just leap into a student's cauldron to be saved on a whim. It had to be found.

It was for this reason that Draco agreed to meet Narcissa at the end of May. He wanted to be found. He was ready for it. Sylvie had shown him that, if nothing else.

"Are you sure you want to come?"

The mouse watched as he buttoned his collared shirt, his hair still wet from the shower. She rolled her eyes and nodded; it was not the first time he'd asked.

"You'll have to stay out of sight." He ran a hand through his hair, drying and styling it with a single pass. "Mother's not a fan of small, furry creatures."

She chittered, indignant, but crawled into his hand regardless.

"I'm afraid you'll have to travel via trouser."

She leapt into his pocket, her tiny body warm against his thigh.

"I can't believe you're choosing to meet my mother."

Her squeak was muffled, but Draco got the gist of it: neither could she.

His cheer faltered when he saw Narcissa waiting at the main gate, dressed in an expensive silk robe. Her platinum hair was pulled back, and she looked far too superior to be visiting a school.

"You're late," she said in greeting, kissing him on either cheek and taking his offered arm.

"You're early."

"I've been waiting five years for this invitation."

"I've been busy."

"I'm sure that's true. When will I meet her?"

Sylvie shifted in his pocket.

"I'm doing fine, thank you for asking," Draco groused. "Yes, we did win the Quidditch Cup. I know you were concerned."

Narcissa tightened her grip on Draco's forearm.

"There's no need for sarcasm. We both know why I wanted to visit."

"The conversation can't wait until after lunch?"

"Why should it?"

Because accepting his mother's help in figuring out his love life could backfire. Because he hadn't told Sylvie why he'd invited Narcissa to lunch and, if he were honest, didn't want to. Because delaying the inevitable felt like something he could control.

"I'm not interested in marrying for influence or political connections," he said, deflecting. "It may have worked for you and Father, but—"

"But your generation is different," Narcissa finished for him. "I know. You have more freedom to choose than Lucius or I ever did. That doesn't mean you have to do it on your own."

The Hogwarts' elves had spread a blanket for them beneath the willow tree at the Great Lake's edge. He conjured a cushion for Narcissa and, after he'd taken his own seat, adjusted his trousers. Sylvie sprinted from his pocket, a blur of chestnut brown disappearing into the bright green grass behind him. Trays of fruit, salad, sandwiches, and goblets of cold lemonade appeared before them.

"Besides, your Father and I should have some say into who you choose."

"Mother."

"It's a matter of practicality." She took a delicate bite of cucumber sandwich. "Your wife will be representing the Malfoy family name. She needs to be respected, well-bred, polite—"

"Pure-blood?"

Narcissa's shoulders rolled in a half-shrug.

"Society has changed, and we have changed with it. If you find a suitable half-blood woman, Lucius and I would be supportive."

Draco frowned, the implication obvious. The grass next to him shifted.

"That brings me to your Sylvie. Is she a student?"

Draco choked on his lemonade; Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

"No."

"It could work, if she were," Narcissa continued. "The Wizengamot has changed, but men will always have a price."

"I am not having an affair with a student."

As though to prove him wrong, Nadia shouted in greeting behind him.

"Hi, Professor!"

Narcissa gave Draco an arch smile, which fell as she saw Nadia walking hand-in-hand with Cait. Draco smirked, then wiped his hands, glad for the distraction.

"Excuse me for a moment."

Draco walked over to them, Nadia confident where Cait was reserved.

"You seem to have found common ground." Draco nodded at their interlaced fingers.

"The Library has a way of clarifying things," Cait said. "Understanding just seems to be, I don't know..." She looked at Nadia, considering. "Easier there, I guess. We got to know one another better."

"Though I don't like to get involved in my students' personal lives, I'm happy for you both," he said. "Hippocrates' School is demanding, but you're going into it together. I know you'll do well."

"Oh, that reminds me! Professor, we were wondering..." Cait jabbed her elbow into Nadia's ribs, but Nadia ignored her, squirming to the side to avoid a second blow. "We were wondering if you'd write letters of recommendation for us. To include with our applications."

Before Draco could answer, Narcissa screamed. He whipped around just in time to see her wand flick out over the lake, a stone-sized missile zipping out over the deep water. Panic rose like a tide in his chest. The projectile hit the water with a small splash, barely visible among the gentle waves. He began to run.

"What was that?" he yelled.

Narcissa looked back, shocked to see him in a full sprint. She stood.

"Nothing," she answered. "Just a mouse. Better it drown than—"

The lake roiled, then exploded. The body of a naked woman shot ten feet into the air. She hung at the apex, just long enough for dread to curl its fist around Draco's heart and squeeze, then began to fall. He threw a spell at her: a Stasis charm, cast on instinct. While powerful enough to save a mouse, it could only slow the woman's descent. She hit the water with a slap and began to sink.

"Accio!"

The spell dragged her body through the water. Draco caught her in the surf—he hardly felt her weight—and slogged to shore.

"The blanket!"

Narcissa stood frozen, mouth covered in horror, but Cait moved, clearing the food with a sweep of her wand. Draco laid the woman down and pushed the wet hair from her face.

Her face.

His heart stopped. He knew this woman. A classmate who had disappeared over a decade ago. A witch, presumed dead, whose body was cold and stiff beneath his hands.

Hermione Granger.

Cait shoved him aside. She pressed two fingers to Hermione's neck, then bent down, an ear to her mouth.

"No pulse, not breathing."

She looked across Hermione's body to Nadia. A current of understanding passed between the two girls, and Nadia lunged forward, interlaced her hands, and began compressing Hermione's sternum.

"Take over for her after two minutes," Cait said. "I'm going to find McGonagall and Pomfrey."

Draco nodded dumbly and watched Cait sprint toward the castle.

"Draco?" Narcissa put a shaky hand on his shoulder. "Is this... Is she..."

Nadia backed away as water seeped from Hermione's mouth. Draco repositioned her head, allowing it to drip onto the grass. She coughed once, feebly, then began to breathe, shallow inhales that barely moved her chest.

"We need to get her to the Hospital Wing," Nadia said, wiping her forehead.

Draco looped his arms under Hermione's knees and shoulders.

"Carefully," Narcissa said, supporting Hermione's lolling head. She placed it against Draco's shoulder, then draped the blanket across her body.

The war's end had brought the start of reconciliation: the process of prosecutions, burials, memorials, and reparations that helped bring justice to perpetrators and closure to those harmed.

Hermione's disappearance had been a particularly raw wound. Only one Death Eater, a halfwit named Thane Shaw, had any information. He and a man named Cleve had pursued her through Hogwarts, but lost her in a dead-ended stairwell. He couldn't explain how.

The school had been searched, and the ghosts and elves put on patrol. The centaurs and other sentient beings of the Forbidden Forest were given her picture. A Trace had been put on her wand. Fliers hung in every shop window. Muggle law enforcement knew her as a missing woman and were paid to keep her face in their papers. A search team was sent to Australia to surveil her Obliviated parents.

Nothing. Hermione had disappeared from the face of the planet the night Potter had died. And while the wizarding world did its best to stop it, the planet had kept spinning without her.

Draco tightened his grip, held her closer. Eleven years spent as a mouse, scraping a life in the bowels of Hogwarts, her sole connection to humanity the whispered gratitude of students and, for the past month, a life with him.

He ached for her.

He loved her.

He hardly knew her.