“What would you wish for?” Hermione asked, even though she was certain she already knew the answer.
Aurore looked up at Hermione hesitantly. “I wish we could go to Britain.”
Hermione pressed her lips together into a tight smile. “That would be fun, wouldn't it?”
Aurore nodded and stared wistfully at the crane she was holding.
She'd lost most of her playfulness after James had left. Draco and Hermione had tried to bring back the spark. Draco took her to the mainland to visit playgrounds and markets, Hermione even went with them on occasion. Aurore didn't want to be friends with other children.
There were too many obstacles. In the Muggle world, she was cautioned against making any references to magic. In the magical world, Draco and Hermione had very carefully warned her that she could not tell anyone her parents' names, where they lived, or mention how Draco and Hermione had altered their appearances.
The rules stressed Aurore. As a result, she did not play. She stood quietly at a distance, watching other children play with an expression of longing but declining all invitations to participate, even when Draco and Hermione urged her to. After four years, James remained the only friend she spoke of.
“Mum… can I go when I'm old enough to go to Hogwarts?”
Hermione's stomach twisted, and she blinked through the headache she'd already been trying to ignore. “I thought you were going to go to the school in New Zealand? So that Father and I can visit you and you can come home for the holidays.”
“You can't visit me at Hogwarts?”
Hermione's jaw tightened as she thought about the Astronomy Tower with the Weasleys' bodies hanging below Harry's corpse; about the winding corridor she'd been dragged down before she was locked away; of sitting in the Great Hall while being trained as a surrogate.
“I would — I'd probably get headaches if I visited you at Hogwarts. Some — very sad things happened to me there, and I would think about them all if I was there.”
Aurore was quiet. “I guess New Zealand has a good school,” she said after a minute, picking up the crane and gently smoothing some of the creases.
Hermione could hear the longing in her voice. She reached out and straightened the wings and then arranged the origami bird so it would stand. “Did you know? I folded a thousand cranes once.”
Aurore looked over her shoulder. “Did you get your wish?”
Hermione nodded and gave a small smile. “I think so.”
“What did you wish?”
“Well—” Hermione's throat tightened, and she reached up and brushed back Aurore's wild curls. “I don't remember exactly how my wish went, but I think I wished for you. I think — I wished for a place to be with the people I loved; where I wouldn't be lonely anymore. There was a while when I was really lonely. And now I always have you and Father. So I got my wish.”
Aurore's eyes lit up. “Can you teach me how to make a crane?”
Hermione was still for a moment, her heart catching painfully. “No. I'm sorry, I can't remember how to make them anymore. I tried to learn again, but it always slips away from me.”
“Why?”
Hermione pressed her lips together and swallowed. “Well, back when I was pregnant with you, I hurt my head. It got hurt on the inside. It could have been a very, very bad injury. Bad enough that I wouldn't be able to remember lots of things. For a long time, we thought eventually I'd start forgetting more and more things. But—” a smile curved at Hermione's lips. “Even though you weren't even born yet, you used your magic and you wrapped it all around the parts of my brain that were hurt so that I wouldn't forget any more things. But the parts of my brain that are wrapped up in your magic; I can't reach them now. They're locked up tight so they can't break. That means that even if you tell me certain things or I try to learn them, I forget them again.”
“My magic fixed you?” Aurore's eyes were wide
Hermione nodded. “Yes. It's called fetomaternal magi-microchimerism. That's what healers call it. It's very, very rare. As long as I'm very careful and don't do things that make me breathe fast or get headaches, the healers think I'll keep remembering most things until you're all grown up and have children of your own.”
“Maybe you could have another baby to fix your brain if you start forgetting.”
Hermione gave a tight smile. “The healers said no more babies for me. Just you.”
Draco appeared at the doorway with his hair still brown and his features softened with spells. Hermione stiffened when she saw him.
“Mum was telling me how my magic fixed her brain,” Aurore said.
Draco's silver eyes flickered, and he gave a terse nod.
Hermione dropped a kiss on Aurore's head. “Sweetheart, can you go ask Topsy what's for dinner? You father and I need to talk.”
Aurore picked up her paper crane and slipped away. As the footsteps faded in the distance, the smile on Hermione's face vanished.
Draco stared at her and raised an eyebrow. “What's wrong?”
Hermione swallowed, and her throat felt as though there were a stone in it. She reached under a pile of papers and withdrew a Wizarding newspaper.
“War Criminal Found Drowned”
Draco's eyes glittered for a split-second as he read it.
“They found Stroud drowned off the coast of Brazil,” Hermione said in a quiet voice. Her fingers twitched against the paper. “She was found in a Muggle morgue. The official cause of death is a heart attack while swimming.”
There was a brief silence.
“Pity someone didn't kill her,” Draco said coolly as he flicked his prosthetic hand and muttered “finite” in order to pull off the glamours on his hair and features.
“Someone did,” Hermione said in a voice that was almost a hiss.
Draco just stared at Hermione blankly.
“Don't. Don't you dare lie to me.” Her heart was beginning to pound painfully in her chest.
Draco looked down and gave a low sigh. In a split-second, the sharpness of him re-emerged like a raw blade.
The version of himself that he wore so perfectly on the island whenever Aurore could see him, the softness, the crooked smiles, and quiet monologues. It all vanished as though it was a costume he put on. The perfect, unfailing persona of the father he wanted to be.
Now he was real again. As cold and glittering as razor-edged steel.
Hermione stared up at him, feeling as though there was a chasm inside her. “We said we were done.”
“No,” he said, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow. “You said we were done, and I didn't argue with you.”
Hermione's jaw trembled, and she looked down. “You could have been caught. If they'd caught you, you would have been killed.”
Her head was throbbing, and her sternum hurt as though he'd cracked her in half.
“I'm quite difficult to kill. Considerably harder to kill than a middle-aged healer.” His eyes were ice.
“What did you do?” She met his gaze. “Cruciatus until she drowned?”
The corner of his mouth twitched as he glanced away. “Clever as always.”
Hermione didn't say anything else. She kept staring at him, waiting for him to look at her.
“She deserved to die,” he finally said, staring stonily out of the window. “You had to have known I was going to kill her the moment the reports came that she'd fled. You knew I'd find her.”
Hermione tried to swallow. Her shoulders were trembling as she held herself rigidly. “You lied to me. You lied to me. You hid what you were doing. You said you had to visit Canada to deal with a financial transfer. Now — every time you leave, I'm going to wonder what you're really doing, and I'm going to worry that you're never going to come back—” Her voice broke.