It was the extent of Draco's interests.
Hermione sat squarely in the centre of his universe and, now that she was safe, his unrestrained attention had nothing else to obsess over. Everything but Hermione was superfluous.
She thought it would be a phase. She'd thought that once they had more time that he'd let his focus broaden, but gradually she began to suspect that might not be the case. He had no inclination or intention of taking an interest in anything else. Ginny, James, alchemy; it was all just to indulge her.
Even their baby, in certain respects. He took an interest in the pregnancy because it was Hermione's, because she cared; but when he wasn't reminding her that “their daughter” needed Hermione to breathe or that Hermione had to keep herself safe for “their daughter”, his concern seemed muted. Perhaps it simply paled in contrast to the blistering intensity that Hermione received.
It was exacerbated by his worry about her brain injury. She would regularly wake to find a diagnostic hanging over her head, Draco staring at it with a tense expression.
She'd push his wand away. “Don't. There's nothing we can do.”
The damage was like creeping fissures in her memory; the red mixed with the golden lights still scattered across Hermione's mind. Over the course of the first month, the golden light began to seemingly crystalise around the red fissures in a way that was reminiscent of the way Hermione's own magic had buried her memories. Neither Draco or Hermione were certain about why it was happening or what it meant.
By September, Hermione found she couldn't access the memories even when she tried to. Rather than being something precarious she felt she shouldn't go near, she found herself completely locked out of them, as though she'd been once again blocked from accessing corners of her own mind.
She remembered that Draco's mother had been tortured and that he had become a Death Eater to protect her, but she couldn't recall how she'd ever learned it. The general knowledge was so deeply integrated into her perception of Draco that she remembered it even without having the memories.
She wasn't sure she would even be fully aware that the memories were missing except that she couldn't remember Draco's mother's name. It was bewilderingly arbitrary. She knew about his mother, but she consistently drew a complete blank about what her name had been in a way that made her jarringly aware of her memory loss.
Hermione knew that she had known it. She would find it scribbled on pieces of parchment and slipped into books she was reading and in her dresser drawers. 'Draco's mother was named Narcissa,' in Hermione's handwriting. But once she stopped actively thinking about it, the detail slipped away again. Wherever it was that her mind kept that knowledge, she was incapable of accessing it. A conversation with Ginny or a few hours in her lab and it was gone until she'd stumble across another piece of parchment reminding her “Draco's mother was named Narcissa.”
S
For several weeks she kept a diary that she reviewed and filled with more information every hour. She found that once the information was no longer actively at the forefront of her mind, it disappeared into parts of her mind that she couldn't reach. The rest of her memories from the war were returning with increasing clarity, but anything related to Draco's mother remained vague.
She knew Draco knew that she never remembered his mother's name. Whenever he told her anything about his childhood he always specified “My mother, Narcissa,” in a way that was obviously habitual.
The memory loss seemed contained and restricted to information about his mother. Everything else was precariously intact.
She and Draco put together a book including details of all the things she didn't remember so she could review them. It was almost pointless because it was only a matter of hours before she didn't remember any of it all over again. She could remember that she was going to forget things, but she didn't know what they were. However it reassured her to know that she could find the information when she needed to.
She tried not to think about it for the most part. There were plenty of things she could do that didn't require her to recall those particular details. She had Draco. He was alive, and he wouldn't be if she still had all her memories.
She would have given up far more than a few memories to buy his life.
That fact did not console Draco.
They were lying in bed, and she was trying to find a spot where he could feel the baby kick.
She pressed his hand against the top of her stomach, and there was a sudden flutter against his fingers.
She met his eyes, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Did you feel that?”
He nodded. She guided his hand up near her ribs. “Her head is here right now, and her feet are down in my pelvis, kicking me in the bladder all night.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but then his thumb grazed along the narrow scar running between her ribs, his attention shifting away from the baby.
She wrapped her fingers around his hand.
“Draco—” her voice was nervous, and her throat tightened as she spoke.
He looked up at her instantly. His silver eyes were intent, filled with the same possessive, desperate adoration she'd seen in face of Lucius. She swallowed. “Draco, you have to care about her.”
He stared at her blankly.
Her heart caught in her chest. “You — you can't be the way your father was.”
His expression closed in an instant, and she gripped his hand more tightly. “You have to care,” she said fiercely. “The way you are, you have to decide to care because if you don't, you won't, and she'll know.”
Draco's eyes flickered with something unreadable.
She sat up and kept staring into his eyes. “She has to be someone that you decide to care about. Someone that matters to you. I don't—” her throat caught, “I don't know how — how I'll be in the future. If something goes wrong — you have to be the one who loves her for me” —her voice cracked slightly— “the way I would love her. She has to be important to you.”
Draco had turned white, but he slowly nodded. “Alright,” he said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
After months of revolutions breaking out in Death Eater controlled countries, the International Confederation announced its intention to “intervene” in the European situation in October of 2005. Europe's instability threatened the statute of secrecy and endangered the worldwide magical community.
Voldemort barely had the troops to attempt even a semblance of a resistance. The Death Eater army had always relied heavily on the support of the Dark Beings, and with Voldemort's alliances in tatters, he hardly had an army to mount. Even the Death Eaters had no confidence in their ability to win another war. Minister Thicknesse gave weak speeches about British Sovereignty, but despite the dutiful propagandizing of The Daily Prophet, the wizarding world was tired of war and no longer frightened of Voldemort.
There was too much discontent and too few Death Eaters. Without Draco as High Reeve, there was no one who could inspire the same terror.
The International Confederation landed in Denmark in late October and swept down from Northern Europe in a curve towards Britain.
Watching the International Confederation's Liberation Front effectively crush Voldemort's regime had all the feeling of vindication, but there was also a profound sense of betrayal to see how differently things could have been if the International Confederation had been willing to aid the Resistance during the war.
A nauseating sense of pain and rage welled up in Hermione's chest every time she thought about it. There wouldn't need to be a Liberation Front if the MACUSA and International Confederation hadn't left the Resistance be wiped out, imprisoned, and raped for several years.