Chapter Song: Experience
The night had unfolded in a soft cascade of stars.
The enchanted ballroom of the Malfoy estate was transformed — no longer an echoing space of cold history, but a living dream. Glowing lanterns floated midair. Petals drifted endlessly in a charmed breeze. Laughter, music, and magic mingled beneath the vaulted ceiling.
But when the room quieted and the first notes of their dance song began to play, something shifted in the air — as if time itself paused to listen.
Draco stood alone at the center of the dance floor, head turned to the edge of the crowd. Then he extended a hand.
Hermione stepped forward.
No shoes. Just soft steps. Her gown whispered along the floor like parchment under quill, and as she took his hand, every eye vanished but his.
They moved slowly, not choreographed, but perfectly in rhythm — with each other, and with the aching rise and fall of the piano. Their fingers intertwined tightly, her head resting lightly against his shoulder as the music swelled in delicate waves.
Each movement told a story.
A slow twirl — the years of hatred turned to understanding.
A close sway — the battles survived.
A spin into his chest — the daughter they had raised, the bond they had built.
The strings kicked in, and Hermione closed her eyes — remembering the dungeons, the screaming, the scarred years of school, and the whispers behind her back. All of it — bleeding out now in motion and music.
Draco felt her breath hitch against him. He held her tighter, swaying her gently — as if protecting her from ghosts only she could see.
In the distance, at the very edge of the room, stood Narcissa Malfoy.
She was still.
Her eyes didn't move from her son — his hand on Hermione's waist, his eyes filled with love, not shame. The same son she had once feared would carry on Lucius' legacy of cold cruelty and superiority… now swayed in defiance of it all.
And he was beautiful.
Narcissa's breath trembled. She pressed a gloved hand against her chest as tears pricked the corners of her eyes — but she didn't look away.
Not when Hermione smiled up at Draco like she had found peace in his arms.
Not when Draco whispered something only his wife could hear, and Hermione laughed — full, unguarded, radiant.
Not when the final note of the piano echoed into the quiet night and he kissed her forehead gently — a reverent, protective kiss that spoke of every vow he'd made and would never break.
She had never been prouder.
Not because he was a Malfoy.
But because he had rewritten what that name meant.